When I was little, everything felt fun and interesting. Life was colorful, beautiful, and unique. We grew up in a village where people were judged based on their social status, wealth, family background, and ancestry. I remember being easy to love — even when you beat us, punished us severely for our mistakes, or scolded us harshly. No matter what, we always apologized. We always crawled back to you, seeking your attention, your love, your time, and your acceptance. You were our hero; you were everything. However, as time passed, I began to see other people and their families. They lived lives far better than the one I had known. I kept failing, again and again. I fell into depression, blaming everyone around me. At some point, I became a person without any feelings at all. I had no choice but to wake up to a reality I had never truly seen before. I once thought I loved my father more than my mother, but now I realize that was only a reflection of my longing — a longing for someone who was no longer there. It made me forget the pain and disappointment that remained unresolved. I questioned myself over and over: Why did you do this? Why did you say that? I told myself I would never forgive you. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, resentment, and anger. I was ungrateful — too blind to see how lucky I was to have a mother like you. I carried so many broken pieces within me, and I had to find my true self beneath the mess I had gathered over the years. It was hard — so hard — to accept everything. I always dreamed of a life that was simple and beautiful, where happiness lasted forever. But reality was different. It's painful to live in an environment where you want to forgive but the same wounds reopen again and again. One day, I found a quiet place to sit and think. I realized: everything in this world is created through love. Love is the reason we are alive. Yet the most important question is not whether we love — but how we love, and in what way we express that love. That determines who we become. Every time you punished us, you used to say, "I know you will hate me one day for this, but I have to do it for your own sake. There is no other way I can raise you without you being hurt by your own envy, your own fears." I thought about that — deeply. Was every embarrassment, every pain, every harsh word truly the only way to prevent me from ruining my future? Was punishment the only tool? Must it always be pain? And then I realized — the greatest fear I have is that one day, my own children might hate me. But you, my mother, were willing to risk losing my love, to risk living with my resentment, all for the hope that I might one day survive and thrive. I was overwhelmed with tears. I remembered everything I had once forgotten: how I loved you, and how you loved me. How we spent time together. How you held me in your hands and kissed me. Until that moment, I had only remembered what I wanted to remember — the pain. I convinced myself that you hated me, and I refused to allow myself to love you again. But that day, I found the courage to gather myself and go to your home. Of course, we argued. Of course, I cried — and so did you. But I said to myself: I cannot change her. I may not be able to fully accept her as she is. But at the very least, I can learn how to love her — not by punishing, not by hating, not by scolding. And for the first time, I said to you, "I love you — no matter what happened in the past or what will happen in the future. You are a part of me, and I will always love and admire you." You cried and hugged me. From that day forward, yes, there are still struggles. But it has become easier to face difficulties, easier to love beyond boundaries. As long as we are alive, we grow, we learn, we change — and most importantly, we love.

Once upon a time, in the divine realms beyond human comprehension, there were two angels in service to the Almighty. As imagined in human dreams and visions, these celestial beings were adorned in radiant garments, their presence a harmony of grace, beauty, and unwavering devotion. They resided in a heaven free from sorrow, pain, or hardship—a paradise that mortals could only long for. Their sacred duties were assigned by the Almighty Himself, and they carried them out with perfect obedience. But one day, a question stirred in the heart of one of the angels. “Lord,” he said, his voice trembling with reverence, “You created humans and granted them a status even higher than ours. Yet they stumble, again and again, falling into sin and error. Still, You forgive them, granting time and grace instead of swift punishment. Why?” The Almighty looked upon His angel and replied gently, “If you were human, you would err just as they do.” The angel, in his pride, could not accept this. “No, my Lord,” he said. “I would never fail You as they do.” So the Almighty gave him a chance—not as punishment, but as revelation. The angel was sent to Earth, stripped of all memories of his heavenly origin. He was reborn among humans, granted the role of a wise and respected judge, known for his fairness and virtue. Years passed. One day, a woman—young, breathtaking, and burdened—came seeking his help. From the moment their eyes met, he felt something stir deep within him, something new: love. She told him she could not be with him unless he did one thing for her—something against his principles. “This is forbidden,” he said, disturbed. “How can you ask this of me?” She leaned in, her voice soft and persuasive. “Everyone in this town does it. No one is punished. Why are you so afraid? Isn't love about sacrifice? About choosing someone else over yourself? I know it's wrong, but I also know you. You're kind, powerful, intelligent… Any woman would want to be with you. But unless you do this for me, I cannot be.” Blinded by love, he surrendered. For her, he crossed the line he swore he never would. Together, they built a life—filled with laughter, wealth, children, and joy. For a time, it all seemed like bliss. But as the years passed, the happiness they once knew began to fade like mist in the morning sun. The joy became routine. The love, quiet. Something felt missing, though neither could say what. Eventually, the man—once angel—fell gravely ill. He lay in bed, his body frail, but his mind adrift in memories. He thought of the woman he loved, the children they raised, the life they built. He had tasted joy, sorrow, pride, and failure. And through it all, he was grateful. Then, one quiet evening, a light descended from above—soft, golden, and otherworldly. It hovered above his home, casting a gentle circle on the ceiling, like a whisper from a forgotten realm. Slowly, the light entered his forehead, awakening everything he had once been. His memories returned—the heavens, the promise, the pride. Tears welled in his eyes. “I could not walk the path,” he whispered. “Not as I thought I would. I did not understand… until now.” He looked up, not with regret, but with a quiet awe, as if something larger than words had settled in his soul. And for the first time, perhaps, he saw humanity—not as flawed creatures—but as something else entirely. But what that was... he could not say. And maybe, neither can we.

Stories are what make the world go around, whether you are a writer or a reader. In the fall of 2011, I had the privilege to travel to Morocco for a couple days. What really struck me about Morocco was the community there. One of my most memorable experiences was the historical Bahia Palace in Marrakesh. If one paused one could almost feel the stories seeping from the cool walls, despite the warm outside temperatures. I stood with my camera in hand for a moment just feeling the history. A snapshot of a snapshot, I was intrigued by the colorful tiles, the refreshing breeze, tickling the gardens, and the curious kittens peeking around the corner. Kittens were everywhere in Morocco. Street cats yes, but also community cats. From what I observed, they were not seen as pests, but rather members of the community. Not to be coddled or pampered within an inch of their life but rewarded with a small dish when they caught something. Staying out of the way unless tempting young tourists with delightful play. Like accent marks adorning letters the felines often marked cute snapshots waiting to happen. The unexpected details that form stories and new snapshots always await. One just has to find the kittens.

A few days ago, my cousin called me to express his frustration about losing his job with an international organization due to the policy shifts under the new U.S. administration. As we reminisced over the video call, I tried to reason with him and, in the process, educate him on the broader implications of donor funding and the need for self-reliance. I asked him pointed questions: Do you pay your taxes in dollars? Is the aid money your money? Did you vote in America? I reminded him that it's called aid money for a reason—it's not our money I drew parallels between the U.S. political system and Nigeria's, where each administration has its own agenda. I reminded him of how a sitting Nigerian president once changed the currency just weeks before an election, causing widespread disruption, yet Nigerians adapted. Similarly, the U.S. has the right to prioritize its interests, including reallocating aid funding. So I said to him let me burst your brain, There's an African country where a few months ago,the president awarded a road contract for $9.8bn to a construction company that has the president's son on the board The citizen of the country are currently on Twitter crying because Trump just withheld $500m worth of medical aid that they were expecting to receive in 2025, is that amazing because the same citizen cannot see the contradiction between paragraph 1 and 2. The conversation then shifted to the role of USAID and other donor agencies in Africa, particularly Nigeria and Plateau State. While USAID has undeniably created jobs and improved livelihoods in some sectors, its impact has been a double-edged sword. For instance, the insurgency in Nigeria's northeast has persisted, partly because the humanitarian aid industry has become a multibillion-dollar business. Beautifully written proposals often overshadow the real issues, and the narrative keeps changing without addressing the root causes of insecurity. I also highlighted the ethical dilemmas tied to donor funding. Despite these challenges, we cannot ignore the positive contributions of USAID. It has funded critical projects in health, education, and agriculture, creating opportunities for many Nigerians. However, the time has come for African countries, especially Nigeria and Plateau State, to focus on sustainability. The Way Forward: Building Self-Reliance and Accountability 1. Documenting Success Stories: Every state and NGO should document their field experiences, creating a repository of lessons learned and best practices. These documents can be translated into multiple languages and sold online, showcasing the impact of donor-funded projects. For example, Plateau State could create a digital museum highlighting its transformation from a region plagued by ethno-religious conflicts to a united community. This would not only preserve history but also attract tourists and investors, much like Rwanda has done. 2. Leveraging Cultural Heritage: Nigeria is rich in cultural heritage, yet this potential remains largely untapped. NGOs and local communities can collaborate to turn cultural assets into sustainable sources of income. For instance, traditional crafts, festivals, and historical sites can be marketed to the global community, creating jobs and fostering economic growth. 3. Strengthening Institutions: Accountability begins with strong institutions. Nigerians must learn to vote based on competence rather than ethnic or religious sentiments. Paying taxes and demanding transparency from leaders will strengthen governance and reduce dependence on foreign aid. After all, the countries providing aid achieved their development through proactive policies and strong institutions. 4. Corporate-NGO Partnerships: The NGO sector has created numerous opportunities that can be leveraged by the corporate world. By partnering with NGOs, businesses can fulfill their corporate social responsibilities while supporting sustainable development. For example, a tech company could collaborate with an NGO to digitize educational resources in rural areas, bridging the digital divide. 5. Embracing Technology and Data: The world revolves around data and technology. African countries must invest in these areas to compete globally. During his NGO journey, my cousin witnessed the beauty of Nigeria's cultural heritage. How can we use technology to preserve and monetize these assets? For instance, virtual tours of historical sites could generate revenue while promoting cultural understanding. Conclusion The ultimate goal of developed nations is to keep developing nations dependent on them. However, Africa, and Nigeria in particular, has the resources and potential to break this cycle. By focusing on sustainability, leveraging our cultural heritage, and strengthening our institutions, we can reduce our reliance on donor funding and chart a path toward self-reliance.

Every second, I miss my childhood. Those days were the purest and sweetest moments of my life. Especially, the moments spent with my father – they are the most precious treasures engraved in my memory. Every father loves his child, but my father gave me more love than I could ever ask for. Perhaps that is why I have never envied anyone else's parents. I was born in a small, remote place. My family was not wealthy, yet my parents never let me feel the burden of financial struggles. From kindergarten to university, they always invested in my education. They never had the chance to study at a university, but life itself had taught them many valuable lessons. Maybe that's why, despite all the hardships, they provided me with every opportunity to pursue my dreams. I still remember the "Best Girls" contest at my kindergarten. My mother took me to a beauty salon, dressed me in the most beautiful dress she could find, and made sure I had the best breakfast before sending me off. My father, as always, was my biggest supporter. That day, I did not win first place. But my father, not wanting to see me disappointed, asked the organizers to add an extra nomination so that I wouldn't feel left out. That's how I received the title of “The Most Graceful Girl”. At that time, it seemed like a small victory, but now I understand that the real treasure was not the award itself, but the love and support of my parents. My father didn't just give me love; he also taught me life lessons. There was a contest where I had to cook a dish. My father sat with me and patiently taught me how to make the perfect samsa (a traditional pastry). I thought he was preparing me for a competition, but in reality, he was preparing me for life. My mother, on the other hand, introduced me to the world of music. When she took me to my first piano class, she saw the excitement in my eyes. Years later, when my teacher selected me to represent our country in an international music competition, my mother's joy was boundless. As I boarded the plane to Baku for the contest, my parents proudly said, "Our daughter is flying on a plane for the first time! Our daughter is traveling to another country!". When I returned, they welcomed me at the airport with open arms, and at that moment, I realized: home is not a place, it's the warmth of the people who love you. Since childhood, I have been struggling with strabismus. In school, on the streets, even in extracurricular activities, my peers sometimes laughed at me. At first, I ignored it. But as time passed, it started to eat away at me. One day, I came home crying and asked my mother: "Why did you give birth to me?" I saw my mother's heart break in that instant. She had fought for me since the day I was born, staying up countless nights to take care of me, ensuring that I had a chance to live. We visited doctors, searched for treatments, but most of them simply said, "There is no cure." This struggle distanced me from myself. I isolated myself from society, avoided conversations, and started creating imaginary scenarios in my mind. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to understand myself. I wrote letters that would never be sent, poems that would never be read. I was losing myself. One day, after a long night of tears, I poured my heart out to my father. He hugged me tightly and said: "Suffering is a fate written in your veins. No matter how painful it seems, find joy within it. Let your unhealed wounds bloom with flowers. And always remember, we love you in every way, in every condition. No matter what happens, we will always be by your side. Never think otherwise." Something changed within me after hearing those words. Maybe not in a single day, but over time, I started seeing life differently. Now, I understand – the unconditional love of my parents is the greatest wealth one can ever have. They never expected me to win; they loved me simply because I existed. No matter how old I become, they still see the little girl in me and kiss my forehead with the same tenderness. And now, I know: this is true happiness. This is a miracle given only to the lucky ones. Dear girls, dear people with disabilities, dear souls who criticize themselves too much, You are loved. You are precious. There are people in this world who love you simply for being you. The hardships in our lives are not meant to break us, but to reveal our true strength. Never think you do not belong. Because you are amazing, unique, valuable, and deeply loved. With all my love, Just Bonu.

Be the gauze that wraps a hurt, Offer solace in times of sorrow. Let the needy your tears borrow, With empathy always others girt. Let the depressed with spirit spurt, Shoulder burdens on paths narrow. Sing for the voiceless as a sparrow, 'Gainst injustice, righteous energy exert. Fear not the consequences heavy, When the downtrodden you support. Faith shall counter malicious envy, Cause persecution to go athwart. Demons' threats are futile, empty, Your soul's mission never, ever abort!

The mother hen sat for many days over her eggs, warming them with her feathers. Soon, her little chicks would hatch and enter the world. She moved her head and clucked softly, "Cluck, cluck!" The big day at last arrived. One at a time, little chicks poked out of their shells. There were yellow chicks, brown chicks, and white chicks. The new chicks struggled to stand, but their little legs could not yet stand, and over and over, they tumbled over again and again. Yet, they chirped with joy, chatting with their mother, it seemed. There were older chicks that had poked out a little early, and they were hopping about, flapping little wings and pecking at the ground. Watching over her chicks, the mother hen saw that one of them was not at all like the others. This chick had lovely brown feathers, with black and white markings on its wings. But that wasn't all—it kept flapping its little wings, wanting to fly. Even when it lay down, it did not sleep; it lay with its feathers puffed out, staring at the sky, its little feet in the air. The mother hen worried about this one. "Why are you lying in that position? Chickens don't sleep in that position!" she inquired. "Oh, Mother, I enjoy seeing the sky. I can see the stars and I long to fly up and touch them," exclaimed the little chick, its eyes full of wonder. "But we are chickens! Chickens don't fly in the sky—we inhabit the ground. You must be happy with that." "But why have we wings, then?" questioned the little chick. "Wings help in many other ways," exclaimed the mother hen. "A lion has strong paws, and an elephant has a big trunk, and we have wings to protect ourselves. Now, sleep!" But no matter what she told him, the little chick continued dreaming about flying. He practiced daily, flapping his wings with all his might. Initially, he couldn't even lift himself off the ground at all. But one day, he could manage to climb onto the fence surrounding the backyard. After a couple of days, he could fly even higher. Every single day, he continued practicing, becoming a little better and a little better. One morning, when the mother hen saw him, she grew irritated. "Stop at once!" she exclaimed. "We're not eagles, chickens. In case you fly too high, you can fall and hurt yourself. Or worse, a hawk will pounce and grab you!" But the little chick disregarded her. He continued practicing. The old rooster noticed him and invited him over. "Come, I have a lesson to impart," exclaimed the rooster. "A long, long time ago, a chick such as yourself lived. He too desired to fly. In spite of all our warnings, he did not pay any heed. He even convinced other chicks to fly with him. One at a time, one at a time, they took off in the sky. But when they flew too high, the hawks spotted them. All of them became prey for the big birds." The little chick shuddered at the mere thought of it. "You are smart and kind," whispered the rooster softly. "But do you actually desire for this to occur again?" "No… never," whispered the chick softly. "Good," nodded the rooster. "So, then, be a good chicken. To become happy, we don't have to fly. Our family lived in such a manner, and we're fine." The other chickens, too, shared their opinions: Uncle: "A partridge can't become a nightingale. Live on the ground." Cousin: "If you fly, then you will only cause yourself trouble." Aunt: "Being simple and secure is best, my sweetie." Older sister: "Life won't change, whether you fly or not. Look out for yourself." The little chick desired to become a good son and obey his family, and therefore, he ceased attempting to fly. Years have gone by. He grew older, became a dad, and had chicks of his own. Perhaps, if he continued practicing, he could have flown and seen the whole world high in the sky. But now, that dream no longer existed. Even if he desired, he was too old to fly. Instead, he instructed his chicks in the same lesson that he'd discovered: "Chickens don't fly." After all, how can a chick desire to fly if it has never experienced the feeling of being above the clouds?

There was no snow that January. In fact, as I got increasingly tired of this god forsaken month that lasted a whole decade, it got warmer and warmer, to the point I would only wear a flimsy button up even outside. At least, that was my last high school winter. This is the only fact about that time I can still tell for sure. I was walking home from my school after an exam I had to take in my final year. I did quite badly… I was so afraid of facing disappointment that I got way too nervous. I've always looked up to my teacher ever since back then. She came off as intimidating because of her greatness. She helped build us up in a way no one had ever and had no mercy when we refused to listen. Though, I guess it was the right choice, she made sure to set a good example for us and make it so we'd at least try to climb up towards her level. We'd never reach it for sure but at least it made us better people than we were before, or so I think. And so, I'm not afraid of admitting that what I was truly afraid of was disappointing her, but I stumbled over my words and there went any confidence or coherence I was trying to showcase. Whenever she did seem to question my choice of answers it felt as if I was the one disappointed in myself – perhaps I was – and when she noticed how I'd said something well for once, I could only feel genuine joy. Last night I was talking to my friend about our high school days, that is how I remembered this, since I found it extremely odd. He said he doesn't remember our teacher, which, from the many little scenes made in our literature class back then, seems quite impossible. He was even one of her frequent victims so I was sure he'd remember their interesting interactions. I was thinking of going back to our school so I could get a talk with some of our past teachers and see how things have changed or if that classroom is still frozen in time, greatly impacted by our messy classmates, so I decided I'd drag him along and make him sit through awkward greetings and my rambling to the staff. He was baffled by my remaining admiration as he could not point out anything memorable about our old teachers. The only thing he talked about with passion was a physics graduate that he got in touch with, after the insistence of our teacher. He was confused about what path he'd choose and thought some inside information might help him out. It did, indeed. He said if it wasn't for the guy assuring him of the many benefits of the course, he wouldn't have picked it and might have been condemned to a life of mundanity. When he saw my confused face, clearly not recalling having been told any of this at the time, he went on with even more vigor. He had dark curly hair and looked like a mad scientist, he said, that he had that energy of the type of person to solve integrals in his free time. “Are you sure that whole conversation even happened, you did not dream any of it?”, I'd asked, it sounded exactly like what me and our other friends used to say he would turn out like, and it was weirdly accurate too. That did make him a bit angry and… All I can say is that I might be going all on my own to visit that old building sadly. Although, I could understand him perfectly, I think a part of me chose to study literature because I wanted to be more like the person that inspired me. I guess we all have that one person that made you who you are, sculpted you with their own capable hands into some recognizable shape. A person only for us to see. And maybe… Just maybe, I want to see her once again to be able to show all the work I've put into being more like her, that I too aspired to be someone who helps others achieve greater things, that I spread the spark she entrusted onto me and that I share those high standards and loathing of mediocrity with the generations that are to come, that need it the most. And now, as I rush to get out the house and on my merry way, thinking about the girl I once was, about the many things that she endured and the confusing roads she has ahead of her, I took a small post-it note and scribbled something quickly on it. After all, we need every reminder, god forbid it is ever forgotten. The only question remaining is: Are we the ones being made after that image? Or are we one and the same? It was hot that one January day, and as I got home from my exam, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed, feeling unnaturally cold from head to toe. All thoughts stopped as I see a small note taped to my desk, the one I usually use to study whenever I'm not wasting my time with irrelevant things. “I'm proud of you” was written on it, and as I read it, I couldn't help but wish to be able to keep this januine warmth I felt for the rest of my life. I felt as if I knew exactly who that message was from.

This is the second letter I'd be writing to you. The first time, you were just a concept. I wasn't married, I hadn't even thought of what pregnancy would be. I was just a confused post-grad with no job and even fewer prospects. This time, this time's different. This time I've thought about you for longer than the time it takes to write an article. I've imagined holding you, being a mother, your mother. Today, everything is in flux. I've gotten more needles prodded in me in one month than in my entire life, and I'm still no closer to figuring out what's wrong with me. On days like this when I'm about to lose hope, I remember what this is for. At least, I think that's what I'm supposed to tell myself. The truth is, I'm no quitter. That's all that keeps me going—my stubborn, STUBBORN head. I need to see this through. I need to tell myself that I tried. Would you be surprised to hear that I'm in over my head? I'm at a new job (an upgrade from jobless), and EVERYDAY seems to be a challenge, and not always the good kind. I tell myself that I can do it, that I didn't bullshit my way into a job that I'm not qualified for. I remind myself that I'm actually very good at a lot of things, and I just need to apply myself. The truth is, even though I'm scared, for the first time in a while, I feel sure about my career pathway. It still sucks, and I'm closer to the bottom of the ladder than the top, but at least I'm climbing the ladder. Dear future child, For the first time in my life, even through all this, I have hope. The waters seem murkier than the floods in Lekki, but I finally feel like an adult. I feel like someone with a whole life ahead of her, a life she can shape into something brilliant. People always said that after 25, you get a lot of clarity. Mine kicked in 2 years late, but it's finally here. I don't know how long this burst of good sense will last, so I'm using it as quickly as possible. I have plans now. I have bigger hopes and dreams than I've ever had. I think it's because of you. The more real you feel, the clearer my head is. Dear future child, I don't actually know when I'll get to meet you. In a year? More? I hope it's sooner rather than later. I have so much I want to teach you. I want to watch you grow, to hold your hand through when you need me, laugh and cry with you. But most of all, I want to experience you. Dear future child, The first time I wrote to you, I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going. I had more questions than answers. Now, I still have questions. They might even be bigger than others. But you're my light at the end of the tunnel. So come quickly, mama's waiting.

I groaned in frustration, “I hate packing!” “Where are you going anyway?” Lola questioned, fiddling with the little giraffe figurine I'd gotten in Africa last summer. “My parents booked us this amazing trip on a train travelling across Europe. I'm going to eat authentic French cuisine, see the Italian Riviera, the Swiss Alps…” “Packing isn't so hard. Why don't you just bring all your favorite things with you and leave everything else behind?” She asked. I heaved a sigh, “you make it sound so easy. But I can't make a decision to save my life! Should I bring my green sweater or my red sweater? My favorite romance or fantasy novel? My scarf from Spain or my shoes from Scotland?” “You know, I think you actually enjoy this. You pretend to hate it, but secretly it thrills you to study the relationship between you and all your material possessions- to debate over what you want to have with you when you experience the wonders of the world.” “Okay, okay- I get it. You want to major in psychology when you go to college,” I cut in. “Not everyone has their whole life figured out by the time they're a senior in high school. Some of us feel like we have no idea who we are or what we're doing.” Lola stared. I flushed, realizing how bitter and jealous my words had sounded. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's really cool that you're a psychology nerd.” She offered a wan smile, coming to sit next to me on the bed. “It's okay. I get it. It's scary to not know what you want to do. Want to talk about it?” I bit my lip, but something about Lola's comforting tone coaxed everything to come spilling out. “It's just that- this could be it. The last Delancy family vacation- for who knows how long. The future is so uncertain. University, community college, trade school, career…” trailing off, I buried my face in my hands. “I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to choose.” Lola sat very still beside me for a moment. Then she got up, went for something in my closet, and plopped back down next to me, placing something buttery soft across my neck. I sat up, my fingers brushing my Spanish scarf. I looked back up at Lola, a question in my eyes. “I think you should bring the scarf. It suits you.” “But- what if I don't have room for something else- something really important?” “Well, then you'll figure out what that thing is and leave the scarf behind. But you won't know how much that thing means to you until you try something you don't really want, now will you?” I took the scarf off and held it in my hands. Smiling, I turned to my best friend. “I think I get what you're saying.” … In the end, I decided to take the scarf with me. And while I wore it, I thought about what Lola had said. “But you won't know how much that thing means to you until you try something you don't really want, now will you?” So even if I hadn't loved wearing the scarf, It would only have led me to realize that the Scottish shoes or the playing cards or the sunhat that I didn't have room for were what I really wanted. Either way, making the wrong decision would only have brought me closer to finding out what the right decision really was. All too soon- it was the day after the train had made its last stop, and we were about to catch our flight back to America. When I saw a basket of flyers stacked in their neat, colorful piles on a table, something made me pause to study them. “Whatcha looking at, Blythe?” my dad asked, lugging both his own suitcase, and our suitcase of necessities behind him. “It's a flyer for a foreign exchange student program in Europe.” I said absently, gazing down at the advertisement. Something was stirring inside me, like the train that I'd been riding for the last week was now rumbling through my body instead of through the wonders of France and Italy. “That sounds interesting,” Mom commented, coming up behind us. “You should hang onto that. I remember when I did a foreign exchange program when I was in highschool. I studied abroad in Korea and loved every second of it. It's what got me so into travelling in the first place.” “Look! Is that another chocolate shop down there?” Dad interrupted, “What do you girls say we make one last stop? We have about an hour before our flight!” Mom was laughing as Dad dragged her across the airport. I stopped to tuck a flyer into my suitcase before hurrying after them, feeling light on my feet. I'd spent my whole life travelling the world with my free spirited parents. Maybe it was time I started travelling inside myself, too. Suddenly, the vast array of choices laid out for my future seemed exciting instead of intimidating. In that moment, I knew I had options, and a lifetime ahead of me to explore them.

The northern lights skillfully danced across the night sky but Shifer took no notice. He scurried along the dimly lit street sticking to the shadowy fringes as much as he could. One couldn't be too cautious, especially with a reputation like his. Pausing for a moment, nose poised high in the air, he waited for a scent to guide him. There it was. He darted down an unusual alley, hunting for his evening meal. He had a feeling something special was on the menu tonight. The scent grew stronger. Fresh meat? A cunning smile spread across teeth as grimy as the pavement he stalked upon. It wasn't long before his dirty paws carried him right to the source of the smell, outside an old wooden door. A large basket sat on the pavement, unattended. How kind! He smirked and jumped up. As quickly as he landed, he reeled back in shock. Was that what he thought it was? He gingerly peeked over the edge of the basket. Brown smiling eyes looked back at him as two chubby little feet kicked around. A baby! Why was it alone? Didn't the parents know what could happen? He shuddered at the thought. He might steal from other rats but he wasn't an animal! Spying a note on the side of the basket he crept closer while keeping a wary eye on the baby. His English wasn't well-polished but he could decipher a few words. ‘Can't look after… please take my baby…' Abandoned? He thought of his own past of being the runt of the litter. His family had left him for dead one cold February night when he was just a wee rat and he had been fending for himself ever since. As difficult and lonely as it had been, at least he was able to care for himself. He knew this little one wouldn't have the same fate without help. No, he must do something. But what? He pondered aloud what to do, his squeaking making the baby giggle with delight. All of a sudden the hairs on his neck began to prickle and stand up on edge. He paused, eyes darting around him as he listened. No, it didn't seem anyone was there. He looked down to the child again as she smiled up at him. Shifer did his best to smile back. Most said his smile could make milk curdle, but this little one didn't mind it at all. His heart just began to melt when his beady eyes detected movement to his left. Four figures slunk up the pavement silently like the descending of darkness. ‘Holding out on us again I see, Shifer,' sneered the huge black ringleader as they surrounded the basket. ‘You obviously didn't learn your lesson last time. I told you what would happen if you crossed us again.' ‘This isn't ours to have. Leave the poor thing alone, Vladelets.' ‘I don't think so. Now get out of here before we eat you first, traitor,' hissed Vladelets, his anger boiling over. Time was running out. Shifer desperately looked up at the oak door, willing someone to come out. Nothing. Seeing no way out an unfamiliar courage rose within him. He let out a blood-curdling squeal. Vladelets greedy eyes widened with surprise. His head cocked on one side and he glared at Shifer. What was he playing at? Neither of them noticed the child's eyes widening or her sudden quick shallow breaths. Like the firing gun the babies scream pierced the silent night. The ringleaders eyes flashed red with rage and he lunged toward the offending rat. Running for his life, Shifer had a fleeting moment of hope. He might just make it out of here alive. Searing pain rippled through his haunches as four sets of teeth sunk into him. ‘What on earth...' muttered a startled voice, as the door flew open. ‘Dmitri, come see!' The gang of rats leapt off Shifer and fled at the sight of the human, leaving him alone in the shadows. The woman bent down and tenderly lifted the child from the basket just as a man appeared beside her in the doorway. ‘Yulia, it was just this morning we prayed…' The man's voice was thick with emotion as they stared at the child in amazement. Shifer strained to stay awake, watching the scene play out before him under the backdrop of the shifting purple and green aurora. The man and woman hovering over the child, stroking her softly until her cries stopped. The baby sniffling quietly, snuggling into the woman's arms. The feeling of love and hope for the future settling over them all like a blanket. It made Shifer feel warm and safe. As he slipped away from consciousness a slight smile spread across his lips. He was no longer a coward nor traitor. He had given his life to save another. The last thing he saw was those big brown eyes looking down at him. Thanking him.

Childhood is a mosaic of moments—some vivid, some faded—woven together by laughter, dreams, and the boundless wonder of a world unexplored. In the small and quiet town of Bukhara where cobblestone streets met vast fields of wildflowers, my childhood unfolded like a storybook filled with adventures, friendships, and lessons that would shape my life forever. Hot summer days in bukhara were as a golden. My friends and I were wake up at dawn, eager to embark on our daily quests. The neighborhood became our kingdom, and we were knights, explorers, and superheroes all at once. We built forts from old wooden planks, raced down hills on makeshift carts. We jumped on the bed, feeling like a bird flapping its wings. One summer, we discovered an abandoned treehouse at the edge of the forest. It became our secret sanctuary—a place where stories were shared, secrets were whispered, and dreams took flight. With each passing day, the treehouse bore witness to our growing friendships and the silent promise that childhood would never end. The days were filled with laughter, adventure, and the kind of innocence that only youth can bring. I spent my mornings chasing butterflies in my grandmother's garden, where the scent of jasmine, and rose filled around the neighborhood. The afternoons I was dedicated to climbing trees, pretending as an explorer in an uncharted world. My friends and I were race our bicycles through winding alleys, competing to see who was the fastest, our giggles echoing against the walls of old houses.Despite the simple life, every moment felt magical. My parents worked hard to provide for us, yet they always had time for bedtime stories and homemade meals that filled our home with warmth. The Fall rains were our favorite season—we would dance in the downpour, splashing through puddles, never once worrying about getting drenched. One of my fondest memories was the annual kite festival. I was spend my days designing my kite, carefully choosing colours which reflected my dreams. On the big day, the sky were be a canvas of vibrant shapes, and I was watch my kite flitter feeling as if my hopes and aspirations were rising with it. As the years passed, childhood faded into cherished memories, but those golden days shaped the person I became. They taught me resilience, joy in simple things, and the value of love and family. Even now, whenever I see a kite soaring high, I am reminded of the carefree days of my youth, when the world felt boundless and full of wonder. Life wasn't always about adventure; my childhood remained in my memory like the lessons of innocence.My grandmother, with her kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, was my greatest teacher. She taught me the art of patience as we baked cookies together, the importance of honesty through her bedtime stories, and the value of kindness in the way she cared for stray animals. One autumn evening, I found a wounded bird near our house. I cradled it in my hands, unsure of what to do. My grandmother helped me nurse it back to health, and when it finally spread its wings and took flight, I learned that love often meant letting go. Childhood, though beautiful, is not without its shadows. The day my best friend Milly moved away was the first time I truly understood what loss felt like. We had spent our childhood years side by side, sharing everything—from comic books to whispered dreams about the future. when my friend left, part of my childhood left with him, our dreams were disappeared. But loss, as I later realized, was not just about saying goodbye—it was about carrying the memories forward. Milly's absence taught me that friendships might evolve, but the impact they leave remains indelible. As the years passed, the magic of childhood slowly gave way to the responsibilities of growing up. The treehouse stood empty, our bicycles gathered dust, and our games of make-believe were replaced by schoolwork and future aspirations. Yet, the essence of those years remained within me—a guiding light through the complexities of adulthood. Even now, when I walk through the streets of Bukhara, I can hear the echoes of our laughter, the whispers of old dreams carried by the wind. Childhood may be fleeting, but its lessons, its joys, and its heartbreaks remain etched in our hearts forever. childhood wasn't just about growing up—it was about learning how to dream. Because childhood wasn't just a phase—it was the foundation of who we were meant to become.

It's early December, and Christmas Eve decorations brighten every corner, pushing away despair and lifting heavy hearts. But there's one person whose mind is focused elsewhere. He lost his closest friend, and happiness has eluded him since. He visits the cemetery daily, haunted by the promise his friend made: "I'll come back at sunset." The sunset that once brightened his face now brings tears down his cheeks. His friend's luminous expression lingers in his mind, still smiling warmly. His face pales as he looks at the other graves, each adorned with flowers like crowns. Only one grave stays bare—the grave of his departed friend, who had only him to rely on. Seeing all the flowers, he remembers that he never gave a gift to his mate. A sob escapes his lips. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as the thought gnaws at him—Why? Why couldn't I show my gratitude while he was still alive? The thought circles his mind before he screams it aloud. He isn't alone in the cemetery. An old sits nearby, he hears man cry and says: "Losing a loved one is hard, isn't it? I had the same question. Why can't we show how much we love each other? There's an imbalance. All these flowers are for the dead. When was the last time you gave a flower to someone? Never? I thought so. It shows that regret is stronger than gratitude, just as pain outlasts happiness. That's why it's easier to be bad than to be good. Do you know what's harder? Staying good with all these disappointments." The young man wonders what memories haunt him. What has he been through to speak with such sorrow? The words sink deep, echoing the pain of his own state. Leaving the cemetery, the weight of his grief drags behind him. The world outside moves on—laughter, decorations, twinkling lights—but he feels like a ghost. He had forgotten about the holiday. Seeing people pass by with happy expressions, he feels like his place is elsewhere. The young man continues through the busy streets until a caroler girl notices his mood. "Hey, mister, what's wrong? You look sad; cheer up! These are happy days to be alive!” she says. He stops, drawn from his thoughts by her warm smile. It reminds him of his friend's smile. He looks up but doesn't respond. Everything around him slows—the sounds of the street, the jingling of bells—fading into a distant hum. He hesitates, but she waits. Finally, he speaks: "My friend," his voice low, "he passed away today…” He pauses, tears in his eyes, “it feels like the world just stopped, like everything I knew, suddenly gone." The caroler girl looks at him with understanding in her eyes. She sympathizes and speaks: "I understand. My mother passed away years ago. We were very close. When she passed, a hole formed in my chest. But thanks to my brother, I pulled through. Mister, they're never truly gone—not as long as we remember them!" He listens, her warmth sparking hope. He looks at her before speaking softly: “I'm sorry for your loss. It must be hard. And thank you for mentioning her name—it eases my pain." He suddenly remembers his friend's secret: lilies. Why didn't that come to mind sooner? No, this isn't the time for regret, not again. He turns to her, his voice steadier now: "I think I know what to do. Do you know where I can find lilies?” The girl, amused by his change in demeanor, responds, “Lily flowers? There's a shop about 100 meters from here." The guy takes in this information before going off in the direction of the shop. The girl just stands there for a moment, not knowing what to make of this, but it feels like everything is for the good, and that is all she has to know! As the guy approaches the shop, he senses the atmosphere change around him, various flowers lounging around, facing the warm rays of sunlight. There they are, lily flowers, standing like delicate sentinels in the corner of the flower shop… He goes back to the cemetery after buying the flowers and finally places them on the grave. ”All kinds of things can happen in life. Losses are common for everyone, but we must move on. Because if we stop, we will be disrespecting our friend's memories. Their life deserves to be honored by carrying forward what they taught us and the love they gave." His friend once said these words. He'd forgotten them, but now, the caroler girl's warmth has reminded him. Her smile and enthusiasm awakened the will his friend left him. He looks at the name carved in stone and wonders: “How disappointed would he be if he saw me like this?” Looking up, his gaze falls on the sunset, and for the first time, it no longer feels like a cruel reminder. It feels like a promise. His desperation to bring his friend back had only kept the soul in unresolved sorrow. But the young man's realization freed the soul, allowing it to pass peacefully into the pure lands. As the lilies sway in the breeze, sunlight breaks through the clouds, casting a warm glow over the grave.

As a terminally-ill Cancer patient Lisa, lying on the bed of the hospital slips into coma after having fought like a true warrior for the past few years, her adoptive mother Debby watches her daughter embracing oblivion. Not sure about when Lisa would open her eyes again and utter the word, “Mom!”, or whether she would ever be able to open her eyes again in the first place. But Debby knows that Lisa is a very sensitive girl and even though she can't move her limbs at the moment, she can hear and feel everything happening around her. With tears streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably, Debby struggles to take out a piece of paper from her bag and unfolds it. A broken voice and a stuffy nose make it even worse for her to read what is written on it. However she prepares to read out something from the paper. Finally, Debby musters courage and holds an unconscious Lisa's frail and pale fingers sticking out from her palm that has a needle perforating the skin of it. Debby reads out aloud: - Empty was the womb that had once dreamt of a child. My body had gone numb and thoughts were haywire and wild. Despair had taken over. Days appeared gloomy. Grimace of pain had become my lover. Eyelids remained droopy. However, on a fortunate evening when mother had accompanied me for a walk. Sitting in a wheelchair and hardly moving, I looked at kids around me in shock. For all I was seeing in my nightmares, was a woman howling and a crib set ablaze. That tiny beings existed seemed incredible to me. For my dead child I grieved. Darkness was all I could see. Only if any of them called me “Mother!”, would again stem a reason to live for one another. It struck me however that not every child around was with their birth mother. Maybe death had separated them from each other. To hear the word “Mom” the womb need not be full. My hand stopped being numb and heart was becoming full. Then one day you entered my life. I had no words to say. You simply became my sunshine. We played together and laughed aloud. It was going to be forever. “My princess is home!”, I would always shout. On day one of school, your hair I braided. I told you that crying wasn't cool. So confidently towards it you headed. Time flew in what seemed like a few moments. You always gave your best shot and I gave you presents. Peace and love prevailed for long until illness put you in a cage. Now you hum a sad song and are seemingly stuck on the same page. I simply want my Lisa to know that she was born a warrior. Courage is what she'll show. To her an illness is inferior. Intertwined are our destinies. You can't leave so soon. For we are angels in disguise. We'll travel to the Moon. Stardust I'll sprinkle on you and nectar you'll drink. A beautiful life, together we'll sew. Sorrow will gradually shrink. Wake up my daughter! Your mother awaits your return. I yearn to hear your laughter. There's so much left to learn. The poem came to and end and Debby broke down again, crying inconsolably. Her tears not only rolled down her face but fell on Lisa's arm too. Debby's muffled cries suddenly stopped when a sound ‘Beep! Beep! Beeeep!' made a characteristic noise. The doctor came running inside and Debby stood up from the chair in shock. It was a miracle indeed. Lisa's heart had started beating again. She opened her eyes slowly and saw her mother shedding tears of joy. She uttered feebly ,”Mom!”

Aboard the ferry were a monk, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman's wife. The ferryman's wife laid down a wooden plank as the two smugglers struggled to push their motorbike aboard. The tall smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion: "Careful!" He wasn't talking about the bike but the cloth bundle in his friend's arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase. As they strained, the plaid-shirted smuggler called for help. The teacher hesitated, but the young man from the couple stepped forward, lifting the fallen bike. Inside, a refined mother and her nine-year-old son sat quietly. When the smugglers positioned the bike, it grazed her leg. She frowned. The tall smuggler apologized, reaching to brush off the dirt. She swatted his hand away. Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma: "When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.' The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.' Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.' And with that, Huike was enlightened." The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle, sat near the monk—the safest place. The teacher scowled: "You, sir! Why squeeze in here?" The smuggler muttered: "Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined." The young man sat close to his girlfriend, his fingers grazing her belly beneath the coat. She stiffened slightly but didn't move. The boat drifted away. The sky darkened. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains. Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore: "Ferry!" The tall smuggler waved dismissively: "Ignore them." But the ferryman's wife hesitated. A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk. The monk flinched: "Amitabha Buddha!" The teacher muttered: "Looks like a bandit." He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman's wife: "The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk." She responded vaguely: "What storm brings crows from the mountain?" The bandit laughed: "A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride." The boat fell silent. The little boy, watching the water, suddenly declared: "I see spirit fish!" The plaid-shirted smuggler smirked: "Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or just carp?" The mother stiffened, pulling her son close. Just then, the boy reached into the smuggler's bundle and slipped his hand into the vase. His mother gasped: "Take your hand out, now!" The boy tried—but his wrist was stuck. Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase: "Damn brat! Always causing trouble!" The mother sobbed: "What do we do?!" The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew. Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child. The mother shrieked: "I don't have money!" Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy's throat. A crimson drop formed. The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers: "Take it. Now let the boy go." At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase. The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore. The teacher murmured: "That man... a hero! A revolutionary!" The ferryman's wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger. The boat emptied. Only the monk remained. The ferryman's wife hesitated: "Master... it's time to disembark." The monk shook his head: "I've changed my mind. Take me back." She sighed: "I don't ferry people back across." The monk chuckled: "That's alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass." The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra: "Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…"