NovaFlix

That Christmas morning felt perfect—breeze on my face, oversized clothes boosting my confidence—until my next step opened the ground beneath me and changed my life in seconds.

There was a dangerous period in Nigerian childhood when Christmas clothes could completely change somebody’s status in the compound overnight.

You may still be poor. But once your mother bought you one “Christmas outfit” with stubborn tailor perfume still inside it, respect would locate you—especially if the clothes were bright enough to blind people under sunlight.

My own problem was that my mother believed children should “grow inside clothes.” So instead of buying my size, she bought my future.

One particular Christmas, she brought out one yellow shirt and black trousers. The shirt was massive. If NEPA restored light suddenly, the shirt alone could catch breeze and fly me into another local government.

But did that stop my confidence? Never.

That morning, I wore the outfit and looked at myself in the mirror.

Finished.

In my head, I had already become one of those rich children that travel abroad and return with toy guns and strange biscuits.

Outside, the compound was already alive. Rice smell was floating from different directions like spiritual temptation. One house was frying chicken, another was killing goat, and music from three compounds was fighting for dominance at the same time. Children were running around with balloons, and some people were already wearing sunglasses for reasons nobody could explain.

Then something happened that quietly shifted my status.

One aunty from the next compound saw me and shouted:

“David! Ah-ah… you don big o!”

That was all.

Just one sentence.

But my confidence increased immediately.

I adjusted my oversized shirt and started walking slowly so people could properly observe me.

That dangerous walk children do when they suddenly feel handsome?

That was me.

Then I saw Sandra.

Let me tell you about Sandra.

Everybody liked Sandra. Not because she was loud or doing too much, but because her family travelled every December and always returned with mysterious snacks nobody else had ever seen before. Their family was rich enough to buy imported biscuits with foreign language written on the nylon.

Just being near her carried prestige.

So when she walked toward me that Christmas morning, one thought entered my mind:

Today is the day.

I adjusted my trousers that were already hanging like borrowed property.

Then I called out confidently:

“Sandra! Merry Christmas!”

She turned.

Smiled small.

And said:

“You are looking nice.”

Finished.

At that moment… something shifted inside me.

Not loud.

Just final.

I started walking like actor entering wedding scene in a Nollywood movie.

And that was when disaster opened the door.

Because I was too busy smiling like destiny had finally located me…

I didn’t notice the gutter ahead.

Not small gutter.

One of those deep black compound gutters that always looked innocent in the morning but could swallow confidence without warning.

My right leg entered first.

Too fast for regret.

The second leg followed by faith.

Then—

I was gone.

GBLOOOOM.

The sound echoed across the compound like a generator being dropped into water.

Silence.

Two seconds of pure silence.

Then chaos.

Children screamed with laughter. One boy fell and started kicking the ground. Someone shouted:

“Jesus Christ! Fine boy don die!”

I emerged slowly from the gutter like someone returning from a meeting he was never invited to.

Black water dripping from everywhere.

My yellow shirt had become brown evidence.

My trousers now smelled like broken destiny.

But the real humiliation had not even started.

One nylon floated beside me.

Inside it was human poo.

Fresh.

At that point—

Even laughter became louder.

Sandra stepped back immediately and covered her nose.

That was when I understood something important:

Some moments don’t need explanation. They just finish you publicly.

Then my mother came outside after hearing the noise.

She looked at me inside the gutter.

One second.

And said:

“I warned you to stop pressing imaginary phone while walking!”

No sympathy.

Just judgment.

Children followed me back singing:

“Fine boy inside gutter! Fine boy inside gutter!”

That was how my Christmas romance ended before it even began.

Till today, whenever life starts going too smoothly, I remember that gutter.

Because sometimes, all it takes is one compliment too many and one wrong step for destiny to reset somebody publicly

𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒚: 𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗮𝗙𝗹𝗶𝘅

There was a period in Nigerian childhood when parents believed every sickness could be solved with one thing:

Robb.

If your head aches? Robb.
Malaria? Robb.
Broken heart? They would still try Robb first.

One night, I made the mistake of telling my mother that my nose was blocked.

That woman looked at me with joy.

The kind of joy mechanics have when a car finally develops fault.

Before I could escape, she brought out the tiny white container.

Anybody that grew up in the early 2000s already knows that container carried the power of the Holy Spirit and suffering combined together.

I begged her:

“Mummy, it’s not too serious…”

But African mothers don’t stop treatment because the patient is speaking English.

She dipped two fingers inside the Robb like she was packing cement.

Then she attacked my nose.

Immediately, my eyes opened.

Not ordinary open.

I saw my ancestors.

My entire skull became cold.

It felt like somebody poured peppermint directly into my brain.

I jumped up shouting:

“Mummy! Mummy!! It’s too much!”

But she held my head firmly and said:

“Relax. It is working.”

Working?

My nose was no longer blocked because I had stopped breathing entirely.

Then the second disaster happened.

She covered my whole chest with Robb too.

At that point, my body temperature changed spiritually.

I started feeling hot and cold at the same time.

Like a possessed fridge.

That night, I slept like somebody under village attack.

Around 2am… I woke up suddenly.

Something was moving on my chest.

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

I touched my body slowly.

And froze.

Something hairy was there.

Moving.

My heart nearly stopped.

Immediately, one thought entered my head:

Witchcraft.

Because what else would explain a moving hairy creature on my chest at midnight?

I didn’t even check properly.

I screamed so loudly that our neighbor hit his zinc door thinking armed robbers had entered the compound.

Everybody woke up.

My mother rushed inside with wrapper flying behind her like a superhero cape.

“What happened?!”

I couldn’t speak properly.

I just pointed at my chest shaking violently.

Something was still moving there.

My mother quickly switched on the torchlight.

The room became silent.

Then she burst out laughing.

Not small laughter.

The kind that removes tears from eyes.

Apparently…

One stupid moth had entered through the window and got trapped in the thick Robb she rubbed on my chest.

The insect was fighting for its life inside menthol.

Meanwhile, I had already concluded that witches from my village had finally arrived.

The worst part?

News spread by morning.

African compounds don’t have privacy. They have broadcasting stations.

Before afternoon, everybody already knew.

As I passed, one old woman called me and asked:

“So the witch now turned to butterfly?”

Children started calling me:

“Robb boy.” “Butterfly hunter.” “Menthol commander.”

For one full week, I could not walk confidently in my own compound.

Till today, I still respect Robb.

Because that thing is not ointment.

It is a spiritual experience.

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