It was a cloudy and windy night. The winds were swinging our wooden chapel windows like recalcitrant children determined to drive their parents mad with their foolishness.

Even the presiding Bishop was in a hurry for the church service to close, he that never hesitated to tell people to not be in a hurry to leave the presence of the Lord.

As we stormed out of the chapel and raced home, I never knew mother was better at sports than I. For she outran me and I panted in hopes of catching up.

Never saw her jogging or warming up with some workouts at home. How perilous times can bake athleticism out of ordinary mothers!

She seemed to be saying something as she hurried on, but the passing winds clasped it in their hands and scattered it beyond my ears. I tried asking her what she said but I couldn’t hear my own voice. I gave up.

Soon, we were home. By this time, the rains had started. We had barely escaped it. We were slightly wet from the trickles, but we were not in any serious trouble. We were home now. One of the rooms were lit with a lantern.

There are many rooms in my father’s house. Uncompleted ones. We used to sleep in one room, parents and kids. Then dad completed the next room, and we the kids moved in there.

Now a third was being completed. That was the room dad was in that evening, with his lantern when we arrived from service. All the rooms in the house were dark, except the room dad sat in.

Mother was about knocking when she realized it was open. She entered. I followed.

Dad was seated by a table, lots of papers scattered at the feet of the lantern that stood on the table.

A national population census exercise was ongoing and dad was one of the enumerators. In the evening, there were some calculations and reports to write.

We didn’t know what the symbols and numbers in the papers meant. We were just happy staring at them, amazed that father could make sense of the prints on the papers.

To kill time, mom decided to share some stories. Something to fill the void and silence of the night. It was only silent in the room, but outside, a heavy rain descended upon our little village.

Drops of water dripped through some leakages in our roof, a testament of how reliable Mr. Kwame the village carpenter was.

“Once upon a time… ” mother began.

” Time time ! “ I responded excitedly.

Back then story time was very interesting to us kids. There were no tvs, no light except lanterns, and good stories were mostly told by experienced storytellers or merchants who roamed far to buy their goods and brought along happenings and strange stories from distant lands.

“There lived an old woman far away in the forest.” mother continued, “One day two siblings lost in the forest while roaming for wild fruits chanced upon her. The kids had strayed far from home and couldn’t retrace their steps. By this time they were very hungry…

The old woman listened to the misfortune of the two little children after which she decided to give them something to eat first before showing them the way home.

‘Go into my hut and take a tuber of yam.’ she told the children. ‘When you finish peeling the yam, cook the peels and throw away what remains after peeling.’ she instructed.

It didn’t make sense to the children.

‘This old lady must be mad.’ the first child told the second.

“Yes, what she says makes no sense. Perhaps it’s old age that’s making her speak nonsense.” the second told emphasized.

After peeling the yam, they did the opposite of what they were told. They threw away the peels and cooked the yam itself. When the food was ready, the yam turned to stones… “

As mother told the story, I listened with a lot of interest. What was going to happen next? I wondered. Why would the old woman ask that yam peels be boiled and the yam itself be thrown away? And how would the kids find their way home if they’ve been disobedient to the only person who could guide them back home?

At first I used to think the stories I heard in my childhood were of no use, aside the moral usual lessons they thought. But thinking deeply about them later on, I realized many of them were rich source of information that wasn’t visible on the surface. Like this story of yam and an old lady in a forest.

Yam peels actually contain medicinal properties which only enrich the yam when sliced, washed and boiled together with the yam without peeling.

Perhaps that was the message the old lady was sending across. Moreover, sometimes making a fortune requires doing something very odd from the norm.

The story mother told was both interesting and frightening. And when it ended, I prayed I wouldn’t see the scary scenes in my dream as I stepped out to pee before sleeping.

I had to hurry my peeing for fear that the old lady far away in the mountains surrounding our village wouldn’t reach out  her long hands to caress my cheeks with her cold fingers. I didn’t want to end up like the two boys in the story I just heard. I was going to do as my parents instructed: pee and go to bed.