I was barely eleven years old when I learned what it meant to be a firstborn in a Nigerian home.
My mother, a teacher, had just delivered her fourth child—my youngest brother, Tochukwu—when I overheard my father say to our neighbor, “Chisom will have to grow up fast now. She’s our second mummy.”
At eleven.
That single sentence would go on to shape the next two decades of my life.
We lived in a three-bedroom flat in Abule-Egba, Lagos. My father was a civil servant, a driver at the Ministry of Works. He was the kind of man who ironed his clothes the night before, drank tea every morning with two cubes of sugar, and quoted Chinua Achebe more than the Bible.
I admired him. I still do.
But I also resented him.
Because while my mates were going for extra lessons, joining debate clubs, or learning musical instruments, I was learning how to bathe a newborn, boil water without burning myself, and read bedtime stories to my siblings.
By 14, I was waking up at 5 a.m. to make breakfast and get three kids ready for school—while I was still a student myself. There were no “thank yous,” no “you’re doing well.” Just a subtle nod of approval when my father saw that nobody was late, or my mother returned home to find the house spotless.
At 17, I aced my WAEC and got admission to study Mass Communication at UNILAG. I was excited—finally, a chance to chase my own life, my dreams.
But it was short-lived.
My father called me into his room one evening, sat me down like I was about to receive a medal.
“Chisom, you know we are trying. But we can’t afford your hostel fees and your brother’s surgery at the same time. So… we’ll need you to stay home this semester.”
That semester became one year.
While my friends were in school posting photos in their matric gowns, I was hawking chin-chin and zobo on our street to raise money for home upkeep.
I didn’t even mind the hustle. What broke me was the silence. No one ever asked how I felt. My parents never acknowledged the sacrifices. It was like my pain didn’t matter, because I was “the strong one.”
Even when I finally got into UNILAG a year later—thanks to a kind uncle who paid my fees—I still had to juggle school with side gigs to send money home. During my final year, I was working three jobs: ushering on weekends, proofreading for a lecturer, and tutoring two JS3 girls after lectures.
My siblings? Still in school. Still depending on me.
After NYSC, I got a job at a media firm in Victoria Island. It paid just ₦115,000 monthly, but it felt like a billion compared to what I was used to.
That same month, my dad sent me a text:
“Your younger sister has JAMB next month. See how you can help.”
No “congrats.” No “well done.” Just another request.
And that’s how it started.
By the time I turned 27, I was single, exhausted, and emotionally numb. I paid rent for my parents, covered school fees for two of my siblings, and even loaned my uncle money for his business.
Me, the girl who used to sell chin-chin.
People at work would say, “You’re so responsible! Firstborns are always reliable.”
I would smile and nod.
But inside, I was screaming.
Then came the day everything broke.
It was a rainy Thursday evening. I had just closed from work, and I was dragging my tired feet to the BRT terminal when my phone rang.
It was my mum.
“Chisom, please don’t be angry. I know you just sent money last week, but your brother lost his phone in school. He needs another one urgently.”
I remember standing there, drenched in rain, holding my bag close, and whispering, “I don’t have money, Mummy.”
Her response was like acid:
“But you have a job now, don’t you? Why are you talking like this? Or do you want people to say you’re a wicked daughter?”
I didn’t say anything.
I ended the call, entered the bus, and cried quietly beside a stranger all the way to Agege.
That night, I drafted a long message to the family WhatsApp group:
“I love you all, but I’m tired. I need to rest. I cannot carry everyone anymore. I’m not a bank. I’m not your emergency contact. I’m your sister. Your daughter. A human being. From now on, please stop expecting me to fix everything.”
I deleted the message.
Because I knew they wouldn’t understand.
And I didn’t want to be called “selfish” again.
The real turning point came when I collapsed at work from exhaustion and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor said my blood pressure was “alarming for someone my age.” My boss gave me two weeks off and recommended therapy.
That therapist probably saved my life.
It was the first time someone asked, “When was the last time you did something just for you?”
I didn’t have an answer.
These days, I’m learning to put myself first. I no longer respond to every financial request. I no longer guilt-trip myself when I say “no.” I pay for my own therapy. I take solo trips to quiet places. I started writing again—something I loved as a child.
And the funniest part?
The more I stepped back, the more my siblings stepped up. My younger brother got a part-time job. My sister now tutors WAEC students for extra income. My parents… well, they still throw the occasional guilt card, but now I know how to respond.
Lessons I Learned as a Nigerian Firstborn:
You cannot pour from an empty cup.
Being the first doesn’t mean being the sacrificial lamb.
Boundaries are not disrespect.
Your mental health matters too.
Love doesn’t always mean financial support.
To every Nigerian firstborn out there drowning in expectations, just know this:
You are allowed to pause.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to live for you.
Because at the end of the day, the strong ones need saving too.
Author’s Note:
This is my story. Maybe yours is different. Maybe it’s even harder. But I hope this makes you feel seen. If you’re a firstborn carrying the weight of a family, I hope you find the courage to say, “Enough.”
We deserve to be children too.
