I remember my childhood.
Growing up with my grandma in a little village called Ogbe.
My dad had recently died, and Mom lost it psychologically, so she hastily went back to school for a change of environment while my sister and I were shipped to the village.
I remember my grandma, a strong and hard-working little woman with great expertise in making traditional dishes. She was nicknamed ‘Mama Ojobe’ in the native Yagba language, which means ‘a master of soup’. When it comes to local dishes, Grandma can never go wrong.
I remember her love for formal education, even though she never tasted it for a day.
I remember her selling her farm produce and vegetables to finance our textbooks. I remember all her struggles and sacrifices.
I remember her being trapped and pierced in the leg by local traps on the farm. Not once, not twice. I remember her scream, which sent a shrilling sensation throughout the length and breadth of the lonely forest. I remember her crying literally as blood gushed out of her leg; I remember the pain and anguish in my heart watching my lovely grandma in tears.
I remember the hardship of going to farm very early in life. I was a ‘city boy’, but the death of my dad brought me to the village, so farming was a real hardship to me. I remember we had to wake up very early and trek for hours before getting to the farm, then work for about seven straight hours and take an hour lunch break in-between.
I remember the fright of going back home—carrying heavy loads of food and firewood on our heads, trekking for hours. It was a dreadful memory.
I remember my scream each time a thorn pricked my foot. I would throw off whatever was on my head, sit on the ground, hold my leg, and cry. At first, others would carry my load—even my younger sister—and I’d walk home empty-handed. Sometimes, someone would carry me too. But as I grew older, they left me behind in the forest, and I’d walk home alone, defeated.
I remember falling sick every day for months after returning from the farm. Grandma would give me Phensic, reassuring me I’d get used to the life.
I did. And I grew stronger. Tougher.
The village whispered of the lazy city boy, and the bullies came.
I ran. But the more I ran, the more they chased.
Until I stopped running.
One by one, I fought back—beating the shit out of them.
Fists and fury forged a tougher me.
I also remember Grandma laboring all her days and never living to reap them.
I remember my village primary school, nicknamed ‘Egungun-Eja’ by the villagers. Egungun-Eja—named after the dominant tree species on the land.
I remember Aladoga, the little lake where half the village fetched drinking water. Trekking for miles with akoto gourds or iron buckets on our heads. Dipping our dirty legs—wounded, sore, wrapped in rags—into the water to reach the cleaner part. Yet no cholera. No epidemics. Just resilience.
I remember Christmas days—pure joy.
Mom would visit, and we’d wear new clothes, eat rice and chicken, and drink Coke until we purged.
Then came the tears the night before she left. The long walk to the market square, where she’d board a pickup truck to Egbe. The screaming, waving, running after the truck until it vanished. Holding my sister’s hand, swallowing fate, and trudging home.
I remember my teachers—Mr. Isaiah (Oga Taye), Mr. James, Mr. Agbonwo—who taught me well.
I remember the day I took my sister’s punishment because she forgot her langa-langa. I gave her my cutlass and was flogged instead. I was her protector. Always. We were under 7, but it was already us against the world.
Today, driving through Shitta in Surulere, I remember.
Losing Dad. Mom’s sadness. A childhood wrapped in trauma.
I cried again. Tears streaming as I drove.
Then I remembered Paulo’s words:
“Victor. Forget the past. Press forward.”
I sneezed. Wiped my eyes. Pressed the pedal.
Faster than LASTMAs, police, VIOs.
Eyes on the goal. The big picture ahead.
The past struggles? Nothing compared to the glory coming.
I rise.
