While my grandfather worked tirelessly to provide for his children, he held a deep belief: life was meant for more than just survival. He wanted his family to experience joy, adventure—something beyond the daily grind. As he often said, "Na this life I wan enjoy, I no dey waste time again." It summed up his philosophy perfectly: live fully, waste nothing.
With that in mind, he made a bold decision. He would take the family to Nigeria—the land of his roots—and immerse them in its vibrant culture. This wasn't a holiday. It was a chance to embrace life in all its messy, beautiful chaos. What he didn't anticipate was just how chaotic things would get.
From the moment they arrived, things unraveled quickly. My aunts, Grace and Chloe, had a talent for gossip that knew no bounds. What began as harmless chatter turned into an ongoing soundtrack of trivial debates and whispered criticisms. The joyful energy my grandfather envisioned began to crack under the weight of their nonstop commentary.
Then there was my mother, Sofia—the ever-defiant one. She gravitated toward the children of Nigeria's elite, the offspring of powerful figures whose lives seemed worlds apart from our own. My grandfather, struggling just to pay her school fees, couldn't understand her fascination. Yet Sofia had always walked her own path, unconcerned with how others saw her.
Uncle Alvin, the quiet one with the glasses, turned out to be the most surprising of them all. Somehow, he became the unofficial leader at school—popular, respected, even admired. My grandmother, his biggest fan, never missed a chance to proclaim, "Alvin will become a president one day." Most of us humored her, but deep down, we knew there was something magnetic about him.
With personalities clashing and tensions rising, my grandfather started to rethink the plan. Perhaps what the family needed wasn't just cultural immersion—but structure. And so, he proposed a new destination: London, where my grandmother's twin sister lived. He hoped the change would instill some discipline. But convincing the children to leave Nigeria—the bustling streets, the sounds of hawkers, the sun-soaked freedom—wasn't easy. They eventually agreed, thinking it was temporary. My grandfather, however, suspected they might never return the same.
Just as plans were settling, my grandmother made a bizarre request: she wanted to bring a cutlass, a sword, and an axe on the flight. The family was baffled. Was she serious? Was she joking? Apparently, she was very serious.
At the airport, excitement mingled with anxiety. But as they passed through security, everything came to a halt. A stern officer asked my grandmother to open her bag. The children watched, wide-eyed. And then—there they were. The cutlass. The axe. The sword. Security froze. Other passengers stared. Whispers started.
"Mom, what were you thinking?" one of my aunts finally gasped.
My grandfather stepped in, trying to explain. "They're cultural artifacts," he said. But the officers weren't having it. No sharp objects. No exceptions.
Eventually, after a heated debate, my grandmother surrendered her prized items—with great theatrical flair. "They will be missed," she announced, handing them over like ancient relics. The rest of the family stood in stunned silence. Was she just eccentric—or was there something... darker? The seed of suspicion was planted. Maybe those jokes about her being a psychopath weren't so funny after all.
As they boarded the plane, the air was thick with confusion. The adventure was only just beginning—and already, nothing felt simple.