“…That was when I lost my wallet. Luckily for me, I had some money on me, so I was able to return to Abuja,” I finished.

My mom looked like she was beginning to believe me. It’s at those times that I have to be extra wary.

“Azuka,” she said finally, after a brief moment of silence during which I held her gaze and put on my most innocent face. “This wasn’t the story you told me at first. I want the truth.”

After telling and retelling a few times, she had wormed out of me the fact that I’d spent the money in the “lost wallet” on suya and some other “goodies” and that the wallet had contained only 20 naira when it got missing. It was unfair, because a couple times, she let me go, only to resume asking me days later.

My dad sometimes refers to my mom as the “questioner” or “interrogator” because she spent so much time asking and re-asking, until you eventually just gave up because the webs in your lies got entangled, or as I learned much later in life, kept things simple so you didn’t trip yourself up.

So, lying, or lies, damn lies and statistics. You inevitably find yourself telling one: the white lie to avoid inconveniences, or to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, pranks, the malicious ones, false memories, or sometimes just one that slips out and you can’t take back.

How did you get caught recently?