My parents were strict believers of the age-old saying “waste not, want not”. It was like a daily chant in the family. They would say it time and time again, every so often back then when we were still growing up. My father, a wage earner and, unusually prudent, as some might call him very tight-fisted, made sure he instilled in each one of us the virtue of being resourceful and frugal. It was how we survived back in those times, especially when the inflation rate of the economy was nothing to write home about. Things became so expensive, the government didn't help matters. Being a civil servant with inconsistent salaries and promises that they never kept, thriftiness became the new normal. My father would stretch every single naira he had until it had reached its elastic limit.
My mom, the queen of frugality, as we would often tease her, made sure to manage and make due with the resources available. She would turn leftover food into creative meals, rainwater was never wasted, it was used for washing. Plastic bags and containers were never thrown away. That was an act of wastage. It was turned into containers for storing peppers, spices, tomatoes and the likes. Torn clothes were never considered useless. My mom would take her time to stitch, restitch, and patch them all up. Old notebooks were given to us to reuse. Our clothes were usually okrika from the local market. Life wasn't easy then, but we managed
In retrospect, my father was the worst when it came to frugality. In his eyes, nothing ever expired or got spoiled. Whatever he bought for you was meant to last you a lifetime. However, despite all that, there was me, a young girl who wanted everything her eyes laid upon. A girl who really didn't understand the necessity of being frugal. I hated eating leftovers and often nagged and complained about it while my siblings would just eat theirs in silence. I hated wearing patched clothes or hand-me-downs, I hated that my friends back then had the latest Android phones, and I was still stuck with a Nokia button phone, and most of all I hated the word “Manage”. It was the usual answer my parents would often give me when I asked for something they couldn't afford
“Can't we live like normal people? "Must we manage all the time?” I said frustratedly one day when I was forced to eat leftovers again.
“Even the rich manage what they have, so who are we not to?” my mother answered back at me.
“Don't worry, when you grow older and start providing for yourself, you can waste all you want, but not in my house,” she continued.
When I finally got into university, life became as sweet as honey. I had freedom like never before. My parents made sure to pack enough food for me to keep me well-fed for the first semester. I had enough garri, beans, rice, palm oil and the rest. But I wasn't content. I sold my food for quick cash to eat take-outs, shawarma, meat pie, pizzas and the rest. Life couldn't get any better, I thought to myself one day as I sat down on the floor in my hostel eating my shawarma and ice cream.
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What a big relief from the kind of food I ate back at home. I used my allowances to buy trending clothes and sneakers to keep up with the trends. I was on cloud nine. I lived and spent money like I was the daughter of a rich man, contrary to the kind of background I came from.
Within the first month of resuming school, I had squandered almost all of my resources. My foodstuff had finished. I had sold them out completely. The little allowance I had left we're almost finished. I was stranded. Quickly, I called home.
“Dad, I need money for the hostel light fee,” I said, increasing the amount by two.
Soon it became one lie after the other. They tried their best, sending me whatever they could. Feeling very smart, I continued with my lifestyle in school, until I ran out of lies to use. The first semester break came a bit too quick for me. I wasn't ready to go home yet. I had built a comfortable life here in school. So I called home.
Dad, they've extended our exams by a month, and after that we have just a one-week holiday, so I don't think I will be coming back this semester. I’ll just manage here to save transport.”
“Just send me some money for food and upkeep please” I asked, pretending to be a good girl.
“ Are you sure, because your neighbor Daniella is already back home? "You guys got admission at the same time, and it is the same school you're both going to, so why are you lying to me?” My father answered calmly, although I could sense the storm behind the calm.
I was speechless. My brain couldn't think of any lie again. I was caught red handed
“So you can't talk anymore, abi? She has told me about your current lifestyle now in school. Seems like I have been sending you far too much money. “
My palms became sweaty, I was in big trouble.
“If you wish to come back home, you come back. "If not, you can stay, but don't call me again for money, because I will no longer send you, even if it's a penny,” he said, alas cutting the call.
I gulped nervously. My throat felt too dry all of a sudden. I didn't have a penny on me, my food stuff was all finished. How would I survive here alone? I thought. My transport to go back home was not even available.
Eventually, after much begging, I managed to borrow money for my transport which I was going to pay back. I got home feeling very ashamed of myself, I pleaded and apologized profusely to my dad. He agreed, but he also came to the decision that he would send me only a certain amount of money every month to manage. Going back to school after that, life had never been the same for me. I learnt what it meant to really manage and live according to your means.