Zee's Diary: Growing Up

 

My family lived in one of the suburbs in Lagos. We were a family of four; my father, my mother, my stubborn brother and the sweet me.

We lived averagely, with my father coming back home from work everyday with Gala and Viju milk for Malik and I. Mum was always in her store right in front of our house. She would always cook our food in the shop and shout "Zainab" with the loudest of her tiny voice, for me to come out with a bag and take the food into the house. 

Malik and I had the age difference of 9 years. Mum used to refer to me as a golden child, until dad stopped her, saying it would make my brother feel less treasured. But I knew I was golden. Being a girl was also a plus. Whenever Malik was out at the field playing football with his friends, I was at the shop with my mother. We were never hungry at the shop. I remember the one time she learnt how to make chinchin at an empowerment programme held in our church. We used to fry a reasonable amount of chinchin in the shop, and kept the remnant for Malik. He would come back dirty and tired,  and hungrily rush the innocent chin chin with cold water from mum's freezer.

My brother always protected me, although we used to quarrel a lot. I always thought he despised me till the time I fell ill. I had to undergo an operation to take out my ruptured appendix. My brother stood by me throughout that period. I still remember seeing tears fall from his eyes as he prayed that his sister would live. I still remember how he used to happily go home to cook food for me while I was in the hospital. Mum was always by my side, while dad had no choice than to go to work.

Still fresh in my memory, is how my deeply rooted Muslim family converted to Christianity. I was very little then, but I can still remember. When I was eight years old, my father got hospitalized. He was involved in a fatal accident that claimed so many lives except his. He was found in a bush nearby the road by a hunter who had a crucifix hanging on his neck. This hunter saved his life. Father returned home after we spent one week in the hospital with him. My family became Christian converts, as my father narrated the tale of how he saw a huge man in sparkling white apparel snatch his hand from the grip of a man who was bent on dragging him towards an unknown darkness. The hunter interpreted it to mean that Jesus saved him from death.