31/08/2025
Healing Through My Story: A Childhood Reflection from Ogbomoso
Author: Afon Temitope Elizabeth
Introduction
There are stories we carry in silence, some buried, some forgotten, and some remembered in fragments we can’t always explain.
This is one I remember.
As a little girl growing up in the colourful, culturally rich town of Ogbomoso in the 1990s, I lived through the warmth of family, the rhythm of daily routines, the laughter of childhood friendships, and the wonder of learning. But alongside the beauty were moments of confusion, betrayal, silence, and deep emotional pain.
This story is not written out of anger. It is not an attempt to shame or blame. It is written from a place of reflection, growth, and most importantly, healing.
It is a journey back to moments that shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately called me to become more intentional about the kind of adult and the kind of parent or teacher I want to be.
To every parent, teacher, caregiver, or guardian reading this, I invite you to look beyond the words. Hear the unspoken.
To every child who has ever felt misunderstood, I hope this story makes you feel seen.
To everyone who wants to break unhealthy cycles, this is your sign that healing is possible.
This is not just my story.
It is a mirror.
It is a call to raise whole children.
To protect not just their bodies, but their minds, their emotions, and their hearts.
Let the healing begin.
Dedication
To every silent child, confused parent, and overwhelmed teacher.
May healing find you.
Background
Set in the vibrant town of Ogbomoso in the 1990s, this childhood story is one of love, learning, confusion, and survival. It is a journey of a little girl growing up in a home that was full of routine and affection, but also moments of misunderstanding, shame, and emotional wounds. These early experiences, interactions with classmates, reactions from adults, a teacher’s harsh words, and a disturbing encounter left lasting impressions. Today, I share this story to heal and to help parents, teachers, and children do better, be better, and grow stronger.
My Story
I first opened my eyes in Ogbomoso, Oyo State, Nigeria, in 1990. Our home was full; my grandmother, my aunt, my parents, and my two younger siblings all lived together. My younger sister was only four months old when I was three, and my younger brother was two. I remember crying every time visitors were about to leave. One day, the lights went out unexpectedly during a visit, and I was so scared I cried. As the guests said “odaro o” (good night), I repeated the phrase. That was how I started learning my mother tongue through moments, not instruction.
Our mornings had a beautiful rhythm. My mother cooked while my father bathed us and got my brother and me ready for school. Sometimes they switched roles. We’d eat breakfast together, then my mother drove us to school.
I attended Ayoka Nursery and Primary School, run by a family friend. One day, I wore tiny gold earrings to school. A classmate took me to the school field and convinced me to remove one. We hid it in the grass with the intention of coming back for it, but it was gone when we returned.
My uncle picked me up from school that day. He didn’t notice the missing earring, but my grandmother did the moment I greeted her. When I explained what happened, she was upset: “Golu, your mother will deal with this,” she said. My mother came home, heard the story, and took me back to school the next day. The teacher and principal searched the field but didn’t find the earring. Soon after, my mother withdrew me from the school and enrolled me in Maryland Catholic Grammar School, where my brother was already attending.
Because the new school was farther from home, we joined a group taxi service that picked up children in our area. After school, we would come home, eat, play in the compound with bicycles or teddy bears, and enjoy the innocence of childhood. At night, our family had its bedtime routine: my father bathed us, my mother served dinner, and then tucked us in.
My brother and I slept in our parents' room. He had the upper bunk, I had the lower, and my parents shared a six-by-six bed beside us. One night, I woke up to the sound of their voices. As I turned to look, I saw both of them lying naked on the bed. I realised they were not arguing, but rather discussing and gently pleading with each other for intimacy. I didn’t understand what was happening. Quietly, I got up, walked to the bathroom, and returned to bed, turning to the wall and pretending to sleep. That moment, though brief, unsettled me. I had no words to describe what I saw, only confusion and discomfort.
The next morning followed the usual pattern. I took a piece of chocolate to school, something I was excited about. We had three teachers in our classroom, each with a different mood and method.
I had a classmate I considered a friend. When she asked me for chocolate the first time, I gave her some. But when she asked the second time, I said no, I told her I was saving it for my cousin, whose class was upstairs.
Then something strange happened.
While the teacher was teaching, many of us didn’t understand what she was saying. She suddenly paused and asked, “Do you people want to go and play?” Eagerly, some of us, including me, said yes. She told those who wanted to play to stand up. I stood.
She allowed us to step outside. But just as we began to move, she called us back from a distance. When we returned, she beat us and called us “Olodo”, a Yoruba word that means “dullard” or “blockhead.” I was confused. Weren’t we just doing what she asked?
To make matters worse, the same girl I had shared chocolate with earlier turned around and mocked me. That day, I felt hurt not just by the beating or the name-calling, but by the betrayal from someone I tried to be nice to.
Not long after, another memory was seared into my life.
One weekend, my mother was watching a Yoruba movie titled Èwò, meaning “Forbidden.” It was clearly not meant for children, but I was in the parlour with her. A particular scene stayed in my head. The next day, I told a neighbourhood friend about it. Her older brother was there too. He pulled me aside and suggested we “act it out.” I didn’t understand, but I followed him.
As we did, a security guard caught us and shouted. My mother was informed. When she got home, she locked me in a room and beat me severely. My father knocked, asking her to open the door, but she refused. When she finally did, my father found me naked. He dressed me quickly and rushed me to the hospital. The doctor examined me and confirmed I was physically fine.
The next day, the boy’s parents came begging my father to release their son from the police station. I remember my father’s firm words: “If your teenage son wants to act inappropriately, he should stay far from my daughter.”
That night, my father sat me down and warned me sternly. I was no longer allowed to play outside. After that day, once I got home from school, my parents locked me inside the house, for protection, yes, but it felt like exile. I was physically safe, but emotionally confused and isolated.
Reflection
This story is a courageous unveiling of early childhood experiences, both sweet and unsettling, through the lens of a young girl navigating love, discipline, confusion, and trauma in 1990s Ogbomoso. It reveals how ordinary moments: a shared breakfast, a ride to school, or a bedtime routine can leave lasting emotional marks when overlaid with pain, betrayal, or misunderstanding. More importantly, it shows how formative those early years are in shaping how a child sees themselves and the world.
There is tenderness in the way I recall our family rhythms and innocence, but also deep emotional wounds from harsh discipline, exposure to adult content, and betrayal by peers. These moments echo a deeper cry, one that many children are unable to voice: "See me, hear me, protect me, not just my body, but my heart too."
This first episode of my healing journey reminds us that children are whole beings with feelings, memories, and sensitivities that must be nurtured, not just controlled. It’s not just a story of pain; it’s also a call for generational healing.
Lessons
1- Be kind with words. Children remember what you say to them, especially when it's harsh.
2- Listen to children. Don’t dismiss or silence them when they’re trying to express themselves.
3- Never shame a child in public. It damages their confidence.
4- Don’t compare siblings or children. Each child is unique.
5- Correct with love, not fear. Discipline should guide, not traumatize.
6- Validate children’s emotions. Allow them to feel, cry, and express.
7- Teachers shape identity. A single word from a teacher can either build or break a child.
8- Apologize when wrong. Adults make mistakes too. Saying sorry teaches humility.
9- Don’t overlook signs of sadness in a child. Watch their behaviour closely.
10- Heal yourself. Unhealed parents or teachers pass down pain.
A Final Word: From Pain to Purpose
This story is not just a memory, it’s a mirror.
A mirror to help parents raise children with patience and respect.
A mirror for teachers to build, not break.
A mirror for children to understand their worth, their voice, and their right to feel safe.
To every child who once felt alone or misunderstood, your story matters.
To every parent and teacher, may this story open your eyes to the things children don’t always say out loud.
Love is not enough. Children also need understanding, boundaries, and space to grow emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
Let’s raise better children by first being better adults.
This is only the beginning of my healing journey.
If this touched you, stay with me.
More episodes are coming, each one deeper, more honest, and more healing.
Let’s grow together.
