3 a.m., it’s dark outside. A burning sensation fills my lungs from the long walk from Lotto to Camp Car Park F. Sweat drips from my eyebrows, salt stinging my eyes. More salt in my eyes—tears fall freely. I sniffle and stare at my mother beside me, a travel bag balanced on her head, another in hand, supporting my little brother as he staggers along with the rest of us. Too young to understand what was happening, but just old enough to sense the sorrow in the atmosphere. My dad trails behind us, shouting into his phone, his voice cracking from the strain. A large sack weighs down his hand, muscles bulging from the prolonged burden. My older brothers are a few feet ahead of me, setting the pace, each with backpacks that are almost impossible to zip... almost. This was how the six of us left our home when the rent was long overdue.
The year was 2017, and the harmattan season didn’t stop my face from being moist with sweat, the cool wind trying its best to dry it all up. It wasn’t always like this, though.
The year was 2013. My mother sat right across from me and my brother, telling us how much better we had to be at school. Her fair skin always made me smile. She had just taken a shower; the smell of her face wash drifted toward my nose, mixing with the heavenly aroma of jollof rice rolling in waves from the kitchen. My father sat on the brown couch in the living room, dressed in a rich black native, phone to his ear, speaking slowly and calmly in a sonorous baritone, getting ready to set out for work. My younger brother crawling around the house with the toy car he received as a gift last Christmas. The school bus horn blared, and the routine rush began: my mother hurried to stuff our lunch packs with coolers of jollof rice, large chicken pieces, snacks, and drinks. It was July. I had everything to be grateful for—the smell of the first rains as they hit the earth. Oh, what wonderful memories they hold for me.
The year was 2015. It was my second time on a plane. I was not excited. We landed and were back in Lagos. My mother... she seemed to have put on some weight, I thought. I was taller than she was now—by a full head, I reckoned. I resisted the urge to smile at the thought. My father rolled the boxes from the checkpoints while my brothers helped him. My younger brother held a candy; he held anything these days—our hands, our gaze. In those moments, I remembered him from the first time I saw him: his pink skin, large eyes, very loud, very beautiful. I noticed stubble on my other brother’s chin. “Age is coming of him”—you wouldn’t get it; it’s an inside joke in our home. He was almost as tall as my dad now. My father walked beside me, phone in hand, speaking to an agent, planning to set up the store for a sketchy program. I saw the disapproval on my mother’s face. There it was—my first lesson in adulthood: ADULTS MAKE MISTAKES TOO.
The year was 2015, and everything was a blur. Four stores we set up, three stores we lost. One store was robbed. Not one was left. October 15th was the date. Tears flowed from my father’s eyes. It was mysterious, like seeing darkness for the first time. I felt hurt. I slipped back into my room and shed tears of my own.
The year was 2016, a downward spiral—loss after loss, damage after damage. First, our house in Ekiti, then the one in Lagos, then the one in Ibadan. We moved to Camp with our cars. Then the cars went too: first the Rover, then the Hilux, then the Windstar, then the Peugeot. Then we moved again, deeper than before, into the darker parts—parts with no electricity, neighbours who siphoned water at night, goats with human eyes, and weekly cult killings. The darker parts.
The year was 2016. The rent was due. School fees were due. My brother stayed home for four months. I had given in to depression. I adapted to the way of life—I began picking pockets, burning windows, cursing loudly, and chasing buses. I now lived a life that was farthest from me. And then came my umpteenth lesson in adulthood: HUNGER TASTES LIKE THE COLOR BROWN. Slowly, brown became my default color. I began to fall in love with it. My mother seemed darker now, creases forming on her forehead. She seemed older. My father had pains in his lower back, white clouds in his eyes, slow resignation in his tone. I feared for their lives. I didn’t know what to do. Another lesson in adulthood: HELPLESSNESS WEARS A DIRTY WHITE TUNIC.
The year was 2017. My New Year’s resolution was to survive. I saw an old friend and hid my face. I waited until she moved past, then sneaked out of hiding and slithered back to our rented apartment. I stayed in my room and cried. July came, and the rains hit the earth, and my tears fell for the umpteenth time. I visualized my past life and laughed sorrowfully at how distant it now was. Yet another lesson: SHAME HAS NO COLOR. IT JUST IS.
I watched as all my good memories of the rains corroded. I watched my mother develop bags under her eyes—from not sleeping, from crying, or from both. I had no tears left to cry. I heard my dad sigh, a very final sound. The cloud in his eye was whiter now. Doctors said it was cataracts—he might go blind. The landlord came, padlock in hand, and served us with an eviction notice. We had nowhere left to run. We gathered as a family prayed, packed our clothes, and stuffed bags with things we weren’t even sure we’d need. We were now homeless. We were now free.
And so it was 2 a.m., and we left the apartment, setting out as a family, moving in the dead of the night. I began humming my favourite song. It was my brother’s too, so he picked it up. By 2:30, we all hummed along—a song to mark our freedom, our spread wings.