YOU HAD WATCHED THE EVENING NEWS with your parents and, during the interlude, had seen a child of about five or six years of age stand forlorn in the news studio with a placard hung over her neck and the word “missing” inscribed on it. The newscaster made a repeated announcement for the child’s family to come to the studio with proof and retrieve this girl whose sunken eyes were a testament to how long she had cried. Your parents went into a frenzy and talked about the menace of kidnapping and missing children. They ignored the rest of the news and intermittently glanced at you to confirm you were by their side. Confused, you asked your father for your home address because if the missing girl had known hers, she might have avoided the embarrassment of being paraded in such an ignominious way that was sure to haunt her. Your father stared at you, shocked. He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote “No”, the abbreviation for a number, and then right next to it, he wrote “17”, which was the number of your family house. Then he turned the paper upside down and asked you to read it. “Lion,” you spat out like a discovery you made, and then he asked, “Where does Lion live?” You responded, “Adebayo Street, Orile, Oshodi, Lagos,” which you read off the paper he held.” And he said, “Practise this every day.” He ruffled your hair and pulled at your nose playfully. “My princess would never get missing,” your father’s voice echoed in your ears as you experienced the weight of confusion the missing girl you saw some time ago had, and you scribbled down your address on the newscaster’s sheet; the placard with the word “missing” pierced at your chin.
