Is Nigeria worth dying for?

A vague indeterminate sound deep in my throat, when I had been crossing roads to paddle my own canoe – to the successful road. I was in my juvenile period; when my graceless friend called me a servant of poverty. He was an educated fellow. It was pitiable, for the heat of the blush fires merely added to the fire of the sun.

I cried loudly as I ran to Mama. “What happened my son?” She asked anxiously. “Mama! My friend called me a servant of poverty, and it’s because he’s educated.”

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When a person has not seen another person’s farm, he believes that his father’s farm is the largest in the world “You also know that we can’t give the sun’s light glancing off their back and the merciless tint of bronze.” She said while tears rolled drown her cheeks. “I can’t send you to school, but I’ll try my best if that’s your wish.”

Mama was a penny trader; she raised the money for me to be educated.

Since our country, Nigeria denied us free education. Like we travelled by starlight and lay under the shade of their mats by day until the sand became hot to lie upon. Recounting only that night when the journey began again, many failed to rise from their mats and those who did stagger upcast furtive glances at the silent shelters and set their strong faces to the south.

It’s like a drama, unanimously, I finished my education by suffering and smiling. And my mother’s ornament and fineries took from her velvets of soft elusive light and necklace of pure sound lying coil upon coup down her resplendent breasts. Corals and blue chalcedonic, jaspers and gates veined like rainbows. She danced to the tune of happiness when I told her that I’ve finished my undergraduate program. “So fast! Óko mi! (Óku órí íre) Congratulations.” Mama cried with joy. “Mama, you’re the source of success, and you shall rape the gains by the grace of God,” I pray loudly and hugged her.

By Abdulwaheed Sofiullahi

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