If I had to guess what my first word was, I'd probably say "mama." My parents never told me, and I've never bothered to ask—if they even remember.
Nina, my mom, though, loved to tell me stories about my birth. For her, it was a day of magic and relief, the culmination of nine long months of anticipation. She had been waiting for me—her son. Not her first, of course. That title belonged to my older brother, floyd. Then came my three sisters: flora, luna, and mel. And finally, there was me, Fibi.
The day I was born, my father was out on the farm. He was harvesting corn, pulling the ears from their stalks, preparing to bring them home. That day, he knew it was time.
He didn't linger in the fields like usual. Instead, he hurried home, a sack of corn slung over his back and a game his dogs had hunted at his side. Every day, my father would make the long walk to his farm, where he grew rice, plantains, yams, corn. At the time, my parents lived in a small thatched-roof cottage on the far edge of zoremi village, just across the river.
They'd paddle across in a small canoe whenever they needed to buy groceries or visit my grandparents in the village. It was a simple life, but it was home.On the day of my birth, a few of my aunts and uncles came to check on my mother, along with the village midwife. She was known as "The Mother of zoremi" a woman revered for helping many mothers safely deliver their babies in homes too far from the hospital.
She was there to assist my mom since making the long trip to town wasn't an option.And so, in that little cottage by the river, with the midwife's calm hands guiding the way, I came into the world.
Fibius, my father, was a man shaped by the land. His oblong face was marked by a chiseled jawline, a defining trait that ran strong through my father's family. Dark, thick hair crowned his head, often tousled by long days in the field, while his broad shoulders hinted at the strength forged by years of labor.
He wasn't just a farmer, though. Fibius was a hunter, and Unlike most hunters, my father had no need for a gun -even though he had one- for his hounds made every hunt a guaranteed victory. Whether it was a wild boar, or a swift deer, none could escape his pack.
His weapon and tool, always strapped to his side in a weathered leather scabbard, was a razor-sharp machete. With it, he would clear his fields and carve his way through the dense underbrush, a pathfinder in the wild.
His dogs would corner their prey and my father would step in to finish the hunt.When the kill was done, he'd reward his dogs. He'd slice off the animal's head and feet with a few swift, practiced motions, tossing the pieces to his hounds as a prize, their mouths watering in eager anticipation. It was his way of honoring their work, encouraging their loyalty, and ensuring their hunger for the next hunt.
My mother was a beautiful woman, and it was easy to see why my father had fallen for her. She was not only graceful but also incredibly hardworking, a trait instilled in her by my grandmother. Her spirit was as strong as her hands, and her heart was pure gold.
The love she poured into our small home wrapped it in warmth, making it whole.Her wavy black hair, long enough to cascade down to her waist, was always swept into a neat bun, though a few strands would often escape, framing her kind face. It was the quiet strength in her eyes, and the gentleness in her smile, that made her beauty shine the brightest.
Every morning, before the first light of dawn, my mother would wake to haul water from the river. It was the quietest hour, when the world still slept and the riverbank was empty, untouched by those who would come later for their morning dip.
This was her routine—hauling water before the day had truly begun, all before breastfeeding me. Afterward, she would turn her attention to preparing breakfast for my father. Thanks to his successful hunts, there was always plenty of meat stored in our home, some of it smoked, others salted for preservation. If I hadn't been such a small baby, I would have indulged in it too. But my older brother had no such limitation—he ate his fill.
After my father left for the farm with my brother, my mother would head to the river to wash clothes, often with my sisters by her side. They were no more than twelve years old at the time, still learning the ways of the household. My mother, always with a gentle efficiency, would wrap me in a soft cloth before handing me over to one of my sisters. While they took turns holding me, my mother worked tirelessly, scrubbing and rinsing, her hands moving rhythmically through the cool river water as my sisters mimicked her motions, even if they weren't eager to help.
After news of my birth spread, my parents' friends would come by to visit, eager to see the new baby. My dad, ever the gracious host, would row our old, rickety canoe across the river to pick them up. Now, this canoe wasn't exactly riverworthy-it had a couple of small holes where water liked to sneak in. My dad, being the practical man he was, had a quick fix: he'd stuff clay into the holes. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
One day, after a lovely visit, my dad was rowing them back across the river when one of the family friends, clearly feeling helpful, casually picked at the clay plug. Without a clue as to its life-saving purpose, they pulled it right out. My dad, who hadn't mentioned the whole "the-canoe-will-sink-without-this-clay" thing, felt a sudden rush of water underfoot.
He tried to stay calm, rowing a bit faster, hoping to reach the other side in time, but by the time they neared the riverbank, it was too late—the whole thing tipped, and everyone was soaked into the river. There they were, splashing around in shock, while my dad could only laugh through his own dripping hair.
My early years by the river seem to have slipped by in a blur, and though I've grown so much since then, that time still feels distant and untouchable.
It was my first home, the place where I was born—yet I have no memory of it. Every time I visit, I find myself straining to imagine what it must have been like back then.
The view of the river, even now, is breathtaking, and I often wish we still lived there so I could spend endless hours swimming in its cool waters, unbothered by time.Whenever I went fishing with my dad along the river, we would pass by the spot where our old house once stood.
He'd point to it and say, "This is where you were born. You see that rock over there? We used to sit on it in front of the house." He'd show me the exact place, and I'd try to picture it as it was, but it was hard. The land had reclaimed everything.
Tall trees now stood where our home had been, and waist-high grass and thick bushes covered the ground, erasing any trace of the life we once lived there.One tree, though, still held a piece of us. My brother had carved our family name, "Seren," into its bark all those years ago. Time had worn it down, softening the edges, so it now looked like the tree had been branded.
It was like walking through an ancient ruin, except this wasn't some distant relic of the past—it was our home, the place that cradled our lives fourteen years ago.