When my parents called me and my siblings out of our shared bedroom, there was whispering. What did we do now? Being called at the same time by our parents was rare.
Our parents sat waiting in the lounge while the three of us slipped on to the chair in a single file and settled on the second couch, hands in between our thighs and heads bowed. This was the custom of respect shown to our parents in Nigeria.
“We are going to South Africa ‘’ they spoke in unison
“What?” my brother looked up
“We are going to South Africa, ‘’ my father repeated in Yoruba. “In August ‘’ he said with a tone signalling to us that the conversation was over and we should take our leave. When we entered our bedroom, my brother burst with excitement. “We are travelling.!.. I could understand his excitement. As a 17 year old boy, his biggest dream was to leave the country and study elsewhere. That was not my dream. The idea that I would have to leave my home was foreign to me. I had a plan to study here and start a business here.
Two days later, I sat on a footstool, in front of a grey backdrop, slightly angled away from the camera yet still facing the camera. I was given clear instructions not to smile. My hair was done out in braids. I had chosen a shuku style, assorted with metallic clip beads. Our photographer was impatient and often snapped at me. I was not made for the camera.
Things moved fast. Five months passed after I first heard the news and it felt like two months. I hadn’t registered it in my mind that I would have to leave my family, my friends and my very intricately planned out life behind. Our families had begun the ‘final visits’ every weekend. I was expected to be happy and at the same time sombre. Happy that I was leaving for a better life but sad I was leaving my family and friends behind. I was not an actor hence,I could not pretend to be happy. In no time, I was considered spoiled and ungrateful. My parents had worked hard to secure a better future for me yet here I was, without a hint of happiness.
Then, the division began, I had to start thinking of what and what not to take and the things to leave behind or give away
“What about this?” Sofia,my cousin,asked, holding up a simple dress, made from the most beautiful ankara print. I wore the beautiful dress to my aunt’s wedding. Were we going to return for weddings and family events? Would I have to miss my favourite event ; the welcoming of a new child into the family?
“Ghaniyah,” my cousin joined me on the mattress. Why are you crying? Are you not excited?”
I responded hurriedly“ No, I am”
“Do I look like a fool to you”? she was offended “why are you lying?”
“Jo,má bínú, I just don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”
“I am your cousin and your friend, you don’t need to lie to me”
“I’ll miss you” I said to her with my eyes filled with tears “ and everyone else’s.”
“I’ll miss you too, aburo mi, and I know that right now it might not seem like a blessing but it is. You don’t have to abandon your dreams and your plans. Edit them. There is always space for that” she placed my head on her shoulders and caressed it. “I will keep in touch, she muttered into my ears. I love you too much to not be able to talk to you”.
Immediately she said that, I had an uneasy feeling that once we left, we would be strangers. I would be a stranger to my family, to my place of birth. And these feelings, I tried to push away.
The news spread at school and moved faster than I could imagine. Teachers treated me like I was immortal. I didn’t do my homework? Fine she’s leaving anyway. This was not what I wanted. It was as if I had left already but I still had two months before I would leave..
With every week passing, our home became emptier, different from the actual home I grew up in. It was bare and sounds echoed, shadows were seen more clearly and the space became suffocating. I desperately wanted to escape. I held on to the belief that it was a mistake and in no time my parents would receive a call from South Africa telling them that it was a mistake, that it was the wrong Rasheedah Adams-Ajanaku that they had given the visas to, but that wasn’t going to happen. The date of departure crept closer and my hope of us not going increased and decreased at the same time. As against my cousin’s promise, the distance between us began to grow. This added to my stress and only my thoughts when she said “she loved me too much to lose contact with me” Reality was done on me and I came to the conclusion that once I leave my country of origin, i would be forgotten so easily by those that claimed to have loved me.
One night as I lay awake listening to my family’s snores bounce off each wall of the house, I enveloped myself in thoughts. I found the silence serene and the perfect condition for thinking. I got up and went to the kitchen, took a scissor and cut off each one of my braids past the extensions and dangerously close to my scalp. I brushed my hair out, and used the metal of the knife to examine my handiwork. I had a head full of small coils. I would be flogged but I didn’t care. I slipped on my worn but loyal sandals and stepped out of the house. I wasn’t thinking, I just kept on walking. As I walked the dusty streets of my neighbourhood and beyond, I came to accept a few things. I would never drive to school in a keke napep again. Walking to the hairdresser with my friends and female cousins was a thing of the past. And the beautiful bustling markets filled with haggling between customers and sellers at every stall will also be gone. I was leaving Nigeria and there was nothing I could do about it except to accept the bitter reality so, I continued walking. That night, I was going to say my final goodbyes to all the places that would soon be out of reach to me. I stopped first at my school , climbed over the wall and sat in my classroom for the very last time. With a pin, I engraved my name into the already worn wood desk, ‘Ghaniyah Adesolu Ajanaku’. Then the place where I’ve done my hair for the past ten years. I stood outside the house and debated whether or not to knock. On one hand I would seem crazy. On the other hand I would be leaving the next day. I decided to knock and alas! the door was opened.
“ a ah, kini on she ni bi at this time of the night? Should you not be sleeping? It’s a big day tomorrow”
I replied with a soft tone, “I know ma but, I have only come to say goodbye. And Ẹ ṣé for making me leave this place feeling beautiful everytime i came here to make my hair. E seun ma, i’m really grateful”
“Your parents are going to flog you, but you are welcome. You are beautiful in your own right and you don’t need your hair done up to feel like one. Remember that. Wo le. I should help you fix your hair, you look so unkept.”
I entered,she had my hair fixed and I left for the last time feeling on top of the world. A feeling that would very soon disappear as I neared my home, well past sunrise. I could hear my mother from outside. “ o mo mi da. Where is my child?” I could almost hear her pacing around. With one deep breath, I entered the house. Everything came to a standstill. My mom looked at me and an understanding was reached. I was ready to go. I had made my peace with it and that was all that mattered to both of us.
Glossary
Jo,má bínú — Please, don’t be angry.
aburo mi — my sister
keke napep- a form of transport used in nigeria
kini on she ni bi- what are you doing here?
