21/01/2026
Unforgettable Memories.
I played a lot while growing up as a child.
There was a particular day I will never forget. I was just 8 years old when my mother sent me to the next town—about a seven-minute walk—to buy salt. She warned me to return quickly because she already had a pot of food on the fire and needed the salt urgently. She had started cooking before realizing the salt had finished the previous day.
I saw the situation with my own eyes and promised myself I would run as fast as I could.
On my way to buy the salt, my village people decided to show up.
Halfway to my destination, I met four of my friends playing by the roadside. I saw them from afar and promised myself I wouldn’t stop or say a word. But the moment I reached their spot, the rest became history.
The only thing I remember from that scene was one of them asking me where I was going. I can’t even remember my response.
The next clear memory was one of them saying,
“Ah, I’m going home o, it’s getting late.”
Another replied,
“Me too, my mom would have finished cooking by now.”
That was when it hit me.
Finished cooking? Which food?
The same dinner I was supposed to buy salt for? Or which one exactly?
That was the moment I woke up to reality.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, but judging from my appearance—the sand pouring from my head down to my feet like someone pulled out of a hole—I could tell I had been there for a very, very, very long time.
I pleaded with them to come with me, but they all refused and went their separate ways.
I had no choice but to start running.
I ran and ran, wishing I could turn into a spirit and vanish to the shop and back. But since wishes were not horses, I remained very visible. I ran while silently cursing my friends for stopping me.
It was already late. The weather was changing—but that wasn’t even my biggest problem.
Finally, I got to the Igbo man’s shop and asked for salt. He brought it out. Instead of taking the salt, I tried to give him the money first. I stretched out my right hand and said, “Ta…k—”
There was nothing in my hand.
I suddenly remembered my mom giving me a ₦20 note—the highest naira note at that time. She had warned me to hold it tightly and remember to collect my change.
I was shocked.
I searched my body, then stopped. I was wearing only a pant and a singlet—no pockets. There was no point searching further.
So I ran back to where everything started—the play site.
When I got there, I scattered everything. The molded houses we had built with our feet, including my four-bedroom mansion for my imaginary husband and four children. I searched everywhere with my right hand, even inside nearby bushes.
Nothing.
At that point, I advised myself to go home and carry my cross.
I reached my vicinity but didn’t go straight home. I stopped two buildings away from my mother’s house. The people there saw me and knew something serious had happened, but they said nothing. I was a regular customer in trouble.
Next, I moved to my uncle’s building—just one house away from my mom’s. I saw my mother bathing my little sister, who was just two years old. I envied her deeply and wished I were the two-year-old while she was seven instead of me.
My mom saw me and turned her face away like she didn’t care.
That was when I knew my end had come.
Just in case you don’t know my mom—she was a panel be**er and a bone setter. If that woman held you down, five people couldn’t save you.
I paced my uncle’s building from one end to another until his wife—clearly tired of my frequent troubles—finally asked,
“What happened?”
I kept quiet. Even I didn’t understand what had happened, so how would I explain it to someone else?
Then I jumped like a frog back to my mom’s building, moving around the three sides. I dared not cross to the front.
I confessed all my past sins to God. I told Him that this particular one was the work of my enemies and not my fault, so I shouldn’t go to hell for it. I asked God to tell my dad I was sorry I didn’t live long enough to know what he looked like.
My parents divorced when I was still a baby, and I lived with my mom. I had no memory of my father. I always hoped I would see him someday—but looking at my situation, it was clear that day wouldn’t come.
I began searching for a spot that would be suitable to lay me to rest when I finally left this world that night. I even felt sorry for my friends when they would hear I was gone—until I remembered they caused this problem. If only they hadn’t talked to me.
As I stretched out my left hand, pointing at a spot that looked good enough to die in, I suddenly realized my hand was tightly closed and sweaty. Wondering what I was holding so firmly, I opened it.
I froze.
₦20.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Ah! My village people, una do this one!”
With fear and excitement mixed together, I walked up to my mom.
“Mama, I lost the ₦20 you gave me to buy salt—but I’ve found it now.”
She looked at me and asked calmly,
“Where did you find it?”
“In my hand.”
“Go and keep it inside.”
Though skeptical, I obeyed. I entered the room to keep the money—but suddenly I heard the door close behind me.
I turned around.
It was my mother.
And I knew… my end had finally come.
