Gold Took My Sister Before I Could Even Spell Her Name

Author’s Note:

This story is written in the first person to reflect the lived reality of many children and families in Nigeria’s informal gold mining communities. While not every detail is from my personal life, everything in this story is drawn from true events, real losses, and voices that are rarely heard. I wrote this to honor them.

Introduction

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What Gold Looks Like from the Bottom

To some, gold is a ring, a chain, an investment — something clean, shiny, and perfect. But to me, gold was never beautiful. It was dangerous. It was heavy. It was the reason my hands cracked before I became a teenager. It was the dust that killed my sister.

I come from Bagega, a small village in northern Nigeria. There’s gold in our soil, and for that reason, people come from all over to dig. They think it means wealth. What they don’t know is that for those of us born here, gold is not a treasure. It’s a trap.

This is not a made-up story. It’s real. I lived it. I survived it. And I’m here to tell it.

Where the Story Begins

I was born into a family of miners. Not the kind you see in documentaries with helmets and boots — no, our tools were bowls, spades, and bare hands. My father was a miner. His father too. In Bagega, gold runs in the blood, not by choice, but by inheritance.

By the age of eight, I was already helping my father sort through gravel. There was no school. No play. Just work, every day. We’d crush rocks, wash sand, and hope for a fleck of gold the size of a match head. On good days, we could eat twice. On bad days, we’d drink garri and sleep hungry.

The village always looked grey, covered in dust. The same dust that coated our clothes and food also found its way into our lungs. We didn’t know then how poisonous it was. We just thought coughing was part of life.

The Day Gold Took My Sister

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My younger sister, Aisha, was six when she fell sick. She had never touched a mining tool. She stayed mostly indoors, playing with her tin cup and cloth doll. But the lead in the soil didn’t care. It came into our home on our hands, in our clothes, in our breath.

She started coughing at first, then vomiting. One night, she cried for hours, holding her stomach. My mother held her close until her body stopped shaking. By dawn, Aisha was gone.

We wrapped her in a cloth and laid her in the same earth that poisoned her.

That was the first time I looked at gold and felt hate.

Life in the Pits

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At twelve, I was already in the shafts — deep, narrow holes that swallowed sunlight. There were no ladders. We used ropes tied to sticks. The air down there was damp and tight, and you never really felt safe. I’d sometimes hear little groans from the ground as if it was warning us to leave.

My friend Musa was with me one morning when the shaft shifted. I was lucky; I had just climbed out to bring down another bucket. The rumble came fast. In seconds, the walls caved in.

We dug for hours to get to Musa, but when we found him, it was too late. His hands were still gripping his flashlight.

No sirens. No help. We just kept digging again the next day.

The Buyers and Their Tricks

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Once we gathered enough gold flakes, we’d take them to the buyers — men in neat cars, wearing perfumes we’d never afford. They brought digital scales and briefcases and pretended to be generous.

“This one is not pure,” they’d say. “Too many impurities.”

They always said that.

They’d pay half of what it was worth, sometimes less. But what could we do? Argue in English we didn’t speak? They knew we were desperate. Hunger made us quiet.

And once they drove off, we went back to the pits, knowing we’d been robbed — again.

When Bandits Took Everything

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One season, we struck something big. A nugget the size of a pigeon egg. We thought it would change everything. Maybe we’d send my brother to school. Maybe we’d buy my mother a real mattress. Maybe we’d leave this place.

But gold doesn’t give — it attracts trouble.

Word spread. That night, just after midnight, six men came with guns. Faces covered. Voices cold. They beat two of the elders, fired warning shots, and took every gram we had.

They didn’t just take gold. They took hope.

The mine was silent the next morning. But by dusk, the shovels started again.

No one ever comes to rescue people like us. We rescue ourselves — or we die trying.

A Strange Twist of Fate

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One hot afternoon, a man came to our village. He wasn’t a buyer or a bandit. He was from an NGO. He saw me drawing letters in the dirt with a stick.

“Can you read?” he asked.

“A little,” I lied.

He handed me a notebook. That was the first time I touched clean paper.

That man helped me enroll in a learning center. I studied by day and still worked in the pits by night. But something had shifted. I started writing down everything — what I saw, what I felt, what I’d lost.

I wrote about Aisha. About Musa. About boys who were buried with no names.

One of my stories got published in a small paper. Then another. People began to notice. Not a lot — just enough to pull me one step out of the pit.

Now I Teach, Not Dig

Today, I work in Bagega, but not in the shafts. I teach. I help young boys read, write, and tell their stories before they’re swallowed by the same holes that nearly took me.

Some still go to the mines — they have no choice. But now, they do it with their heads full of letters, not just dust.

I’ve never worn gold. Not once. I could afford a ring now, maybe a chain. But I won’t. Because I know the cost. I’ve seen the cost.

Gold took my sister. It buried my friend. It cheated my people. I don't need to wear it to remember it.

Before You Buy That Gold…

If you’re reading this from a place where gold is just a gift or a savings plan, I ask one thing: just pause.

Think of where it came from.

Think of boys with calloused hands. Of little girls who never touched it but still died for it. Of families who trade their breath for a gram.

Gold shines, yes. But not everything that glitters is harmless.

Sometimes, it glitters because someone else is in the dark.

Final Thoughts

I didn’t write this for sympathy. I wrote it because it’s the truth — and the truth deserves a voice.

Where I come from, gold doesn’t shine. It takes more than it gives. Some people wear it with pride. We wore it as pain — in our lungs, in our memories, in our graves.

If you’ve never seen the side of gold that buries children, consider this your first look.

We’re still here. Still breathing dust. Still hoping for better.

I invite @calculuseyo1 @us-andrew @kwinberry to participate in this contest.