The Dream That Was Never a Lie

He was born in Benin City, Edo State, in the thick of Nigeria’s red earth and the rhythm of cockcrow mornings, he enjoyed spending time with his grand parents. His name was Osaro, and until his early twenties, he'd never stepped foot outside Edo State.

His world was simple. His family farmed yam, cassava, corn, and plantains. They lived modestly, and from the time Osaro was tall enough to lift a hoe, he was expected to work the land. Life was hard, but there was joy in the small things like fresh rain, fresh food, roasted corn, and his grand father’s voice when he hummed his spiritural songs when they work in the farm.

One dry season afternoon, when Osaro was just 11 years old, he had a dream so vivid, so beautiful, that he carried it with him like a secret jewel. In that dream, he found himself walking through streets he had never seen, among white-skinned people who smiled at him. The air was cool. The buildings stood tall and clean. Everything felt peaceful, and the colours of the world were clearer like the sky had been scrubbed of all its dust. He remembered snowflakes falling and people speaking in languages he didn’t know, but somehow, he felt at home.

The next morning, he followed his mother and sisters to the farm to harvest cassava. The sun was already hot by mid-morning, and their hands were thick with soil. With the excitement only an innocent child could muster, he told her everything about the dream.

“Mama, I saw people with white skin in my dream! I was walking with them. Everything was clean, and cold, and sweet. It was like heaven...”

But instead of the warm smile or curious questions he hoped for, his mother’s expression turned hard. She stopped what she was doing, cut a branch from a cassava stem nearby, and whipped him with it.

“You're lying!” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “How can you dream of a place you’ve never been to? Stop lying! Only liars talk like this!”

Osaro cried not just from the sting of the whip but from the deeper pain of not being believed.

Years passed. That dream never left him. Even when he tried to forget it, it came back in quiet moments. He didn’t understand it then, but something inside him knew the dream meant something. It was a calling.

Through a winding path of struggle, long nights of odd jobs, visa applications, rejections, sacrifices, and moments when it felt like all was lost. Osaro eventually made his way to Europe. It wasn’t instant success. There were cold nights, racism, hunger, and crushing homesickness. But with time, he found work. He found peace. He found his footing.

One cold winter morning, years later, Osaro was in his car, driving his Taxi. He took a familiar street, one he had driven a hundred times. But this day was different. Something shifted. He slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road. And then it hit him.

The buildings. The snow. The faces. The air. The silence.

It was the place. It was the dream. Not a dream anymore, but reality.

He sat frozen behind the wheel. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks—tears he couldn’t stop. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't imagining it. He was living it.

And in that moment, he whispered to himself, almost like he was speaking to the little boy still hiding inside him:

“I was never lying, Mama. The dream was true.”