The Morning That Changed Everything

The year was 2009, and it was a morning unlike any other in our household. Mum woke us up early for prayers, but something was different. The usual rhythm of our morning devotion was disrupted, replaced by an urgency that hung thick in the air.

In the past, our prayer time was a leisurely affair. My three siblings and I would each take turns singing five worship songs, we would then read a chapter from the Bible, share our interpretations, and pray one after another. Mum always concluded with the overall prayer, first in Igbo, then in English.

I often found myself imagining God’s reaction to this bilingual approach. In my childish mind, I pictured Him perplexed by the Igbo prayers, only to nod in understanding when Mum switched to English. I couldn’t help but wonder why she bothered with Igbo at all if she was going to repeat everything in English anyway.

But this morning was different. There were no individual songs, no lengthy Bible study, and no extended prayers. Mum rushed through a brief reading and said grace, leaving us all a bit bewildered.

As we finished, I watched Mum spring into action. She retrieved the flour she had purchased the day before and began mixing it in a large bowl. Water, baking powder, salt, sugar, and butter followed in quick succession. Her hands worked tirelessly until she winced, complaining of chest pain. Without missing a beat, she called my brothers to take over the mixing.

While they worked on the dough, Mum darted outside to gather firewood from the pile near our house – the same pile she arranged for sale. She returned with an armful, setting it down on the verandah with determination etched on her face.

I watched in fascination as she started the fire and cleaned the enormous frying pan she had bought from Kasuwa (Market). As she placed it on the iron firewood stand, she explained her plan. Our provision business was struggling, and she needed to diversify to increase our profits. We already sold firewood, recharge cards, soft drinks, and foodstuffs. Now, we were about to add fried buns to our inventory, with the possibility of expanding into other pastries in the future.

Mum sent me to fetch the groundnut oil for frying. I made my way into our two-room apartment, navigating through the space we had divided with wooden shelves to create our makeshift shop. The other half of the front room and the main room served as our living and sleeping quarters, perpetually cluttered despite our best efforts to tidy up. We held onto many useless items, hoping to sell them to the Hausa kwolabe (Scrap collectors) for some extra change or exchange them with kparo (thrift clothes collectors) women for new household items.

“What’s keeping you in there?” Mum called from outside, snapping me back to the task at hand.

I grabbed the bottles of groundnut oil and hurried out to join her. By now, our neighbours were stirring, and a chorus of “Good mornings” and “How una deys?” filled the air. Mum greeted everyone warmly, her enthusiasm infectious.

As our street came to life, passersby stopped to inquire about our new venture. Their faces lit up with anticipation, promising to return once the buns were ready. Meanwhile, my siblings prepared for their day – my sister heading off to her job as a café attendant, and my brothers leaving for school.

I stayed behind to help Mum with the frying. As the delicious aroma of fresh buns wafted through the air, our first customers appeared – school children on their way to class. Mum served them with a smile, even offering extra buns to those who bought four at once.

Once we finished frying, Mum divided the buns into two sections. She carefully arranged one portion in a transparent plastic bucket and instructed me to get ready quickly. My heart sank as I realized what was coming next – I was to go out and sell the buns.

The walk to our compound’s shared bathroom felt endless. My mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead – hawking fried buns around town, a task that already felt overwhelmingly daunting. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders, making even the simple act of bathing a challenge.

As I stepped out with the bucket of buns balanced precariously on my head, I could feel the stares of familiar faces boring into my skin. I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to sink into the ground and vanish from sight.

With each step down the street, I felt smaller and more exposed. Calls of “Hey, you girl!” “Mai buns!” and “Heys!” echoed around me. The shame crawled across my skin as I spotted my friends on their way to school. I couldn’t bring myself to smile or wave back, wishing desperately for this ordeal to end.

I knew the only way to return home was to sell everything. So, against every instinct screaming for me to run and hide, I found my voice and began to shout, “Buy sweet buns!”

That morning in 2009 marked a turning point in my young life. It was a harsh introduction to the realities of our family’s financial struggles and the lengths we would go to survive.

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About Author

Maryann Ijeoma Nwokoye

Maryann Ijeoma Nwokoye is a creative writer, storyteller and development communicator. She is particular about using her skill in communication to see that this world becomes a better place and for men to turn their spears into ploughshares.

Beyond writing and storytelling, she is enthusiastic about human development. She has also managed programs for Non-governmental organizations that are focused on human development through technology and entrepreneurship.

She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Mass Communication and a Master’s degree in Applied Communication (In View) with a core interest in technology and development communication.

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