“In the life of everyone there are a limited number of experiences which are not written upon the memory, but stamped there with dye; and can be called up in detail, and every emotion that was stirred by them can be lived through anew.

-James Weldon Johnson

My first and perhaps most vivid memory occurred when I was about eight years old, sometime in 1974. Like young boys are wont to do, especially in the village, I crafted toys out of available resources. My toys of choice were tiny rocks; little stones I carefully selected with the childlike solemnness of an eight year old. My precious stones- all a generic grey selected by weight, size and the uniqueness only a child may perceive- were picked by their ability to travel speedily as I flung them afar on my leisure strolls to my parents’ urgent errands.

I was not a boisterous child and often walked alone to complete tasks for my parents. One afternoon as I walked, breeze rustling through my shorts, stones in hands, my mind lost in a daydream, I scattered my stones along both sides of the road, waving in response to the many relatives and friends my pastoral life cultivated. The silence of the afternoon was sliced by a roar which swelled the air and ended on a pained cry, “TAMUNO AY! You don break my teeth!” the disembodied voice screamed in Kalabari, announcing its owner long before the old man hobbled to be reunited with his voice, marching from a farm off the side of the road and brandishing his walking stick. He lunged at me with an unexpected ferocity. “I FOM WA RI!” He shouted, threatening to beat me as I stood rooted to the spot by fear, admitting liability before he had even reached me. He clutched my tiny palm in his grainy right hand to stop escape, holding bleeding teeth in his left palm for all to see.

On the walk home my feet pulled me, trepidation before terror, terror then trepidation, until I arrived at the front door of our bungalow. On arrival, my ‘victim’ broke into a rant telling my father in surprising detail about a stone sent from wicked hands, flung recklessly in the air with dangerous intent and deadly aim. He showed the bloodied, empty spaces in his cavernous mouth and proceeded to demand not only a payment for hospital treatment, but also a fine in reparation. Reparation for altering his youthful looks or as a punitive measure, I never knew.

My father, always an amiable man, was known for his fairness and discipline- traits common to school principals at the time-, so he readily agreed to pay the hospital bills and any additional costs demanded for rescission. That day, I saw the schoolteacher in my father.  His anger and disappointment felt like living, breathing beings that still scalded long after his scolding. I felt hollowed. I was humbled.

Despite this one particularly memorable incident, I had a very happy childhood. As a child in the village, life was simple and full of activities; farming, gaming with friends and participating in the much anticipated quarterly football matches. The season most looked forward to in the village was Christmas when we would ride our bicycles to other villages within a 10 km radius to join in the festivities. At that time, children would move from house to house receiving food and gifts. The atmosphere was jovial, humming with the vibrations of scores of returning family members and friends separated by the isolation of big cities and far flung villages. December was quite simply, created for celebration; we would culminate the year with jubilation and begin a new one with excitement and expectation. My friends and I would play Jogba;  a sort of gambling game played with pennies. We would throw the pennies towards a wall with the penny closest to the wall granting its owner first place.

Even during the Nigerian Civil War my childhood continued largely undisrupted. My village Abonnema was remotely located, removed from the heat of the war and never experienced the worst of the fighting. The closest area affected by the war was Kula which was located about 40 km from my village and life for us continued as normal. Never confronted with the worst of the war, we had no real experience of it so we enjoyed nothing and we missed nothing. Nature abhors vacuum and it is what you have that you contend with.

I was a lucky boy and a happy child.