MY OGA GBOLA ALWAYS COME UP WHEN EVER HE’S AROUND ME.
EPISODE 1: THE GIRL FROM THE VILLAGE
My name is Ijeoma.
I was born in a small village where everybody knows everybody, where secrets do not stay hidden for long, and where a girl’s life is already planned for her even before she understands what life really means.
In my village, people believe that a girl does not need big dreams. What she needs is good character, strong hands, and a patient heart. From a young age, a girl is taught how to cook, how to sweep, how to kneel and greet elders, how to carry a baby on her back, and how to keep quiet when men are talking.
Dreams are not something people talk about in my village.
Our house was not big. The walls were old, and the paint had faded many years before I was born. When rain fell too hard, water would sometimes find its way inside, and my mother would bring buckets to catch the drops. My father was a farmer. He was a quiet man who spoke very little but worked very hard. Every morning before the sun came out, he would carry his cutlass and go to the farm.
My mother sold vegetables in the market. She was a strong woman, but I could see tiredness in her eyes, the kind of tiredness that comes from many years of struggling and hoping for a better life that never seems to come.
We were not rich.
We were not the poorest.
We were just surviving.
I was their first daughter, and because of that, my mother was very strict with me. She wanted me to grow into what people would call “a good woman”. She taught me how to cook all the local food, how to wash clothes by hand until they were clean, how to sweep the compound early in the morning, and how to talk politely even when someone was rude to me.
I went to school like other children. I was not the best student, but I loved school. I loved holding books. I loved writing my name on paper. I loved listening to stories about far places and big cities. Sometimes, when the teacher talked about people who became doctors, lawyers, or business owners, my heart would beat fast.
I wanted to become something.
But I did not know what.
When I finished secondary school, I begged my parents to let me continue my education. But there was no money. My father tried. My mother tried. But life in the village does not listen to tears or dreams.
So I stayed at home.
That was the day I understood that being poor is not just about not having money. It is about not having choices.
I started following my mother to the market.
Every morning, before the sun became too hot, we would wake up, prepare our vegetables, and carry baskets on our heads. The road to the market was long and dusty. Sometimes my neck would pain me so much that I would want to cry. Sometimes my legs would feel weak. But I never complained, because complaining does not change anything.
In the market, I learned how to talk to customers. I learned how to count money very fast. I learned how to smile even when I was tired. I learned how to protect our goods from thieves. I learned how to stand for many hours without sitting down.
But I also learned something else.
I learned that people were watching me.
Some women would look at me and whisper to each other. Some men would look at me for too long. Some would greet me too much. Some would start asking my name and where I lived.
One day, a woman told my mother,
“Your daughter is very beautiful. You should be careful.”
That was when I started noticing it.
I was becoming noticed.
And in my village, when a girl is noticed, it means only one thing:
Marriage is coming.
At night, after a long day in the market, I would lie on my mat and stare at the roof. I would listen to the sound of insects outside and the breathing of my parents as they slept.
And I would think.
I would ask myself questions I had no answers to.
“Is this all my life will be?”
“Will I just marry, give birth, and suffer like my mother?”
“Will I ever leave this village?”
I loved my parents. I respected them.
But deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to die.
It kept saying:
There is more to your life than this.
Even if I did not know what that “more” was yet.
CONTINUE FROM EPISODE 2
