There’s a special kind of stress that comes with being the last born in a Nigerian family. It’s not quite suffering, but it’s definitely not soft life either. It’s somewhere in between: where you’re both a baby and a full-grown adult depending on what’s convenient for the family at the time.
Everyone talks about first-born pressure and middle-child syndrome, but what about us the last borns? The ones who didn’t ask to be born last but somehow got handed the job of remote finder, household clown, family assistant, and emotional support system rolled into one.
From childhood, your identity is locked in. You’re the “baby of the house” forever, no matter how old you get. You could be pushing 30, have a degree, a 9–5, and even a relationship that’s serious enough for marriage, but to your mum, you’re still her “small baby.” Any visitor that comes around must hear the words, “She’s our last born,” with a smile, like it’s part of your CV.
But let’s be honest, this ‘baby of the house’ role only applies to family conversations and responsibilities they think you can’t handle. The moment there’s a task to be done, they remember you have legs. You are the designated errand runner. Your elder siblings could be lying in bed, two steps away from the remote, and still shout your name from the room to come and pass it to them. You’ll fetch water, plug chargers, grind pepper, carry small children, wash car, and still hear “You’re not doing anything in this house.” Even sleep is a luxury. Try pretending to nap and someone will call your name: “Get up and sweep that place. You’ve been sleeping since.” Like rest is a crime only the older ones are allowed to commit.
Then there’s the snitch reputation. At some point in your childhood, maybe you told your mum that your sister came home late or that your brother took more meat than he was given. Just once. That one time alone was enough to brand you for life. Now they pause conversations when you walk into the room. “This one go talk,” they whisper, like you’re the NSA. Yet somehow, they trust you enough to handle every delicate family errand; from helping them hide gifts for surprise parties to escorting visitors politely when no one else wants to stand up.
And don’t even try to get angry. That’s the real crime. If your older siblings are moody or annoyed, they’re “just tired.” But you? If you dare frown or keep quiet for too long, you’ve suddenly become rude. You’re now forming, talking back, and acting “too big.” It’s funny how you’re old enough to go and fix the car battery but too small to express emotions. The double standard is loud.
Still, even with all the stress, there’s a sweetness to being the last born. Your older siblings may drag you, but they’ll also fight anyone who messes with you. Your mum might save the biggest piece of meat for you when no one’s looking. You probably got away with things your siblings would have been flogged for. You might not be able to talk in family meetings, but best believe if you cry hard enough, someone will come to your rescue.
Being the last born in a Nigerian household is chaotic, funny, and slightly traumatic but it’s also filled with love. Yes, you’re the errand runner. Yes, they sometimes treat you like you’re five years old. But you’re also the heart of the home, the one everyone secretly watches out for. It’s a life full of contradictions, but if you’ve lived it, you understand.
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