Before the Chaos

Growing up, I didn’t understand much about life, but I knew our house had a smell. Not a bad one—just that distinct mix of things that defined our everyday: kerosene from the lantern, fried eggs on Saturdays, and clothes straight from the sun. If you stayed long enough, you’d pick up the scent of Dettol, especially in the sitting room. My mum cleaned that place like we were expecting foreign visitors every weekend. We lived in a simple flat, not too small, not too fancy—just enough space for five people and a lot of shouting. Our compound had other families too, so mornings were never quiet. You’d hear gates squeaking, someone pumping water, babies crying, and someone else arguing with a child about brushing properly. That was our alarm system. Our house had a routine, and my mum made sure everyone followed it. Devotion started as early as 5:30 a.m., depending on how motivated she felt. She’d shout our names from the kitchen like she was trying to raise the dead. “Victor! Grace! Oya come out and pray!” Most times, we just dragged our legs to the sitting room half-asleep. My dad would be there already, sitting on the couch with his Bible. He talked a lot during those prayers. He read passages and said a short prayer. Sometimes he’d forget and start praying again after already saying “Amen.” Nobody corrected him. After prayers, it was sweep, fetch water, warm food, and get ready for school—always in that order. If you tried to jump any step, my mum would reset you with a quick reminder that “you’re still under my roof.” My dad worked as a civil servant. I didn’t really know what his job was back then, but I knew he left the house early and came back tired. His work clothes were always clean, neatly ironed with a coal iron that he handled like a precision tool. We didn’t have constant light, so ironing had to be done the night before—or with a backup plan. He wasn't a quiet man.Soft, but not quiet. He believed in rules, structure, and showing up on time, even when the system didn’t reward it. He wasn’t rich, but he made sure we never missed a meal. If he couldn’t afford something, he’d say, “Let’s plan for it next month.” And somehow, next month came with something close. My mum ran the home. She didn’t work outside, but she worked more than everyone else combined. She was teacher, nurse, cook, referee, and chief financial officer. She was also the one who had to stretch everything—food, light, money, time. Sometimes I think she was better at budgeting than the government. Our mornings followed a pattern. After devotion, we did our chores and rushed to get ready for school. I walked familiar faces—the woman frying akara, the man who played the same gospel station every morning, and the tailor whose radio never shut up. School uniforms were a big deal in our house. My mum ironed them when there was light, but when PHCN disappeared and the kerosene finished, you just wore it the way it was. And if your white shirt had turned cream, you better wear it with confidence. Outside the house, the real learning happened. Our street wasn’t rich, but it had pride. People swept their front yards every morning and washed their gates on Saturdays like they were expecting guests. The houses lined up shoulder to shoulder like siblings, and the neighbors acted like one extended family—until someone’s generator noise became too loud or someone else’s child broke a window. Then you'd hear shouting. But it always died down before nightfall. That was the rule. Kids on my street had a natural alliance. We fought, we played, we borrowed things without asking, and somehow it all made sense. There was no internet, so boredom forced us outside. We made games out of bottle caps, old tyres, and sticks. Cartons became buses. Water sachets were weapons. One time, we even used soaked garri as glue—it didn’t work, but the effort counted. After school, we’d change into our “outside clothes”—you know, the ones already torn or faded—and gather under the mango tree near our compound. That was our meeting spot. You didn’t need to say much. If you stood there long enough, someone would bring a ball, and before you knew it, a match had started. The football we played with wasn’t always round. Sometimes it was patched with tape. Other times it was made from compressed nylons. Didn’t matter. If it moved, it was a ball. Everyone had a nickname. Mine was “Screwdriver” for two reasons: one, I was always fixing or dismantling things, and two, I had a stubborn head. My best friend was called “One Corner” because of how he scored goals—always sneaky, never from the front. There was also “Power Pass Power,” who believed he could fight anyone. Even adults avoided him. We set up goalposts with slippers or old bricks. The game didn’t need a referee. We had arguments, yes—but shouting was part of the fun. “Na goal o!” “No be goal! Ball pass the stone!” “Abeg, last goal wins!” The last goal always turned into three more. It wasn’t just football, though. That street taught me about trust, fear, respect, and consequences. If you insulted someone’s mum during a fight, you had two battles—one with the person, and another with your own mum when she heard about it. The street had rules, even if they weren’t written down. You greeted elders, you returned change when sent. And no matter how hungry you were, you didn’t eat from the pot if you weren’t the one cooking. We also shared things: cold minerals, meat pies, beating from strangers, and secrets we weren’t old enough to keep. One time, we broke a neighbor’s flower pot while playing. The entire street denied it. Nobody snitched. We took the blame as a group and got scolded as a group. I don’t remember what the lesson was, but I remember the solidarity. By the time I turned ten, I knew everyone on our street by name or by nickname. Some were like older brothers. Some were bullies. Some became early parents. One or two vanished without a goodbye. But for a while, we were a family. Not by blood, but by dust, sweat, and laughter. At that age, I didn’t know what GDP or inflation meant. All I knew was that things felt okay. Home had light sometimes, water came from the tap at least once a week, and nobody locked their gates during the day. What else was there to ask for? In our house, there were rules—and then there were my dad’s rules. Two different levels. The normal house rules were the usual things: sweep the sitting room before 7 a.m., don’t leave dishes overnight, wash your socks before Saturday. But then my dad had his own set—the kind of rules that didn’t exist in any parenting book but somehow made complete sense to him. Rule one: “Nobody sleeps when the sun is up unless they’re sick or old.” That one hurt the most during holidays. While other kids were busy watching cartoons or taking naps after eating jollof rice, my dad would call us out of the house like we owed him money. “You’ve eaten, abi? Good. Now come and learn something. You think life is about sleeping and pressing remote?” We'd all groan, but nobody disobeyed. Not openly, at least. I once tried to sneak a nap one afternoon, and my dad burst into the room like he was leading a SWAT team. “So you want to sleep when your mates are out there learning computer?” “But I’m tired.” “Tired of what? You’re not even paying school fees yet!” After that, I learned to sleep with one eye open. He also had an obsession with sharpness—not just in dressing, but in thinking. If you wore a rumpled shirt or mismatched socks, he wouldn’t just scold you. He’d sit you down and connect your laziness to Nigeria’s economic condition. “This is how corruption starts! First, it’s dirty socks, then it’s exam malpractice. Before you know it, EFCC is knocking.” Mum, on the other hand, enforced discipline without volume. If dad used words, she used eyes. Her eyes alone could pin you to a wall. She could pass a full message from across the room: “I will deal with you when this visitor leaves.” Sundays were sacred in our house. Not just because of church, but because of how structured everything was. We’d wake up early, polish shoes with Kiwi until they shined like black mirrors, and iron clothes like we were going to meet Jesus in person. Church wasn’t optional. Even if you had malaria, they’d tell you to “go and receive healing directly.” The only time you could miss church was if you were unconscious. After service, the real reward came: rice and stew. That was the official Sunday meal in our house. You could eat rice during the week, yes, but Sunday rice had a different kind of taste. Maybe it was the fried plantain, maybe it was the stew that had that thick layer of oil on top. Whatever it was, it made the whole week worth it. Sometimes we even had visitors—distant cousins, church friends, neighbors. That was when the house transformed. My mum brought out the “good plates.” The ones that stayed locked inside the cupboard all year. My dad turned into a storyteller. He’d suddenly remember stories from his youth and tell them like he was performing stand-up comedy. We kids just sat there, waiting for the signal to go and “greet the visitor properly.” That meant kneeling, smiling, and pretending we hadn’t been fighting over remote control minutes earlier. We weren’t rich. But there was order. And in that order, I found comfort. I knew what to expect each day. I knew when light would come (or not), when water would be pumped, when mum would shout, and when dad would lecture us without warning. It wasn’t perfect—but it worked. The house had rhythm. And somehow, that rhythm kept us sane.