Ladies and gentlemen,

This is another short piece that I have written before and just wanted to share. Feel free to criticize or applaud. I would like to know what people think of my writing... will start full stories soon.


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She sat there on the chair crying. She couldn’t help it, and even though I hated this, I
could understand how she felt at that point. I couldn’t tell whether it was tears of joy or
fear or both, but I knew for sure that she was going to miss me, her “work machine”.
“You have to hurry up aboki” Rahila, my cousin, said. As I walked up the stairs to the “International Flights”
section of Abuja airport, I looked back at my crying mum. This time however, she struggled to light up
her face with a smile as she bade me goodbye. “Don’t forget all what I told you last night and remember
to be a good boy,” (she said as she disappeared into the busy crowd outside the terminal).


I walked briskly and joined the queue at the check-in desk. “Boston” I replied, when the short
blonde-haired lady at the desk asked of my final destination. I walked up to the “Departure
flights” section of the airport. My mind heavily preoccupied by the thoughts of home, and how
dearly I was going to miss it. As I finally settled into my seat in the British Airways Boeing 7611
aircraft, I allowed my mind to wander back memory lane. I started to think about my family’s
challenges, the events that led to them and how these occurrences had helped shape my future…


Several years back, death snatched my father away. I was ten at that time, but still clearly
remembered how I felt on that day. Dumbstrucked, shocked, bitter… I still can’t find the right
words to qualify how I felt at the time I got the news. I remembered seeing all the women, friends,
relatives, and my then pregnant mum wailing on the floor as sympathizers trooped into my grandfather’s
compound to pay their last respect to my already buried father. My younger
siblings, too young to understand what was going on, just sat there but were very perplexed at
the whole drama. My dear father, who was very healthy and strong, was brought down so
suddenly by a six-day mysterious ailment, whose treatment eluded doctors even at the best
hospital in Garin Mallam, before he was taken back to the village for medication. And now, he was gone.



I remembered him coming back from work early about three weeks before that day, and the very worried look
on my mum’s face when he muttered something about his health. He took himself to the hospital, and was
admitted. I thought that he would bounce back to life like he had always done, but nay this time, I was
wrong. His health deteriorated rather rapidly and before the doctors could find out what ailment it was,
he was already paralyzed, was with a badly swollen stomach, poorly-functional auditory organs, and couldn’t
even feed himself. When the doctors saw no signs of improvements, they advised that he should be taken home to
prevent us from incurring more medical costs. “Take him to the ‘Idibia’ for traditional treatments”, his friends
suggested to my mum, just as our people usually did when modern drugs failed to remedy certain diseases.
The following day after he was discharged, my mum and my then two youngest siblings, Hajara and Tekobo,
accompanied by another of my dad’s friends took him on a ten hours journey to our village, Unguwa Rami.
My immediate younger brother, Shehu and I, were left behind.

Ten days after they had left, uncle Asabe, my dad’s friend, at whose house we stayed when my
parents left for the village, told my younger brother, Gideon, and me that we were going to the
village to see my parents. We were excited and hoped to meet other family members. We
chattered and sang our favorite songs all through the journey and didn’t even notice the rather
unhappy expression uncle Asabe wore. Ten hours later we arrived at Unguwa Rami. I jumped out of the
car as I couldn’t wait to see my dad and my extended family. My younger brother and I ran happily
into my grandfather’s compound, but lo we were welcomed by the wails of mourning women and the
reddened eyes of men, whose appearance showed they were the same age bracket as my dad. I couldn’t
handle the sudden surge of terrible emotions that went through my small body. The sight of my mum
crying hysterically amongst the other women confirmed my worst fear; my dad was gone and was never
to be seen again. I just stood there completely dazed and speechless. I broke into tears when I was
told my dad had died ten days before, and had already been laid to rest.



Three weeks after our arrival at the village, and in spite of the great opposition/disapproval from
our extended family, my mum, siblings and I were set to move back to Garin Mallam, where we lived before
my dad’s death. They wanted us to remain at our grandfather’s compound. “We will set you up with a good
business, and contribute regularly for the children’s upkeeps,” they said to my mum, but she was no fool.
Like a hen which protects her chicks from the attacks of hawks, she protected us when members of my extended
family offered to take at least one of my siblings to take care of them. She knew what they wanted- errand
boys or girls- and she made sure they never got it.

‘They are like wolves in sheep clothing’ she said, each time she tried to explain why I should
vehemently refuse to be taken by some other family member. After a long period of debating
with even her elder brothers, they allowed her to make her choice. ‘Leave her’ sadiya, my dad’s
younger sister blurted out one day. ‘Let Ciroma’s wife go with her kids’, she would come begging
for our help some day. And that was it, my then thirty-four years old mum left for Garin Mallam with the
seventeen thousand naira she had left in her savings, four kids and a pregnancy, to begin life afresh.



It was tough. Life without papa was tough as we didn’t have enough money. He left nothing for us as his job
earnings when he was alive was only sufficient for us to attend “okay” schools and live just normal lives
without saving money. I supported my mum through all the different kinds of businesses she attempted; she sold
cooked rice, baked beans, roasted corn and a list of many other things. I sold sachet water on the streets,
and even kerosene at some point to augment what she made from her business. Even through this, I continued to
excel at my studies and consequently obtained a merit based scholarship into Shehu’s Academy for the gifted…


“Please pay attention to the following…” the voice of the beautiful air hostesses pulled back to
reality. I had been lost in thoughts for a pretty long while and actually became aware of what was
going on around me in the plane for the first time since I settled in. “Enough of these depressing
thoughts” I said to myself, as I exchanged greetings with my seat mate. She was a British Nigerian
and I could tell she had lived in England almost all her life from the melodious tone
with which she spoke the Queen’s English. For now, I am just going to concentrate on the
journey ahead. I picked one of books in my small bag, Culture Shock! USA.

I would like to know what you think of this. Thanks!

A really nice piece u've got here,feel free to post ur stories....thumbs up

bluish: A really nice piece u've got here,feel free to post ur stories....thumbs up

Thanks!