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YOUR CHILDREN, NOT YOUR OWN

Emmanuel Okom
  It is a common yet flawed assumption that children belong to their parents. Many, particularly in African societies, operate under the illusion that biological connection equals ownership. But let us pause for a moment and reflect – who among us can claim ownership of another’s soul? Who among us chose their own entry into this world? The truth is as old as time itself: we do not own our children; they are God’s, lent to us for a time, to be raised and nurtured, not possessed and manipulated. The Divine Custodianship of Parenthood Children are not commodities to be controlled, coerced, or commanded at will. They are gifts from the Almighty, entrusted into our care for a fleeting season. Psalm 127:3 reminds us, “Lo, children are a heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward.” The language is clear: they are a heritage, not an acquisition. Parents are custodians, not owners. In Genesis, when God blessed humanity with the ability to multiply, He did not ...
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LAGOS, Armageddon

Emmanuel Okom

LAGOS, Armageddon

The air was thick with humidity, the familiar Lagos haze settling over the street like an unwanted blanket. Then, it began – not with an explosion, but with noise. A deafening mix of honking horns, frustrated shouts, and the sharp screech of tires locked in a desperate battle for space on a road already bursting at the seams.

In an instant, the scene unravelled into chaos. A motorcycle darted recklessly through a sea of pedestrians, narrowly missing a woman struggling to balance a basket overflowing with ripe tomatoes. A danfo bus, its brakes groaning in agony, jerked to a stop just inches from a sputtering roadside generator. Nearby, a street vendor’s cart, piled high with colourful fabrics, wobbled dangerously before tipping over – its vibrant contents spilling unceremoniously into a clogged, stinking gutter.

Then came the fight. A clash of tempers and fists, fuelled by the suffocating heat and sheer frustration of the moment. Angry voices rose, bodies tensed, hands swung. Meanwhile, a stray dog, indifferent to the human turmoil, nosed through discarded scraps, unfazed by the unfolding drama.

The noise swelled. Horns blared more desperately, voices grew shriller, tires screeched with even greater urgency. And then, as if Lagos itself decided to up the ante, the skies opened up. Rain–sudden, heavy, and unapologetic–poured down, drenching the scene in seconds. Water mixed with oil and filth, turning the street into a slippery, treacherous mess. The fight dissolved as quickly as it had begun, its participants scattering like startled cockroaches into the crowd.

The danfo driver, soaked and seething, let out a string of curses before slamming his foot on the gas, jerking forward to rejoin the madness.



And just as suddenly as it came, the chaos faded. The rain eased, leaving behind glistening, debris-strewn streets where life resumed without missing a beat. The storm had passed. But in Lagos, the battle never truly ends.

Another five minutes, and the madness would begin all over again.

 

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