I Made It Through 3 Chapter One: Growing Up Grateful

It was the late 1980s, and I was sitting in the back of a black cab when, just after entering the ftrst set of Buckingham palace gates, all traffic had ground to a halt. What's going on? I thought. I don't want to be late! Getting to work today will be a rush job. I was only a short distance from home when all traffic suddenly stopped. Knowing we were a stone's throw away from a world- renowned royal residence, I wondered what on Earth was serious enough to cause major traffic disruption during the morning rush hour. Yup, that's life for you, I thought, this sort of thing only happens on days when you are in a hurry and can least a$ord to waste time. Then, as I was looking through the taxi windows, this heartwarming scene unfolded before me that still makes me smile all

these years later.

An anxious-looking mother duck with a beautiful set of newly hatched golden ducklings was about to cross the street. They were headed toward the huge Queen Victoria Memorial roundabout in front of the palace. To prevent the duck and her babies from being crushed by busy morning commuters, a policeman had stopped all oncoming vehicles. The worried mother duck looked very frightened by all the noise from the hustle and bustle to get to our various destinations. The policeman proceeded to very carefully and gently guide her and her babies safely across the street. I'm sure there were many varying reactions, but I and others around me said a collective "Aww." This scene was so quintessentially London, my current city of refuge: modern, yet quaint.

My new life here always made me feel safe and cozy, just like a cup of tea. The day began with a quick dash out through the front doors to flag down a taxicab on the corner of St George's Drive and Victoria Street in London. The driver took the usual quick drive through the ftrst set of Buckingham Palace gates, down the mall, out through the second gates to Trafalgar Square, and on to my company's offices on Denmark Street at the west end. This wasn't the usual daily routine, but on days when I'm tired or almost late from the previous day's late appointments and meetings, this was the quickest and easiest way to work. The usual route would normally be a brisk walk to Pimlico or the Victoria London underground train station, a quick ride on the trains with the usual morning throng of commuters to Tottenham Court Road Station, and then a few minutes' walk to work.

I was the eldest of four children born to Nigerian parents, Elder Olu and Rev Mrs. Sola Olarewaju. London was my second home. I spent a large portion of my childhood and teenage years growing up in Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria. They were fun-ftlled days with the usual ups and downs of daily life. We were two girls, then quickly followed by two boys. My siblings were my favorite playmates. The years I spent growing up in Nigeria were hectic and busy. The family usually began and ended each day with daily devotions, but as a young child, I would on many occasions lay in bed, hoping in my lazy, childish mind that my parents would be too tired to conduct this daily ritual.

I wish they'd forget and fall asleep, so I could sleep longer, I would think, but, no, they never missed a day and had purchased a lovely little bell to tinkle us a reminder, calling us all to gather in our living room for devotions. One of our parents would start a hymn from one of our church hymnals, and the morning scripture would always be Psalm 23 while the evening's was Psalm 121. I grew to know them both by heart. The day's ch.o.r.es begin with feeding our four dogs (mine was named

Brownie because his coat was a mostly beautiful brown with a dab of white) and then getting dropped off at school. Our dad dropped off and picked us up from school daily before his work day started. Rain or shine, tired or not, he was never late—always on time. Before school was out, the fond memory of the comforting sight of my father's parked car waiting, having arrived early to pick us up from school, are all etched in my memory bank. He would quickly drop us off at home before continuing on with his work day. Now a parent myself, I honestly don't know how he managed that so faithfully. Always in our hearts, thanks Dad!

Homework and reading my favorite storybooks were the usual fare on weeknights. On the weekends, I eagerly waited for my dad to buy me the latest copies of the popular girl's comics and annuals imported from England. With much excitement, I would flip through the pages of the latest Jinty, Tammy, Bunty, and other favorites and soak in the newest escapades of my best-loved heroines. My dad was the one who gave me most of the annuals on special occasions like birthdays and Christmas, and oh what joy that would bring. They were packed with stories, and I wouldn't have to wait until the next edition for my happy endings. We were content enough to go along with our weekly routines.

Attending church on Sundays was also a routine. Though my parents were Anglicans by denomination, they sent their children to Sunday school at the nearby Baptist Church near Loyola College in Ibadan, where Reverend Lawoyin presided as pastor. Playing hopscotch with the next-door neighbor's children, giggling about silly stuff, worrying about my grades, and sneaking sips from the bottles of Fanta (an orange soda) that Mom kept for our guests were all part of the fun times. Being the oldest child and a female, my parents a.s.signed me the role of junior mom and leader of the pack. They instilled in me a very deep sense of responsibility for the care of the family whenever they were unavailable. Our African culture's very strong emphasis on respecting the oldest among us also greatly strengthened this pecking order.

Nursery and elementary school were at the Oritamefa Baptist Nursery and Primary school in Ibadan, Oyo State. Both our parents were educators by profession and were very strict disciplinarians. They both also had cultivated in me a great love for reading, and I always enjoyed a big head start in all my subjects before getting into the cla.s.sroom. Weekdays at the elementary school always began with lining up for the morning a.s.sembly. We would sing songs of praise to G.o.d from the small hymnal book by the same name. (I didn't notice at the time, but this must have been part of where my love for singing began, but more about that later.) Then we would listen to a few words of inspiration for our little hearts from our headmistress Mrs. Adeniyi, and then off we marched to all our various cla.s.srooms.
Find authorized novels in Webnovel，faster updates, better experience，Please click for visiting.

Singing from my songs of praise hymnal booklet and excelling at reading my Janet and John books were the greatest joys of my childish heart during this period. Happily, I completed elementary school, and after a rigorous admissions process that included tests and interviews, I gained admission into the then private and very prestigious Catholic all-girls high school, St Teresa's College, Ibadan, Oyo State. Learning came easily to me, with both my parents being there to help. My love for reading remained as we learned modern African literature, including the works of African authors like Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart and Camara Laye's The African Child, and we still covered cla.s.sic literature from Shakespeare and so forth. Having new favorite teachers, debate teams, yearly bazaars, the snack shop nicknamed the "Tuck Shop" where we rushed to buy snacks at lunchtime, and many other activities made my high school years fly by quickly and happily.

My fondest high-school memories include singing in music cla.s.s for Miss Penny, learning to speak and sing in French in Sister Eileen's French cla.s.s, being in Miss Bola's English cla.s.s, and listening to the gentle, rea.s.suring voice of our high school princ.i.p.al Sister Agnes Ha.s.san at morning a.s.sembly. She was unusually beautiful, and even her required nun's attire and no-makeup face was unable to diminish her loveliness. Elegant yet most simple and soft spoken, her authority was ftrm and unchallenged; she was one of my ftrst heroines. This graceful nun became the epitome of womanhood that I still aspire to be today. Alas I have a very long way to go!

The Nigerian social life consisted mostly of visits with and from my many aunties, uncles, and family friends for birthday, wedding, and other celebrations. My memories of Christmas time were the most special. Bringing home a real Christmas tree, our mother would take the time to create and decorate it with beautiful handmade ornaments. She also sewed all four of us brand-new outftts to celebrate this most wonderful time of the year. New Year's Eves at my maternal grandmother Victoria Badejoko's place would follow. During these yearly visits, the sounds of her heartfelt morning prayers as she offered to G.o.d her daily morning devotions left another indelible print on my young heart. My siblings, cousins, and other young relatives would all eagerly look forward to the evening watch night service on December 31 at our grandma's church, St Peter's Cathedral, in Ibadan to usher in the New Year. It was the only time we were allowed as children to go out so late at night. We all eagerly and excitedly looked forward to it. I can still hear the beautiful sound of the large piping cathedral organ ftlling the huge building and coming through the walls as we all sang:

1. O G.o.d, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come,

our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.

2. Under the shadow of thy throne, still may we dwell secure; su$cient is thine arm alone,

and our defense is sure.

3. Before the hills in order stood, or earth received her frame, from everlasting, thou art G.o.d, to endless years the same.

4. A thousand Ages, in thy sight, are like an evening gone;

short as the watch that ends the night, before the rising sun.

5. Time, like an ever rolling stream, bears all who breathe away;

they ßy forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day.

6. O G.o.d, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come;

be thou our guide while life shall last, and our eternal home.

(Words by Isaac Watts/Music by William Croft; Public domain)

This old wonderful hymn would conclude the service and open up the New Year. We would then go back home to joyfully begin the year!