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NOSTALGIA

NOSTALGIA

I miss my childhood days, I guess every adult does. For some of us, maybe it’s because adulthood came like it was suddenly shoved down our throat and we had no idea how we grew up. We never even had the chance to be a child – Adulthood started from birth.

Being a child is the best thing that can happen to anyone. You see beyond colour, tribe, religion, class and ethnicity. All we saw was another child that we were willing to share our cookie or candy with. All we saw while growing up was another child that we would share our toys with and ways to have more fun. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. As a child, all I saw was another child that I could partner with and fall into mischief with {a child’s idea of painting the town red}. Life from the eyes of a child was quite simple, no colour, no gender, no class. It’s just another child – another human that deserves to live.

As simple as it is, being a child can be quite tasking. Funny how the purest of souls can also be the most vulnerable of souls. Every child is exposed to a lot of dangers, disease, violence – domestic and gender-based, emotional abuse. All of these and many more are prevalent in a world that spends heavily on security while placing its biggest hopes in children.

Yes, sometimes children can be mischievous. They can be mean and maybe impossible to deal with, but beneath that skin is a heart waiting to love and be loved. Beneath that skin is a soul who understands beyond words spoken. Beneath that soul is the purest soul that is ready to sheath his sword to live and love like there never was a disagreement to begin with.

I miss the days when life was simple and free. When happiness was found in the most basic of all things – playing in the rain, bathing in the open yard, the joy of playing Suwe, ten-ten, tinko-tinko and hide and seek. The mood that filled the air as I walked back from school with my school bag hanging loosely on my shoulder, focused on the Mango or Agbalumo {Cherry} while trying to fight off the flies that came for the juice. The days when my only problem was ensuring I didn’t come last as I raced with my friends to the school gate because “the last” would be “a fool”. The days where we all looked forward to Sunday rice and put on our best behaviour at church. Ma’s facial expression was all the caution you needed to act accordingly.

When all I needed to do was go to the neighbours or playground for the beginning of an adventurous day. In the evening I’d push condemned tires uphill just in time to watch the sunset over the horizon and plan the future with my friends. I miss the days when success meant finally perfecting the Galala moves as Daddy Showkey gave us songs that kept us busy or a beautiful recital of the Queen’s Premier, multiplication tables and a memory verse at Sunday school. Bravery meant not running away from Father Christmas. I found great joy in reading books like Chike and the River, Ali and Simbi, Eze Goes to School, Sugar Girl, Things fall apart, and how can I forget “Edet lives in Calabar. He is eight years old…” and “Agbo lives in the town of Lagos”. Thursdays were for Super story, Sunday evenings were for Tales by Moonlight. All these I stood at my neighbour’s window to watch with the curtain slightly tilted to the side. Even as an Omo Deeper life, I cannot forget the legendary advert, “My friend Udeme is a great man when he was young…” or the iconic “I was determined  {in a strong igbo accent}… Papilo, one day I know say you go make us proud”.

I miss the days when all we had to do was play, eat, sleep, dream and take to instructions in between. Life was simple. Relatives came by during festive periods. Strangers were kinder, the air was cleaner, the field was filled with people and happy souls weren’t hard to find.

Damn! We all miss our younger selves, growing old is tough. Childhood really was pure bliss.

DHESERT CHEQUER

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2 Responses

  1. Only legends would remember this
    Mom: oya hold the bucket with both hands, close your eyes and gimme your left leg

    Such and such were the joys

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