Wishing well.

Sometimes I believe my heart doesn’t exist.

I dream of being someone else. Someone who either enjoys quinoa or has the discipline to stomach it.

Someone who enjoys the gym or doesn’t feel bad about going.

Someone who has an attention span and doesn’t feel bedridden.

Someone who feels sexy in her own body and feels desired.

Someone who doesn’t watch for the moneygram transfer to be picked up.

Someone whose self concept doesn’t involve giving,

My aunt turned 60 earlier this month. My cousin got married last week.

I am close to neither, but I contributed to both. I wanted to be part of someone elses happiness. I cling to the good. The weddings, the births of babies, the celebrations.

My aunt is a twin. I gave nothing to my uncle. He wasn’t excited about turning 60 and so there was no joy to contribute to.

My aunt was going to celebrate in church and give out food. I thought it was an “unfuckable bag” and this woman told me she “acknowledged receipt” of the funds and broke my heart. I’ve had warmer regards from work emails.

My cousin got married when I was in Poland, it felt nice to be doing something nice whilst the rest of the family were celebrating. When I came back I saw beautiful photos. I was so happy for her, my natural instinct is to give love. So I called her, we spent 3 minutes on the phone. I don’t need long, that’s a proportional and normal response. I asked for the photos and I got them. They’re gorgeous. They are what happens when a beautiful woman marries a man who deserves her. He’s far more handsome than the ex husband who had a deviousness to him I couldn’t explain.

So, I sent money, because love is beautiful, not because I am close to the bride or the groom, but because love is beautiful and I love to love. I was mildly anxious about it. Where Sierra Leoneans often let down is in the words “thank you” not “I acknowledge receipt of funds…”

A thank you came, it was casual, the money went to the husband and I didn’t question it, she is probably stuck at home with the baby and the husband can get hold of the money quicker, I have long learnt not to question or expect things. I sent the money because that was in my heart, and I didn’t regret it until…

Another cousin got sick. Very dangerously so. A sickle cell crisis coupled with arthritis, reminding us all that we are one recessive gene away from a life filled with pain. Or at least I am, sickle cell is recessive, and I am a carrier, which means dad’s genes saved me from a life of constant pain and a death from organ failure. Something I absolutely do not wish on my cousin.

The sister of the cousin that got married told me what was wrong with her, we just heard she was sick and was in hospital.

She then immediately told me about a money sending app. I was discombobulated because… what? I legitimately didn’t understand why the conversation switched because we were only just talking about Lizzie’s health. So I was talking about Monzo and what we do to transfer money in the UK. But that I only do it with my friends.

It made me feel weird, because on the surface, Lizzie is a cousin. She is my grandfather’s grandchild same as me. But I haven’t interacted with her over the years.

I was informed of her existence when my mum paid her university fees one year. That’s how I found out I had a cousin, my initial thoughts were annoyance, this was the 3rd cousin that year my mother was paying school fees for. That was 2021. My mum also mentioned she was depressed, that gave me a modicum of sympathy for her. I was deeply so back then.

The next time was 2023, when I met her in person, she’s a nice person by the way, a gentle lady. She’s maybe 6-7 years younger than me. Very slight build, but nothing offensive could be said about her, I asked her benign questions and got benign answers. But she didn’t offend in any way and I am not angry at her, nor am I not donating to her medical care out of spite or fury about my dad’s passing. Notice how I said she is my grandfather’s grandchild? She’s not my grandmother’s. her mother is my mother’s half sister (grandad enjoyed his 20’s and 30’s that’s for sure) and so when my dad passed, she didn’t call because it may be the first she’d have heard of  my existence too. I’m not expecting the extraordinary from people.

The third time was in 2025 when she went to Gambia for medical treatment for the arthritis and her half brother George showed me a picture of her in a wheelchair. Being wheelchair bound in Sierra Leone is not for the weak, that country isn’t even built for the able bodied so imagine being disabled?

She will sometimes appear on the family group chat to wish X person or  Y person happy birthday, and I noticed she changed her name from Lizzie to Elizabeth Taylor, (very grown up, I approve, and now I can say I receive texts from Elizabeth Taylor)

But it would be weird to give money based on that right? Especially as my last 2 givings were tenuous at best. A reflection of a sad person at worst. Someone who doesn’t have anything nice going on in her own life so is seeking the crumbs of other’s happiness.

Because let’s face it, I didn’t make Deji’s wedding better. She was going to have a beautiful experience as a bride no matter what. I might have been an unexpected happy couple of texts for someone who is already very much in love, but no more than that.

My aunt Waltina was going to do what she was going to do whatever I did. Sure I helped her buy drinks for her party, but ultimately it would have been a success regardless. It was just nice to receive a birthday gift from a niece who you aren’t close to.

My mind goes back to my early 20’s when my first marriage happened and this particular aunt was the only one to send me a gift…black and burgundy unsewn pillowcases.

I have rarely been more humiliated. I had told my ex of a beautiful family and a beautiful culture and they humiliated me. The fabric was objectively ugly and definitely inappropriate for a wedding gift, no matter where you are from. And the fact that it wasn’t sewn meant you had to ascribe meaning to it. Otherwise, its 2 scraps of fabric.  

No thought into, “what are Anna’s favourite colours? let me get her fabric in those colours.” No thought to let me actually make her a duvet set… that fabric would have been ugly as wrappings for a real gift and it wasn’t. It was the gift.

The shame and hurt still burn me because she did not act that way for Deji or Oreh’s weddings. She put in actual effort. What I don’t understand is why my mum didn’t cuss her out for it. That was a poor showing and you’d have been better not doing anything rather than humiliating me.

And so when I treated her I treated her as I wished I’d been treated, not how she treated me. Which is objectively poorly.

I often wonder why I don’t cry when I think of these things. How many humiliations did I make okay? Why did no one respect me? Why does no one love me? Why does no one take care of me?

Before this whole “Lizzie” debacle what I was going to write of giving to Deji as, “when treated with a modicum of kindness, I am very generous.”

I actually did want what I said I wanted when my dad died, and that is to be cared for. These people don’t want to do any work for me, and acts of service is my primary love language.

“we love you but we won’t remember your birthday”

“we love you but we’ll get you unsewn pillowcases when you get married”

“We love you but when your dad died we won’t call you until months later and only when unless cussed out. And even then, it’s a compliance call, not a care call”

I am 34. I have had 5 years almost since I lost my father and the scales fell from my eyes on my mother’s family.

I really thought by now I’d have figured it out. And if you’d asked me on Tuesday I would say it was getting better and I was almost there.

But now? I am lost.

Because any good memory with my mum’s family is something I have either created or worked for, its not something they have given me.

I had a lovely conversation with my aunt Beatrice a 3 weeks ago. Why? Because I called her.

I found out how my aunt Waltina’s 60th birthday party went, why? Because I called her.

I called Deji to ask about the wedding, and I sent her a text to congratulate her before I left for Gdansk (didn’t know the network situation so made sure I messaged on the day)

These are not extraordinary actions from me. These are just caring actions.

But they are more than I have ever received.

My grandma didn’t start calling me until 11 months before she died.

That is the most amount of kindness I have received from my entire family, maybe half a dozen phone calls over an 11 month period.

That’s sad.

Is it worth cutting them off over? I have no idea.

But no one has modelled healthy love to me, reciprocal love.

But I am 34. So whatever they have done to me no longer counts, it is what I have done to myself that matters.

I have stated to my cousin I didn’t like being hit up for money, despite it being a good cause.

I have tried my level best with my mum’s side. But it just keeps hurting.

I don’t know what to do. But it feels dehumanising, it feels sad.

That’s all I have for now. The memories of how often they mistreated me and only when I kicked and screamed and when it was convenient for them did they acknowledge I existed.

It doesn’t matter what that cost me. Meanwhile I am still counting the cost. Lizzie is bedridden from arthritis, I am bedridden from neglect.

Grace and Courage.

Annetta Mother Smith