27 January 2026, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2996: reverse down the street

The Coal tar under Mubis boots wasn’t just tar, it was a tape, a tape of memories for a every step ever taken on the road, it had never been renovated since it was laid, till date but nonetheless it had no cracks or signs of weariness. He hadn’t intended to go for a "memory walk," but in this neighborhood, nostalgia hit hard, more than he though it would. He stood at the corner of jagaban street, staring at the rusted remains of a green mango tree. To any passerby, it was an eyesore, something that just took up space but to Elias, it was the "the place of the Scraped Knee." He stepped backward. The mango that had fallen glistened. He was eight again, He had tried to leap over it to impress a girl named Maya, when the tree was still small only to find that gravity had a cruel sense of humor. He could almost feel the cold sting of the iodine and spirit his mother had dabbed on his leg later that evening. One step back, one story unlocked. Mubi retreated another three paces, his heels clicking against the sidewalk until he stood before a modern, glass-fronted pharmacy.

But as he stretched over the threshold, the glass sort of faded into the orange bricks of Mama Bimbos kiosk,.he remembered the bell. He saw Mama Bimbo, a woman who smelled perpetually of peppermint and old newspapers, leaning over the counter. "Five Naira, Mubi?" the ghost-voice whispered. This was the place where he’d learned the value of a naira and the heartbreak of a melted sweet. He remembered the specific Tuesday in 2004 when he realized that Mama Bimbo wasn't just a shopkeeper, but a keeper of the neighborhood’s secrets, tucking away gossip behind the jars of Eclairs.

He continued his reverse pilgrimage, moving toward the center of the block. He stopped in front of a narrow brownstone with an ornate iron fence. This wasn’t just a building it was the "Cathedral of Loves." Standing there, he saw himself sitting on those very steps, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide their shaking from the cold. Sarah had been sitting two steps above him. That was the night she told him she was moving across the country for university. Every brick in that facade held a syllable of their last conversation. The old fadded paint on the railing was the punctuation mark to his first real grief. He looked at the window on the second floor, the light was different now, but he could still see the silhouette of a younger version of himself waving goodbye until his arm ached. Mubi turned his back to the street and stepped into the small community park.

He walked backward onto the grass, his eyes fixed on the statue of a local founder. A revered historical warrior of Ancient times. To the city, it was a monument to civic duty. To Mubi, it was the "Great Fortress." He remembered the epic battles of his pre-teen years. The statue had been the neutral zone. He recalled the freezing wetness of his mittens and the frantic strategy sessions held in whispers behind the pedestal. He stepped back again, and the statue seemed to grow taller. He remembered the day his father had sat him on the base of that monument to explain that he wouldn't be living at home anymore. The statue had watched over that quiet but devastating talk, a silent witness to the moment Mubis childhood home shifted from a fortress to a floor plan.

Mubi finally reached the end of the block, the intersection where the neighborhood gave way to the industrial//Modern gray of the city center. He stopped walking backward. His calves ached, and his chest felt heavy with the accumulated weight of thirty years narrative. He realized then that a neighborhood isn't made of bricks but it is a living library. Every step back had been a page turned. He turned around and began to walk forward, into the present. The buildings were just buildings again, but as he passed the green mango tree, he couldn’t help but offer it a small, knowing nod.