Through AbdulGafar’s window, an antenna is visible. It is barely straight and the metal rod holding it is rusty. It is the first thing I see every time I wake up in his room. And each time I see it, I am reminded of a memory in Iwo, my hometown, where my brothers were struggling to raise the antenna to our roof at home. It was a luxury, owning an antenna, because to own an antenna was to own a TV, and to own a TV meant you were rich enough to have time to spare before the brightening screen. My brother, who bought the antenna, was not rich-rich, but I learnt from him that when you desire something, you do not need to wrap the thought around your mind. Just buy it, he’d say. Just as he sold his things at a time and moved to Lagos. He doesn’t come home often anymore.
As the antenna brings forth my childhood memories, a loud noise from the sky obstructs my travel down memory lane. I am in Lagos, and day and night, the loud noise, at intervals, claims the sky before fading out after a few minutes. The loud noise comes from the aeroplanes flying over. AbdulGafar says the airport is nearby. And so when the planes are descending, they are so visible that a stone thrown by a good catapulter could catch them. I tell AbdulGafar, “I wish I had a catapult.” He says, “You think they are that close enough? Dey play.” Every time they fly over, I look up and follow their trail until they fade out.
When I was little, about seven or eight, whenever an airplane flew over our house at night, we – my friends and I – would all gather around to watch it so tiny in the sky, blinking red lights, and wish that someday we would sit inside it and spit down from the sky. Some of my friends have now boarded aeroplanes and have travelled within and outside Nigeria. I have too. But that childhood fascination remains.
I live in Osogbo, and I visit Lagos frequently whenever my work demands. My visits have always been like a grab and steal, short and never too long to feel settled in the busy city. So this gush of memory is making me feel unsettled, which is strange, because at AbdulGafar’s, whose place I stay whenever I visit Lagos, I am always settled.
As the day progresses, each action I take pinches something from the past. In the evening, when AbdulGafar and I are sitting outside, my eyes catch a ripe orange from the orange tree outside AbdulGafar’s house. He says no one plucks it because the tree is too far up. I mount it and start climbing. Some minutes after, it is a rain of oranges and the neighbours peeping through their windows open their mouths to request some. We give them. I peel and peel, the fragrance from the peels reddens my eyes. I eat a lot of oranges.
AbdulGafar asks where I learned how to climb trees. I say I just know. That’s a lie. I remember my friends and I sneaking out of many classes to climb mango trees or ride bicycles in secondary school. The first time I climbed a tree, a branch left a scratch on my leg and I had to cover it with a leaf called “Akintola leaf” so my mother wouldn’t see it. She saw it, but I lied that it was an accident from my walk home.
My mum did not attend any school but she wanted her children to gain the best of knowledge. She strived enough to ensure I paid my school fees on time, and bought all the necessary school materials. The first time I was sent home for delayed payment of school fees, I could read the disappointment in her eyes even though she promised I’d pay the following week. I never asked how she got the money within the short period, but she gave me the full fees. So, it would be a disappointment for her to learn that, despite her struggles, I snuck out of school to play and climb trees.
It is now getting dark, so AbdulGafar and I ride out in his car to buy fuel for the generator. Since I arrived, the bulbs have never sparked light. The electricity is out in the entire area. He says the transformer developed faults months ago and it has not been fixed. We pass through the main gate of the estate and drive into the street. Upfront, we encounter traffic. The area, a remote estate in Ogba, along Iju-Shaga, alienates itself from Lagos. Lagos is meant to be bustling and fast. But the area is slow. People go about their day without their heels touching the back of their heads. They walk like humans, unlike the other sides of Lagos I’ve been to, where people walk like cheetahs. We escape the traffic and ride into the filling station to buy fuel. On our way back, I suggest we buy some akara or suya as snacks before dinner is ready. AbdulGafar has three sisters living with him. They are his cousins and they cook for us. The snack is my way of appreciating them for making the meals.
For dinner, we all sit at the dining table and I watch them as they throw words around and laugh and eat. One of the girls asks, “Brother, why are you not speaking?” I say it’s not my thing to talk while eating. Another lie. What I don’t say is how fascinated I am by this tradition they have built for themselves. I have never sat at a dining table to eat with my family. Growing up, we sat flat on our big mat but no one really cared where you sat to eat. Just eat. And wash the plates when it’s your turn. Except during Ramadan, when my mother made sure we all sat together to eat. She said the tradition was passed on by my father, whom I never met. My father liked sitting and watching as his family ate. It was like a king watching as his empire grew. I didn’t witness that.
The following morning, I tell AbdulGafar I will travel to Osogbo, where I stay. He asks why. I tell him there’s something waiting for me at home. Nothing awaits me at home. But that place, that moment, in Lagos, brings back heavy memories from my past. And as much as I love revisiting the past, I hate how overwhelming it gets sometimes. I hate craving what is lost.
*Photo by Raed Kasrwani on Unsplash