Back to the haunting memories

Driving to my house from the airport in my father's car was a bittersweet feeling.

I didn't realize how much I missed the loud honks from the horns of cars, motorcycles, tricycles, and trucks or the way street vendors pursued vehicles, thrusting their wares in front of the windows, hoping to sell enough to fend for themselves that day; until I landed at the Murtala Mohammed Local Airport and began my journey to my abode.

A tired-looking little boy who couldn't be more than twelve years old had been chasing our car for a while, with his carton of sausage rolls firmly placed on his head, imploring us to buy.

I detested seeing child labor.

I hated the way children were made to fend for themselves and sometimes their entire family at such a young age when I, who was currently living a moderately privileged lifestyle, sat comfortably in an air-conditioned jeep satisfied in the fact that I knew exactly where my next meal would come from.