Nigeria Lost Virtues

On the 30th of September 1959, my mother went on a labour. It was such a terrible sight and a day to remember, she told me on an eve of 1972. I was twelve. I wasn't the only child of my mother; I had other sisters. But, I was the most loved. I was a special child with a promising future, my mother told me. Our father abandoned our mother on the 25th of December 1960, two months after I was born . My mother writhed in pains as she singlehandedly raised me. Mama Africa, my mother, shaped me in a disciplinary way. She turned me to a woman with dreams and aspirations. A woman whose dreams can't be quantified.

On that eve of 1972, while my mother sat on a small stool outside the house, and I sat on the pavement and she told me a beautiful story. It was a night, and darkness had covered the day. The stars glistened, the moon brightened in its glory and the breezes blew effortlessly, while the noises of little animals rained every where around our vicinity.

"My daughter, you are growing into a beautiful young lady," she said. Smiles fluttered all over my face, as I laid on her laps, and listened to her, and she told me the story about my life. My mother was proud of me. She said I had potentials. She likened me to a fertile ground that will sprout healthy farm products. She called me the child saturated in milk and honey. She said I'd make exploits. I didn't doubt the words of my mother, because she hardly spoke, but when she do, her words sprays like a perfume. It resonates around, and scent of her words, are hard to go away. Every wise person gets hold of it. I never doubted the words of my mother; her words can never disappoint. She is my Mama Africa, whom her caramel skin shone like a gold. 

I was always at the top of my class academically, and an envy of my peers. After my mother had finished telling me a story, she advised me not make wrong choices. The early part of my life, was smooth, my journey through the secondary and tertiary institution. Then the quest for greener pastures.

My mother called me Nigeria, a girl filled with milk and honey. The milk her offsprings will savour on. I am a girl with aspirations, but lost it half way to the actualisation of my dreams. I had a virtue that got lumped in between corruption and decadence. While I was in my prime, I had suitors who were worthy. I dated the best of men at my early age, but I never made the right choice when marriage came knocking. I was that naive young girl who never got it right even though she was brilliant. I spent my life gallivanting. The men I married never made me feel like the woman I was meant to be. I was hollow, I was incomplete. I was in many marriages, but I left them as a bitter woman. Most of my peers that never possessed the wisdom, understanding, brilliance etcetera like I do, got it right. I still look back at my life to see where everything started.

I was that young lady with so much talents, that was bedevilled in so many societal ills. 

I bore lot of offsprings whom I hope on daily basis, and I delivered them from my numerous affairs. My children are my tribes. I am still that woman who has hoped that her children will get better, but it seems that the joy of the motherhood has eluded me. The cry of the motherhood is what that is left of me. The insecurity, agony, rape, murder, political decadence etcetera. 

I have lost hindsight on what I will become aftermath. The burden of sorrows I have on me are too much. At fifty eight, I feel heavy, broken and shattered.

The last time I called my children, I told them to forgo the bitterness and immorality that got the best of them. I told them to emulate their sister's country. Sisterhood is the key. I was once the giant, the one whose worth wasn't negotiable, but I have been shattered and trampled around like I never possessed the wisdom and intelligence.

I am woman, I am Nigeria, I hope everything would be fine one day.