Nwanne kee the way? O te go!  I still remember running after you in excitement,  the night we went to visit your  the old lady who had given you more than enough money needed to pay the fare to Lagos. We had just eaten her delicious ofe akwukwo made with vegetables and tiny snails,  a fresh red oil poured generously on top of it to accentuate its taste. We promised we won't forget that soup.

When she handed you the naira notes and advised you never got forget where you come from, I felt sombre. I remember I looked at your face bowed to the ground and imagined you feeling the same way, a young man on his way to Lagos with the weight of expectations heavy on his shoulders.  I must have been wrong, because immediately we left her house you ran toward home in excitement, under the yellow bulbs that lighted the streets to our house.  It didn't feel like you're worried about tomorrow at all, and I was happy to be there with you the night before you go on to chase your dreams. 

It's been many years since you left and many years without a word from you. The words we here about you never comes from you. A man from Ghana said he's seen you in the streets of Accra, hawking corns for a meal called kenkey. It's all too absurd, how the same weight I thought you never worried of is the same thing that has kept you down trodden, hidden in a situation far worse than the place you come from.

The old lady is dead. But how would you know? She died in her sleep, and the night before her death I dreamt of her coming to me, pleading on your behalf that i should never blew out the life of your candle, she said I must let you burn, even others has given up and blew out your light like they would a person who is gone