Chapter 1

Once upon a time, about three scores ago was my childhood day: a day of blissful pangs and pains; hisses from old ladies who should have praised me of my display of prowess; scolds and spanks from uncles who should have pecked me; warms from my mom's listless embraces which puts me on a pedestal of a brief relief. What about the returned of father from a long journey which threw us into biting hard and munching of an enormous bread? Or the unruly attitudes of me and my fellow black kid-friends of mine which got us kicked at our buts; hard knocks from passers-by which got us wailing home in panic. The peeping through the windows of the rich who lived in our neighborhood. The humming of religious songs passed down by ancient church folks in our old Methodist church; music of dirge from the black lips of those Africans who have lost behind the earth's surface love ones that they utmostly wish could abide. Or come to talk about countless venturing into the woods at the outskirts of Ogobia to mock some old tales of bush babies; or the tales by moon light that made my heart merry and the late night rest that made the head damp and foggy.

The complexities weave on: the seldom lost from home that  awakened in me horror and a feeling of nostalgia; disturbing screamings and leaping from my dreams when confronted with nightmares; luring of an unfriendly friend into picking of a naira coin leading to getting several lashes form dreadful ladies. The several forceful scooping from the ground half-smoked cigarettes which led us running tauntingly to find refuge under the iron bed of one retired granny. One baffling moment was the hard chases I had received from angry mother hens which got me wailing, crying and running with all dreadfulness.

The eating of ritual meals dedicated to ground rooted idols. Chasing of a sickly goat for an old woman and being rewarded with the head. The crashing down to earth of my kid sister's skull after attempting to carry her on my shoulders. The late night returns to home which forced me to sleep inside one of our huge drums. The wild nicknames given me by some over aged youths coppers.

The stungs of death which almost claimed my elder brother, younger sisters and me. The sudden stoppage of my breathing which left me speechless and grasping for life.

The several causing of my mom to sobb and wept when I was nowhere near home. The several punches on my mind which made me saw things differently.

After a long hour of a sleepless night, I had woken up that early morning back then in the late nineties on my fourth birthday to realised that I wasn't born with a silver spoon, My dad was a police officer of the lowest rank and lowest pay. He was barely at home with us. My mother was a petty trader, our first born who was below ten years was a wheelbarrow pusher in the vast market of Ogobia. I was the third boy and the third child. I was a boy with a great appetite; I always wanted more meal which I hardly got. That had made me prayed countless of times to an unknown God that Christmas festival should be every day: during those Christmas festivals, I will eat until my teeth and stomach will both ache badly. I was the food protagonist in my family, I would cry for hours just because I needed more meals. Whenever my dad is served with a bowl of food, I will watch him steadfastly and almost unblinkingly until he leaves a portion of the morsel for me.

The occasion that I wasn't born with a silver spoon was a fight that I must fight, before this time, from the inception of my life, I noticed that I was enclosed in a place too tight that I hardly could move my legs and hands; that made me uncomfortable. Not knowing where I was as my eyes could see nothing, the question of how long my staying there will take was always in my head; I never knew who I was: a man or an animal? Or where I was: in the womb or another form of closet. And sometimes I felt that where I was could have some bruises accompanied by a gulping of the warmth of liquid will infrequently pour into a nearby sack that is almost attached to the sack where I was enclosed. Sometimes the vessels which carried me turned towards a direction which will be unfruitful to my knowing. At other times the vessel moved and I felt the movement, and sometimes when that vessel yelled and spoke, the vibration of a voice surged downward to where I laid. And after every section of descending substances, I felt stronger. In those days of quiet moments, I could hear sounds that I can't interpret.

The worry of how my stay will linger was my real concern, the person I thought i was, wanted to break free.

"What am I? Where am I? Where did I come from? How was I formed? These are the few of the countless questions that were weaved within the fabrics of my mind. Somehow I started noticing that some of the occurrences I felt happened by routine: the descending liquids and solid substances; the vibration that surged in descending order toward the location where I was enclosed; the frequent movement of the vessel carrying me.

There I was locked up not knowing when its day or night; raining or sunning. My choice was taken from me, I guess, not by the vessel carrying me; but by trap of my formation. The inscrutable state that I was kept me startled. And my heart pounded as I linger in that closet. Or what a wretched thing I thought i was? When will this be no more? Who could be responsible for the state I was? I continuously reasoned within myself. Could it be that I am a choiceless creatures folded in a bossom of a dilemma? It was kept from me from knowing, as everything seemed to be unknown to me. Although one thing kept me going even in that mixture of thoughts: the warmth I enjoyed.

Those horrible moments persisted until I found myself in the world of space and time. And the cold wind bit me harshly that made me cried. I was the central of attraction, in that state I was squished in between two palms of five fingers of different lengths, then I felt some warm liquids pouring on me, that made me to cry the more...

The early teenage day knit on... The several kangaroos' songs "Kangaroos! Oh! Kangaroos" and hard chases thro and fro the my pre-nursery day at reverend Patrick's school at Ogobia Benue State. The two square meals we were served three days a week. The begging of meals from my fellow pupils. The invading of our compounds by scary masquerades during Christmas festivals. The lamings of long Mr. Do Good cains on our buttocks when enlisted among noise makers.

One day, I found myself laying on the bed, I had been stricken down with a feverish kind of sickness, although not hospitalized; in my house, no child is admitted in the hospital except after a very long time of not recovering, now I had been knocked down by a sickness, life seem sour to me. I knew I will soon be faced with the forceful swallowing of pills, or the drinking of broken pills as improvised syrups. I knew that if I didn't get better, I will be dragged by my mom to see some quark road-side doctors who will definitely be using an already used syringe to inject me. I knew that I will be administered some expired drugs; I knew that a dose will be spit into four and thereby making us pay over the amount. This was a period where phone calls where rare, my dad had no phone, so my dad couldn't communicate to him of my illness.

 During that day, I lost my appetite completely, My mouth was bitter, My mother quickly rushed to get some tablets, at first, I gulped them down, after two days, I wasn't improving still, in spite of the daily swallows of countless bitter pills of drugs.

One evening, I had become fed up with the drugs, and I just couldn't swallow another as my body seemed to be rejecting any. My mom came again with those disgusting tablets, broke them in a spoon mixed with water, she tried to force the spoon full into my mouth but I threw up. Her face turned red. "Hey! Do you know how much this tablets cost?" She yelled at me in a high tone. Everything seemed dark to me; in fact, I was fed up- fed up with the the situation that surrounded me: the illness, the daily swallowing of the drugs, the bitter taste and smell oozing out of the pills, the frequent throw ups that left my jaw threw opened.

My mother had learnt so many modus operandi of administering the drugs to me. When she realised that I was unyielding, she grounded to powder the pills and mixed them with water, the substance was nowhere close to a syrup. "Open your mouth." She instructed. But I refused, she tried to force the spoon full of the substance into my mouth, but my teeth were glued together, My mom was an expert, she knew how to override every of my display of resistance. She called my two elder brothers; they have to assist in binding me, they held my hands and legs as been instructed by my mother. "Open your mouth or I will force it!" She yelled. She tried to force the spoon full of liquid substance into my mouth but I was unyielding still. Then she began to loose her temper... She lammed her palm on my back. "Naw!" I began to cry. Now my mouth was opened, she quickly pushed the spoon of watery mixture into my mouth, but I refused to gulp it down. "Drink it! Drink it! She shouted at me. I was still resolute not to drink the bitter stuffs, an idea popped into her head, she closed my nose, now I could hardly breath, I knew that I must breath but I held my breath. "Ok!" She said, indicative of the fact that, I won't hold my breath for ever. When I couldn't hold my breath anyone, I gulped it down. Accompanied by another cry, as I cried everyone laughed at me to scorn.

That day, as darkness stole in, the bitterness I earlier felt became intense: everything tasted bitter in my mouth; my life was embittered. I was in the horror of an excruciating pain; in spite all these hellish horrors I must take another dose of those bitter drugs before retiring to bed. I thought about the taste, but I was left with no choice. That night I forcefully took them.