DON'T FORGET WHO YOU ARE! - by Zipporah Nwachukwu

<h1>Just Don't Forget Yourself.</h1> In the heart of Umuoke, a village wrapped in the arms of hills and rivers, lived a boy named Obinna. He was the only child of a humble palm wine tapper, Papa Ejike, and his soft-spoken wife, Mama Adaeze, who sold fresh okra at the village market. From a young age, Obinna was different. He was curious, always asking questions and dreaming of the world beyond the red clay roads and tall iroko trees. He wanted more than fetching firewood or climbing trees. “One day,” he often said, “I will wear suits, speak English like a radio, and sit in a room with fans spinning on the ceiling.” His parents smiled, proud of his dreams, but always reminded him, > “Obinna, no matter how far you go, don’t forget who you are.”Years passed. Obinna got a scholarship to the city. The first in the village to attend university. When he left, the whole village escorted him to the park, women singing blessings, old men tapping their walking sticks on the dusty ground in approval. In the city, Obinna rose fast. He dressed sharp, spoke fluent English, and moved with important people. He stopped eating pounded yam with his hands. He laughed at his mother’s calls in Igbo and answered in half-hearted English. When village elders came to visit, he gave them money but no time. He even began to introduce himself as “Ben.” One rainy season, a letter came. His father had passed.Obinna returned to the village in a clean car with tinted glass. He wore glasses not for sight but for style. The villagers whispered, “Is this Obinna? He now walks like the city people.” At the funeral, an old woman, Nneka, stood up and spoke. Her voice was tired but firm: > “The tree may grow tall and reach the clouds, but its roots remain in the soil. Obinna, we are proud of you. But we do not recognize the one you’ve become. Your father taught you humility. Your mother taught you respect. You left with fire in your heart, but you returned with cold pride in your chest.”Silence fell. Obinna looked around — the mud walls, the bare feet of his childhood friends, the cooking fire where his mother still roasted yam. That night, he walked to the stream alone, just like he did as a child. He sat on a rock and wept, not for his father’s death alone, but for forgetting where he came from. The next morning, he walked barefoot to the market, helped his mother carry her basket, and spoke in his language. He greeted the elders with both hands and sat with the children, telling them stories of the city but also teaching them the value of home. Years later, Obinna still lived in the city, but every holiday he returned. He built a library in the village and named it after his father. On the wall at the entrance, he placed a carved wooden sign that read: > “Don’t forget who you are. The river that forgets its source will run dry.”

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