My past live part 2.
Growing up, my six siblings and I endured unimaginable hardships because of our parents. We witnessed dark, terrifying, and shocking things—situations that no child should ever have to face. The places we lived, the people we met, even our own friends and family—all of them played a part in shaping who we became, especially me.
I was born and raised in Nigeria, in a place called Rivers State. My parents weren't just ordinary people—they were priests. But being priests didn't mean we lived comfortably. At one point, we were extremely poor. And since I was their child, their poverty became mine. In Nigeria, being poor isn't always because you're lazy or don't work hard. Sometimes, it's because of something much darker—your "village people."
Now, who are the village people? They are family members who live in secluded areas, far from the city. Their homes are old, almost like relics from another time. They survive by farming, but that's not all they do. Some of them practice evil—real, terrifying evil. They perform spiritual rituals meant to trap you, to lock away your blessings, your wealth, even your womb. The only way to escape their hold is through prayer.
Of course, not all village people are wicked. Some are good, living simple lives without harming anyone. But the bad ones? They can ruin everything.
Because of this, my mother made sure we knew how to pray. Every morning, we prayed and read the Bible. Every night, we did the same. This went on for years—day after day, night after night. But no matter how much we prayed, no matter how much we studied the scriptures, we stayed poor. Food was scarce. Money was like a distant dream. We struggled to pay rent, to even survive.
And here's the cruelest part—my mother was the daughter of a wealthy pastor. My father was the son of a powerful native doctor who owned vast lands. My father even had his own church. But none of it helped us. His church members were greedy, selfish—they refused to support their own pastor. Yet, my father kept praying for them. He blessed them, and God answered his prayers for them. But for us? Nothing.
Every day, hunger. Every month, hunger. Every year? Still hunger.
It felt like a curse. No matter how hard we prayed, no matter how much faith we had, we were left behind. The same God who blessed others through my father's prayers seemed to forget about us.
Life in our home was never easy. Every day was a battle—not just against hunger, but against the bitterness and resentment that filled the air. My mother, a woman worn down by exhaustion and despair, could only watch as her children cried from hunger. The sound of our empty stomachs was too much for her to bear, so she would leave the house, take the little money we had for transport, and go to her parents' home.
There, she would beg for food—rice, beans, anything they could spare. Then, with a heavy heart, she would return, cook the meal, and we would eat. But my father? He just sat there. He prayed. He called his church members, asking for help, waiting for God to provide. He believed in miracles, but the only miracle we needed was food on the table.
My mother kept going back to her parents, swallowing her pride, hoping for kindness. But one day, they finally said what they had always thought:
"You married an incompetent man. A useless husband."
Those words shattered her. She didn't need their insults—she needed support. But this was the reality. My grandparents had hated my father from the beginning. When he first asked to marry my mother, they rejected him because he was poor. But my father didn't give up. He fought for her, and in the end, they married.
Yet, the hatred never faded. It only grew stronger, like a fire fed by bitterness. My grandparents despised my father, and he despised them right back. Even my mother, worn down by years of struggle, sometimes seemed to hate him too. And honestly? I couldn't blame her.
I was born into this mess—a family where love was buried under anger and disappointment. There was no peace. No money. No respect. Just survival.
And the worst part? My father was a pastor. People expected us to be blessed, to live well. But we were the opposite. I'd seen other pastors' children on TV, in fancy clothes, living in big houses. Their parents were rich. They ate well. They had everything.
All I wanted was the same—just enough to eat, to have what I needed when I needed it. But instead, I got this—a broken home, a family drowning in resentment, and a future that felt hopeless.
I hated it. Every single day, I wished things were different. But I was still young. Too small to change anything.
So I made myself a promise: One day, when I'm grown, I'll rewrite this story.
Not just for me—for my family. I won't let this cycle continue. I won't let hate and poverty define us forever.
Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that life doesn't change on its own.
You have to change it yourself.
To be continued…