My childhood monster had a name. He was Olomo with a fierce look, thunderous voice and bloodshot eyes. He had a strong grip and a menacing laugh.
Olomo loved darkness and he was around most nights. This monster was behind every closed door and with lights off, he crept under the bed uninvited. Grabbing tiny feet were one of his favourites. He was present in most of my dreams, chasing or drowning me in my sleep.
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I don’t recall reading bedtimes stories when growing up, but, I recall interesting stories that were told.
I remember the conversations I heard as a little girl to the folktales shared by families, neighbours and friends. Part of me contains songs, poetries and the vivid images of scary monsters painted to scare.
Imaginary plays, make-believes and visits to relatives occupied most of the summer holidays. With foods and songs, long lost friends who came around to visit each having a story to tell.
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“Sheri!!!”, I stopped as I heard my aunt screamed my name. Something told me she had seen the little bag of rice and a bottle of oil I kept in the bag covered up in rumbles behind the door. I ran down the flight of stairs with gripping fear ready to be dragged through the
In my aunt’s hands was the bag containing the food I intended to take with me as I came to the end of my weekend stay. It was on a Sunday, my returning-home day. The ground sank under my feet while my aunt expected some explanation on her finds.
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