I sometimes think about how life was when I was much younger, life in general used to be cheaper, not just in money, but in spirit. Back then, 100 naira was a small miracle. With it, I could walk down the street to Mama Bimbos (now late) kiosk and come back with a loaf of bread, a sachet of Cowbell milk, and still have change sweets. I would hold the bread like treasure, its warm scent filling the air as I ran home with my friends, used to drink the cowbell milk with my friend thinking it will give us real strength or make us much stronger as was advertised on the Tv. Our street was always alive children shouting, women gossiping over grinding machines, men playing draughts under mango trees, everyone knew everyone, every street house was a home to all, it brought true meaning to neighbourhood. Every sound felt familiar, every face a part of your story. In those days, family was not just blood, it was the woman next door who made her soup or food in larger quantities because it was expected to potentially have your children’s friends come over to play or socialise, my uncle who brought home sweets and told tales about traffic like it was a wild adventure. And oh, every festive holiday or long school break was the real joy of the year. It wasn’t lights or fireworks that made it special, it was the people. The house would be full of cousins some you barely remembered, others who felt like siblings from another city.
The compound overflowed with laughter, suitcases, and the sound of mortar and pestle pounding pepper. Aunties cooked in large pots, uncles argued over politics, and we children made our own world playing ten-ten, or boji-boji(hide and seek), or chasing one another till sweat soaked through our shirts, we had more freedom then than children of nowadays, the streets were much safer then. At night, the air smelled of harmattan and fried meat. We’d sit outside, under the big guava tree, listening to folktales and stories told by my cousins and brothers of their adventures in the boarding houses in school, our eyes wide, hearts open. We didnt know about cinemas then, so evry weekeend we'd go and rent cassettes/cds movies to watch in the night as a family. We believed everything. The world was safe, big, and full of wonder and innocence. Sleep came easily then, soft and deep, like the world itself was watching over you.
I remember traveling to the village those long, dusty journeys where your mother packed rice and stew in coolers, and every stop along the road had roasted corn or groundnuts for sale. The roads were rough, but we didn’t care. We were going to see Grandma. Her compound always smelled like wood smoke and palm oil. She’d hug us, her wrapper smelling faintly of camphor, and say, “You’ve grown ooooo” even when we hadn’t. Now, things are different. The same fifty naira can’t even buy a bottle of water. The kiosk is gone replaced by a supermarket with glass doors and prices that make your heartbeat jump. Those cousins we played with, Scattered now, living in other states or countries, sending hurried messages on WhatsApp, conversations feel like job interviews. Festive periods feels quiet, almost too quiet. Nobody travels anymore fuel is expensive, tickets are outrageous, insecurity and everyone has their own battles to fight. Sometimes I walk through my old neighborhood when I visit. The mango tree is there, but smaller somehow, surrounded by concrete fences and silence. The children don’t play outside anymore, they stare into phones, all indoors.The innocence has faded, everyone young and old is becoming more aware. My only wish is for my children to experience the blissful childhood i had.
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