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That Saturday morning, I'd been excited for the day ahead. It was Christmas season and Mom was taking me shopping for Christmas clothes, a shoe, sunglasses, a watch and chicken. 

You see, Christmas was my favorite time of year. I got to have new things and flaunt them. Even with my dad gone, and mom filling the space of two parents, I never lacked anything. Infact, I always had more than I needed. 

Schools had gone on break and I remember how I'd gnashed my teeth at the blistering cold as I waited for the person in the bathroom to come out. We lived in a compound house with two-room apartments. It wasn't really much, the only cemented ground was the well. It was the other source of water we had when the Water Board would ration the distribution of water; like they did with power. 

Taking my bath was only a matter of minutes and I was flying like a bat to get to the warmth of my room. In no time, I was dressed in a black plitted skirt and a pink long-sleeved collared shirt. My hair was a low cut and I loved flats. 

The day was unusually dull and I honestly had no premonition or anything, I was only child. 

We always used motorcycles for transit because mom perceived it was safer given the state of the nation. The insurgency and disappearance of people who'd take public buses or taxes were alarming. 

We'd just gotten to the bridge of our small town when we heard shouts of incomprehensible words. A closer look, I saw fellow motorcycles on transit coming back at an alarming rate and shouting for us to turn back. 

Gunshots in the distance told the entire story. But the bikeman stubbornly forged ahead even with the obvious unrest of the street. My heart practically leaped out of my chest as my body froze from fear. I was sitted in the middle of the bikeman and my mom but I have never felt so exposed. 

Mom had to slap the bikeman with her strength to get him to stop as the gunshots rung closer. Mom held my hands tightly as she took me and ran in the opposite direction while trying to get any other mode of transportation. It was awful!

I felt fear like never before, my heart pounding and my mind racing. I don't remember what happened before that, but the next moment, I was sitting once again in the middle of a man and my mother on another motorcycle. 

Mom stopped us at the street junction so she could go warn her friend to close up shop. She advised me to go straight home and lock the door till she comes back. I adhered. 

From my street junction, I was running and shouting to my peers that Boko Haram was coming. They looked at me like I was crazy. It hurt. As a kid, it hurt. 

Then a woman said, "you this girl, stop with your lousy behavior. *You go just de shout up and down like agbero.*" 

**That's pidgin for "you shout all over the place like a hoodlum."**

I was hurt. So much that when I got home and sat on my bed, I vowed to myself that I'll be more soft spoken. I hated the way I felt when that woman spoke to me, I wanted to be someone else. Anything but lousy; talkative. 

I vowed to say less. To be more hidden. I made the decision to not talk unless I was asked to or had something reasonable to say and that stayed with me. Even till now, I'm a woman of few words. 
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