There is one sentence every Nigerian child has heard at least a thousand times:

“Please, help me buy one thing.”

And the moment your mother says "one thing," you should know that your day is about to change.

One afternoon, I was lying comfortably on my bed, scrolling through my phone and enjoying the peace that comes with doing absolutely nothing.

Then I heard it.

“Come here!”

I immediately froze.

If you grew up in a Nigerian home, you already know that when your mother calls you from another room, there are only two possibilities: either she wants you to do something, or you are about to receive a lecture you didn't ask for.

“Yes, Mummy?”

“Please, help me buy one thing.”

I sighed.

“Okay, Mummy. What do you want me to buy?”

“Just bread.”

I smiled.

Just bread.

Simple.

Easy.

Quick.

I picked up my slippers and walked out of the house.

I hadn't even reached the gate when I heard:

“And buy eggs too!”

I stopped.

“Okay.”

I took two more steps.

“And don't forget tomatoes!”

I turned around.

“How many?”

“Just buy some.”

Some?

What does "some" mean in Nigerian mathematics?

I hadn't even processed the tomatoes when she added:

“And get onions.”

At this point, I knew the "one thing" had officially become a shopping list.

I started walking faster before another item could be added.

But Nigerian mothers are very strategic.

Just as I was about to leave the compound, I heard:

“Wait!”

I closed my eyes.

“What again?”

“Buy seasoning cubes.”

“Okay.”

“And salt.”

“Okay.”

“And if you see pepper, buy pepper too.”

I stared at her.

“Mummy, you said one thing.”

She looked at me as if I had just said something completely unreasonable.

“Is bread not one thing?”

I wanted to argue.

But I remembered that I still lived in her house.

So I simply said, “Okay.”

By the time I got to the market, I was carrying a bag that looked like I was preparing to open a supermarket.

Bread.

Eggs.

Tomatoes.

Onions.

Pepper.

Seasoning cubes.

Salt.

And somehow, I had also ended up buying a bottle of groundnut oil because the woman at the shop told me, “Your mummy said you should buy oil.”

My mummy had said no such thing.

But at that point, I had lost the will to fight.

When I finally returned home, I dropped everything on the kitchen table.

My mother looked at the bags.

Then she looked at me.

“Where is the bread?”

I pointed at the largest bag.

She opened it.

“Ah! You bought the wrong bread.”

I stood there silently.

I had walked to the market.

Carried heavy bags.

Spent money.

Survived aggressive market sellers.

And now, after all that, I had bought the wrong bread.

“Which one did you want?”

She mentioned the exact type of bread I had never heard her mention before.

I just nodded.

“Okay.”

Then she said the words that almost broke me.

“Since you're going back, help me buy...”

I didn't let her finish.

“Mummy!”

She laughed.

And honestly, I couldn't help laughing too.

Because that's the thing about Nigerian mothers.

You can never really go out to buy one thing.

You may leave the house with one instruction, but by the time you return, you've completed an entire mini family shopping expedition.

And somehow, tomorrow, she'll still say:

“Please, help me buy just one thing.”

And you'll still go.

Because that's just how it is.

One thing.