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Turning Tables

I have to laugh. I love a bit of irony—it’s good for one’s morale.


This was sitting in my drafts, but at this point, I have nothing to lose.


It was a few days before Christmas when my mom arrived with my brothers in tow. The following day, I inserted myself into their plans to go to the mall because my own plans got canceled.


At home, my cousin was presumed asleep. By the time I thought to ask if he wanted to tag along, everyone was already outside, and the Indrive was here. Did I feel a little bad? Yeah, a little. But it didn’t seem that serious because when I asked earlier if he had any plans, he replied with an “I don’t know.”


As soon as we got to the mall, I received a phone call from my adoptive mother. She asked where we were, and when I told her, she got to the real purpose of her call: “Why did you leave my son behind?” She started going in on me about how we should’ve invited him, how we could leave him behind when we were all out as a family.


And that’s when I said, “How many times have you guys left me behind when you went out as a family?”


Crickets.


“How many times have you not invited me to things?”


More crickets.


For a little background, the last time I was in Harare, I quite literally begged not to be left behind anymore. You can guess how that turned out. They went shopping, ate out, and went out without me.


The reason I asked not to be left behind was simple: my mental health really suffered during pregnancy and confinement. Being cooped up in my room isolated me in ways I’m still recovering from. Sure, I have moments when I prefer solitude, but I’m not the same person I used to be, the one who looked forward to canceled plans.


But my point here isn’t to gloat about them “getting a taste of their own medicine.” It’s deeper than that. It’s about how easily people can overlook their actions until they feel the sting themselves. When my adoptive mom hung up on me—acting like her 24-year-old son couldn’t fend for himself—I realized this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about me. It was about the discomfort she felt in seeing the tables turn, in being confronted with the very thing she’s done time and again.


Still, her vibe toward me has been even weirder than usual since then. But honestly, I can’t bring myself to pay her any mind. She took something minor and turned it into a personal affront. And all I could think was: So, it doesn’t feel so nice when it happens to your own child, huh?


The irony is bittersweet. I’m not bitter—I’ve made peace with what’s happened in the past—but I can’t help but notice how it’s easier for people to demand kindness and inclusion when they’re the ones left out.

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