I have always lived here in Ilorin, the capital of Kwara State, in the north-central part of Nigeria. Ilorin is one of the most peaceful towns in southern Nigeria, and, when considered within its geopolitical zone of north-central Nigeria, well, of course I stepped out on two occasions as a compulsion, which were high school in Suleja, Niger State, and the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) in Kebbi State.
My elementary days were rough, as I had to trek about six kilometers from school to my house almost every day. A good number of times, we had some free rides in the mornings while going to school. Getting home at around the closing hour of school was unusual unless we had a free ride back home, which was often not the case. And I had my little sister, who tagged along everywhere I went; we attended the same elementary school, though she was three years my junior by class. We understood our position in society, and hence, we lived by the daily bread.
Getting home with my younger sister right beside me on one scorching afternoon was one memorable day I will not forget in a jiffy. Nobody had told us we were relocating, but I was surprised to see our home properties outside the house, though within the compound. There were some strangers holding some papers and ranting as though they were angry at us. I still could not understand what was going on. Immediately, I saw my mom in tears and my dad talking to the strangers in a defensive mood. I sensed there was trouble. The strangers kept throwing our loads out of the house, but thankfully, they left them within the compound. A little while later, I understood the strangers were from the law firm overseeing the house we rented. Thankfully, some agreements were reached, and we were permitted to move our loads back into the house, which was a sad and herculean task for us all. Sad enough, there was a repeat of this about two years later, which was worse as our properties were flung outside the gate.
In 2000, we eventually changed apartments as my dad got a better-paying political appointment. Unfortunately, this was short-lived, as he barely spent two years at the job before his appointment was terminated. I remember enjoying the luxury of having an official vehicle take us to school and, of course, helping friends (including the new apartment’s lawyer, whose son was my classmate). Shortly after the termination of dad’s appointment, the rent on the house became an issue yet again. After several threats to us, our loads were yet packed out of the house, this time around, championed by my friend’s dad, who was the lawyer overseeing the house.
"Can you talk to your dad to be patient with us?" I pleaded with my friend.
"My dad is very professional; he’ll do what he wants to do!" My friend replied.
I found his statement hard to digest. We were friends, and occasionally he joined us to school with my dad’s official vehicle. Little did I know the egos of our fathers were at play, and my dad chose not to plead for leniency. Beyond having our loads thrown in the open in 2004, some items, including furniture, were seized, which I later saw were being used by the staff of the state court some years later. A nice Reverend, Dr. Ishola, of blessed memory, was kind enough to offer us a room for shelter at the missionary guest house while he accommodated some of our loads in his house.
That period was difficult for us as our parents and five children had to manage loads stuffed into a one-room apartment. Thankfully, some money came in for my mom, and we got a four-bedroom bungalow rented for N120,000 ($160) in 2005. Perhaps it was just my dad’s nature or men generally; he lived more often by the day. My mom was able to put some money together, including cooperative loans, buy land, and begin building. The same year, 2005, was the year my most senior brother graduated from the military academy, and he was able to support mom in the project.
In 2009, another storm brewed, threatening to wreck the comfort of our very existence, it was as though the sky would rain cats and dogs upon us. Our rent was due, and the landlord was willing to take legal action after several quit notifications. The house my mom financed was already raked, though it was yet to be finished. It was a decision we needed to make: either we faced another embarrassment or move into the unfinished apartment.
That was how we moved to our new house, which, though unfinished, was a relief from the embarrassment that lurked to devour us. My dad eventually calmed down after he initially declined following us to the new house, but he had limited choices, and this was a salvation from the storm. The house was eventually finished and fenced over the years that followed.
Yesterday evening, I walked past the house where our loads were first thrown out. Some renovations have been made; my favorite mango tree has been cut down. But then, I'm glad it was a storm we survived.