"Yes, it is, mom!” Lucia sniffled. “Everything here needs fixing, nothing is working and there's been power outage since we came, everywhere is so dark, it's so noisy right now, the roads are downright bumpy, the air smells unpleasant, and I can’t even watch my favourite programmes. What kind of country is this? I certainly wouldn't want to have anything to do with it. I just want to go back to Spain!”
My seven-year-old niece sat cross-legged on the couch, her arms folded in defiance, she had been complaining since they landed at the airport, two days ago. My brother and his family who lives in Spain, came to visit during the yuletide season and their first stop was at my place.
You wouldn't believe what I've been through since their arrival!
Her two younger siblings Isabella (3) and Fabian (1) were perhaps too young to understand what was happening around them—but not Lucia.
And they would be with me for one week before traveling to the village to see their grandparents. I shuddered at how much she would complain when she got there.
I smiled ruefully, already imagining Dad saying to her;
"This is your home, not Spain. This is where you truly belong",
I just couldn't hold back my smile as I imagined the battle of wills between grandfather and granddaughter—the stubborn duo.
Her eyes, brimmed with tears as it kept darting around the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the gentle light of my rechargeable lantern. Outside, the gentle humdrum of a generator broke the silence of the Nigerian night, but my little niece wasn’t impressed.
My generator had been running non-stop for twelve hours, and we just switched it off to let it cool down a bit, then she started yet another round of complaining.
“This is loads of balderdash, Mom! Dad!” she declared, her tiny voice filled with frustration. "I'm going to call 911." she spoke resolutely, stomping her feet.
We all burst into laughter at her temerity and confidence. Who was going to tell her that 911 didn't work here?
Her mother, Helen, sighed. “Lucia, baby, Nigeria is not balderdash, don't refer to it as such again.”
Who could blame her for the way she felt? I chuckled as I fanned myself with an old newspaper.
“Ujunwa, (a child born in the time of plenty. This was her local name), come and sit with me, I said, patting the space next to me. "Let me tell you a story.”
We had all settled outside the balcony, I just wished to distract her from her predicament.
Very reluctantly, Lucia sat beside me.
“A very long time ago,” I began, “there was a little girl— not with a ponytail like yours, but an afro. She was just as beautiful as you are and lived in a land filled with the most wonderful people, delicious food, and the most radiant moonlight.”
“But not the brightest lights,” lucia grumbled.
I laughed at her cleverness. “Maybe you are right, but let me tell you something very special about this place, your place.”
When her eyes widened with curiosity, I knew I had aroused her interest and captured her attention. She listened intently as I wove my stories, painting vivid pictures of topless maidens in moonlight dances, cherry trees heavy with delicate fruit, children playing under the rain, as they ran barefoot on the red earth, their bodies wet and shimmering.
I spoke of a land where neighbours served and shared meals like they were one family and where even in darkness, the stars and the moon shone bright enough to guide the way.
Lucia's frown deepened. “But why does the light go off all the time here? The stars don't shine in Spain, only the very bright city lights do.”
I sighed, stroking her hair. “You are right my princess, it is because sometimes, the people in charge don’t do what they should. But that doesn't mean we should stop living, stop laughing, stop loving our home, no matter how bad the situation is, nothing can take the place of home”
Lucia was very quiet—for the first time.
That night, even when we delayed switching on the generator, something magical happened. As I shared folktales with her, chanting the call and response songs, her parents joined us, clapping their hands in rhythm to the music—to everyone's delight.These were African tales she had never heard before. We told riddles and had such great fun, and the air was filled with joyous laughter.
Many fireflies danced in the night, twinkling like little little stars.
For the first time since arriving—and unbelievably, Lucia giggled. I mean she really giggled. I told her to feel the cool night breeze against her face, and to listen to the sound of the night and to hear the music of her homeland—the heartbeat of her people.
By the time her dad switched on the generator, my little niece was already fast asleep, curled up beside me. Just before she drifted off to sleep, she had whispered softly to me, “Aunty maybe… , Nigeria is not all balderdash.”
Helen smiled. “You sure have the Midas touch.”
All images are AI generated.
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