REALITY (A Flash Fiction)

     Reality is not always what we see with our eyes. In Africa, we know this. We have learned, from birth, that there is more to the world than what is in front of us. Reality is both what is and what is not. It is the sound of the cock crowing at dawn, and it is also the silence of the ancestors whispering through the wind. It is the price of garri in the market, and also the prayer of a mother crying into her wrapper when her child is sick. Reality is layered, deep like the roots of an iroko tree, and wide like the Niger River.

     In the village of Umuokoro, reality was simple and hard at the same time. The people woke early, before the sun. The men went to the farms, their hoes slashing the red earth in rhythm. The women tied babies on their backs and balanced basins of water or cassava on their heads. Children fetched firewood, swept compounds, and ran errands with quick legs and curious eyes. To them, this was reality—a life where everyone had a place, where seasons determined food, and where gods and spirits lived among men.

    But even in Umuokoro, reality was not just what the hand could touch. There were things that could not be explained. Like the time Nneka, the widow, heard her husband’s voice in the night three days after he was buried. Or when the palm tree behind the shrine bore fruit in harmattan, a season it had never known to do so. The elders would nod and say, “Not everything that walks is seen. Not everything that is heard has a mouth.”

    We are taught from young that life is not always straight. The road to the stream curves through the forest, and so does reality bend through time. It changes, like the shadow of a tree at sunset. One moment it is long and clear, the next it fades. Reality for the rich man in the city is different from the farmer in the village. While one worries about stocks and data, the other worries about yams and rainfall. Both are right. Both are living. Reality wears different wrappers.

    In Lagos, reality moves faster. The roads are full of cars and shouting. The air smells of hope and exhaust pipe. People chase dreams with tired faces and strong spirits. The danfo driver curses the traffic while praising God for life. The hawker weaves through cars with pure water and plantain chips, calculating her day in profit and prayers. In this concrete forest, reality is the hustle. It is not whether you fall; it is whether you stand up and move again. Lagos reality does not pity you—it pushes you.

    But even here, the African mind does not forget. A man may wear a suit and tie, yet still call his mother in the village to ask which leaf to use for stomach pain. He may hold a degree from a foreign land, but he still believes in dreams that carry messages. He may be a banker by day, but he sleeps with a Bible under his pillow. Because deep down, we know: reality is not always logic. Sometimes it is feeling, sometimes it is faith.

     There is also the reality of pain. The kind that is quiet but heavy. The kind that makes a mother sell her last wrapper to buy medicine for her child. The kind that makes a father drink palm wine at night to forget his failure. We do not always talk about this, but we carry it. In our silence. In our songs. In the way we hold each other’s hands during burials and births. In Africa, pain is part of reality, but so is strength.

     And what of joy? Reality is also in the sound of children playing football with a plastic bottle. It is in the laughter that rises from kitchens during weddings. It is in the music of drums that call the spirits during festivals. It is in the old men playing ayo under the mango tree, and in the young girl who dances with her whole body, her whole soul. Joy is real, not because everything is perfect, but because we choose to celebrate even when things are hard. That is African.

     Our reality is also tied to the land. The earth feeds us, holds us, reminds us. A man without land is like a tree without roots. We bury our dead in our compounds, because they do not go far. They become part of the soil, part of the story. The living and the dead, we all share this reality. We pour libation, not out of fear, but out of respect. We call on the names of our ancestors, because their blood still runs in us.

    Today, many things are changing. The world is shrinking. Phones, planes, and the internet have connected us to distant places. Some say reality is now global. But still, an African knows his own truth. He may speak English, wear suits, and use iPhones, but when thunder strikes, he still looks to the sky and remembers what his grandmother said: “Thunder is not just a noise; it is a warning.”

     Reality is living in two worlds at once—the seen and the unseen, the modern and the ancient. It is knowing how to balance a basket on your head and how to send an email. It is singing lullabies in Igbo or Yoruba while watching cartoons in English. It is sitting by the fire with your elders and still dreaming of New York.

    Some people say reality is what you make it. Maybe they are right. But in Africa, we say reality is what you are born into, what you fight through, what you laugh about, and what you leave behind when you die. It is the name you carry, the stories you tell, the songs you sing.

     Reality is not always sweet, but it is always sacred. We do not run from it. We walk through it—with our heads high, our feet firm, and our hearts strong. Because we know: whether under a thatched roof or in a glass house, whether in the farm or on Facebook, reality is not just about where you are—it is about who you are and whose blood flows in your veins.

     And so, when the sun rises tomorrow, a boy in Osogbo will wake to sweep the compound, and a girl in Nairobi will switch on her tablet for school. Both of them are living. Both of them are real. And both of them carry the African story—a reality that cannot be erased.

© Okechukwu C. Ezechi 2025