You Owe Me a Childhood

The first phone your mother used was made in China with a stylus pen that was just as unnecessary as the loud speaker it came with. It was silver and had limited memory, but she was able to get a couple of songs to play while she did the house chores.
She said the phone wasn’t given to her by her parents. Her cousin Chekube had left it behind when he was travelling and he didn’t come back for it for a long time.
In all that time, she wasn’t allowed to use it, or hold it. The only time the phone settled in her hand was when she was moving it around while she cleaned the room divider their television sat on.
Then Chekube had called one time and she took the plunge and asked him for the phone. Uncle Chekube said he didn’t remember the interaction, but your mother said he didn’t even remember the phone because he was using a better one.
One of those ones that didn’t need a pen to operate. The type that didn’t have buttons, kind of the one you were using now. The same type she was using.
It was Nokia, Uncle Chekube had supplied with raised shoulders. He was one of the first people who made the switch from Blackberry to Android phones.
Regardless of the phone, your mother was still able to step outside, feel the sun on her face, connect with her neighbours and live a fulfilling life.
All this was to say that your life was far from fulfilling which was evidenced by the fact that you spent the entire day on your phone looking at pictures and chatting with whomever was online at the moment. Or watching movies.
Your mother referred to it as ‘whatever nonsense.’
Your mother would supply at intervals that you should be careful lest your phone killed you. Your cousin had gone off to Lagos to meet a man she met online without letting anyone know. A panicked friend had shown up to tell the family after your cousin didn’t pick up or update her as usual.
She died.
A phone was also the leading cause of divorce; somebody had posted on Facebook,and that was enough for your mother to attempt to seize your phone to keep you away from the plans of the devil, but she needed you to have the phone in case she had to call you up for something.
Whatever it was that you were up to on your phone, it was the worst thing a girl of your age should be doing because your generation was barely offline these days.
That evening, she sent you a chain mail that you needed to send to 10 people or face consecutive hardship. You never forwarded them, but some things happening in your life now might have come from that momentary stubbornness.
You walked around with an incomplete story in your head from the one time your Aunty Nkechi tried to bond with you. Both your devices were dead, and the estate used to have constant power supply that the need for a portable power source never arose.
It was a minor issue, they had assured everyone in the estate group chat. Fixable soonest.
The story, you remember, was a folktale, one of those that tried to explain why something was the way it was. This one was about why the antelope had a short tail.
The light was restored before she got to the end of the story, and to her credit, she tried to keep going, ignoring the light the same way you did, but you both came to your senses and went to your respective rooms and saw each other that evening when it was time for dinner.
The light was off long enough for her to let you know that Nigerians used to make their plans around TV programs. No one missed the Thursday’s 08:00pm Super Story. Friday evenings by 05:00pm were full of Tales by Moonlight. And you had to wake up really early if you intended to watch cartoon of any sort, and you had to be home before 05:00pm every other day if you wanted to watch Spongebob on Silverbird.
There was never a dedicated channel for these things, but one thing was certain; even if the world was ending, 10:00pm news was a must since 08:00pm news could be missed.
Aunty Nkechi said she nearly killed herself when your father discovered Al Jazeera and had it on for the whole day.
When your same age cousin Ginika came to visit and drew squares on the floor, inviting you to come play ‘suwe’ with her, you stared at her with raised brows waiting for an explanation.
As she explained the game, and many more after that, she asked if you played outside at all. If you were being maltreated by your parents. If you wanted her to ask her mother to tell your mother to let you come visit soon.
You’ll love the north she said with a smile before shaking her head and telling you that it wasn’t even the north. But Jos was a nice city to live your life.
She explained the game P2, but you didn’t remember it after she left even though your body bore the testaments of the game from the many times she threw the shoe sole at you.
It felt like abuse, but Ginika laughed so much that it made it worth it. It was also the longest you spent without your phone.
When you told your father you had to go to the zoo, you had expected to walk there because Ginika had told you she walked with everyone in the compound they were living. The distance was far enough that they arrived when most people were already leaving.
The camel was the only animal that was allowed to roam while they posed for pictures to prove they were there. You didn’t see the picture because it was printed out on paper, and Ginika only had the type of phone you could only speak or text on.
That was also supposed to be the purpose of your phone, but your mother lost the plot a little too quick. But you had to entertain yourself on days when both your parents were busy. Every day.
Jude told you that the problem with the present generation - not yours - was that they were on the phone too much. During his time, children used to play outside with sand and stone, but now everyone wanted to be a content creator.
You thought about your estate, how none of you knew each other well enough to play on the street. You used to learn how to ride a bike with the boy from the next compound as a kid, but somehow, you didn’t even exchange hello these days.
It was hard for the present generation to play with sand and roll on the floor when those who came before them weren’t outside to begin with.
Ginika said she learned how to play ‘suwe’ by watching those around her play. It was the type of thing you picked up from the elders around you.
You thought of your estate and how when the neighbour three houses down was getting robbed, no one came to help. How no one even visited to offer condolences, how everyone said sorry to him on the estate group chat.
In each house lived someone that could have played a part in making you have a childhood that wasn’t revolving around phones, but you were all chronically online that the thought didn’t occur to anyone.
The kid your neighbour gave birth to yesterday, the one whom everyone sent congratulations for on the group chat would also not know how to play ‘suwe’ and it would be a problem that only you would think about.
Not for a long time because the estate light came back on as did your senses.