Your Time Will Come

1989: 9-10 years old

"Ma, I'd really like to travel abroad one of these days." Zibby shifted the weight of the grocery bag he had insisted on carrying, as he walked home slowly beside his mum. They had gone shopping in the local market, which was conveniently located only 15 minutes from home.

Why didn't we drive?! He thought, as the bag began to make his tiny arms ache. He tried hard not to show his discomfort.

Noticing that he had not yet received an answer, he tried a different tactic.

"Kunle and his sister are going to London next holiday."
"That's nice" his mum replied, and smiled. "Your time will come."

Now, Zibby was no fool. He knew that it took several months of saving to be able to afford a foreign holiday, and that many in Nigeria could not do this even after saving for years! He was vaguely aware that the Naira was supposed to be a "weak currency" though he could not understand all the implications of that statement. However, he also knew that his family was not exactly deprived, and that his father travelled often enough. As far as Zibby was concerned, a foreign vacation for the kids was not getting its proper place in the family's list of priorities!

"Ow!"
"Is that bag too heavy?"
"No, I think a sand fly bit me."

Silence again.

"Jibade said his parents will send him abroad to study." Zibby was getting desperate.
"You're not going anywhere until you finish your university degree."
Zibby hoped his mum was joking. He looked up at her; she was still smiling, but he could see no sign of jesting in her eyes.
"But why?" he asked, "that's a long time!"
"We want you to know who you are," she replied, reaching down to relieve Zibby of the bag that was now making a light red mark on his little palm. "You need to know who you are."

Zibby was puzzled. "Ma, I don't understand."
"Many blacks in America and Britain have no identity. Even now, many are looking for their roots, tracing their footsteps back to Africa. They are not accepted there, and they don't feel they belong here. They are lost."

Slowly, Zibby began to understand.

"The same applies to those who leave here too early;" she continued, "They get confused, they become unsure of who they are and where they come from. They lose themselves. I know that one day you and your brother will go abroad; you may choose to return, or your may not. When that time comes, I want you to always remember that you are Nigerian first, no matter what other nationality you may acquire. I want you to always remember who you are."

From that day on, every time the strong desire came upon him to spread his wings and fly, every time he heard of another friend going on an international holiday, every time they drove a friend or family member to the airport, Zibby would remember his mother's words. He would smile quietly to himself, humming a happy tune, one thought etched in the forefront of his mind.

My time will come.