Chapter 1: A Childhood Under the Sun
Ogbabo Centra, my birthplace, was a village where life was simple and predictable, yet rich in ways that only those who lived there could truly understand. The village lay nestled among rolling hills and vast expanses of greenery in Ofu Local Government Area, Kogi State, Nigeria. Every morning, the golden sun rose over the land, casting a warm glow on the rust-red earth, the bamboo houses, and the small farms that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a land of simplicity, a place where people worked hard and dreams were often whispered into the wind.
As a boy, I saw the world through the lens of innocence. To me, Ogbabo Centra was not a place of struggle or lack, as I would later come to understand, but a wonderland filled with endless possibilities. The days were long and full of laughter, and the village was my playground. My friends and I spent countless hours running through the fields, climbing trees, and swimming in the river that snaked its way through the village.
Life revolved around family, community, and tradition. The elders of Ogbabo Centra were the keepers of wisdom, their stories passed down during moonlit gatherings around the communal fire. These stories, rich with folklore and lessons, were more than just entertainment—they were a guide to life, a way of teaching us the values of hard work, respect, and resilience. I remember sitting cross-legged among other children, listening intently to their deep voices as they painted vivid pictures of our heritage and what it meant to be Igala.
In the mornings, my siblings and I would wake to the sound of my mother's voice, calling us to help with chores before school. My mother, a woman of unshakable faith and boundless energy, was the heart of our family. She would tie her wrapper tightly around her waist and move swiftly from one task to another, her hands never idle. My father, a farmer with a quiet strength, worked tirelessly in the fields, coaxing the earth to yield the food that sustained us.
Our mornings were a flurry of activity—fetching water from the village well, sweeping the compound, and preparing for school. Education was seen as a privilege, and my parents, despite their struggles, ensured that we never missed a day. The walk to school was long and dusty, but it was a journey I cherished. Along the way, my friends and I would laugh and sing, our voices carrying through the air like a celebration of life.
School itself was a mix of discipline and discovery. Our teacher, Mr. Adama, was a stern but kind man who believed deeply in the power of education. He often reminded us that education was our ticket out of poverty, the key to unlocking a brighter future. Sitting on wooden benches in the small classroom, we learned to read, write, and dream. I loved school, not just for the knowledge it offered, but for the sense of possibility it inspired in me.
After school, the village came alive with the sounds of children playing and adults going about their work. My friends and I would race to the river, eager to escape the heat of the day. The river was our sanctuary, a place where we could be free and unburdened by the responsibilities that awaited us at home. We would dive into the cool water, our laughter echoing across the banks, and challenge each other to see who could hold their breath the longest.
Evenings in Ogbabo Centra were magical. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the village would gather for communal activities. Women prepared dinner over open fires, their voices harmonizing as they sang traditional songs. Men returned from the fields, their tired faces breaking into smiles as they reunited with their families. The aroma of roasted yams and palm oil filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the land.
In our family compound, dinner was a time of togetherness. We would sit in a circle, eating from a shared bowl and discussing the events of the day. My father often spoke about the importance of hard work and integrity, his words shaping my understanding of what it meant to be a good man. My mother, ever optimistic, would remind us to be grateful for what we had, no matter how little it seemed.
Nightfall brought a different kind of beauty. The stars above Ogbabo Centra shone brighter than I have ever seen them anywhere else, their light casting a gentle glow over the village. Lying on a mat outside our house, I would gaze up at the sky, letting my imagination run wild. I dreamed of flying, of visiting distant lands, of becoming someone important. To the boy I was then, the future felt limitless, a blank canvas waiting to be painted with the colors of my dreams.
But Ogbabo Centra was not without its challenges. Poverty was a constant presence, lurking in the background of our daily lives. Many families, including mine, struggled to make ends meet. There were days when food was scarce, and nights when the weight of our circumstances pressed heavily on my young shoulders. Yet, in those moments, I found strength in the resilience of my parents and the unyielding spirit of the community.
Looking back, I realize that my childhood in Ogbabo Centra was a paradox. It was a time of innocence and hardship, of joy and struggle. It was a time when I learned to find happiness in the little things—a cool breeze on a hot day, the taste of freshly picked mangoes, the sound of my mother's laughter. It was a time that shaped me, teaching me the value of hard work, the importance of community, and the power of hope.
As I grew older, I began to see the cracks in the idyllic world I had known. The struggles of my family became harder to ignore, and the realities of life in Ogbabo Centra began to weigh on me. Yet, even as the challenges mounted, I held on to the lessons of my childhood—the belief that no matter how difficult life became, there was always a way forward.
The boy I was in those days could not have imagined the journey that lay ahead—the pain, the growth, and the triumphs that would define my youth. But as I look back on those sunlit days, I see them for what they truly were: the foundation of everything I would become.
Ogbabo Centra, with its red earth and golden sun, its laughter and its struggles, was more than just a village. It was home. It was where my story began, where my dreams were born, and where the seeds of resilience were planted deep within my soul. And though the road ahead would be long and filled with challenges, I would carry the lessons of my childhood with me, a source of strength and hope as I navigated the twists and turns of life.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!