I was born in Nigeria, a land filled with noise, laughter, and unspoken struggles. My childhood was simple — days of bare feet on dusty roads, evenings filled with the smell of wood fire and the sound of my mother's voice calling us home. Life wasn't perfect, but it was peaceful.
My father was a dreamer. He believed that success lay beyond our borders. "One day," he used to say, "I will travel and bring back a better life for all of you." His words painted pictures in our minds — of new clothes, good food, and a home where we would never worry again.
When he finally traveled, our small compound felt empty. My mother tried to hide her tears, but I could see them shining in her eyes. She smiled and said, "Your father will come back with blessings." I believed her. Back then, I believed everything she said.
But as days turned to months and months to years, his absence grew heavier. Letters became rare, phone calls shorter. Yet, my mother never complained. She worked harder, prayed longer, and held our family together with hands that never stopped giving.