"Grandmaaa, tell us a story!" That was the chorus every Friday night. My grandchildren - Amara, David, and little Sofia - curled up on the rug in our London flat, waiting for me to perform. Sometimes I told them fairy tales, sometimes Bible stories, sometimes foolish tales about tortoises and stubborn goats. But that night, I did something different.
I reached under the old wooden box beside my bed and pulled out a battered brown notebook. The leather cover was scratched, the edges torn, and the pages yellow with age.
"What's that, Grandma?" Amara's eyes widened.
"My diary," I said softly. "The story of who I was before I became your grandmother."
David laughed. "You had a diary? Like... with secrets?"
"Plenty," I said, smiling at the memory. "Secrets, gist, tears, dreams, even love. Everything is inside here."
They leaned closer as I placed the book on my lap. For a moment, my fingers trembled. It had been years since I opened those pages. The smell of ink and old paper carried me back to a world of dusty classrooms, noisy Lagos streets, and the reckless heart of a girl called... Veronica Chizoba Nwosu.
I cleared my throat.
"Let me start from the beginning," I said, flipping open the first page.
And just like that, the room around me faded, and I was no longer Grandma Veronica in London - I was a Nigerian girl once again.
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