THE JOURNEY 2

THE JOURNEY 2

It is not an hidden fact that I am still their pride.

The hen that destroyed the charms must be ready to part way with her eggs.

My choice was not to return home after my jamb exams, I can cater for myself.

They also must feel the pain of losing something since they stole my Right of be a free person.

I moved to Ibadan, staying with a friend brother. I was introduced to the street, I took the offer so as to save up for my school fees, so to convince myself.

Oh! the freedom was overwhelming, the joy of being free like a caged bird who was sent free. indescribable!

Mum was able to locate where I was staying, mothers are really secret agents, but I must not be seen at least for now.

I avoided contact with anybody from home, I moved away from the place I was staying before, I refused to be seen.

My anger was bubbling each day I enjoy my freedom.

I learnt the trade of the street fast than I had imagined.

The lifestyle of the street became my own too, pickpocketing, minor robberies, street fighting, molesting innocent and unfortunate ladies at dark hours, land grabbing. I became a pro!

Like a candle my passion melted away but I care less, I needed to show my parents that I can live without them. In fact I can try again the following year.

Time flies and five years later I was still convincing myself that I will try again next year.

I became a very popular thug in the street, every household code of warning to their kids.

But this wasn’t part of my journey’s plan. I was supposed to embark on, to find my rights and show them to my parents.

Somehow, I was contacted that mum was dead.

That was it. I packed my bag and went home. I alighted at the bus stop in Gbongan.
The feeling of home dawn on me, I can’t do this, I don’t belong here, I wander around the park, stop many bikes, only to tell them to go.

Without reaching home, I returned back to Ibadan.
I was crying, down for days, you could have thought I am going to change. But a fight was all I needed to breathe in the truancy back again.

People marvelled at how my accent was different from others, I was called “tush omo ita” or English thug”. I dressed more neat than the rest, I can’t totally forget all mum’s effect.

Everyday at night, I always have a sound reasoning of how lost I am, how desperate I wanted to return back home.

But the day break is a welcome back to the street and it’s glories.

I really wanted to go back home.

I know the way to Gbongan but I don’t know the way home! It’s been long since I heard of dad and my siblings.

The bridge I broke on my way out had not been constructed and there was no boat to convey me across.

People saw me as a lost man, only if they knew how longing I am for home, they might help me. But who will come to help a very dangerous tout?

I left on my own, but now I need someone to bring me back home.

I should never have embarked on this journey.

So, that is who I was and who I am.

A journey not properly dissect, brings quagmire.

Aunty reporter, maybe your boss at your television station can help me back home.

Jeremiah’s pen
08109064387.

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What do you think?

  1. Hmmmmmmmmm

    Continue to wander around o someone will get you and take you home one day ooo… Or possibly Jeremiah’s pen will take you home…

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