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Writer | Speaker | Creative Voice. I tell stories, make calls & design confidence. @ Yabatech
Lagos, Nigeria
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A tale of Moses
<p><span style="background-color: transparent;">They called him Moses.</span></p><p><br/></p><p>Not just a name you give a child and forget.</p><p>The kind that carries a story inside it. The kind that expects something back.</p><p><br/></p><p>A child drawn out. A child kept alive when he shouldn’t have been.</p><p>A child who does not stay where he is born.</p><p><br/></p><p>Maybe it was just a name.</p><p><br/></p><p>Or maybe, without knowing it, they had already said what his life would become.</p><p><br/></p><p>I was not there, but I know the night.</p><p><br/></p><p>August 8th. The air in that house sat heavy, the way Nigerian nights do. Thick heat. Thick silence. Like something was waiting.</p><p><br/></p><p>A kerosene lamp threw orange light against the walls. Four women moved around the bed like they had done this before. Like women always have.</p><p><br/></p><p>She was the second wife.</p><p><br/></p><p>That already tells you enough.</p><p><br/></p><p>She came into that compound thinking she had found somewhere to stay. Somewhere that would hold her. But some places don’t open for you. They just make space and watch how long you last.</p><p><br/></p><p>She stayed.</p><p><br/></p><p>She learned how to exist without taking up too much room. Learned where to stand. When to speak. When not to.</p><p><br/></p><p>And then she pushed him into the world.</p><p><br/></p><p>They called him Moses.</p><p><br/></p><p>Maybe someone in that room understood something she did not say out loud.</p><p><br/></p><p>She held him for two years.</p><p><br/></p><p>Two years of learning a face she knew she would leave behind.</p><p><br/></p><p>Two years of carrying something she could not keep.</p><p><br/></p><p>Then she left.</p><p><br/></p><p>Quietly.</p><p><br/></p><p>The kind of leaving that does not ask to be stopped.</p><p><br/></p><p>Would he remember her?</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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