I grew up between two boys — one older, one younger — which basically means I spent my childhood in a live-action documentary called Survival: Sibling Edition. The only real adult supervision came from my elder sister — our self-appointed deputy mum — who wisely stayed out of all shenanigans. She was the voice of reason, the keeper of rules, and the one who’d whisper “Mum will find out” just when things were getting exciting.
The rest of us? We were chaos with legs.
My brothers’ definition of fun usually involved mild danger, deep curiosity, and guaranteed trouble. Like the time my elder brother decided to teach my younger one and I how to swim — not in a pool, of course, but in our clean water tank. Yes, the one meant for drinking and cooking.
To this day, my mother says we have a debt in punishment. She claims there’s a ledger somewhere in heaven labeled “Unpaid Discipline: Three Siblings, One Tank.” And honestly, she’s probably right.
Then came the great roof incident. Mum was at work, which in our household meant the perfect time for a secret adventure. My brothers decided we should “explore the ceiling.” I was, as always, the willing sidekick. We built our “staircase” using a dining chair stacked with a stool — a setup that would make any safety officer faint.
Up we went, dusty and thrilled, whispering like professionals on a mission. Then came the twist: Mum came home early. My brothers panicked, jumped down, and — in an act of sheer betrayal — removed the makeshift staircase!
There I was, stranded in the ceiling, hearing Mum’s heels clicking across the floor. I knew I had two choices: wait to be caught or jump. I chose to jump.
To this day, I thank angels, adrenaline, and the fear of African mothers for the fact that I landed on both feet — and still walk gracefully in heels.
You’d think after that I’d have learned caution. Nope. My younger brother and I had our own rivalry. He loved dogs; I loved cats. Every small disagreement somehow ended with him going after my poor cat — his form of psychological warfare. He knew that if he couldn’t win an argument, a well-timed “Where’s your cat?” would finish me.
The cat, bless its soul, suffered for our sibling squabbles. Looking back, it’s a miracle it didn’t pack up and move to a quieter home.
What’s even funnier is that years later, I somehow became the calmest of the four of us(lol…they are probably disagreeing as they read this). And irony of ironies, I now love dogs. Not the feeding, grooming, or endless walks part — just the cuddles. My sister has this little furry sassy pup , who struts around like the home owner or a filthy rich politician with a pot belly. I can’t explain when my love for cats faded or when dogs took over — but I suspect it’s part of growing up and realizing dogs are little comedians and very entertaining.
Still, every time I see a water tank or hear a roof creak, I remember the madness we called childhood — the chaos, the laughter, the “don’t tell Mum” conspiracies.
Because after all, the girl who once leapt off a ceiling and landed on her feet is still practicing her balance — these days, it just involves juggling too many balls and somehow staying uprightly elegant in heels.
Speaking of balance, I’m also in the middle of another small adventure — moving all my websites to one platform. It’s easier to manage and more cost-effective. I’ve decided to let a professional handle it this time (much as I like to think I can do everything!). Some things are best left to the experts — perfection takes time. My fingers are crossed, as I once moved a column I wrote for a digital magazine and lost quite a bit. Hopefully, the pro will do a superb job and in record time.
We might even add a new tab or two — probably a health corner, because my long-lost love for medicine has re-emerged in the form of juicing, nutrition notes, and a few entrepreneurial ideas. I’m still working out how to make it both fun and profitable!
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