My Mother's Village: The Peace of a Timeless Place

 

 

The Familiar Places My Parents Call Home

The places my parents call home feel strangely familiar — not because I know them well, but because they live so vividly in my imagination.
Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about those places. There’s a peace that clings to them — a calmness in villages where time seems to have paused.
Especially my mother’s village.

My mum is a storyteller, and I hope I’ll be able to share her stories with the world someday.
When she describes scenes from her childhood, it’s hard to imagine that a place so slow and seemingly forgotten could hold such colour, adventure, and life.

Visits to a Forgotten Time

I have been to my mother's village at least three times in my life, and if it was more than that, I must have been too young to remember. What captivated me was how it seemed like everything had... stopped. 

Youth, vigour, adventure, and even hope — they all seemed to have quietly left.

Between the beach-like sand, the scent of river water, ripe mangoes and pears, and the old musty houses, it felt like time had taken a breath and never exhaled.

It was such a sharp contrast to the Lagos I grew up in, where everything and everyone was always in motion.
Even in Abuja, which felt calmer, there was still that restless sense of expectation hanging in the air.

The Dark, Rainy Nights and Grandma's Echoes 

I remember the dark rainy nights in the village — my grandma’s prayers slipping out between snores.
There was a strange comfort in hearing a language I couldn’t understand but had always known.

I still hear the loud, animated “Kwekeh ohh” whenever something surprising happens.
And the greetings from distant relatives, my grandmother would curse under her breath once they’d left.
Then came the long, winding prayers for my life — and my mechanical “Amen” in response, always unsure if those words were truly meant for me.

The Sights and Sounds of Another Life

In the mornings, I’d hear the sounds echo through the quiet streets —
The young woman hawking Okpa, her voice bouncing off walls no one had painted in years.

Nothing hurried.
No cars.
No one is rushing to beat time.
Just a morning. Just a day.

Longing for a Slower Life

I don’t know why, but today, I longed for my mother’s village.

Maybe I’m tired of expectations, of fast-moving days where I can barely remember what day it is.
Maybe I miss living in the freshness of the present.
Where the task is simply to live through the day.

No fake emails.
No fake people.
No made-up jobs that accomplish nothing.

Perhaps I long for a simpler life — one where I can sit outside, watch the raindrops puncture the sand,
See the lizards scurry for safety, smell the rusty wind drift through cracked windows.

Maybe I long for Mama’s stories — about a life I never knew, about people I will never meet.
Maybe I long for time to stop again — to sit still as I whisper “Amen” to prayers meant for a grandchild she lovingly called her mother.