I was born in a taxi on the way to the hospital in between Asaba and Onitsha, the town where we lived 275 miles (442km) from Lagos. My mother had six children by the time I arrived – Grace, Johnny, Anthony, Maggie and Rosaleen. She had also lost a baby. After me she had a son, Samuel, and a daughter, Eno, with my stepfather.
We lived in a small town in eastern Nigeria. My mother, Arit, and father, Paul, came from different tribes of east Nigerian people – she was Efik and he was Igbo. My father was a widower, a postmaster who already had a child and was much older than my mother when they married (she was 16). After more than 12 years together, my father acquired a new wife, as is the custom in that part of Nigeria, but, by then, my parent’s marriage was unravelling. They split up when I was just a baby and, disastrously for us children, he won custody.
Our stepmother was of the same tribe and village as my father and didn’t want to look after his first family. It was very tough. My eldest sisters, Grace and Maggie, had to look after us as best they could. We moved around for my father’s job, so staying in touch with my mother was hard. Some of my siblings were sent to boarding school or farmed out to other families. It took four years before we were reunited with my mother in Lagos.
My mother was an amazingly resourceful and spiritual woman. She worked for herself as a seamstress and after she split from my biological father, she met and married a prominent politician, SG Ikoku, which proved a happy union for both.
My maternal grandma was a very graceful, lovely woman called Nne Kamba, whose husband, the king of the local area, had been murdered when my mother was only six. Nne lived in a spacious thatched mud hut dwelling in a village called Ikot Efa. We used to go and spend time with her in summer holidays.
From 1967 to 1970, Nigeria was in the throes of the Biafran war. It was a tense time for many. My sister and I were caught behind enemy lines and lived through – and saw, many horrors on our journey back to Lagos. My mother hid up to 30 people at a time in our house as our people were being massacred and we were in enemy territory.
When I met my husband, Stephen, he was already married and had four children, so it wasn’t a conventional start to a relationship. I had reservations, but we fell in love and have now been married for 40 years.
We have two children, Emma and Sebastian, and I am mother to four stepchildren. I swore that I would never be as unkind to my stepchildren as my own stepmother had been to me.
My mother taught me strong Christian values – I have a strong spiritual etiquette because of her. She died at 91 and 2,500 people came to her funeral. She taught me how education is vital in life, to work hard and that giving to others is the way to change the world.
My mother taught me that family is my sanctuary. That the people within my family are my refuge. And because I came from such a large family, I was given a great deal of life experience from my many siblings. I’ve tried to teach my children the same values, to be respectful, charming, considerate and to appreciate God’s wisdom.
To me, family is the glue that holds my being together. My family defines me, from my ancestors, my wonderful protective mother, to my loving husband and wonderful children.
The Faith of a Child: the Autobiography of Patti Boulaye, £12.99 on Lulu and £3.51 on Kindle. www.bipada.com
