by Ifeyinwa Mercy John
PureTravel Writing Competition 2024
As far back as I can remember, summers were synonymous with joy, adventure, and a deep connection to my roots. Every year, my father would lovingly disrupt the monotony of city life, whisking us away to our ancestral village for the summer holidays. Unlike some parents who opted for summer school, my father believed in learning through experience. And what an education it was!
Those sun-kissed months were filled with unforgettable experiences and life lessons that transcended the classroom. The anticipation would build up as soon as the third-semester exams ended. I’d eagerly count down the days until our departure, knowing that the longest holiday of the year was about to unfold.
Our travels weren’t limited to summer alone. Occasionally, we’d make the journey during Christmas, immersing ourselves in the vibrant festivals that brought our community together.
The pre-travel excitement was palpable. Preparation was key, with meticulous packing and careful consideration of essentials like warm cardigans to shield us from the village’s biting cold.
As our village getaway approached, my mother would meticulously prepare for the journey. She’d stockpile groceries, including our beloved biscuits – a rare treat in the village. Her thoughtfulness extended to my cousins, who would revel in the sweet surprise. The joy on their faces as they savored each bite was priceless.
Before each trip, my mother would embark on a special mission to Ifesinachi Park at Jibowu, Lagos, to secure our bus tickets to Nsukka. She knew I cherished the window seat, where I could watch the lush scenery unfold. The trees seemed to dance alongside the bus, their leaves rustling in rhythm with the engine’s hum.
On departure day, my father would rise before dawn, readying our bath and brewing steaming tea. We’d wake up with excitement, a stark contrast to school-day mornings, when the alarm would leave me grumbling and bleary-eyed. The cold water would shock me awake, but on travel days, adrenaline coursed through my veins.
Tea and bread were our traditional breakfast staples on travel mornings. My mother, mindful of my motion sickness, ensured I ate lightly. The short journey from home to the park was electric with anticipation.
Upon arrival, my sister and I would claim our spot on the sturdy “Ghana-Must-Go” bag, already laden with clothing. Our mother would confirm our tickets, and soon, burly men would load our luggage onto the luxurious bus.
As we waited, my sister and I would engage in lively speculation about our cousins’ current antics and our imminent reunions with “Aunty Nkechi” and “Mama.” Our imaginations ran wild.
The 9-10 hour journey from Lagos to Nsukka began at 7 am. Our bus would make periodic stops at familiar landmarks: Asaba, Ore, Benin, and Onitsha. These brief respites allowed us to stretch, grab snacks, and relieve ourselves.
Those brief stops were a culinary adventure. I’d eagerly seek out unmarked plantain chips – crispy, long, and irresistible. To this day, they remain the most delicious chips I’ve ever tasted.
Beyond snacking, these pauses allowed us to absorb the new surroundings, sample local delicacies, and connect with the people. My mother never missed an opportunity to purchase bread, a staple for our journey. Unlike the soft, flavored bread we were accustomed to, these loaves were dense and hearty, designed to satisfy hunger on the long road.
As we traversed the South East, landmarks signaled our progress. The iconic Onitsha Bridge, spanning the River Niger, was a beacon, announcing our approach to “Mama’s” welcoming arms. My mother would gently rouse us from slumber, ensuring we didn’t miss this monumental sight.
Next came ‘Nitemile,’ a threshold to home. The excitement was palpable.
Finally, the red sand of Nsukka would greet us, a warm, rust-colored embrace.
As we disembarked at Nsukka Park, the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, loomed nearby, a proud alma mater for my parents. The taxi ride to the village was a nostalgic journey, the red sand swirling beneath the tires like a crimson carpet. Oliver De Coque’s melodies drifted from the cassette player, a familiar soundtrack to our homecoming.
Upon arrival, the village erupted in warm greetings. “Ala!” – a joyful welcome – echoed through the air as neighbors and relatives swarmed around us. My aunts and uncles vied to sweep us into tight hugs, marveling at our growth.
Amidst the chaos, my eyes scanned the crowd for one face: “Mama,” my paternal grandmother. She was the epicenter of my village adventures.
Mama was a village institution, renowned for her ‘okpei’ trade. This indigenous ingredient added magic to soups, and her customers sought her out for its unparalleled flavor.
Mama’s trusty bicycle, normally a practical tool for market trips, transformed into a magical carriage whenever we visited. She’d secure her goods and lift me onto the back, pedaling us to the market with infectious excitement.
As we glided through the village, Mama shared captivating tales of our heritage, cultural traditions, and sacred stories. Her words painted vivid pictures in my mind, and I listened intently, absorbing every detail.
Upon arriving at the market, Mama’s fellow traders eagerly awaited our arrival. With pride, she’d announce, “My precious granddaughter from Lagos is here!” Setting up her store, I felt like royalty.
Nighttime brought more enchantment. In her dimly lit bedroom, Mama would weave ‘akuko’ – mesmerizing stories that transported us to fantastical realms. Above her bed, a framed photo of my grandfather, who passed away shortly after my birth, watched over us.
Beyond Mama’s adventures, my cousins ensured each visit was unforgettable. Every year, they’d escort us through the village, exploring hidden gems and deepening our bond.
My cousins took pride in teaching me the art of hiking, navigating the rolling hills and mountains of our village. The thrill of exploring these rugged trails far surpassed any game or amusement back in Lagos.
I marveled at my cousins’ agility, effortlessly reaching the summit while I struggled to take a few steps. Their patience and encouragement motivated me to push beyond my limits.
Nearby, “Mama Anse” welcomed us with open arms. Her house was a haven, filled with warmth and treats – hot Fanta and cabin biscuits. Her sprawling compound was a playground, where laughter and folk songs filled the air. We’d dance, clap, and spin, our joy infectious.
Nighttime errands, once daunting, became exciting adventures with my cousins. Armed with only a dim “utupe” lantern, we’d brave the bush paths, unafraid. The absence of main roads made our nocturnal excursions feel like secret missions.
Mama’s house had its own unique charm. Clay pots, instead of refrigerators, kept filtered rainwater refreshingly cold. Cooking was a labor of love, gathering firewood with my cousins, learning to ignite flames, and watching the wood turn red-hot. The process was hectic but fulfilling.
After meals, we’d roast ‘ube’ (pear) in the ashes, a village tradition. We’d toss them into the embers, wait for the perfect roast, and then carefully retrieve them with sticks. A sprinkle of salt, and the tender fruit would melt in our mouths – the perfect appetizer.
Even the most basic needs became adventures. Defecating in the bush, a far cry from our city’s water closet system, became surprisingly routine. Nature’s calls were answered amidst lush greenery, a humble reminder of life’s simplicity.
My cousins, seasoned guides, escorted us into the bush, teaching us essential skills. We learned to pick broad leaves for efficient cleaning and avoid irritant leaves. They showed us how to survey our surroundings, ensure privacy, and select the perfect spot.
This rustic ritual, though unconventional, held practical value. The villagers recognized it as a natural fertilizer, enriching the soil. We took care to avoid careless placement, respecting the paths to farms and homes.
Village life lacked urban luxuries – no favorite TV shows or park visits – but it offered incomparable moments. Every experience, no matter how humble, became a lifelong treasure.
Then, at 14, my world shifted. I returned to my hometown for my father’s burial. The trip marked the end of an era. I deeply missed those rustic adventures and the warmth of home. My heart ached, longing for the simplicity and love of my village.
“As I stand today, a wanderlust in my late twenties, I realize those village journeys ignited a fire within me. The rustic adventures, the freedom of exploration, and the connection with nature and family forged an unbreakable bond with my inner child.
Those summers spent in the village taught me to cherish simplicity, appreciate the beauty of the unknown, and find joy in the uncharted. My love for travel, nature, and outdoor adventures was born in those hills, nurtured by the laughter and stories of my cousins, and tempered by the resilience of my family.
Whenever I’m asked how I stay connected to my inner child, I smile, knowing those village days unlocked the gates to my sense of wonder. The memories of ‘ube’ roasting, bush escapades, and lantern-lit nights remain vivid reminders of the beauty of exploration and the importance of holding onto curiosity.
My greatest journey, though rooted in childhood, continues to shape me today. With each new destination, I carry the lessons of my village: to seek the unknown, to cherish simplicity, and to never lose sight of the beauty in everyday moments.
The village may be far behind, but its spirit remains, guiding me toward the next horizon, the next adventure, and the next chance to reconnect with the wonder of life.
Photo by Tope. A Asokere on Unsplash
