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According to the Zikoko Bureau of Statistics, a week hardly passes on Nigerian Twitter without firstborns being the subject of one joke, drag, hot take or the other.
Everyone always has something to say about firstborns, and as advocates for the common man, we had to give firstborns the floor to share their thoughts.
The ones who are just tired
“I’m the olóríẹbí (family head), and as a Yoruba man from Ijebu, it means I always have to take the lead, especially in finances. I’m at the age when there are a lot of family weddings, burials and namings. But I’m not rich. No one cares if I take loans. Try to send olóríẹbí money too.” — Pa Gbade, 64
“They say I act like their junior mummy, but I can’t help it. They can make it easier for me by not waiting until everything has scattered before reaching out to me. I don’t have money for everything you need, but it’s not until EFCC arrests you for internet fraud that you’ll tell me you need money. Help me help you.” — Janet, 31
“Firstborns need check-ups too. Let us know you’re looking out for us. Not every time billing or thinking we’re fine. Also, sometimes. I need space. It doesn’t mean I hate you.” — Harvey, 25
The ones who want you to know you’re on your own
“I don’t have the solutions to all your problems. Emi gan mo need help.” — Tolu, 25
“I’m not your role model, please. I don’t have it all figured out.” — Uduak, 26
“Don’t do drugs. There is madness in our family, and I will leave you on the road if you craze.” — Stephanie, 26
“The same piece of advice I gave them when they were about to get their first jobs is what I want them to always know: Be responsible for every and anything you do.” — Abisola, 33
The ones who are tired of billing
“Don’t text me to “check on me”. Just ask for the money you want straight up.” — Ore, 26
“There’s no special allowance for firstborns o. It’s like you think money appears in my account as per birthright. Let me be a baby boy, please” — Joshah, 23
“The day I go broke, I’ll come back to you for urgent ₦2k. There’s no law against begging your younger ones.” — Grace, 28
The ones who really want their siblings to stay winning
“My sister is much younger, so I’d tell her to believe in herself. Think about how far you can go, then reach higher. Dare to dream.” — Stephan, 45
“I may be hard on you, but it’s because I know you’re capable of so much. You can do whatever you set your mind to. You can blow, and you will. And maybe then, you’ll stop billing me.” — Harmony, 27
The ones who want you to remember they’re human
“I’ve made mistakes, and I’m not perfect. I’m not always the best sibling, but all I do is out of a place of love. Be kind.” — Anne, 24
“Sometimes, I don’t want to pick calls or respond to your requests. No, I’m not being wicked. I just have a lot going on. You’re lucky to have someone older to rely on. I don’t. But adulthood and capitalism don’t discriminate. There’s only so much I can do.” — Joel, 35
“If I give you advice, and you take it, but it doesn’t produce the desired results, remember I’m not God. I advise because I care for you, but I’m not always right. And I don’t carry respect on my head. I deserve it because my eyes constantly see shege. It feels nice to be recognised for all the sacrifices I make.” — Tosin, 28
Siblings have their designated roles and behaviours in every family. From the black sheep to the golden child, we’ve seen it all. So what if the days of the week were all siblings in a large family? This is definitely how it’ll go down.
Monday
The first-born child who’s loved by both parents but absolutely hated by the younger siblings. They probably got two degrees, married early and are rich now. The other siblings don’t see all the sacrifice Monday makes and the ridiculous pressure they’re under. They just see them as a know-it-all.
Tuesday
The immediate younger siblings of Monday who can never match up no matter how hard they try. Tuesday busts its ass off but can never really be considered “That girl”. They’re sick and tired of always being second place. Monday wishes they could repair their relationship with Tuesday, but it’ll never happen. Tuesday needs therapy.
Wednesday
Wednesday was born when parents realised they’d fucked up with Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday then proceeds to be even more messed up than the other two, a constant reminder that parents might never get it right.
The neglected child. Nobody really remembers them or what they have to offer. They don’t have distinguishing qualities. They’re just trying to get through life. Thursday is tired but content.
Friday
The “I can do it all” sibling. Tries to have a great work-life balance, neglecting the other siblings. They don’t make much time for family activities and have chosen to make their friends the found family.
Original black sheep of the family. Anything that concerns their other siblings? Out. They’re closer to Friday and Sunday, though, because Friday understands how annoying family is, and Sunday thinks they’re cool. Saturday just enjoys expressing themself.
Sunday
The unplanned child and last-born teenager with severe mental health issues. All Sunday has is sadness, grief and angst. Since most of the siblings are grown up and juggling jobs and life, Sunday is left to its devices, and just wants to be more like Saturday.
GenZs hardly ever like anything or anybody, including their (millennial) siblings. They don’t think you’re cool or woke, so they don’t like you. If you have a GenZ sibling, let me tell you how to get on their good side. I’m speaking from experience.
Record TikTok videos with them
You’ll have to sacrifice your millennial hips to do their trendy TikTok dances with them. Maybe they’ll pity you and give you the less complicated ones.
Don’t comment on any of their social media accounts
You’re lucky that they allow you to follow them on social media sef, so don’t ruin it. Just look and pass when you see their posts. Hold yourself from dropping that “funny” comment. They’ll block you.
Stay away from their love life
I know you want to ask a million questions about that person your sibling is always video calling, but don’t. Don’t try to do, “I’m your older sibling. I need to protect you from people.” Just face front and mind your business. They’ll eventually tell you if they want to.
Gen Z fashuonz is very unique. You may not understand what your sibling is wearing, or why, but don’t say anything. If not, they’ll drag you by saying “Okay boomer”. If you want them to like you, again, mind your business.
At least try to listen to their music
It’s time to go and download trap and alté music onto your phone. Quick tip: trap musicians usually have “Lil” at the beginning of their names or “Baby” at the end.
Learn their vocabulary
You need to know when to say insert GenZ lingo like “purr”, “period” and “it’s giving…” during the conversation. If not, they’ll think you’re boring and won’t like giving you gist.
If there’s one thing GenZs always do is look for where to charge their phone and ask for WiFi. Once you allow them to connect to your hotspot, you become their favourite person.
Don’t call them too much
They don’t really like calls; they prefer texts. If you call them too much, you may get blocked. I’m not joking, this generation is brutal.
Send them money
In fact, if you don’t do anything else on this list, do this one consistently. They’ll love you for life.
It’s popular opinion that firstborns are third parents. They form the last leg of the Holy Trinity of Nigerian parenthood. But it’s hardly bliss to the firstborns themselves, who are managing their own lives while being the bridge between two generations; their parents and siblings. 7 Nigerians share their experiences about what it really costs to be a first-born child.
Toyin, 56, Male
Damages: ₦1,000,000/month
I think my case is peculiar because I’m not just the first-born child, I am also the first-born in a large polygamous family. I have 14 siblings, all of whom I have to cater to in some way. This gets overbearing sometimes because I have my own family to care for. On a good month, I spend an average of ₦1m on helping the family alone. This ranges from school fees and rents to my mum’s medical bills. While I wish I didn’t have to carry such a heavy burden, it’s quite gratifying to help out in every way I can.
Ibraheem, 25, Male
Damages: ₦30,000/month
I recently started working full-time. And I transitioned into this by taking freelance jobs from time to time. I don’t think I make a lot of money, but I feel like I give out a lot. I often have to send some money to my parents every month for upkeep, and to both of my siblings as allowance. It feels good to be able to do that. But it just constantly reminds me that my money is not really my own.
Shade, 38, Female
Damages: ₦200,000/month
I don’t have to spend this much every month, but I find that I often end up doing so. If I had to describe how it really flows out, I’d say it’s the random requests for favours I get from family. I’m often seen as the most successful member of the family, even though I don’t think it’s true. This puts a lot of financial expectation on me that simply doesn’t make sense. I used to spend a lot more on these favours, but I had to make a clear plan. ₦100,000 for my parents and another ₦100,000 for my siblings. Anybody else, I give them excuses. This has worked really well.
Nkechi, 22, Female
Damages: ₦50,000/month
I’m not bleeding a lot of money right now, but I can already feel it coming. The small jokes that end with “sha give us money”. The random calls I get from my siblings because “I don’t want to ask daddy”. I appreciate them though. They make me feel good and useful. I’m also already hearing whispers from my parents about monthly upkeep. God, abeg.
Demola, 45, Male
Damages: ₦400,000/month
I get random calls from my siblings about how they just want to check up on their big brother. But no, it’s all lies. They know I’m fine. They’re really checking up on my bank account and the amount of money that’s going to depart from it. If, like me, you have six female siblings, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Olutayo, 60, Male
Damages: ₦500,000/month
Yorubas have this mini-title, “Olori Ebi”. It loosely translates to “Head of the Family”, and the surest way to get it is to be the first-born child. I took this title after our parents died and I had to be the one keeping everyone together. It comes with a lot of responsibility, mostly financial. It’s the same as adding three nuclear families to your own. Whatever financial situation they face, your pocket will feel it somehow. I help out on everything from school fees to upkeep and even rent. I don’t even keep track as much as I used to.
Seliat, 57, Female
Damages: ₦10,000/month
Apart from my kids, the only things that take money from my pocket are my business and my mom’s health. I have my husband to pay for most other things. Also, my siblings are doing pretty well for themselves. So there’s really no pressure to spend money on anyone.
Recently, I was interviewing a lady for an article when I asked them to share memories about her childhood. She asked if I had any siblings and I blurted out, “No!” like I’d erased my brother from existence. It took a few minutes to remember and explain that my brother had Down syndrome and we didn’t have a “normal” brother-sister relationship.
That’s the part we don’t talk about often: how siblings that will always be caregivers to people living with special needs feel about that reality. But that has been my life for 20 years.
When I was three years old, my mum came home with my newborn baby brother. I can’t remember what I thought at the time, or the unending questions I may have asked, but as the years went by, I wondered why I still felt like an only child.
“She asked if I had any siblings and I blurted out, “No!” like I’d erased my brother from existence.“
At two years old, he still hadn’t learnt to walk. He never laughed at the cartoons I loved to watch or acted the way I saw my cousins around his age behaved with their siblings. Whenever we visited them, I’d join in laughing, playing about and pushing each other while we ran around the house. But when I went back home, I would be engulfed in silence all over again.
I didn’t understand what was different about my brother, but I also didn’t think to ask. Later on, a man started coming over almost every day to massage his joints. I asked my mum why, but I didn’t understand what she meant when she said he had Down syndrome. But I was excited at the thought that when he could finally walk, we’d get to do everything I did with our cousins. Yet, nothing really changed after he started walking, months after he turned two.
My mother decided it would be best for my brother to be in school. It was 2004, and there weren’t special needs schools in Lagos for kids like my brother. A regular school was better than having him sit at home alone. But going to school together meant I had to be responsible for him at all times.
While the kids at my school ran around with their friends during break time, I had to be in my brother’s class making sure he was alright. “He is your responsibility,” my mum would say. I didn’t understand what she meant because I was only five years old, but her stern expression at the school gate every morning didn’t leave any room for questions. On the days my brother came outside to play, I was still plagued by the image of my mother reminding me to watch him. I couldn’t focus on my friends or our games. I hung around watching out for anyone that might want to bully him on the swings or slides. He couldn’t speak clearly or do much on his own, so I had to be there for him.
“I was sad that I couldn’t share my life with him, and he couldn’t explain how he felt about not being understood by anyone.”
At first, I didn’t dislike the responsibility I’d been given. But as the first child, the expectation to always be present for someone else eventually weighed me down. Everyone talked about how lucky I was to have only one sibling because it would be cheaper for my parents to take care of us. “Ahn ahn, your parents were smart to have only two kids oh,” they’d say. All I felt was resentment.
In primary three, my parents started to fight themselves and there was no one at home to talk to. At three years old, my brother had started to say a few things, but they weren’t real words. He’d call me “Pa” when attempting to say “Tega”, my name. He stumbled over words and we couldn’t have a real conversation. I was sad that I couldn’t share my life with him, and he couldn’t explain how he felt about not being understood by anyone. I yearned to come home and crack jokes with him about the annoying boys in my class, and I would have loved to hear about the girls he may have liked.
I was angry that I didn’t have any other siblings to share anything with. I hated myself for feeling angry because It wasn’t his fault. I just wanted to talk to someone about everything I felt.
Mrs Osun, my primary four school teacher, was the first person to listen to me and offer comfort. I have no idea where she is now, but I can still picture her in her burgundy suit and odd-looking wig. She made me feel seen. I don’t remember how it happened, but one morning I cried to her about the nights I couldn’t sleep because my parents had been fighting. In primary five, I met another thoughtful teacher, Mrs Adegoke. At home, I had to be strong — or at least pretend everything was fine. But with these women, I felt safe, heard and understood.
“No one ever explained beyond the fact that it was a genetic disability caused by an extra chromosome. But what did it really mean for me?”
I idolised those women and wished they were my mothers at the time. My mother always warned me to never talk about what was going on at home, but that weight was too heavy to carry alone at just six years old. I couldn’t talk to my cousins because their biggest arguments were things like Ben10 and whose father had the biggest house. They weren’t going to understand anything about my life — they still don’t.
As I got older, the weight on my shoulders grew heavier. I didn’t have my primary school teachers to talk to anymore. I was going to be on my own for most of my life, trying to make sense of what it meant to be a sister to a brother with Down syndrome. No one ever explained beyond the fact that it was a genetic disability caused by an extra chromosome. But what did it really mean for me?
As a teenager, having a brother with special needs meant explaining to friends why my brother had to come along with me to every hangout. It meant explaining to my first boyfriend why my brother was different. It also meant realising that my future kids may never have first cousins of their own. I tried to figure out ways to “fix” my brother, to make him… normal. First, I dreamed of becoming a medical doctor so I could cure him right after secondary school. But at the time, I didn’t understand what a genetic disability meant and ironically, I hated biology, so that career path was out of the question.
Next, I wanted to be a mechanical engineer and build a machine to could interpret his words. That also didn’t happen because I failed further maths in my West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE).
I desperately wanted to have a brother that didn’t need my assistance. I wanted a real relationship with him. Like the ones I watched my cousins have, or what I saw my friends experience with their siblings. The banter, insults, inside jokes, Facetime calls. But above all, I wanted to be free.
I hated myself for the thought, but I was tired of being responsible. I wanted someone that could relate to my reality, but I didn’t know any kids with siblings like mine. I was alone.
“Don’t get me wrong; my brother is my best friend, but when does the cycle of parading as a superhero end?“
When my mum’s hope started to dwindle, she became convinced that I’d be the solution. She constantly reminded me that I represented my brother in everything I did. “In anything you do, it’s two people you’re standing for,“ she’d say. When I was picking out a career, I had to think about how I’d make money for two. When I was considering moving away from home after university, I had to think about how it would affect him. Don’t get me wrong; my brother is my best friend, but when does the cycle of parading as a superhero end?
However, I’ve accepted that it may never end. My brother is now in a special needs school in Abuja, but even that doesn’t mean there’s much hope for him in Nigeria. Where are the jobs for people with Down syndrome? Where are the facilities or infrastructure to help if he ever gets lost and can’t remember his name or his way home? My brother is 20 now and we’re not sure about what’s next for him. I’m 23 and I’ve come to terms with the reality that if I don’t define my life around him, no one else will. No one else will think about how he can experience the beauty of life. But I’ve also accepted that I need to live my life before I can be valuable to him, or else my love may slowly turn to resentment.
Many people connect to the reality of being firstborns, but when you’re a sibling to someone with special needs, the responsibility you have is also laced with guilt — the guilt that you’d be happier if you were an only child. I’ve never said it out loud. I’ll never be able to say it in real life, but it’s easier to write it down. I love my brother, but on some days I wish it were just me. I think it would make more sense because I already feel alone. My only comfort is knowing that he didn’t have a choice either. And in another life? I might choose him all over again.
Last week, we published a post that tells you why you might be your sibling’s bestie. This quiz would let you know for sure if you are your sibling’s best friend.
Take the quiz:
Questions
This is a question
Select All That Apply To You:
You got #{score}⁄#{total}
Ah, it’s like you’re a wicked person and your sibling is scared of you. Change that behaviour today.
You got #{score}⁄#{total}
You’re not there yet but you could be, if you want to
You got #{score}⁄#{total}
Call your sibling today and tell them how much you love them, in fact, send them money too. You might not know it, but they really rate you!
A sibling is someone you’re basically forced to tolerate. A bestie is someone you chose to tolerate. So, how do you know when the sibling that has been forced by nature to tolerate you suddenly starts choosing to tolerate you? Well, it’s when they start doing any of these things.
1) They willingly give you their food
Having a sibling means you’re bound to share a lot of things with them, and food is no exception. You may grumble, but you won’t have a choice. But if your sibling buys food or snacks for themselves and willingly shares with you? That’s your bestie right there.
2) They insult your dressing
Only your best friend will be able to comfortably tell you when you’re doing nonsense. So when you’re dressed like the next fashion disaster and your sibling calls you out on it, it’s because they actually like you.
3) They randomly walk into your room for no reason
You know how Nigerian parents just burst into your room as if they’re trying to catch you doing drugs? The one your sibling does is because they just want to look at your face. They’d rather die than tell you they miss you, but they want to be sure you’re doing okay.
4) You steal their property and they haven’t killed you (yet)
Money today, wristwatch tomorrow, and their shoes the day before that. You’re constantly stealing your siblings’ property and you’re still alive to read this listicle? It’s because they care about you in a way only a bestie can.
5) You know their friends
Everyone knows that a bestie is well aware of the other friends. Your sibling has introduced you to every other friend just so you know nobody can ever take your post as their number one.
You can actually see all their WhatsApp status slides and tweets from their locked Twitter account? They rate you so much, and that’s why you’re their bestie.
7) You’ll be the one to unlock their phone when they die
Not only because they trust you with their secrets (such as their burner account), but because you know their passwords. They trust that if they died today, you’d be able to wipe away all evidence of their behaviour from the internet before your parents go through the phone.
This week’s What She Said is Small Pepper, a 53-year-old Nigerian woman. She talks about moving to Lagos to make it in the 90s, the realities of supporting six younger siblings in 1992 as the first daughter and her transition into the money lending business to survive and become her own person.
So, Small Pepper?
Haha! My mama nicknamed me after my height and personality — I knew how to make trouble. I started helping her with sales and debt collection when I was 13 because I used to flare up like pepper, so she would tell me to help her harass customers owing her money for soft drinks. My father was always away because of his job as a police officer, so as the first daughter of eight children, I had to support my mum. I knew exactly how to harass her debtors into paying immediately. That’s how “Small Pepper” stuck.
Did you ever have to hold anybody’s knicker to fight?
I was too short to fight anybody oh. It was my mouth people always wanted to avoid. I remember a man that borrowed ₦50,000 from my mum and kept dodging her each time she went to his compound to look for him. She reported the matter to me and one morning, I strolled to his store where he sold palm wine. I waited till he went to the back of his shop, then seized the kegs of palm wine lined up in front of his shop. He obviously got the message because he turned up a few days later with the initial loan and profit for my mum.
Mad oh! Did this experience as “Small Pepper” play any role in your life as an adult?
I worked at my mothers shop until I got admission into the University of Benin at 17. So that was five years of helping her manage the business and learning the art of buying and selling. These skills wass how I survived the madness of Lagos in 1992 without my family.
What happened in Lagos?
I finished my NYSC at 23 and after my service in 1991, my family moved from Lagos when my father decided to retire from his job as a police officer. We moved to our hometown called Agbor, in Delta state and I hated it there. I was at home most of the time because there was little to do, but I needed to find a way to earn money to support my older brother and six younger siblings. Naturally, I moved to Lagos to “make it big.”
The Lagos Dream. How did that go?
I was 24 and living without depending on my family for the first time. You had to be mad to survive. It was a place one could easily get lost, especially as a Johnny Just Come (JJC) like me. I remember entering the wrong bus going to Orile from Ojuelegba, misplacing my money and having to beg. In Lagos, everybody must beg a bus driver at least once. I once fell down on the road to weep after someone had emptied my bag on my way to Orile. I cried until people dashed my money. Knowing Lagos now, the thief could have been among the people dashing me money.
LOL. Did you have a plan on how to make it big though?
I just knew I wanted to work. There was no big plan in my head besides getting to Lagos and getting a job — even as a secretary. So making it started out with squatting at my cousin’s house in Ajegunle. The same week I arrived, I went to look for my dad’s old colleague that had lived with us at the Police barracks in Ikeja years back. He was recently promoted to inspector general of police, so I hoped he would remember me and help me get a job.
Did it work out?
Yes. He connected me to a friend who owned a fruit drink company in Mushin, and I worked as his accountant. I didn’t know how much I was going to get paid, but I believed it was better than nothing. It was great until I got the first cheque for my salary: ₦5,000. Excitement for the job cleared from my eyes. As the first daughter, I had to support my retired parents. They never said it, but I knew they expected me to live up to the same responsibilities as my elder brother who also supported them. My mother’s business wasn’t even bringing in enough money to support sending my younger siblings to school at that point. So who could I support with ₦5,000? It just felt like an insult plus joke. I dropped the cheque on my desk and quit the job.
Ah. I’m curious about what ₦5k could have gotten you in Lagos in 1992.
It cost me at least ₦300 to get to Mushin from Ajegunle and back each day for the month. Then I would buy lunch for about ₦100 from Iya Bunmi. So that was about ₦400 everyday to just get to the office and eat for a month. If I had only myself to think of, maybe I could have managed it somehow. But I had six younger siblings that needed to go to school and my elder brother was also barely making it as a lawyer in Lagos. Even after sending money home, I still had to add in ₦1000 each month, at my cousin’s house. So I can’t relate to the jokes about how you could have survived with ₦100 in the 90’s, when there were people like me weighed down by the support they needed to give their families. So don’t always believe those ₦100 tales, ₦5k could have been just as little for a lot of my peers in the 90’s.
Interesting. What did you do next?
I decided to focus on what I knew I understood perfectly — being Small Pepper. I bought bras and pants from Obalende to resell to my working class friends. I can’t lie; it was difficult to accept the reality of selling underwear just to survive. I thought I was going to get one of those white collar jobs in the fancy offices my friends talked about in school, but it had to be done. I even got a Coca-Cola license to buy
and sell drinks like my mama, but I just gave it to a friend that needed it more who had a shop already.
What was the hardest part about trying to get a job then?
I kept reaching out to my father’s contacts to assist me with getting jobs in Lagos. In the 90s, success really depended on who your father knew and the calibre of men you mingled with. Surviving revolved a lot around the willingness of a man to help you. Any job I had back then involved depending on an uncle, distant male cousin or brother. It wasn’t the best feeling having to depend on people. I’ll never forget the way one of my dad’s contacts from the police force stared at me. I just knew it was better to be on the streets than go any further with my request.
So what did you do?
Many things. It took almost five years for things to get better. A neighbour who also worked as a broker became my friend when I moved to Ojodu Berger in 1995. After he found out we were from the same tribe, he was interested in helping me learn to buy shares; I bought 500 units each from First Bank and Wema Bank. That’s how I started to understand how to run things in Lagos: you have to earn outside your 9-5 to have money to spend. I really started scaling through when I got into the banking sector in 1997. A friend connected me to a marketing position at International Trust Bank (now EcoBank). I got into the business of loaning money to individuals. I noticed some people came into the bank with ideas they needed to fund, but processing the loans took too long. So I decided to use the opportunity to set up a business that loaned money to the customers that couldn’t wait for the whole process. I offered a higher monthly interest rate, but people were willing to pay because it was a faster process. When the bank decided to retrench workers, I lost my job, but I kept all the customers I had and set up a proper loaning business in 2001. All my “Small Pepper” skills came to play here.
LOL. You stole the bank’s customers?!
Look, every moment is a business potential and women are smart enough to see it. It’s just difficult to be bold about it sometimes. I couldn’t afford to desperately need anyone in the 90s. So that’s a moment in my life I would never change.
Through all of this, what are you most proud of achieving?
Being able to support my family as the first daughter. I had an older brother who came to Lagos as well and we both had to find our way so our six younger siblings didn’t have to struggle the way we did. Half of them are out of the country now, so I’d say those nights I could only afford a digestive biscuit to eat paid off.
Do you have any regrets?
I just wish I did more for myself even through the struggles of being in Lagos on my own. The goal was to never have to work again at some point. And that’s where I am right now. From depending on the men in my life to get jobs, to creating my own source of income loaning money to people like my mother back then. I’d say I did okay and I have no regrets leaving everything behind to come back to Lagos in 1992. I could’ve gotten myself more bags though. I wasn’t into make up or hair back then, but handbags? I loved them.
Older siblings always say the worst things about last borns just because they don’t get punished as much as if they are doing suffer head Olympic. Last borns know that life is not always as great as other people think though, here are 7 memes lastborns can relate to.
1. The “I know you do not rate me” meme
You won’t die if you pick our calls with a nicer tone. Sometimes, we actually call to greet you because we care about your wellbeing. The see-finish is too much tbh. That being said, send us money, please.
2. The “Am I a slave to you?” meme
It’s almost like all last borns come out of the womb with the words “house help” tattooed on our foreheads. We’re assigned to do all the chores when everyone else is asleep.
3. The “I have sense” meme
Despite what people think, the Last Borns Association of Nigeria would like to announce that we have sense. One person has to be the clown of the family, and we should be appreciated for carrying that responsibility.
4. The “I did not come here to suffer” meme
Last borns have made it clear that they came to enjoy life. And tbh, everyone should aspire to be like them.
5. The “Treat me like soft Agege” meme
This includes not being sent to any “suffer head’ school like your siblings, being pampered silly and generally being babied. If you want to have soft life privileges, next time come as a lastborn.
6. The “I’m sha taller than you” meme
The last borns’ head you are tapping today and calling “smallie” will one day grow up to be taller than you. If you had respected yourself back then, now that you have to look up to talk to them, they won’t be laughing at you, eyah.
7. The “In the end, you will still send me money and send me abroad” meme
In the end, lastborns know that every sensible older sibling that isn’t against our progress wants to see us succeed and as much as they complain they always end up fighting for better opportunities for us.
The subject of today’s What She Said is an 18-year-old firstborn who has already raised three children. She talks about spending her childhood raising her siblings, her dad’s obvious favouritism towards her brothers, and how she wishes her parents were more involved in raising their children.
Can you tell me the earliest memory of your childhood?
How bad we had it financially. We had so little that whenever I saw something new in the house, I’d ask them who gave us. Eventually, things started moving up slowly. My mum’s brother gave her a car that she gave to my dad. Her reason for giving it to my dad was that she didn’t know anything about cars and couldn’t drive. She also finally got a job in the civil service.
Before the job, she would drop me off at the neighbour’s, then carry my younger sister on her back to go sell crayfish.
Why did she not drop both of you?
My sister cried a lot. If she wasn’t with my mum, she’d cry for the entire day till my mum got back. Because of that, the neighbours didn’t want her around.
So you were the chosen one.
Yes, I was. At one point, my mum stopped selling crayfish and started selling doughnuts. She’d give my sister and I doughnuts to take to school. The doughnuts were big and fat and all my classmates were jealous of me. They didn’t know that the doughnuts were all my parents could afford at the time.
There was a time she sold iced fish and we went around telling people. It was fun sharing the flyers and helping her scout for customers.
What about your dad?
He was a junior civil servant and wasn’t earning a lot. Funny story on how he got the job. They didn’t want to give him at first because they knew he was Igbo.
Go on…
When they referred my dad for the job, the woman conducting the interview was shouting to her subordinate in Yoruba that why would they hire an Igbo man, but they didn’t know my dad speaks fluent Yoruba. In the midst of her shouting, he stood up to leave and thanked them in Yoruba. They called him back and offered him the job because they didn’t know if he was sent by the government or something.
Nepotism nepotisming. Now about your sister…
I was just about to clock two when my parents had my younger sister. My mum told me I didn’t like her and was always asking her to take my sister back to wherever they got her from.
I grew up with very little, but it was worse for my sister. When I was born, my parents tried to do the best they could because there was still ginger. My sister, however, came after me so got a lot of hand me downs. I ate cerelac; she had akamu and crayfish.
Even with the new job?
Yes. Things started moving up and small small money started entering the account with my parents’ jobs, but things didn’t really change until 2009. My first brother was born in 2007, and he felt some of the poverty. But my youngest brother, the fourth child, was born in 2009 after things had gotten way better for my family financially. My dad got a promotion and they made him a senior officer. So before my brother was born, we had changed the furniture and retiled the house and also fixed the car. That’s why he’s a soft baby boy. My neighbours once said that the reason they know we’re eating in the house is because our last born just keeps getting fatter and rounder. He doesn’t know suffering.
Must be nice for him o. How did things get better for you?
School. Uni changed everything. When I’m in school, it’s just me and myself. I don’t have to think about what person A will eat or if person C has done assignments or washed uniforms. I love it.
My dad and sister are the ones doing most of the work in the house. Some days, my dad calls to ask how to make some kinds of soup. He’d end the call with how he can’t wait for me to come back so he can stop doing all the work.
Wait, but you have three siblings…?
This is why I feel like a second mum. I never had a chance to be a child. Everything that concerned my siblings was done by me. If they made any mistakes, I got the blame. They tell me I’m supposed to know better because I’m older. I have no space to myself.
I started cooking for my siblings when I was eight. I couldn’t make soups, but I was making sauces, potatoes, yam, etc. They still expect that from me.
At 8? Omo I don’t even cook now at 20.
It was so stressful. I’d have to cook for my siblings and then pack what they’d take to school or daycare for lunch. I remember praying to God that I hoped my mum was done having children because I was tired.
As I grew older, the tasks increased. My younger sister is a bit more persuasive than I am. She also started asserting her independence earlier so they don’t stress her as much. My brothers? They’re spoiled. When my mum had them, my dad forgot my sister and I existed. It was like he’d been waiting for sons.
There was a time on my birthday, my dad gave me money to buy myself something. I went to buy cheese balls, and when I got home, my dad was holding my younger brother in his arms. My brother pointed at the cheese balls, and my dad just collected it from me with the change and gave it to him.
ON YOUR BIRTHDAY?
On my birthday o. It’s worse because my birthday is in January, and everyone is usually broke because of Christmas festivities. The cheese balls were my only source of joy and happiness. I was so sad.
What could I have done? Once, I sent my brother to buy milk. Not only did he buy the wrong milk, but he opened it and started licking it. He also lost my change. Would you believe my parents blamed me?
Ah. Wow.
My parents showed obvious favouritism. They didn’t try to hide it.
When I was 14, I went to pay my school fees. It took way longer at the bank than I thought it would, so I came home around 4 p.m. My parents had called at the time and when I didn’t pick up, they called my neighbours. My neighbours told them I wasn’t at home so when they came back, they started shouting at me so much. They asked me how I could leave my brothers all alone. I was shocked because the older one was 10. Ten! At that time, I was taking care of everyone else.
Now he’s 14 and still can’t do anything in the kitchen. When my sister isn’t around, my dad is the one that does the cooking because “do you want your brothers to burn down the house.” My sister is always complaining because she does everything alone and nobody helps her out.
Omo, so what’ll happen when you go back home?
It means I’d resume the cooking and cleaning all over again. Sometimes when my dad calls, he tells me he can’t wait for me to return home so I can continue the work. It’s one of the reasons I avoid the house during holidays.
My brother goes out to play games and football and nobody says anything. As I am, I can’t just go to my friend’s house unannounced, but my brother disappears for hours and my mum just lightly tells him not to do it again, but he does it again!
If you could change anything, what would it be?
I’d wish my parents were more involved in raising their children. It felt like they just dumped all the children on me to raise. I also wish they spaced the children more. Maybe it would have given me a chance to actually be a child.
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This Zikoko’s guide was written to help younger siblings make our lives easier because one day you’re an only child and before you know it, your parents create a couple of freeloaders called siblings that spoil all your plans.
1. Stop asking for money.
Let our spirit lead us to remember you, besides we did not give birth to you. Thanks and God bless. The association of ATM firstborns are tired.
First born in their minds
2. Don’t eat the last meat.
We came before you for a reason. We came not to oppress you but to eat the last meat. Let us have it or else…
You have been warned
3. Stop being an aproko.
We are tired of bribing you. Nigerian politicians no do reach this one oh, abeg.
You better grow up
4. Don’t grow taller than us.
We don’t know how you’ll do it but don’t try it. It’s disrespectful.
This will be you when we ask you kneel down all the time
All the years of wrestling with your brothers has developed an appetite for violent activities disguised as play.
2) Competition is your middle name.
Your brothers must never win anything because you won’t hear the end of it. However, it has now spread to your life as everything is a competition for you.
3) There was never anyone to practice braiding with.
You had to learn many things alone because no one to share your struggles with.
4) Your friends had a crush on your brothers.
Iyama.
5) You’ve had crushes on your brother’s friends.
Especially the older ones.
6) They never allowed you to touch the play station.
Except in very rare cases did they allow you play with them.
7) Sadly, you now have a high iyama meter.
Growing up with boys means that you now have a higher tolerance for things many people consider as disgusting.
8) Your speciality is stealing your brother’s clothes.
Especially if they are older because they just fit so snugly.
9) Your brothers never get tired of embarrassing you.
The see finish is just too much.
10) They can be overprotective.
At the end of the day, you try to understand that it’s all love from them to you. You wouldn’t trade them for an American visa.
Looking like your parents isn’t a big deal for you, especially if you really don’t see it. So while everyone else scrambles above themselves to compare every habit and utterance of yours to your parents’ you just want them to get over it.
On the other hand, it can be fun and you get a kick over people’s reaction to your resemblance, particularly when it dawns on you that some members of your family can’t tell you (or your voice) apart from your mother or father.
Here are some of the things you will relate to if you look like your parent:
1) You’re often mistaken for them.
People will call you by their name more times than you can count and look shocked when it turns out to be you.
2) You know the phrase “spitting image” by heart.
This is a statement you encounter at least once a month and have gotten tired of hearing.
3) Your friends never believe how much you look like your parents until they see them.
They probably thought you were exaggerating your likeness and rolled their eyes before making that expected statement, “Everyone looks like their parents joor.”
Wait until they see how much you look like yours.
4) Then they never get tired of joking about how identical you are.
This is where they ask if you are siblings or twins. No oh, we are triplets.
5) You’ve gotten used to hearing, “haba, your mama/papa they run go?”
It’s hard for people to come to terms with the fact that you had no say in the matter of your looks–it’s just genes people.
6) Your parent’s old photos can pass for your most recent.
Even their pose in it is a direct copy of your favorite pose.
7) People love to tell you how you’ll age.
Self-proclaimed experts will use your parents as a reference on how you’ll look when you get older. Like you didn’t know that already.
8) Getting peppered with questions about how your siblings look.
Surely, you must all be mirror images of your parents if you look the way you do.
Being the last child in a family comes with its perks and frustrations. And it also comes with a lot of condescending statements from people who try to define the life of the last child even though they have no idea how it is.
Here are some of the things every last born in the family has heard more times than they can count and they are sick of hearing:
People believing that everything you own are hand-me-downs:
From your baby crib to your last phone and even your university admission
Being compared to older siblings if you attend the same school:
You’re likely to hear that they were smarter and better behaved than you. A teacher would surely say, “Why can’t you be more like your sibling?’
Everyone calling you ‘smallie’:
Even when you turn 70 and have grandkids, your older relations will always regard you as the baby of the house.
When people tell you that you have no problems because your older siblings solve them before they occur:
The belief that you’re always needy and subservient to your siblings, financially, is so inherent in Nigeria it’s a wonder that last borns are yet to hold a mass protest against it.
Being told that your opinion doesn’t count or you don’t know what you’re saying because you’re the last born:
This usually happens in families where there’s a huge age gap between siblings. Everyone feels they know more about your life than you because they’ve lived longer.
Being told that you are mummy’s pet and daddy’s padi:
And then you’re considered weak and soft because of this.
“Let your mummy give birth to another baby now, are you not tired of being a last born?”
Every last child heard this statement at least once in their life when they were a kid.
The endless memes that declare you as an amebo that can be bribed to disclose any secret:
Because you have nothing better to do with your life than to be a tattletale and all you really care about is becoming a monitoring spirit.
Everybody regards whatever you do as “last born syndrome.”
This is the ‘get out of jail free’ card that society has given to you. It excuses all your wrongdoings in their eyes.
