I’m not selfish but I want to live for me.
There’s nothing I hate more than being my parents’ first child. I love them; I truly do, but I hate my position.
As the firstborn, I was given a crown of expectations—not one decorated with gold, but one that feels like a heavy shackle around my spirit. My parents never sang their dreams for me like the lyrics of a song, but I heard them all the same, rumbling in the moments when their eyes met mine. Those unspoken hopes were the ghosts that haunt my nights, spinning out in the shadows, never letting me forget the knot of dependability that comes with being the first child.
I dream too, of course.
I dream of escaping this poverty, of stepping out of the confines of our small world. But my dreams are different—I want to live for myself, not just for the family. The struggle is constant, the push and pull between duty and desire; it’s like a river that flows within me, sometimes calm, sometimes raging, but always there, cutting deep channels into who I am.
The worst part of it all is having three younger siblings who seem to move on with their lives based on the shape of mine. It’s a strange thing, to be both a path and a person. It’s all well and good to be a role model, but I detest it. There’s a certain resentment that boils within me, not toward them, but toward the role I’ve been forced to play.
When I was in university, my weekends weren’t spent in the joy and freedom that came with being young and away from home. Instead, I returned home during weekends to sell corn. That task, that seemingly small obligation, burnt me from the inside. My father thought it was a way of helping out the household.
His words reverberated whenever the weekend approached.
“You know you’re the first child. The son for the matter. You must help sell corn during the weekends to cater to the burden of your weekly upkeep money.”
The thought of it still makes my blood boil—those long, hot days at the roadside stall while my peers revelled in the pleasures of school life. I was forced to duty, and in doing so, I missed out on the simple joys that others took for granted: attendance at a hall party, clubbing or just, simply, doing things of my own.
And then my father died. And everything fell apart.
My role as the first child was no longer just an expectation—it became a reality, a mantle I could not cast off. The nights became colder, the cold settling not just in my bones but in my soul. I would lie in bed, feeling the warmth of my body curl around itself for comfort, and tears would drip down my face in the dark. There was no privacy, no sanctuary from the demands placed upon me. It felt like the moments of freedom I once dreamt of were slipping through my fingers, disappearing like smoke in the wind.
I had no life—at least, not the life that young people usually have.
Instead, I was thrust into a role I never asked for, a life dictated by the hopes of others.
In the Ghanaian system, when a man dies, the widow is expected to do nothing; everything such as touching money, greeting visitors, cooking and more depends on the relatives. Here: it was me, as my mum had little to no relatives. Every decision needed my approval; every burden fell on my shoulders. You’d find me calling burial homes for coffins and planning our daily meals to feed us and the guests in the house. Because my siblings were too young to fend for themselves, I became the mama of the house, a position I neither wanted nor was prepared for.
The banter with the guests who came to see my mother was another thorn in my side. These were people I didn’t know on a personal level, and there was no need to converse with them, yet I was forced to engage, to perform the role of the dutiful child.
The hardest part – the part that still stings like a fresh wound – was dealing with my father’s family. They were a source of constant pain, a spike that pierced my side with every encounter. Their actions didn’t just sting—they were pepper to my eyes, burning and searing, but I held my eyes open, refusing to let the pain blind me.
I remember the first day my dad died. We were accused of being the reason for my dad’s death. “Linda and her children killed Emmanuel,” as they put it. It was so hurtful to be blamed for the death of someone you love. Someone you love deeply. Someone who was your pillar.
There were continuous bits of pepper: the thrashing of my dad’s clothes (could’ve served as a memory), the fact that the family never supported us in the funeral fees and the indirect insults during meetings. I felt my self-esteem crashed.
My father was dead, and in the throes of his absence, it felt so unjustifiable to think of myself. But I needed to—more than ever, I needed to be self-centred. I’ve never had my freedom, never known what it’s like to be a teenager, to experience the reckless abandon of youth. My life has always been about duty, about living for others, about fulfilling roles and instructions with no sense of care for my privacy.
One of the things that made me wish to be anyone but myself—one of my younger siblings, perhaps—was what happened after the funeral. The advice and words of supposed “comfort” seemed to be thrown at me, landing on my shoulders and becoming a cross I was never prepared to bear.
“You’re now the man of the house. Act like one and take care of your mother and your siblings,” they said, as if I could suddenly grow into the shoes left behind by my father.
“What about me?”
I needed protection too. I was still so young, still in the midst of trying to figure out who I was, let alone who I was supposed to be for them. Aren’t I too young to be a protector? To be strong enough for my family when I hadn’t even finished school, when I was still learning how to be strong for myself?
I can’t even decide on food, but simple decisions like…have been left for me. I have the final say on words.
As they say, little drops of water make a mighty ocean. My mom’s requests began as those small drops—little things I could do here and there, small acts of assistance that didn’t seem too burdensome. She’d ask for help to pay the electricity bill, a percentage for the fees of my younger siblings, the water bill, buying household items and some upkeep money.
I’d help out when I could: offering a hand whenever she needed it. But those drops slowly gathered, forming into something much larger, much heavier, until I found myself fully submerged in a role I had no desire to be in.
What started as small favours grew into a full-fledged “daddy” role. I became the one sorting through my younger siblings’ exam reports, the one giving out advice on how to improve and how to do better next time and I’d caution them on certain things as well, like behaving right and taking their studies seriously.
At first, there was something satisfying—something that felt right about stepping into this role, about being the one they looked up to. It was nice, in a way, to be needed, to be doing something that mattered.
As the requests grew, the responsibility reached its peak; the role I had taken on was more than just a series of tasks—it became a transformation, a shift from who I had been to who I was expected to be and who I truly wanted to be.
And though there was something fulfilling in it, there was also a deep undercurrent of something else—something that pulled at me, reminding me of life beyond my age.
The experience of post-national service took a toll on my mind. After earning my bachelor’s degree and serving my nation for a year, I found myself standing at the edge of an uncertain future. I wanted nothing more than to rest for three months, to pause and find my purpose, to discover what my goals were in this life. But I was lost—I had no clear vision of who I wanted to be, no idea which career path to take, and no sense of what kinds of jobs I should even apply for.
Nevertheless, my mom had said a lot without saying much at all. Her silence was filled with expectations— of helping, being her partner financially— and though she never voiced them outright, I heard them loud and clear. My siblings, too, were looking at me—not directly, but from below, as if I were a pillar they depended on, even if they didn’t quite realize it— I was to be their guardian.
My younger sister had completed senior high school, and she needed to go to university. However, financial challenges were constant, so she stayed home for two years, taking up job after job while I finished my own studies and completed my national service.
I had the privilege of going straight to university after senior high because my dad took out a loan; I was able to work by selling corn to help make ends meet.
But when my sister finally saved enough to start school, the “enough” wasn’t really enough. I took up a job that didn’t pay well, but I never considered other options. It was the first offer I got and the first I took. My salary was thinly spread—a portion went to my sister for her expenses, some to my mom for upkeep, and more to pay the electricity and water bills. Whatever was left was for the things I wanted; that often went to the household too.
I despise the way I live with them; every small indulgence comes with a price. If I buy drinks or sweets, it means sharing them. If I go out to a restaurant, it means bringing something back for everyone. If I buy clothes, it means I have to buy for them too.
The worst of it is during my breaks from work or the days I stay home—they wait for me to bring out my money for milk and bread for breakfast. If I decide to fry eggs for myself, I have to share them with my three siblings and my mother. If I don’t want to share, I have to buy for everyone.
I want to pursue a postgraduate degree in Ghana, but I have no source of financing to support my education. I can’t even afford application fees considering the exchange rates to even consider schools outside.
My mom keeps pushing my plans aside, insisting that I wait until my younger sister finishes school.
It’s a constant struggle between duty and self—between the expectations that weigh me down and the dreams that feel ever more distant. And in this tug-of-war, I feel myself slipping, losing sight of my youth.
During the nights, the only time I have to myself, the only moment of privacy in a life that often feels too crowded, I sit outside and look up into the sky. Inside, they’re absorbed in Indian soap operas, and there’s nothing I can do with the TV.
So, I retreat to the calmness of the evening, where the stillness sends a wave of quiet over me. The stars and moon, in their isolated forms, look down upon me, offering a strange kind of comfort, as if they’re speaking softly that it’s all going to be over someday.
Maybe if I had a better job with a higher salary, I wouldn’t feel this wave within me. Maybe if I were born into another family, I wouldn’t have to carry this weight. I long to live for myself—to rent a place of my own, to have my own space where I can breathe without the constant pull of others.
The burden of being the first child is enormous. You become a parent without ever asking for it. Your success isn’t just yours but the family’s.
In my next life, I want to come back as the last child of a wealthy person.
Influenced by Aja Monet & Akwaeke Emezi, Bright Aboagye is a Ghanaian who dreams of becoming a surrealist blues poet, writer and – with a passion for cooking – aspires to open a restaurant. Bright hopes that his works inspire and give hope to all who read them.
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