Project 9ja Mag The Revolution. 1st Edition | Page 9

therevolution
of her seniors it’s hard enough to know she’s the last of her mother
— my Aduke. The way she brings the colour back into our lives, giving
back the life we once watched ebbed slowly from our essence by the
loss. I see it all and I remember.

I remember those tiny fists that now so gracefully raise and
lower the pestle. I remember how tightly they held onto my thumb.
Those eyes, I remember them too. Large and brown. I remember run-
ning into the moonlight with one having such eyes once. I remember
how bigger they grew, and misted when I told her Baba had consented
to our joining. It was to those eyes I entrusted my heart and lost it
when they shut in sleep, never to open again forever.

But, somewhat, I feel life gave back what it took. Better, even.
It hurts that reality doesn’t so often present choices to us before they
turn out as fates. But would I take Aduke over her daughter? The
question burns and is left unanswered. Aduke was my all and it’s sad
that the truth hurts, but her daughter makes easy my loss and gives
strength to my weary, ageing bones. Her voice in my ears, a melody.
Harmonious. Utter beauty! Her calls of “Ba’ mi,” brings a smile to my
face and tears to my eyes. If only Aduke could see her daughter.

I remember now why the word had come to my tongue and had
burst out. It’s clear enough why she so lives it in her everyday life. I
lost a wife and got back a baby to love, a woman to grow, a mother to
become. When her cries had rented the air and the whole euphoria of
her birth had gone down with her mother’s demise, my whole world
had come crashing down until the eighth day. The day when one look
at those puffy cheeks brought tears to my eyes and made my heart
pound in love.

“Iyabo,” the words had tumbled out of my lips. “Mother has
returned.”
Porl Bob Jnr.
Lagos, Nigeria
Porl Bob Jnr
page 09