Moving To A New Environment
I often find myself thinking back to the days after we lost my mother. Everything after her passing feels like a blur—grief has a way of clouding memories, yet some moments remain sharp, like they happened just yesterday.
I remember the house in Ugboroke. That was where we all lived as a family, and it was full of warmth when she was alive. The way her voice echoed through the rooms, the scent of her cooking, her laughter—it made that house a home. But after she passed, it felt empty. Hollow. It was as if the life had been sucked out of the walls. We all knew we couldn't stay there for long.
It was Dad who brought up the idea of moving. He said we needed a fresh start, a new place where we could try to heal. So we packed our bags—some filled with clothes, others filled with memories—and left Ugboroke behind. We didn't just leave a house; we left behind a version of ourselves that no longer existed.
We moved to Ugborikoko, where we rented a small apartment. I can still picture it clearly. It wasn't much—just enough space for us to live together—but it was ours. It became the beginning of our new chapter.
But not everyone was happy about our decision to live with Dad. My mother's family, especially her mother—my grandmother, Mrs. Alice Fregene—and her sister, were strongly against it. They believed we should have come to live with them instead. Maybe they thought Dad couldn't take care of us the way a mother could. Maybe they thought we'd be safer under their roof. I don't blame them entirely. They were grieving too, and they wanted what they thought was best for us. But they didn't understand.
What they didn't realize was that we needed our father just as much as we needed each other. And we were not willing to be separated. We were stubborn about it, especially my younger sister Testimony. She was like a rock in those days—bold and fiercely loyal. She wouldn't allow anyone to speak ill of our dad, not even Grandma. If anyone dared say something negative about him, she would rise up like a storm. She made it clear that no matter what, we were staying with him.
It was her stubbornness that gave the rest of us courage. In the midst of our pain, she reminded us of something important—family stands together.
So we stayed. We settled into our new environment in Ugborikoko. Life wasn't perfect, but we were together. That was enough to start with.
I eventually began searching for work. We needed money, and I wanted to support my siblings in any way I could. That's when I found a teaching opportunity not far from our new home. The salary was small—hardly enough to meet all our needs—but I took the job anyway. It felt good to have something to do, something that gave me purpose.
I remember walking into that classroom on my first day, nervous and unsure. But the children's faces lit up when they saw me, and something shifted inside me. Teaching became more than just a job—it became a calling. Despite the challenges, I stayed. And slowly, life began to take shape again.
There were hard days. Days we didn't know what we'd eat. Days the electricity was out for hours. Days when the weight of grief hit us all over again. But there were also days we laughed. Days we sang. Days we remembered our mother not with tears, but with smiles.
Ugborikoko became our new home. The streets, the people, the little shops on the corner—it all became familiar. I found comfort in the small things: the way the wind rustled through the trees near our apartment, the laughter of my siblings, the smell of food being cooked in nearby homes.
Looking back now, I realize that move from Ugboroke to Ugborikoko wasn't just about changing our address—it was about survival. It was about healing, and growing, and finding light in the middle of darkness. That chapter of our lives taught us strength, unity, and above all, resilience.
Even now, when I walk down the streets of Ugborikoko, memories of those early days come rushing back. The fear. The uncertainty. The slow steps toward hope. And I smile, knowing how far we've come.