In the time of siblings, the war was never declared, but everyone fought anyway, not with weapons, but with memories we refused to forgive.
You know, having siblings makes life a little bearable. When you have older siblings especially, you can look your bully in the face knowing you’re covered. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares you for the wild turn of events as you get older. You tend to realize that the joy you all had playing with sand (yes, I’m Nigerian, we did that) and cooking imaginary meals was just because you guys were still undergoing subtle character development, the kind where you’d either end up as the “villain” or the “hero,” just as you see in our kick ass movies these days.
I wish someone had trumpeted this to my hearing earlier: “You don’t have to always agree with your siblings’ choices or how they choose to address you and situations.” and “Always take responsibilities assigned to you seriously and do them deligently.” Those two simple truths could have saved me and my sisters a lot of unnecessary fights.
To help you understand, I was the only boy between two beautiful ladies. So, more often than not, our ideologies clashed like cymbals in a church choir. They wanted to do things a certain way, but I always thought, “Why on earth would you want to do it that way when my way is obviously better and less stressful?”
We argued, shouted, and even exchanged one or two blows over the silliest of things. This was mostly between me and my elder sister, though, my younger sister and I were partners in crime. Just the thought of it now makes me smile from ear to ear. Funny thing is, despite all the chaos, I sometimes wish I could go back to those days. Weird, right?
One of the greatest sources of battle between me and my elder sister was house chores. If you grew up in a typical Nigerian home, you already know where this is heading. I honestly think there’s a thing with first daughters, it’s like they inherit an invisible crown of authority from their mothers. I could never understand why my elder sister, who was just two years older than me, behaved as if she was my second mom. She’d bark out orders, “Mandrel, go and wash the plates!” or “Mandrel, sweep that kitchen before Mum comes back o!” as if I was her personal assistant.
In our house, there was a timetable, a very detailed one that stated who would do what. The chores included washing my dad’s car, doing the dishes, sweeping the parlor, rooms, kitchen, and compound, and even fetching water for different parts of the house which included the bathrooms, kitchen, and our restroom. (We didn’t have a borehole or running water back then, so we fetched from the well in front of the house.)
Now, it’s not like I ran away from chores entirely. There were some I actually didn’t mind doing. In fact, I enjoyed washing Dad’s car and sweeping the compound when the weather was cool. But washing plates? Ah. That one was my least favorite. There was something about the sight of oily pots and leftover soup that made me lose appetite for life especially if it was Okra, why? Because honestly it feels and looks like catarrh to me.
So, on one fateful Sunday afternoon, I decided to play smart. It was my turn to wash the plates and pots after lunch, but I left them in the sink and went to play football with some of my friends. My plan was to do them later, but as you can probably guess, that “later” never came.
When Mum got back from her meeting and saw the mountain of dirty plates, she was furious. And guess who she scolded? My elder sister. She blamed her for not ensuring “the house was in order.” I remember standing quietly behind the door, pretending to be invisible as Mum lectured her for a good five minutes.
The moment Mum left, I knew I was in for it. My sister turned slowly, eyes blazing, and said in that calm but deadly voice, “So, you couldn’t just wash the plates, abi?” Before I could even answer, she had grabbed the nearest object which was a small broom and threw it in my direction, probably because I was already tired from all the running around on the pitch. I tried to dodge but it landed right on my back and I saw stars.
I was so angry I almost retaliated. Instead, I stormed out of the kitchen, breathing hard, and in my frustration, I slammed the cupboard door so hard that a mug fell and shattered into pieces.
The sound froze both of us. For a few seconds, silence filled the air. In my mind, I was like hope mum didn't hear that because if she did, I was a gunner but lucky for me the volume from "Pangako Sa'yo" her favorite TV series muffled the sound. My elder sister just stood there, staring at me, not with anger this time, but with something that looked like pain and disappointment. I thought she’d report me to Mum, but she didn’t. She just turned away and muttered, “You always get away with everything anyway.” And that cut deeper than any broom ever could.
Because the truth was, she wasn’t entirely wrong. My elder sister always felt like I was being favored by our parents. She’d say things like, “If it were me, Mum would have shouted. But because it’s you, they’ll just smile and say, ‘he’s still a child.’”
And honestly, I didn’t even notice it then. Being the only boy came with certain privileges I took for granted. I could skip a chore or two, eat the last piece of meat, or get away with being lazy, while she got blamed for “not being responsible enough.” Over time, that unspoken feeling of favoritism created a quiet tension between us, one that made every argument heavier than it needed to be.
But as the years passed, adulthood happened, and so did perspective. We eventually laughed about many of those moments, though sometimes, a small sting of regret still lingers. We were just kids trying to navigate love, pride, and responsibility without knowing it.
Looking back now, I realize that those fights, the tears, and even that broken mug were all tiny fragments of what built the bond we have today. Because in the time of siblings, the war was never declared but somehow, love always won.
Image credit is Mine
