Can I Live My Childhood Again?

The good memories of childhood are treasured by all, but the raw epic memories of african childhood experience endlessly drip unexplainable joy from the mind comb of an African adult, momentarily putting him face to face with nostalgia while leaving him wondering - "can I live my childhood again?"

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But how can I forget the times I slept and woke without worries, not even a bit. Everything was intriguing, even drops of water.

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Days when I'd play in the rain until my teeth clatter and I'd shiver through the night and yet return to the same act at dawn.

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" akpachaa enye goal" time to show your dribbling skills
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The days I'd turn white-dry during the harmattan, and quickly take a bath and grease my skin with "vaseline" afterwards for fear that the harmattan would carry me away if I remained dry and dusty - as my mother always said.

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Times when eating together from one plate with about 10 others gave me much joy, and the privilege of apportioning the meat or fish into smaller bits and picking first share made me feel awesome, for it was only assigned to ones considered reasonable and most times the eldest among the group.

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Those days when I'd mimic my father in a play session and my siblings took the roles of mother and children in turns. We would play the hide and seek game until our parents returned.

We cared less of the TV because there was a lot to keep us busy, and besides Transmission was only during evening hours. "Seven Lucky Kids", "Tales by Moonlight", "Willy Willy"... Were our own Zee World Series, Jim Jam and Nickelodeon animations - our everyday extraordinaire.

We built houses made of sand using our feet as mould, cooked meals of sand, rode on horses made of sticks, rode cars made of wood and ball bearings, cassava stems and slippers cuttings, of metallic steerings and bucket cover tires, others of St. Louis Sugar pack and bottle caps or milk tins; the best cars for our age.

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we flew kites made from broom sticks, nylon bags and sewing thread. We would compete all day to know whose car was the best and whose kite soared highest. Great fun!

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Who cared about money? We were rather busy playing table soccer with our bottle caps, the swell game and monkey post football game. The "ákpáchaa enye goal" gave each player a chance to exhibit their dribbling skills. The girls kept busy with their clothes folded into dolls, pampering them with all carefulness, beckoning them to suckle when they imagine them crying, and others jumped rope.

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One Naira was big enough to bring smile to our faces. What's chocolate? Say something else. A bottle of soft drink did all the wonders. We always wished the drink never got finished, even putting a bitten bottle cap into the drink hoping it would increase the quantity again.

When promotions from Peak milk, Milo, Maggi, Coca Cola, Pepsi, Malta Sweet and the likes sent us on adventures greater than "Gulder Ultimate Search" as we would scout all nook and cranny seeking wraps, sachets and crowns of promoted goods to exchange for toy watches, balloons, buckets and free drinks, but most times after all the hassles we were dismissed with the Try-again tickets, how painful.

Respect for the elderly was tradition not just norm.

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Life seemed more interesting with less technology and the distractions of a modern world. I sincerely miss my childhood days, the good old days. Can I live my childhood again? I really wish I could even if it means living it as an adult.

The joy of african childhood can't be completely told by one alone
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