The first time they called my daughter ‘possessed,’ I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because I had run out of ways to cry. She was four, beautiful, and silent. Not the kind of silence that comes from shyness, but the kind that swallows whole rooms and frightens relatives. At church, the women laid hands on her; at home, my mother laid blame on me. They said I talked too much when I was pregnant. That I read too many books. That I was cursed. But nobody ever asked me what it felt like to watch your child drift away from the world—while standing right in front of you.

I spent the early years bouncing between hospitals and prayer houses. One doctor told me to be patient; another told me to pray harder. A third said, “Madam, maybe she’ll grow out of it.” But growing out of what? Nobody would say the word. Autism. Like saying it would make it more real, more permanent, more shameful. I googled things in secret late at night, after Grace was asleep. Words like “speech delay,” “meltdown,” “sensory sensitivity.” What I found scared me and comforted me at the same time. At least I wasn’t crazy. At least I wasn’t alone.

The world, however, was not as kind. Friends stopped coming around. At parties, other children avoided her. My sisters started sending me WhatsApp broadcasts about healing crusades. I stopped replying. When you’re raising a child who doesn’t speak the world’s language, people act like it’s your fault she doesn’t understand them.

Some days, Grace would scream for hours. Not cry—scream. A raw, full-bodied howl that shook the windows and my spine. There was no obvious cause. Sometimes it was the sound of a generator. Or a neighbor’s baby crying. Or nothing at all. I learned to speak her language in fragments—how she’d flap her hands when she was happy, how her eyes darted sideways when she was overwhelmed, how silence could be a comfort or a warning. She never called me “mummy,” but she clung to my wrapper like I was her entire world. Maybe I was.

I quit my job after the third nanny left without notice. They always said the same thing: “Madam, I no fit handle this kain pikin.” I stopped correcting them. I stopped trying to explain. It’s exhausting to plead for empathy. So, I sold wigs online and did braids from home. I adjusted my hours around Grace’s moods, appointments, and meltdowns. People said I was strong, but I wasn’t. I was just tired.

What hurt the most wasn’t the judgment from strangers. It was the quiet disappointment from people I loved. My mother, especially. She would watch Grace from a corner of the room, eyes narrowed like she was waiting for her to snap out of it. Once, in a whisper she thought I couldn’t hear, she said to my aunt, “This one na punishment for stubbornness.” I didn’t cry. I just took Grace’s hand and walked out of the room.

Everything changed the day I met another mother like me. It was at a small clinic in Surulere, where I’d taken Grace for yet another speech assessment. Her name was Rukayat. Her son, Musa, didn’t speak either. He was seven, obsessed with bottle caps, and flinched when people clapped. We locked eyes in the waiting room and instantly recognized something in each other—exhaustion, defiance, grief. She smiled first. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being smiled at.

We began talking, quietly at first, then more freely. She told me about a support group that met once a month at a café in Yaba. “No prayers. No pity. Just parents who get it.” I went the following Saturday. There were six of us: two fathers, four mothers. We shared stories. We wept. We laughed about the absurd things people said to us. Someone mentioned a school in Lekki that didn’t force the children to sit still or recite alphabets like parrots. It was expensive, yes—but I finally allowed myself to imagine a future for Grace that didn’t begin with “if only.”

Slowly, I began to forgive myself. For not knowing. For yelling. For mourning the version of motherhood I thought I’d have. I stopped explaining Grace to people who weren’t ready to understand her. I stopped feeling guilty for wanting joy.

Grace is eight now. She still doesn’t speak, but she sings. Not with words, but with hums and coos that rise and fall like waves. I’ve learned that love doesn’t always sound like “I love you.” Sometimes, it’s a hand resting lightly on your shoulder during a meltdown. Sometimes, it’s a deep belly laugh when I pour rice into a bowl—she finds that sound hilarious. And sometimes, love is simply staying. Staying when it’s hard. Staying when everyone else walks away.

I no longer pray for her to change. I pray for the world to widen. To stretch its arms enough to hold children like her without trying to fix them. I pray for patience, for understanding, for more classrooms that don’t punish difference, and more mothers who don’t feel ashamed of their tiredness. Mostly, I pray for strength—not the kind that roars, but the kind that whispers, “I’m still here.”

People still ask me what’s “wrong” with her.
I smile now. “Nothing,” I say. “She’s just not wired like you.” And I mean it.

One Sunday, a woman in church pulled me aside. I didn’t know her. She was wearing a gele so wide it nearly touched my face as she leaned in. “Your daughter needs deliverance,” she said. “I know a mountain where the fire of God burns every chain.” I looked her in the eye, smiled gently, and replied, “My daughter is not a prisoner.” She blinked, confused. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t explain. I just turned and walked back to where Grace was seated on the floor, arranging plastic spoons by color.

There was a time I would’ve followed that woman. Climbed the mountain. Fasted. Prayed till my voice cracked. But I’ve learned that sometimes, the miracle is not in the change—it’s in the acceptance. And in the quiet joy that follows when you stop wishing your child was someone else, and start listening to the person they already are.

These days, when I lie next to Grace at night, I let her hum me to sleep. Her fingers stroke my arm in slow, rhythmic movements, like she’s memorizing the shape of me. In the dark, I tell her stories I make up on the spot—about girls who fly, about mothers who build bridges with their hands, about a world that never asks anyone to be normal. She never replies. But when I stop talking, she scoots closer, as if to say, “Don’t stop.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Phillippe Mari on Unsplash