It all began on the dusty streets of Edepie, a quiet, modest town nestled in the heart of Bayelsa State. Life moved slowly there, where the dark clay roads were lined with small huts, and the air was often thick with the smell of earth and wood smoke. The streets bustled with people carrying out their daily struggles, but among them was a young couple—Mr. and Mrs. Monday—whose struggles were even harder to bear. Poverty weighed them down, but what they lacked in material wealth, they made up for in the depth of their love.
Mr. Monday was a man of quiet dignity. Despite the tattered clothes that hung loosely on his thin frame, he carried himself with the pride of a man determined to provide for his family. His hands were calloused from years of menial labor, and his face was marked by the harshness of life, yet there was a softness in his eyes whenever he looked at his wife, Sophia. She, in turn, had a beauty that was understated, her soft brown skin and kind eyes reflecting a spirit worn by hardship but unbroken by it.
They lived in a small hut at the far end of the street, a place barely big enough to shelter their growing family. Inside, the few pieces of furniture were worn, the walls thin, and the roof patched together with sheets of rusted iron. Despite their poverty, their love for each other and their children was undeniable, an unspoken bond that bound them tightly.
Before I was born, my parents already had two children—Jane, their first daughter, a spirited girl of just 8 years, and Precious, a lively 4-year-old whose energy seemed endless despite the hunger that gnawed at her. Jane, with her protective nature, often helped her mother around the house, her small hands learning early the burdens of a life lived on the edge of survival. Precious, with her wide grin and bright eyes, brought joy into the house, her laughter often echoing through the narrow streets.
My mother, Sophia, was pregnant with me at the time, though it was a pregnancy neither she nor my father had planned. They had already been struggling to feed Jane and Precious, and the thought of another mouth to feed filled them with dread. Several times, they had tried to terminate the pregnancy, out of sheer desperation, but fate seemed to have other plans. Each attempt failed, as if some unseen force was determined to bring me into the world. The final attempt was the most dangerous. My mother had bled so much that she nearly lost her life. After that, they gave up trying to end the pregnancy and resolved to let me be born.
The pregnancy took its toll on my mother. She grew weaker as the days passed, her body strained from the weight of her swollen belly and the lack of proper nutrition. Yet through it all, the bond between her and my father only seemed to grow stronger. They clung to each other, their love a beacon in the darkness of their circumstances. Their love story, one that had begun in their childhood, was something of legend in the community. People often whispered that their love was unbreakable, forged in the fires of hardship, and tested time and time again by life's trials.
As my mother's delivery date drew near, my father grew more frantic. With no steady job, he took on whatever work he could find, no matter how backbreaking. He would return home late at night, exhausted and covered in grime, but always with a smile for my mother. She would greet him at the door, her belly heavy with the life she carried, and they would sit together in silence, the weight of their struggles hanging between them, but their love always shining through.
The day of my birth arrived on August 22, 1992, a day that would be remembered for the storm that swept through Edepie. The skies had been dark all afternoon, heavy with the promise of rain, but by the time the sun set, the storm had unleashed its full fury. It was as if the heavens themselves were preparing for something monumental. The rain came down in sheets, a torrential downpour that pounded the rooftops and turned the streets into rivers of mud. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and the wind howled through the narrow alleys, rattling doors and windows.
Inside our small hut, the air was thick with tension. My mother lay on a thin mat on the floor, her body wracked with the pain of labor. Her face was pale, her lips dry, and sweat beaded on her forehead as she clutched her swollen belly. Each contraction seemed to send waves of agony through her, her soft moans turning into cries as the labor intensified.
My father knelt beside her, his hand gripping hers tightly, though he was trembling with fear. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He was a man who had always tried to solve every problem, to provide for his family no matter the cost, but now, as his wife lay in pain, he realized there was nothing he could do.
"The pain is coming," my mother whispered, her voice barely a breath above the roar of the storm outside.
Without a moment's hesitation, my father sprang into action. He dashed out into the storm, his body immediately drenched by the rain. The wind whipped at his face, and the thunder seemed to mock him as he ran down the street, slipping and stumbling in the mud. His only thought was to find the local nurse, the only person who could help bring me safely into the world.
When he returned with the nurse, the storm had reached its peak. The wind howled outside like a wild beast, and the rain hammered against the roof with such force that it seemed as though the sky itself was trying to tear the hut apart. The nurse, an elderly woman with kind eyes and a calm demeanor, moved quickly, setting up her small bag of supplies with practiced ease. She smiled gently at my mother, reassuring her that everything would be all right, despite the chaos outside.
As my mother's labor reached its final stages, the storm seemed to mirror her struggle. Each contraction was met with a clap of thunder, each push accompanied by a gust of wind that shook the walls of the hut. The storm raged on, but inside, there was only one focus—bringing me into the world.
At the height of the storm, a sudden gust of wind blew open the door, and rain poured into the hut, soaking the dirt floor. My father rushed to close it, but in that moment, my mother let out one final, agonized scream. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, she pushed, and with the nurse's steady hands guiding me, I was born into the world.
The moment I let out my first cry, something incredible happened. The storm, which had been raging so fiercely just moments before, began to subside. The thunder grew distant, the wind calmed, and the rain, once torrential, softened into a gentle patter against the roof. It was as if the storm had been silenced by my arrival.
My mother, exhausted and drenched in sweat, looked down at me with tears in her eyes. She was weak, but the joy on her face was unmistakable. My father, too, was overwhelmed with emotion as he looked at me, his first son, cradled in the nurse's arms. The nurse smiled, her earlier words echoing in their minds: "This child will be born with the strength of the storm."
That night, in the small, humble hut on the edge of Edepie, I was born into a world of hardship, but also into a family whose love was more powerful than any storm. Despite the poverty that surrounded us, despite the challenges that lay ahead, my parents held onto each other and to me, knowing that together, we would weather whatever storms life had in store.