THROUGH A CHILD’S EYES
Everyone loves stories. As a child, I have been told many — stories of great victory achieved through great sacrifice. Stories of great love and challenges overcome — stories of pitfalls that took the support of scores of people to climb out of them. There is a phrase present in all these stories the phrase: “it takes a village.” To raise a child “…it takes a village”, to undertake exploits “…it takes a village”, to succeed in life “…it takes a village!” nothing can be achieved without “this village,” but my question is where is this village? Or better put, Who is this village?
In the stories I was told, the “village” represents our formidable sense of unity. That as a people, we take care of our own. Our neighbours were our brothers regardless of tribe or native tongue. Whenever a child was in trouble, it was the responsibility of the adults around to protect the child, but it seems the stories I have been raised on are nothing but stories. You see, I was told that Nigeria was a country filled with milk and honey, with soil so fertile that all a seed needed was to fall to the ground, and it would spring forth a gigantic tree. I was told about the bountiful wonders of the Nigerian harvest, how every month was the herald of the season of a different crop. Yet I know way too many Nigerians that cannot feed. I was told of groundnut pyramids in the north and acres of land covered in oil palm trees and cocoa trees in the south. Yet chocolate is a rich man’s delight? I was told that I could be whatever I wanted to be, and with education, I could never go wrong, so if I wanted to be successful and achieve my dreams, all I had to do was read. Yet my graduate uncles, aunties, and older cousins are neither employed nor able to fend for themselves. The luckiest of them runs a cash disbursement spot with a point-of-sale machine, also known as P.O.S business. I was told to look to the future that mine is very bright, I am 12 years old, but the future frightens me. A family friend that lives in Bwari was not just recently attacked in the dead of night by armed robbers, but the youngest son in the family was kidnapped. He is just a little older than I am. I was also told that reading newspapers and watching the news will enhance my vocabulary, but in recent times the words I have learned are “unknown gunmen,” “insurgency,” “bandits,” “kidnapping,” and “terrorism.” I can spell them in my sleep. With all these that make up my current Nigerian experience, I have a straightforward question… “How Could You?”
How did you let the narrative change to this? How did the land of milk and honey turn into the land of fear and death? How did you sit and fold your arms till the prospects for a future lie only in life outside this country? Or were the stories you told lies? Folktales or bedtime stories designed to give me sweet dreams, but of good are sweet dreams at night when the morning comes with the harshest of realities? How could you let us get here? Can it not be reversed? Will there ever come a time when the stories I was told are not mere fiction but my reality?
