It was a warm Saturday morning in late July 1996. I was 9; almost 10. The birds were chirping in excitement, the morning dew, fresh and still, dripping from the tree leaves. I had been prepped hard for this day. Daily memory “drills”, 6 hours of schoolwork and 2 hours of home tutorials 3 times a week, learning new words and watching for current affairs updates from the local TV news. Like an athlete, I was primed, ripped and ready for this day. No stone was left unturned. My teachers rated me so highly, my parents never expected any less. I had progressed quickly through the 1st chain link of the famous 6-3-3-4 National educational system, with a “double promotion” in Class 4. Time was a blur. I kept outdoing myself, excelling in my grades and beating the competition. The National Common Entrance examination that year had been a great success, I was the best in my examination center, though one of the youngest candidates. I scored 503/600, if I re-collect. I was sure to get admitted into both Federal high schools selected. However, I wanted a lot more. Parents/Guardians were told to drop off their kids/wards at the school gate, so I parted from my mum with last minute pep-talks, prayers and "pocket money" (the favorite part). With the accreditation and registration processes completed, I was allotted a classroom and seat number. The exams started right on time. The first part – Mathematics & Quantitative Reasoning - was a landslide victory – I crunch numbers in my sleep. I needed the Part B of the exam to go just as well – English Language, Current Affairs & Verbal Reasoning. I knew the pass mark needed to secure a place at the International School, University of Lagos, one of the most prestigious high schools in Nigeria. The Part B section started after the lunch break. It was all going well till I hit a roadblock. There was an essay question, which read, "write an essay, about 150 words on 'Nigeria of my Dreams' ". I read the question again. I read it a third time. “This must be a mistake”, I thought. It didn't sound right to me. I looked around the hall, with my naive, pearly eyes. No other candidate seemed bothered. The room roared on in the ambience of a properly invigilated exam. I felt I was in trouble. How was I supposed to react? Where do I start? Do I have to fall sleep to come up with this dream? Don't we all only dream at night while we sleep? What if the heavens refuse to give me this dream within the required time frame? How do I select a specific dream, dream that dream, wake up and write about it? Would I wake up on time? I just had about 2 hours to write this exam section. I gazed at this problem statement, flipped, twitched and steered. Finally, my guardian angel whispered in my ears. “Leave this section, write the other sections and come back here”. I scrambled through the other exam sections, filled and shaded answers as the clock ticked away. Just as I finished and moved to get back to the essay question, I heard those 2 magic words, “Pens Up”. I felt it was all over. I had let myself and many people down. What would I tell my parents? How do I explain that we were asked to dream and write about it, and I couldn't do either? How could this be happening to me? “My teachers must have left this out; they did not teach me”. That was my conclusion, with my tail firmly tucked between my legs, as I walked towards the school main gate. I squinted from a distance to see if my mother was there waiting. I knew she would ask how I fared and would try to assess my body language. I had learnt not to lie to her pretty early, I wasn't taking a chance this time. I only managed to get a few in till I flew out of her nest to build mine. I happily told her that Part A went well. She knew my capabilities, no surprises here, smiles all round. Then to the bad news, Part B. I told her what happened. She listened intently, laughed and told me what was expected by the examiners. The scales instantly fell off my eyes. How was I supposed to know? I wish they framed it clearer. Could I possibly go back and fill this section? Of course, only in my dreams. I was consoled with an ice cream cone and we drove back home. My father laughed and sympathized with me but was confident I would make the pass list. The next few weeks were a nervous wait, a heavy weight. The hours and days gently strolled by. I could not bear the thoughts of failing an entrance examination into a prestigious school. My mother had left her senior teaching position at a State Secondary school and took a few steps down the career ladder to accept a teaching role at this school, just to ensure that my father only paid discounted school fees for my siblings and I. How could I let her down? How could I let us down? Finally, the news broke. I passed the exams, went on to pass the interviews and was admitted into ISL, UNILAG. I was overjoyed and relieved that I had kept my own side of the bargain. My younger siblings also made the cut in their times.

How do you survive a holocaust, I remember asking myself. When you see a child, you don't expect them to grow up. You expect them to stay small and ask “why” until you run out of reasons to give them. You expect them to spill milk and cry and you teach them to clean it up. You expect them to be scared of the dark and the boogyman, so you look under the bed and in the closet to show them that there's nothing there. But the child eventually learns how to drink without a sippy cup. And the child stops asking “why” and stops wondering because it knows what curiosity does. And they learn that there are things much scarier than the boogyman and the dark. “Let's go see Papa,” my dad calls from the front door. I grab my sandals and meet him at the bottom of the stairs. We exit the tall iron spiked front gates and begin walking down a dirt road. The air in Nigeria is thick with sand. I cough, struggling to keep up with my dad. He walks two steps ahead, his lungs unfazed. “Edewu,” the villagers greet us as we march. Their igbo dialect rolls off their ounce. The word is one of the very few I've learned during my visit. I think it means ‘blessings.' I return the greeting with a wave and half a smile. My dad leads the way, slipping past the crowds of people and their blessings, sparing no time for friendly small talk. The walk is only but five minutes. A direct path from my dad's house to his dad's house; a lifeline of sorts. My dad is the oldest son of eight children. “Your uncle Charlie lives over there.” He points to the left at a sky blue house hidden behind a collection of palm trees. I nod. I've never seen my uncle Charlie before. His house is a snapshot of sibling rivalry the way his is built one story taller than my dad's three story flat. My dad takes my hand in his and we cross a gravel road. The buzz of mopeds and motorcycles rush past us barely missing our heels. My dad looks to the right at a run down mud house shaded with rusted tin sheets. “Your uncle Sabinus lived here. They murdered him. Poison.” All the houses of my relatives line the dirt path like a museum of his childhood, their houses as empty as skeletons. His tongue doesn't slip when it speaks of poison. He doesn't stutter or cry. He soldiers on ahead to copper gates and thrusts open the doors to his father's compound. A monopoly of mud houses scatter the lot placed so tightly together they nearly stand atop each other. A broken down Mercedes marks the entry way to my dad's childhood home. The first car he ever learned how to drive, a dusty relic of his past. Two graves sit at his feet. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket he wipes down the first. “Mazi Vitalis Nweze Nwocha” the inscription reads. My grandfather. He bows his head in silent prayer. “Your grandfather was a fugitive of the war. They annihilated us. Burned us alive like sacrificial animals.” My dad says “they strapped people to military vehicles while their lower limbs dragged helplessly beneath them. I was only 12 at the time.” I stay silent. He tells me about the Birafian War. How Nigerian soldiers raided houses in the middle of the night with machetes, painting walls scarlet. How as a kid, he built a bunker big enough for nine people in the back of his house to hide his father from being recruited into the Birafian army. My dad is 64 now. He dusts off hid hands and pockets his handkerchief sweeping fours years of bloodshed back under the rug. We turn to leave his compound passing more unmarked graves on the way out. I look at him, realizing for the first time how silent it really is when a heart breaks. As kids we are taught not to cry over spilt milk. The war taught my dad not to cry over blood either.