It was my identity—my badge of shame. Some would call it a badge of honour; that is what they choose to call it. It’s a matter of choice, and perspective. Nothing they said would change my mind. How could it? When early enough, I’ve been told that I was not a normal child, that it would have been better if I wasn’t born.

“I don’t know why you stuck around. After three attempts to abort you, yet you refused to be rid of.” That was what my mother would say back then. I used to get sad at her spiteful words, but not anymore. I’d gotten used to the fact that she hated me with passion. I was the constant reminder that she had lost everything, her life, her family, her lover, and most importantly, her future.

When she was sixteen, she had gotten impregnated by her boyfriend, who bolted at the news that she was with child. Her parents had been infuriated by their daughter’s ‘act of shame’. They had wanted to throw her out, but on advice from a relative, they waited until she delivered the baby before sending her out; such callousness, they never even asked to know what she was passing through psychologically and otherwise.

Luckily for my mother, she was taken in by an NGO that deals with young girls. This was where I grew up, with the full knowledge that I was a child born out of wedlock, without a father, and with a mom who only showed love to me when she felt like. I am… what’s the female version of a bastard? Well, I guess you can also call me a bastard. At ten years, no kind of hurtful word can get to me again; I’ve heard them all.

As I sat in the playground, quietly sketching the face of my mother, who I loved beyond comprehension, I was called by Miss Agnes, my favourite teacher at the Center.

“Chizoba,” she called, showering me with an ample smile, “come dear. The Matron wants to see you.”

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