19/09/2025
My parents had me while they were dating, but they never married. By the time I was three, they had gone their separate ways.
I stayed with my mom until I turned seven, and then my dad came for me. I thought he wanted to spend time with me, maybe make up for the years we had not shared, but instead, he took me to live with his extended family.
The beginning of that chapter felt confusing because the house was crowded with grandparents, aunties, cousins, and my dad himself. There was always noise, always people, and always chores waiting to be done. Looking back now, I wonder if they did not like my mother or if they simply did not like the idea that I existed at all.
Too much was expected of me, far too much for a child who had not even lived with them before. You would think they would show me a little kindness, maybe pamper me just a bit, but that was not the case. Not with my father’s side of the family. I was washing my own clothes, scrubbing floors, and cleaning dishes for a household full of people. And the strange part is, I did not think much of it at the time; I just did what I was told and carried out my duties without question.
There was no space for softness, no room for childhood. I was treated like someone who owed them something, like I had to earn my place in a home that was never really mine.
Some time later, I started having nightmares, nightmares no child should ever have. They were terrifying, and I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, drenched in tears and fear. If I was not dreaming of being chased by someone wielding a pestle, then I was being beaten to a pulp or stabbed over and over again. Sleep became a battlefield, and my cousins, who shared the room with me, eventually got tired of my nightly episodes and reported them to the family. My grandma decided she would be the one to “free me” from whatever was wrong.
She dragged me to prophetesses who accused me of witchcraft. According to one of them, it was something I inherited from my mother. By the time I was “diagnosed,” my dad had already travelled outside the country, and I was left with a family that believed so deeply that I was a witch. You cannot begin to imagine what that felt like. They buried me in chores and used me for every task in the household. There were endless activities and errands here and there, and maybe they believed that witches had no business resting, so I had none of that luxury.
They even went as far as asking my father for money, claiming the prophetess needed it to cast out the spirits. Every evening, we visited her for intense prayer sessions that drained me completely. Sometimes, they left me to find my way home alone because they did not want me to overhear their conversations. During those walks, I begged God for an accident, a kidnapping, anything, just so I would not have to return. But somehow, I always made it back safely, only to scream and beg at the door before they finally let me in.
All I was subjected to were visits to pastors and prophetesses. Unless they had not heard of a new one, I was taken there. One time, they came home with a bottle of “well water,” which was trending at the time. “Today, someone will confess,” they said. They handed me the bottle, and honestly, I hoped I would confess, if only to make them stop treating me like a monster. I drank the entire thing, hoping some spirit would possess me and speak through me, but nothing happened. They gathered around, waiting for a confession that never came. Their disappointment was loud, but mine was worse. I was exhausted from the accusations, the maltreatment, and the loneliness. If confession was what they wanted, and if I had one to offer, I would have given it to them.
I was the “borga’s daughter,” but it was my cousin who enjoyed everything my father shipped down from abroad: the clothes, the toys, the bags, and the money. I never saw how it was distributed. Even the money my mother sent, though she never called or checked up on me while enjoying life with her new husband, was taken. They claimed it was tainted and used it for themselves. They dressed their children in new clothes and shoes while I was left with nothing.
I drank concoctions, lots of them, every now and then, and the accusations were endless. One day, I was accused of stealing my cousin’s brain, and somehow that explained why I was smarter than them. But how do you blame me for their daftness? Then the next day, it was that I was the reason they could not get married, though I do not know how, when it was their behaviour that scared the men away. Every misfortune, big or small, was pinned on my head. It was always me, the witch.
One day, a pastor came to pray for my ailing grandfather and handed me his Bible, asking me to read a verse aloud while he repeated it and backed it up with prayers. After I finished, he looked into my eyes and began to speak about the kind of person I would become. He said my future was bright and amazing, and he spoke of greatness and purpose. He said so many good things, and not one of them was negative. That moment stayed with me because it was the first time someone saw light in me, not darkness.
But that did not matter to the family. They were still holding on to what the prophetess had said, and nothing could convince them otherwise.
My father returned after three years and met me looking unkempt, pale, and sad, and they did not even try to hide it. He called for a family meeting, and they were excited, thinking he was going to announce who he would take with him. They had been whispering and speculating, but instead, he stood before them and asked why I looked the way I did. He reminded them of all the money he had sent, the clothes, the food, and even the money for prayers and deliverance. He asked them to look at me properly to see how lean I was, how neglected I had become. He asked if they were proud of what they had done. I do not remember every word he said, but I remember the silence that followed. Heads were bowed, and shame was written in capital letters across their faces. Things did not stop completely after he left Ghana again, but they got better.
Now I am 28 years old. I am well educated and work in an organisation that requires public speaking and presentations, but I still struggle with confidence. I mount platforms and begin to shiver, and sometimes I quiver. I was told so many demeaning things growing up that I do not know how to accept compliments, but I am trying, every day, to be better than I was yesterday. If I had had a different childhood, I would be moving mountains by now, but it is well. Baby steps.
Thank God for the partner I have today. He understands my fears and insecurities, and he makes me feel safe and loved. He makes me feel like the happiest woman on earth.
I heard the prophetess was arrested for accusing another woman of witchcraft, and the news was everywhere. I am grateful that justice was served, one way or another.
And now, those same people call me, asking for money. I send money to one of my auntie’s kids in school, and I send provisions to my grandma. Suddenly, I am no longer a witch. Why now?
Sometimes, I blame my mother. She should have done more than just sending money once in a while. She should have come to see me, to check in, to make sure I was okay. She should not have taken her mind off me just to enjoy her new husband.
I do not hold anything against them, but I will never forget what they put me through. My God shall visit them nicely for me. Amen.
COPIED
