The Tears Of Our Past

                         The Tears Of Our Past

My heart is still longing for those days, but I am afraid that I will ever see them again. When the moon would gather us the children from different houses in a large compound after the dinner. I was then a precocious little boy, who envied the impunity of the adulthood. Now I have grown, witnessing the sorrow of their myriad responsibilities!

Like Adam and Eve who were never ashamed of their nakedness in the garden of Eden, we ran around without a shirt, rolling out-of-use car-tires or any object of a rounded shape which we roll around a stick. Sometimes into a drainage, or into an easy going woman; even pots of soup were not safe. Who would beat a boy with a fresh scratch on his belly and yet jumbling around with ecstasy without minding the self inflicted wound? No not one. Except some scolding.

Who stole all our beautiful games? The likes of kenke,'jumping over a stick or a rope' Ten-ten, mostly for girls and Tinko-tinko? Who packed all our good songs, that we didn't mind to sing even to forfeit our meals? The songs like:

                     Ema weyin o- weinwein!
                     Idi oreemi lemi o fisi...
( Threatening to drop it at the lucky buttock of any of the children sitted in a circle form)

                    Talo wa n nu Ogba naa?
                    Omokekere kan ni...

Where a child would be prowling round the circled children, asking who was in the garden," a little fine child" would be the response of the playmates that formed the garden.

                  Eye melo tolongo wale - tolongo
                 Okan dudu aro.        - tolongo....

   (How many birds managed to come back home?
   One was as black as African dye of indigo...)


I shed tears within myself when I remembered the act of theft committed either by Civilization or Education or even religious orientation. Nwanenwa Valentine, my Ibo friend felt like crying when he also recalled the song his mother sang for him which he too sang for his younger brother.

                Onyen mere nwan ne bakwa
                Egbe mere nwan ne bakwa...

            (Who is hurting the crying child?
         It is a hawk that is hurting the crying child...)


We had songs for every season. Be it rain or shining sun. Be it dark or ostentatious moon. Whoever that have done this, obviously must have realized the damage he or she has done to our coming ones. Our heritage has been taken, our beautiful culture has been stolen, our african pride has been buried!, and now we are like bastards who have  no source.

To be truthful, I did not for once come first in class, but any time I came second, my reward wasn't Mr Biggs or Tantalizer, only a boiled egg not even two, was enough to motivate a boy who excelled in school. I never protested or rebelled, instead I would be proud to tell it in school.

Why should we be nervous, or envious when none of us had a phone, laptop or Ipad, neither had cartoon movies flooded our TV set? The play-grounds, now occupied by gigantic factories were big enough to play different games.We grew without seeing those modern tools, and the backlash of such technology in the society today made us to see the evil we've escaped.

It is just a pity that we didn't grow in China whose government encourages children innovations. Like making of trumpet, carved with artistic craftiness from a pawpaw-stick. Inventing a canoe constructed with a sheet of paper tore from our exercise books and a stereo with a match- box. I can't count the number of houses I built for birds by simply inserting my foot into a wet sand which would create a hole after removing it.

Hunting for grasshoppers on the school grass was another nice game. We designed the street electric wires with our crashed kites which was made with nylon, strong broom sticks and a very long tread that would be held by the "Pilot". At times the kite disappears into the sky! But unfortunately, no one could realise that a boy who tailored a kite into the cloud was very close to a research that could unravel the mystery of plane!

In a somber state of mine, I welcomed a brief visit of smile on my face, When I recalled a vivid picture of the most trendy barbers who only had a broken mirror and their amusing chairs as old as the owners, rolling you here and there with that noisy 'weapon' they called clipper to hit sturborn heads that struggled with them.

Some believe in reincarnation but I am rather doubtful the resurrection of the assassinated good old days when a head of fish could pacify a angry boy, and a clicking toy "woroworo" would lure a weeping child to sleep. When a hot stew ladle could teach a greedy child, oh my God! I long to see those days again.