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I learned the true power of money way too early in life... and it all started with 50 kobo.
As a baby, I took forever to start talking. But I wasn't dumb—I just communicated like a tiny mime artist. Sign language, dramatic gestures, pointing like I was directing traffic. My parents quickly realized, "Okay, this one isn't a dunce; he's just saving his vocals for when it really matters."
To every other kid in the neighborhood, I was a mischievous child, the walking CCTV with no off button. I saw everything and reported everything—silently. If someone sneezed three houses away, I'd point and mime the whole drama. Neighbors didn't even know my real name; they just called me "Omo Boy" like it was my government name. Meanwhile, my siblings and the younger ones treated me like I had the plague. "Snitch alert!Run!" They'd scatter whenever I appeared, like I was about to drop evidence in court.
To the elders and my sweet mom? Angel. Pure sugar. But to my siblings? Public enemy number one. Whenever the adults left for work or market or wherever grown-ups disappear to, I'd be left alone. Loneliness hit faster than Lagos traffic. I'd start wailing like a broken siren until Mom either took me along... or pulled out the ultimate bribe: one shiny 50 kobo coin.
The second her wrapper disappeared around the gate? Boom! My "enemies" (aka siblings and former friends) would swarm like bees on pure honey."Omo Boy, je ka ra shortcake!"
"No o, ekanna gowon ni ka ra!" (Gowon's fingernails—those sticky sugar bombs that glued your teeth together for days.)
"Je ka lo ra coaster!"
"Rara, balewa abi coconut ni!"
"Ehen, pako biscuit! Ko le pe dada—e go last!" I'd stand there, confused, holding that 50 kobo like it was the Nigerian budget, trying to please everybody.
We marched to Iya Iyabo oni worobo (the legendary mama-put of snacks), and we'd buy everything the coin could stretch to cover.First time? I was Mr. Generous. Shared everything equally. The moment the last crumb vanished? Poof! They all vanished back into their shells like I'd just committed treason. I sat there alone, staring at the empty wrappers, checking the sun every two minutes like, "Mom, abeg come back o! These people don use me finish!"Lesson learned the hard way: Never share upfront.
From that day forward, new rules applied. Either you wait patiently until I'm ready to share... or you leave me alone and suffer in silence. I'd hold the shortcake like a national treasure, nibbling one tiny corner at a time, while they hovered like desperate vultures. "Omo Boy, abeg now... just small..." Nope. We eat together, we finish together, we starve together. That was the deal,it worked like magic. Suddenly I had "friends" again—loyal ones who followed my snacking schedule like it was school timetable. But on days when Mom had no change? Oh boy. I'd cry like the world was ending. Loud, dramatic, award-winning tears.
Mom would spank small, thinking I was just being naughty. She didn't understand: I wasn't crying for attention—I was crying because I knew what was coming. A long, lonely afternoon with no allies, no shortcake, no coaster, no nothing. Just me, my silent snitching powers, and the bitter taste of zero kobo.
That little 50 kobo taught me everything I needed to know about loyalty, negotiation, and the brutal economics of childhood friendship.
Money moves people. Even tiny money.Even silent money.
#Talesofalagosboy
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