When I was birthed into this foggy round ball, the parents were not bothered about making a decision as to what I would turn out to be or maybe even putting forward a lucky guess. The parents are hardly like that. You see, they brought the pink little me into this world, weighing above five pounds with a sort of dutiful sentiment the way most Nigerian parents just brought children into the world. Not that they did not love me or pray that I would be important some day, they just didn’t give too much thought to it about the time I couldn’t walk, talk or have the human instincts.
I wouldn’t know whether it was a rainy day the day I was born but it was the 20th day in June and Mrs. Akinbamidele my primary 5 teacher always said, June babies were wet babies. What I do know about that day in June, a day I would come to term birthday, is that it was a good day to have a child. It is doubted on my part whether the condition of my day of birth would be of any relevance to my person and who I was to become as the conditions of Jeffery Archer’s Abel. Born without a silver spoon or much of any spoon as if the gods had decided ‘this one doesn’t need a spoon’, I waxed forward with so much macho strength, playfully without two thoughts as to what life was to hold. By the time I turned ten, I however knew I was to become a story teller. I had taken the decision the parents failed to take for me. (more…)
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