As a child, I loved travelling. But I hated waking up as early as 5 am to catch an early bus. Childhood travels were traumatic; the normal routine involved my mom waking us up early to get ready. We’d stumble out of bed with disgruntled muffled sounds, eyes half-closed, and saliva running across our cheeks. Afterwards, when we were finally awake after taking our bath, we’d excitedly dance around and announce the news of our travel when we knew we’d be travelling to visit family members we hadn’t seen in a long time. “Eh! Afe lo ri Aunty Lagbaja,” we’d say in our Yoruba dialect.
Now that I’m older, aside from the trauma of waking up early and cutting my sleep short, I still enjoy travelling.
Then an experience happened that almost threatened that interest. Years ago, I went to live with my aunt in another state. The offer of relocating was what I couldn’t pass on; seeing new places, meeting new faces, tasting new dishes, and learning different languages caught my fancy. During my stay, I got to travel again to a remote local government area in that state. My aunt’s friend had secured a contract to cater a burial ceremony event in that area.
The journey wasn’t very long, but it took a while on the road. When we arrived, we rested a bit before getting started. The village was remote and our first greetings were met with aggressive and non-apologetic sand flies. Next were two dark Rastafarian guys who looked at us like we were intruders. Before we got on the road, my aunt had told me to wear more protective clothing, but because I was a blockhead, I didn’t listen. I wore a soft, comfortable top. I thought I’d be eaten alive. I couldn’t recognise my skin anymore. I wished I had listened.
I slept in the open parlour on one side of my body all night, competing for the territory with non-friendly mosquitoes. It was a terrible experience. My aunties didn’t sleep for long. Before dawn, they were up and about, cooking tirelessly till daybreak. After cooking, we packaged the food, got ready, and headed to the event location.
The crowd that greeted us at the event was unexpected. Their eyes were fixed on the sacks of hot semovita, eba, and the delicious coolers of soup. My aunt’s friend tried to maintain order, saying, “Stay arranged, and I’ll give everyone some food.” However, her words fell on deaf ears. The crowd surged forward, making it impossible to maintain a queue. Suddenly, an old woman appeared with a torn nylon bag to collect food, chanting in her dialect, “Noor mi,” which means “give me.” The hunger in the air was palpable.
It quickly escalated, as people became aggressive, dragging sacks of eba and coolers of soup into the bushes while calling out to one another. The number of people increased astonishingly, and we could do very little to help. They fought over the food, and it struck me then that hunger is a real issue in some parts of the world. The food my aunts had worked tirelessly to prepare was squandered by the locals.
We managed to salvage some of the remaining food and headed back to the lodge to gather our belongings. However, we were confronted by two dark-skinned Rastafarians who took the remaining foodstuffs from us. We returned home with only a few coolers of food and sand fly bites that required care.
Although this experience threatened my fondness for travelling, it is one of the things that make travelling memorable. I happily admit that travelling remains one of my best interests.
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