Silver Raindrops.
Photo by Wenniel Lun on Unsplash.
Olabisi.
Olútọ́pẹ́ looked in the mirror, a bit surprised by how much grey hair had replaced her shiny black youthful hair.
The days in Òde-Aye seemed like yesterday, days when she and her friends had no worries in the world, days they danced to every bàtá and spread legs to every lizard that crawled on the footpath, days Iye Kẹ́mi would bribe them into working on her farm for a plate of púpurú and well garnished black soup, days they would walk seven kilometres to the market, days Bàbá Kúèwùmí would scream and chase them away from his banana plantation.
Those days were gone but they weren’t forgotten, at least, not by Olútọ́pẹ́.
She remembered Ọlábísí, the truant and terror of Mánuwà Grammar School at Igbótako.
Once, Ọlábísí talked back at Mr. Inglis, their English teacher. They were just in Form 2 then.
Mr. Inglis fumed and raged, threatening to teach Ọlábísí’s buttocks the trembling technique of soft àmàlà. At his threat, their admiration of Bísí’s boldness plummeted into sad pity for her innocent buttocks.
Ọlábísí ran home, promising to call in sick the next day and the day after that. The day she finally came to school, she came with her mother who threatened to involve Ayélála, should anyone lay a finger on her daughter.
In the next few years following that day, Bísí was the untouchable and she wore her title so proudly that the others became jealous of her status.
Olútọ́pẹ́ remembered crying all the way home after being beaten by the same Mr. Inglis hoping either her father or her mother would come to display madness like Bísí’s mother, only to be beaten a second time by her father who was sure that Mr. Inglis didn’t deal with her enough.
She smiled at the memory, although, at that time, she was sure her father didn’t love her; love was what Bísí’s mother displayed.
Olútọ́pẹ́ envied Bísí who had the freedom and love many children didn’t have, until they were in Form 5 and it was time to sit for GCE (General Certificate Examination) and UTME (Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination) and Bísí said she was sitting for none.
Olútọ́pẹ́ remembered how she had asked Bísí whether or not her parents were aware of her decision and Bísí, grinning from ear to ear, had answered that her parents knew and even if her parents didn’t like her decision, there was nothing they could do about it.
Olútọ́pẹ́’s jealousy ended there and then. She’d rather have a father who beat her but wanted the best for, and imposed the best on, her, than a father who let her come to ruin as a result of a so-called freedom of choice.
Olútọ́pẹ́ remembered it clearly because it was a moment of revelation, a second of rhema.
Today, Olútọ́pẹ́ hoped, for Bísí’s sake, that Bísí wasn’t regretting any of the choices she freely made and that Bísí was happy wherever she was.
She had lost contact with Bísí since she moved from Òde-Aye when she gained admission into the University.
Life had taught Olútọ́pẹ́ so much and one of the greenest of the lessons was that regret is the most miserable and suffocating emotion.
She imagined Bísí caught in her own flashback, weeping regrettably and immediately banished the thought.
Bísí was living a good life, the spirit of Òde-Aye would make sure of that.
Ọmọ Òde-Aye kì ń tọrọ jẹ. A child of Òde-Aye doesn’t beg to eat.
2. Olugbenga.
Olútọ́pẹ́ knew there was no way she would remember Òde-Aye without thinking about Gbénga.
Gbénga was everything- her best friend, her big brother, her crush and her first love.
He shut up anyone who as much as tried to bully her, took her to the stream to swim, made her laugh and helped her with her chores. She really thought she’d marry him.
She smiled when she remembered that he always called her his wife. Everyone called them ‘ọkọ ati ìyàwó husband and wife’ then, and if she was being honest, a large part of her always prayed that she became his wife.
Now, she was married to Fidelis and she didn’t regret it, but the nostalgia seemed to bring with it an additional longing for what could have been with Gbénga.
She remembered one morning she went to Gbénga’s house and his aunt walked in.
His aunt scrutinised them suspiciously for a moment, asked Gbénga to follow her to her farm and walked out. Gbénga turned to Olútọ́pẹ́ then and begged her to follow them to the farm.
She hated going to her own aunt’s farm (Olútọ́pẹ́’s parents were teachers so they didn’t farm) and always gave excuses to escape farming.
However, she was more than ready to farm as long as it would be with Gbénga. Even if he didn’t beg, she’d still have agreed. She loved him that much.
They got to the farm and barely twenty minutes into the work, Olútọ́pẹ́ began to regret her decision. She was sweating so much already and Aunty Ṣọlá (Gbénga’s aunt) was still saying there was so much work to be done so they had to work till evening.
She thought about how if she wasn’t there, only Gbénga and his aunt would have had to do all the work. She became motivated, she’d do anything to ease her Gbénga’s burden.
However, around two in the afternoon, with the sun determined to go all-out in its heat, Olútọ́pẹ́ began to cry.
She wanted to go home, she had done her best. Gbénga and Aunty Ṣọlá told her she could leave, and she was too exhausted to feel bad.
She gathered herself from the ground she had fallen to while crying and strode home.
Olútọ́pẹ́ laughed out loud at the memory and mumbled to herself, “no place like home”.
In the evening of that day, Gbénga came to her place with a plate of ẹ̀gẹ́ and ẹ̀gúsí soup.
Gbénga was such a sweet boy. He said the food was to thank her for working on the farm, even though the both of them knew that she wasn’t much of a help.
Olútọ́pẹ́ remembered collecting the food as if she deserved it, with a smile and an approving nod.
Olútọ́pẹ́ was still in contact with Gbénga, they talked once in a while. He had moved away from Òde-Aye too. He moved to Ìbàdàn and was married too.
She wondered whether or not Gbénga liked her romantically then and if he ever knew she liked him romantically then; not that any of that mattered now, anyway.
Even if it mattered, all was said and done- it was a sailed ship.
3. Rain, sweet rain.
Another beautiful memory Olútọ́pẹ́ had of Òde-Aye was the rain.
Everyone in Òde-Aye loved the rain and every child came out to play when it was raining.
In fact, rainfalls at parties or festivals weren’t seen as spoilers, instead, they were seen as motivators which called the children to dance.
Olútọ́pẹ́ remembered how one day she was sleeping and didn’t hear the rain start.
Adéṣẹwà, her friend and neighbour ran into the house to wake her up, telling her to come dance in the rain.
She remembered being a little pissed at being woken up but jumping up immediately she heard it was raining.
She remembered how they opened their mouths for rain drops to fall on their tongues, how they screamed their school songs as they danced and chased one another in the pouring rain, how their parents and the elders threatened to beat them if they fell sick or caught a cold.
Now, Olútọ́pẹ́ wondered if she could be that young girl again.
She was old and it would be childish to dance in the rain, but that was what she wanted.
She was tired of adulthood, she wanted to be a child again—full of innocent admiration, loving purely and fearlessly, and, of course, playing in the rain.
Adulthood had taken much of that innocence in exchange for survival. It is what adulthood does to every man—and woman. It makes you give up seemingly childish ways and forces you to toughen up.
A lot of time had passed since those days, decades even; and Olútọ́pẹ́ again watched her reflection in the mirror.
She saw the grey hair, upturned lips and wrinkled face; still, she felt like a little girl, free of the worries that life had imposed on her now.
A little girl dancing and swirling... in the silver rain drops at Òde-Aye.
