I am waiting... I am waiting.
I have always been waiting.
My eyes are closed, as they have always been.
My hands float in front of my face, and even if I can't see them, I know exactly what shape
...
[+]
In my family, Sundays were sacred, not for church or naps, but for what we called Ledger Night. Under the sprawling mango tree in our courtyard in Ibadan, my grandfather would bring out his battered leather ledger, and we, his captive audience, would learn about money. "Money is like this mango tree," he would say, tapping the bark with one gnarled finger. "If you neglect it, it will not bear fruit when you need it. But if you care for it, even a little, it can feed you for years."
At ten years old, I thought Grandpa had completely lost it. Mangoes grew whether you watched them or not. Money was for fufu or school fees—not something you whispered to, like a secret friend. But Grandpa had a way of making everything sound mystical. The ledger was not just pages of numbers; it was a map, a story, a game. Every naira earned, every debt repaid, every coin tucked away was a character in the family saga.
Mama, meanwhile, had a very different philosophy. "Money is for eating today," she would declare, lifting a puff-puff from hot oil, her wrapper dusted with flour, the sweet smell of frying drifting down the street. Neighbors often stopped by, drawn by that smell, and Mama would press paper-wrapped treats into their hands like blessings. She believed in joy now; Grandpa believed in security later. And me? I was the spectator, torn between the two extremes—though mostly I hid in the shadows so I could sneak more puff-puff.
When I turned twenty, Lagos called me like a siren with neon lights, air-conditioned malls, and the promise of adventure. I arrived with a suitcase in one hand, dreams in the other, and a heart full of overconfidence. But Lagos was merciless. Danfos honked until my ears rang, vendors shouted prices faster than I could count, and sudden rainstorms turned streets into muddy rivers.
Rent devoured my first paycheck. Transport swallowed the second. By the third, I was so broke even Puff-Puff Mama would've laughed at me.
One evening, stomach growling, I wandered into Balogun Market and stumbled into a crowd gathered around a man shouting about "miracle loans" and "easy cash." I was a breath away from handing him my last fifty naira when Grandpa's voice returned: the mango tree, the ledger. I had ignored the lessons for too long.
Instead of chasing a stranger's promises, I opened a savings account at the nearest bank. Each deposit felt like planting a seed under that imaginary mango tree. Slowly, I learned money's rhythm: earn a little, save a little, give a little, and, sometimes, spend a little wisely.
Months later, an old friend confessed she was struggling to start an akara stall. She needed flour, oil, pans, everything. Without hesitation, I lent her the money, not as a loan with harsh terms, but as an investment in her dream. Watching her fry that first batch, beaming like she'd discovered fire, was worth more than any interest. Grandpa would have nodded. Mama, I swear, might have shed a proud tear.
By the time I returned to Ibadan, I carried with me a different kind of wealth. Not riches, but receipts—my first personal entries in the family ledger. Grandpa grinned, tapping the mango tree as if to say, "Well done, my child. The tree recognizes you now."
That evening, Mama served puff-puff more generously than usual. "Eat," she said. "You've earned it." I laughed, realizing that perhaps the secret wasn't choosing between Grandpa or Mama, saving or spending, seriousness or joy.
The secret was balance. Money, like life, is messy. Unpredictable. Sometimes funny. But always better when treated with respect and a little love.
Under that mango tree, I felt it: the past and future intertwining, the lessons of my family in every note, every coin, every laugh. Money, I realized, is more than currency. It is a story, one that grows, feeds, and occasionally drops a mango on your head if you aren't paying attention.
And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.