My Street

MY STREET
The choice of this heading would appear somewhat ironic considering that I actually did not grow up on your regular day-to-day American street. Rather, I spent the earlier years of my childhood in an illustrious neighborhood in suburban Ibadan, a quiet city in the tropical African country, Nigeria. Though most of the years I spent in this neighborhood constitute a less conscious portion of my childhood, mixed emotions fill me as I cast my mind back to the environment to which I owe a large part of my early foundation.
As aforementioned, my neighborhood was laid out I an uncommon fashion. My house was in the midst of a block of houses which were not separated by road networks. Rather, adjacent houses shared fences with one another. This expectedly led to occasional quarrels between neighbors. On opposite sides of the block were two roads. One of them was a small, rough road leading to a famous food market in the city. This road was commonly described as “stubborn” because it appeared never to heed to any form of repair. It portrayed seasonality in its annual life-cycle. In dry season, the road showed discontentment with the scorching heat of sun by opening up into cracks. During the rains, the cracks expanded gradually from bigger cracks into deep potholes. In the following dry season, the road would get patched up with full knowledge of the fact that this activity would be repeated the following year. This paved the way for the beginning of another year’s cycle. The other road was a more commercial road which led out of the neighborhood. This road used to be under the watch of a group of policemen at night, but it was widely rumored that these men were a part of a notorious criminal outfit.
I consider myself privileged to have lived next door to my grandparents. As was the case, my house was built by my late grandfather along with his house some five years before I was born. I remember certain occasions during riots and public demonstrations when I would watch amusedly, from the vantage point of my grandfather’s tower, as the police fired tear gas at the rioters. I also readily remember how my grandfather would make me shell corn as punishment for playing unattended in his garden. These are a few snapshots from the time I spent with my grandparents. A favorite pastime worth mentioning, of course, would be playing soccer with my neighbors. Soccer always served as a means through which we could all set aside our differences and leave it all to the game. No matter how many different disagreements had arisen for all reasons ranging from an overgrowing hedge on the fence to late night festivities, everyone was always willing to “shut it up and play ball” or cheer heartily on the side.
I would eventually get shipped off to boarding school in the capital city, Abuja, for the better part of my conscious childhood and adolescence. However, my mind still occasional flashes back to certain events that took place in my neighborhood. It will always hold a fond place in my memory.