Writing Challenge: Words of a Royal
“Bubble gum, bubble gum, how many bubble gum do you want?". Welcome to day 4.
This game rings in my head like a bell, signalling the start of childhood memories that bring warmth to this boring adult life. This was the game I could play as I had no strength for physically exerting ones. My dam of tears were ever ready to be discharged when I lost any game.
I grew up squashed between two boys who weren’t so fascinated by my brilliance like the rest of the world. My elder brother was the physically active one (football, hide-and-seek and all), I wasn’t, neither was my younger brother. But there was something that was our rallying point, the thing that fascinated them about me, my storytelling!!!
In all the funny and interesting memories from my childhood, one stands out as the warmest. I used to love the rains, still do, I just hate walking on wet and messy roads. The rains bring my warmest childhood memory rushing back, with feelings of nostalgia. When the rains come, I and my brothers would run to our rooms using wrappers to make dark houses on our bed. We would listen to the sound of the rains as background music. You can guess what would happen next, I’ll tell them stories.
Telling stories was our favorite pastime but the best stories came during the rain. Maybe it was the cool air, maybe it was the sound of dropping water from the roof, maybe it was the smell of the rain mixed with mum’s cooking. All I know is, we loved it. I would tell stories of all kinds with different characters, wicked stepmothers, poor house helps, abandoned children. My brothers loved my stories, they would even pay with spoons of rice and pieces of plantain just to listen to concluding parts (as a business person that I was, I always served the juice in parts).
Looking back, one narrative was common with most of my stories- the plain girl getting the prince everyone wanted. I was the plain girl and I still want the prince, he is just taking forever to get to me. So you see, once a storyteller, always a storyteller.
These days I watch the little ones who came after the party, my only sister and two little brothers, repeat this cycle. It feels like deja vu listening to their stories. The characters are different, more super heroes, wars and jet fighters, but the enthusiasm is the same. I would give anything to be their age again and run under the darkness of those wrappers. This time I’ll tell stories of a better Nigeria, I’ll tell stories of a savior who loves better than the prince everybody wants.
One quick question though, who told us to grow up? Who decieved us that adulthood was fun?
