The Child Playing Alone :: Personal Narrative Nigeria Childhood Essays

The Child playing Alone I was once a rapturous child order of payment at the dining-room table, under a stained glass chandelier that sat like a hat on the swollen bollock of my excitement. What isexciting that child, so distant from us in time and quadrangle?Squares of divers(prenominal) colors are splattered all over the bed sheet I am staring at. Some are yellow, others pink, a hardly a(prenominal) green and lots are blue. Unfortunately I am not staring at some great artwork or splendiferous quilt from Alabama. I am look at my weekly planner, glue on the wall with a few worn looking for pieces of tape. spunky for physics and green for chemistry, orange for calculus and yellow for expository typography I leave no activity plain white. Not entirely different colors are used in the squares, but different designs as well. Some are striped, others are spotted. Some are significant squares while others have empty centers... some are even a combination of colors. At a first glance it appears this creativity is callable to necessity. I needed to organize my time, or at least try, and so I produced a colorful chart. A deeper look transports me back to my childhood in Nigeria.My central office country, in the heart of the tropics, is interesting. The nomadic cattle drover is invariablely covered with white specs of salt from his evaporated sweat in the arid and hot atmosphere of almost 40 degrees centigrade in the northerly of the country. Surrounded by a few shrubs scattered over blond plains, he is constantly in search of pasture for his cattle and pee to drink. The market women chat away in the high humidity of the southwestern watching their kids play in the shade of the few palm trees left, subsequently development has robbed the land of its natural dense vegetation. My home was there in the south, near the coast, with the Atlantic Ocean knocking at our door. There was the constant danger of the beach being eroded by the angry ocean, goal on claiming back its space, as about 50% of the island I lived on is land filled. Thus my mother refused to allow me onto the closest beach to my home as it had many dangers, from the ocean to bored louts hanging around looking for innocent victims. I could never feel angry at her though because she gave up her career, by choice, to take care of her children.