My growing up story has no chasm with that of a ghetto child who lives in the slum and living on a hand-to-mouth income. Today marks the 24th year of my existence on this earth, the first in a family of seven, ring by a five sisters and a little brother, what a great bond we are! Mum and God has been the cradle of my survivor till hitherto. My life as a lil boy was mocked by the multifarious ailment that struck me, many people thought I won't survive them, dad was not an exception but I made it and survived them. At 3, mum and dad left me for the city with my granny because of fear of sickness (then it was a herbal concentrate that were administered to me), I didn't feel their depature as I quickly adapt and got attuned to life therein. Granny was another woman I can't forget in my life, she took care of me and often scold my parents for missing any of their onus as regards to me. I wore tore shirt and patched short like anyother ghetto child or present day road urchins, so don't think I was born with a silver spoon and got everything in a platter of gold, life passed through me and am now passing through life. I returned with my parent to the city in 1993 and started my education in 1996. Did I tell you about my kindergarten school in the village? It is called/christined 'ota akara', beans cake eaters. It is more of a normadic school, we'd refuse going until we're give akara(beans cake), then we'd derilious and rush to school with a slate and chalk, we use the slate and chalk as our book and pencil, we scribble anything our miss(teacher) tells us to write on a slate, by 12 noon we would rush back home with our back heel almost touching our head, all this is racing is not to meet granny but to touch her cooking pot, to stuff our belly with her delicious meal.
