As a child growing up in the late 70s and early 80s, life wasn’t perfect, but it was full of love, laughter, and people who genuinely cared for one another. Neighbours were not strangers or mere tenants living next door they were family. We didn’t need to knock twice before entering. A simple “E kaaro o” or “I dey come oh!” was enough to step into another person’s home.
One memory that has stayed with me simple but powerful is that famous line: “Borrow me matches.” That tiny request carried so much weight. It meant trust, humility, openness. And it wasn’t just matches. We borrowed salt, oil, garri, pots, buckets, Iborun for mosque events, and even kerosene lanterns on nights when NEPA decided to take light again. Nobody hoarded anything. If you had it, we all had it.
Television was a communal treasure. In our compound, only one family had a black-and-white TV. On Friday evenings, we would all troop in like a mini cinema crowd… mats spread, stools arranged, children clustered in front, adults at the back just to watch Village Headmaster or The New Masquerade. It didn’t matter that we weren’t related by blood. At that moment, we were bound by joy and jollof rice.
Our parents treated each other like siblings. If my mum had to rush to the market, I would be left with Iya Bola next door _no questions asked. If someone gave birth, women from all around the compound would come together to bathe the baby, cook, clean, and sing. And if a neighbour lost a loved one, everyone mourned. We all cried , consoled and prayed.
We were poor in material things, yes, but rich in spirit. Nobody went hungry while someone next door had soup. Even discipline was communal if you misbehaved outside, any adult could scold or even spank you, and when your parents heard, they’d thank them!
But today?
The difference is like night and day. Our neighbourhoods are no longer filled with people they’re filled with gates. Tall, frightening gates. Everyone is inside, locked away not just physically, but emotionally. We don’t know our neighbours. Some of us don’t even greet them. Children are no longer free to roam, laugh, or play suwe and ten-ten in the open compound. Who will dare play bójú bójú! They’re indoors, glued to screens, afraid or forbidden to interact.
We’ve allowed fear and “modern living” to take away what truly mattered. Now, if someone knocks, the first instinct is suspicion: “Who is that? What do they want?” The warmth is gone. The casual borrowing of little things now feels like begging. We celebrate alone, mourn alone, suffer alone behind thick curtains and security lights.
Sometimes I ask myself: how did we let it slip away?
Maybe the world has changed. Maybe times are tougher. But deep down, I still believe we can return to that spirit even if only in small ways. A smile. A greeting. Checking on someone. Letting your child play with the neighbour’s child. Bringing food to the old woman next door. It doesn’t take much to rebuild a sense of family.
Because in the end, it was never really about the matches. It was about lighting someone else’s fire when theirs had gone out.
I miss that life. And I know I’m not alone.
Let’s bring it back one shared moment, one open door, one borrowed match at a time.
Just from my heart
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