Life as I remember It

I remember the day I was born. It was such a thing of beauty. My mum beamed with smiles reminiscent of a crescent and let out a little giggle at the sight of me. Despite his manliness, my dad couldn’t hold back the teardrops that began to form around his eyelids when he looked into my eyes. I was their first, and they had known or experienced no such feeling before. For one of the nurses — who was on training in the hospital, witnessing her first childbirth was such rapture. I remember because my mum replayed the events of that day to my hearing when I became of age. Her version was further corroborated by that nurse, who had remained a friend of the family since then.

Growing up wasn’t any different from the experiences of the average child. My first day at school had been preceded by days of planning on the part of my parents. From major details such as the choice of school, to the tiny details like the type of pants to be worn on the first day, nothing was spared in proper prearrangement. In her enthusiasm, my mum packed two meals in my food box so that I didn’t feel any hunger pangs at lunch-break. During the graduation ceremony, when I was called out as the best student, I could almost touch the joy and pride my parents felt. It was not different in secondary school. Except those times when my stubbornness and disobedience was reciprocated with appropriate and adequate discipline by them, I felt their love at all times. This was one simple motivation for me all through my academic life.

Friends were made, friends were lost! This was an apt summary of my University days. Coupled with the inconveniences my parents passed through to ensure I had a hitch-free stay in school, these experiences shaped my sense of value. I never lost sight of my purpose. In the end, I graduated with what could be considered a fairly excellent result. They were so proud. It didn’t matter if I wasn’t the best. I was their best! To them, the only graduand that mattered at the graduation ceremony was me. Not the best! Not the richest! And most certainly, neither the best dressed nor the best looking! I was even shocked that my mum held a thanksgiving for me in church the following Sunday. When I broke the news of my NYSC (National Youth Service corps) posting, she was sad. I could see the fear in her eyes as I disclosed the news of the state I had been posted to. “Borno, Borno, where the heck is Borno”, I remembered her asking. My explanations didn’t placate her anger at the government. Even my dad’s rendition of “it is just 12 months of service” seemed to brew her ire. “What kind of government does this to her baby” was the only message her face conveyed in response.

The expression on her face on the day of my departure was mixed. While one revealed she was glad that her baby was finally walking the ropes of his masculinity, the other had an undertone of sadness and fear. “Common, I will be fine”, I muttered. Eventually, camp wasn’t as terrible as I had been prepared for. On the contrary, it was more fun than I ever imagined. The three weeks quickly sped past and so did the joy of being such a long distance away from home. The “corpers lodge” was an entirely new terrain. I had never, in my life, had to share everything with everybody, but here I was sharing even my privacy with the strangest of strangers. It started out scary, but eventually, I got over the apprehension, although I continually prayed that this cup passed over me soon enough.

It was a lovely Saturday afternoon. The experiences of the week had not even prepared me for the events of that day. As it had become the custom, loud and thundering sounds had stopped causing us to panic for dear life. “It’s just another bombing”, we’d say. Today, it was different. The enormous bang was really close, and was immediately followed by shouts of “Boko Haram O, Boko Haram O…” by corps members running into the lodge. The alert registered at light speed. Adrenalin-pumping, panic-driven and Lagos-trained, I grabbed the lightest of my bags and joined the rest of the fleeing corps members. On getting out of the lodge, we discovered the kind of terror that had been unleashed by the rampaging sect. We scurried through the streets, and in no time were at the bus park. Luckily, the Lagos-bound members were fourteen in number and enough to fill an eighteen-seat bus. As we set out on our journey, I noticed the driver was in a drunken haze, but chose to disregard it believing that my initial phobia was responsible for thinking so. I should have said something; I should have prevented the accident; I should have saved the lives of the other thirteen! Sadly, I remember it as the day I died.

Now, as I look upon my parents from here, I can see how heart-wrenched they are. There is no consoling my mother out of her hysteria, while my dad looks on in disbelief. My siblings are still living in denial of my exit; believing I will soon come back home and tell them it was a joke. The true friends I made during my lifetime can’t comprehend such reality. Even my mere acquaintances are feeling depressed by the truth. I know the loss is irreplaceable. I know my departure has taken some colour out of their world. But in the end they will all get over it realizing that someday it will be their turn.

Wait a minute! Where am I? Is this the famous afterlife? I doubt it because all of us here are walking somewhere. Walking to where? I have no clues as to where we are headed, but involuntarily, we keep walking ahead. Then suddenly our lives flash before us again. I can see the many ways others had died. Some arrived here after fatal accidents; some died from incurable diseases; some were murdered in needless circumstances and wars; a few ripened from old age; and so many had died in mysterious ways. The accompanying wails were of the loved ones they had left behind; loud as the grief they had caused them. Then the flashes ceased, only to be replayed shortly.

After few replays, I had become accustomed to the scenes and shrill of the flashes. Then, I began to ponder. What was the purpose of life and living? Why was I snapped up from my loved ones in split seconds without prior warning? Why was my innocent family made to pass through such immeasurable grief? Why all the academic pursuit considering the sacrifices of my parents? Why didn’t I get a second chance? If there was a purpose to my life, did I fulfil it? Suddenly, I remembered the teachings of heaven and hell, and wondered where I was headed. Where are we all headed? Unfortunately, I have no answer to any of the questions. I can only hope that I will get one when I arrive at my destination.

The loud cries of the loved ones, from the ‘flashes’ of the latest arrival, jolts me back to the reality of this journey. And like everyone else here, I have to keep walking…