Family doesn’t always come with matching last names or Sunday lunch traditions. Sometimes, it comes with chore charts, unexpected kindness, or a refusal to let you eat on the sacred plastic-covered couch.
The plastic covers on the couch now feel like a bad joke. A cruel one, actually. Especially since that couch is the one thing she strongly associates with her grandma.
It was a sacred relic. The holy grail of living room furniture. It’s also the one piece that could get you a proper whooping. If cucu caught you eating on it? Game over.
You could sit on it — but only if your spine was military-straight.
Sleeping on it? That was for lazy people, according to cucu.
You could sit and do your homework, but you had to pull the coffee table real close and balance yourself on the edge like you were being punished by posture gods.
She sat on that couch countless times, squeezed between her sister and her grandma, watching the 7 p.m. news. A non-negotiable ritual. Cucu believed watching prime-time news sharpened the mind. Especially if it was in English. Because, you know, “proper citizens speak proper English.”
That couch had rules. That couch had memories.
She looked at the framed photos around the room hung up like last-minute art installations. Some stood out. Her university graduation photo. The second time her nana ever left the village.
Then there was a faded pic of her older sister holding her newborn — yep, on that same plastic-covered couch. A black-and-white photo of her grandparents in their twenties. She never met her grandfather. He died before she was born. Cucu never talked much about him, except to say, with a coy smile, “He’s the only man who ever took me to town.” Literally. Apparently, that was the first time she ever got into a bus and went to town.
Another colored studio photo of cucu, taken during the third and final time she left the village. Just to attend her graduation.
But louder than all the photos was the silence where her mother should have been. Her mother had handed her over to cucu at birth and never looked back. Never wrote. Never called. Never showed up. And now, with cucu dead and buried a few hours ago, the only people left were her older sister… and the baby.
He could always hear her before he saw her. Shoes off at the door. Bag flung on the couch. Hands washed in the kitchen sink. Then came the usual bellow: “Helloooooo!” followed by pots clanging in the kitchen like a one-woman percussion band.
That was her routine.
His cue to leave his room and come tell her about school: homework, teen drama, teachers he couldn’t stand, and whether he needed permission for soccer practice. Again.
She always listened. Always cared.
On gym days, he waited for her to get home so they could eat together, no matter how hungry he was. It meant something to her. And so it meant something to him.
Maybe it was her way of saying: It’s still just the two of us, but we’re still a family.
On quieter evenings, she’d pick a TV show, wait for him to shower and finish homework, then they’d eat together in front of the screen.
It felt peaceful. Steady.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
His mum leaving his drunk, abusive father was in hindsight the best gift she ever gave them.
How was it humanly possible that they could all hear each other above the noise? At least it sounded like noise. Everyone was talking at the same time. But strangely enough, still able to hear what the other person was saying. Aunty was yelling something at uncle. My cousin was laughing at something her brother had said. Said brother was trying to prove his point and urging my uncle, his father, to back him up. My aunt was still yelling, even as a smile started forming at the corner of her mouth.
“So, what do you think Nanjala?”, my aunt asked, almost willing me to side with her.
Only problem is, I was not sure how to respond. I had missed the entire conversation as my thoughts wandered.
I learnt very early on in life, to always agree with the woman of the house. Guarantees you a hot meal and a warm bed.
“I agree with you aunty.”, I said as she burst into a sporadic dance of celebration. And so it began again. A cacophony of noise that somehow was conversation in a language that they only seemed to understand.
Part of me missed my parents.
Then I remembered: those same parents kicked me out. Reminded me daily that I was wrong.
Never took the time to understand me. Never really wanted to.
So no — I will not miss them.
This is my family now.
My aunt and uncle didn’t even blink when I asked to stay permanently.
In the year I’ve been here, they’ve done everything possible to make me feel like I belong.
Like I was meant to be here.
And honestly? It feels like home.
Jax was a mystery. Dark. Moody. Still emotionally parked in his teenage goth era.
His vibe screamed: I’m angry. I hate people. Don’t talk to me unless you’re a cat. But ironically? He was the softest human in the house. Empathetic. Mindful. The kind of person who’d leave you the last piece of cake even if you were being annoying. Also? Best cook in the house. No competition.
Then there was Rainbow. Their name says it all. I’ve never asked what their real name is — felt pointless. They are Rainbow. Like one of those surprise pop-up boxes. You never know what you’re gonna get — a crochet obsession one day, a flamenco dance phase the next. Only consistent thing about them? Not a morning person.
So naturally, all evening duties like feeding the house cat, locking the door, and taking out the trash became Rainbow’s domain.
And then there’s Lisa. The undisputed house mother. She ran the place with the precision of a Swiss watch:Meal plans? Check. Chore charts? Check. Bills paid? Check. Doctors’ appointments? Never missed. And somehow, she still brought home the prettiest girls all while rocking her butch lesbian aesthetic like it was designer. You thought you had her figured out? Joke’s on you.
These three, Jax, Rainbow, Lisa. They are my people. My chosen family.
Sometimes I wonder if they chose me instead of the other way around. I’d lost almost everything. Family, job, friends, even my apartment after someone I trusted outed me online.
But these humans? They took me in. No questions asked. And they gave me a new definition of family. One that’s not defined by blood, but by choice. By love. By showing up.