My love for first born son’s.

It might be foolish, in fact, it probably is, but I have a soft spot for first born sons. I am a first daughter, after all. The first daughter in an African family. Which, for anyone unfamiliar, is a rather peculiar job. Not a role. A job. One you don’t apply for, one you can’t resign from, and one that comes with no salary, no leave days, no pension, only endless, quiet responsibilities.

We first daughters know things. We are initiated early, sometimes too early, into the art of mothering without ceremony. We are handed crying babies and long shopping lists before we can spell responsibility. We are trained, not overtly, of course, African parents have their methods to always notice. Notice the undone chores, the missing pepper in the soup, the moodiness of our fathers, the unspoken grief of our mothers.

So yes, when I see first born sons, I soften. I cannot help it. I know them. I recognize them. I have raised one. Not the kind that came from my womb, but the one who came from the same parents as me. The one who, by birth order, is older, but by the crooked arrangement of life, somehow became mine to care for. My brother. The first born son.

I have two brothers actually, one who came before me, and one who came after. And somehow, in that precarious middle place, I became their mother-in-practice. I mothered them both. But it was the elder one who taught me the rhythm of responsibility. He was my first attempt. My trial version. The one I learned to love loudly and protect quietly. The one who taught me that being younger doesn’t mean being lesser. Just earlier to notice when things begin to fall apart.

It is a strange thing, to be a younger sister and still be someone’s mother. But African families are full of these small, ironic betrayal and plot twists that don’t come with dramatic music or commercial breaks, just a quiet shifting of responsibility, as natural and unnoticed as night falling.

I do not remember when exactly I began mothering him. Maybe it was the day I learned to tie his school tie better than he could, my small hands straightening the knot while he looked down at me with faint amusement. Or maybe it was the day our mother sighed too heavily, too often, and without fanfare, I began stepping in. At first, it was little things: cooking, covering for him when he was late. Then suddenly, without warning or promotion, I became the one who kept track of his life. The one who reminded him of deadlines, warned him about girls who didn’t look nearly as innocent as they pretended to be, and made sure he called home when he forgot.

He is the first born son. He is tall, handsome, and blissfully unaware of how often the wind shifts in his favour because someone, often me, is blowing gently behind the scenes.

That’s the thing about first born sons. They don’t always notice the scaffolding. They walk through life with this strange, effortless confidence, a kind of unspoken trust that things will simply arrange themselves.

But I do not envy them. No, I adore them. There’s a particular charm in their cluelessness, their clumsy emotional grammar, their inability to read a room when that room is seething with unsaid things. I’ve watched him stumble through heartbreak, through ambition, through adulting with the grace of someone who has never quite had to be entirely responsible for the ground beneath his feet. And each time, he looks to me not with shame, but with an open, childlike trust. Like a boy who knows his sister will catch the ball if he fumbles. And I usually do. Even while muttering under my breath, “You’re the first born. You should know these things.”

But that’s the secret: they’re not supposed to. Not really. First born sons are raised on the illusion of leadership, and often, we, the daughters, the sisters, the silent fixers, are the real custodians of the family spine. I mothered my elder brother. And then, without blinking, I mothered our younger one too. He was easier. He came like a second draft of a complicated essay: smoother, better edited, less prone to dramatic existential plot holes.

Still, it’s the elder one who owns the softer part of me. The one who taught me, without meaning to, that love is not always loud. Sometimes, love is silent labor. Sometimes, it is pretending not to see when he eats the last piece of meat. Sometimes, it is staying up all night worrying if he’s made it home, even when he’s too proud to text back.

So yes, when I see first born sons, I soften. I want to fix their collars, remind them to say “thank you,” warn them about girls who smile too quickly. I want to ask if they’ve eaten. I want to mother them not because they are incapable, but because they are so beautifully, blissfully unaware that someone always has. And for mine, I always will.