WHY ME

There is a saying that life can change in the blink of an eye. Growing up, I never understood what those words meant. To me, life was simple, beautiful, and filled with the warmth of family. I was just a little girl who believed that the people she loved would always be there.

I was born into a polygamous family in Akure, where my father had two wives. I was the fifth child in my mother's home. Although our family was not perfect, my childhood was filled with love, laughter, and moments that I would later hold close to my heart.

My father was a respected pastor who also owned a pharmacy where he sold medicine. He travelled often because of his work, and every time he returned, I would run as fast as my little legs could carry me and jump into his arms. To me, nothing felt safer than being held by my father. He never allowed anyone to beat me. If I made a mistake, he corrected me instead of raising his hand against me. That made me feel special.

My mother was a teacher. She was gentle, hardworking, and always did her best to care for us. Looking back now, I realize she carried burdens I was too young to understand.

Some of my happiest memories were the little things that seemed ordinary at the time. Every morning and every night, we gathered together to pray. Whenever my father returned from one of his trips, he never came home empty-handed. He always brought snacks for us, and we would rush to him with excitement, eager to see what surprise he had brought. Sometimes we travelled together as a family, and those moments made me believe that nothing could ever separate us.

But there was one person who meant even more to me than those happy memories.

My elder sister.

She was my mother's first daughter, and to me, she was more than a sister. She was my first best friend. She loved me with all her heart, protected me, played with me, and made me feel like I would never be alone.

Then, without warning, everything changed.

An electric shock changed our lives forever.

She was rushed for treatment, and everyone hoped she would recover. But instead of getting better, she became sick. Before I was old enough to understand what death truly meant, she was gone.

I was only three years old.

At that age, I couldn't understand why everyone was crying. I couldn't understand why my sister wasn't coming home. All I knew was that I missed her.

Every single day, I called her name.

"Come back."

Again and again, I called for her, believing she would answer me if I waited long enough. The adults tried to comfort me. They tried to distract me and help me forget. But how could a little girl forget the person who loved her so deeply?

Time passed, but her memory never left me.

Life continued, and slowly the laughter returned to our home. I smiled again. I played again. I loved my father even more because after losing my sister, he became the person I held on to the most.

Looking back now, I sometimes wish I had known those were the happiest days of my childhood.

Because not long after, the foundation of my family began to crack.

And with every crack, the little girl who once believed life would always be beautiful slowly began to disappear.