The rain came early this year, but that was not the problem. The problem was that I had forgotten about the leaking garage roof. And that wouldn’t have been a problem if we had not moved some boxes out of the house to the garage pending the time we would “sort the wheat from the chaff” as Funmi delicately put it.
Call me a hoarder but I like to keep memories in boxes.
That way they stay concrete forever for generations to come to admire it. The memories of my grandmother kept in boxes were part of the highlights of my childhood.
Ologi was a traveller in her younger years and she visited almost every part of Nigeria before the 36 states we have today existed. We could say today she visited about 33 of those states back then, all within 3 years.
It was while on one of those trips she met my grandfather, a sax player for a popular local music group. She had found herself in one of the group’s performances one night and the sax man was having a solo moment.
When she told the story to me years later, after my grandpa had died, I could still see the light come on in her eyes at the mere memory of the event.
She ended up travelling with the group to 3 more locations just to hear my grandpa play. At the end of the group’s tour, they both left for a quieter southwestern countryside with a box full of souvenirs from every town she had stayed.
When I finally moved out of my parents’ house during my third year at the university, I asked that they let me take Ologi’s memories with me. They thought it strange but indulged me nonetheless.
Over the years, it was difficult explaining to anyone that the box meant so much to me because it not only kept the memories of a once young, beautiful and free Ologi fresh, it also reminded me of the beauty of serendipity and kept the flames of desire to see the world burning in me.
That box and a few others that I had compiled over the years were now starting to soak up as water leaked into the garage. My two sons joined me as we moved the boxes back inside before everything got ruined.
Funmi didn’t like this; she hated the clutter and had insisted on me moving the boxes out in the first place. It was pure wonder that we were so compatible and had been happily married for 22 years with 3 kids when unlike me, she preferred a simple life.
Funmi could completely pack for a two-week trip within 15 minutes. She always reminded me at every chance she got that most things were easy to get when you reach your destination. It was easier and better to travel light.
With a scowl on her face as I brought in the last box, me and the boys cheering that we saved it just in time, she said, “Now, sit your pretty behinds down, boys, and sort these boxes. Everything that is not absolutely needed should go into a pile. And the few things that actually matter should be a much smaller pile.”
I started to protest but she smiled her don’t-even-dare smile. My boys giggled knowing we had no choice but to do what mommy said.
“Okay, okay,” I sighed. “Come here boys, we’ve got work.”
Two hours later, Funmi checked on us and saw that we were barely halfway through the second of five boxes. I was teaching a song from my old SOP to them.
“You know which pile that belongs to,” she said and turned to leave. “And hurry up, this place is a mess!” She yelled as she slid out of view.
Two hours later, I was finally on the last box. Funmi had joined me after the boys snuck off to play in their room.
The pile of things to go was now high and I looked at it with a tinge of sadness. Funmi caught me looking and rubbed my left shoulder gently.
“I’ll miss them, you know.” I said.
“I know, she said, “but you underrate the strong memories you’ve made. You’ll always have those–anywhere, anytime.”
“But the plan was to pass it down from this generation to the next and the next and on and on…” I added with frustration creeping into my voice.
Calmly, she pointed to the smaller pile by the side. “This is what we pass on. This is where real emotions are stored up.”
And she was right. I looked at both piles now and realised most things didn’t really need to be stored.
Our little girl, Ajoke, came in then and straightway found her way into my laps.
“Sleeping beauty is finally up!” I tickled her and she giggled. I put her on the couch and got up. “Daddy has to clean this place up, honey.” Something fell from my laps as I got up.
“Daddy, see!” She beamed pointing to a small box. It was an old pack of crayons.
“Look at that!” I said, picking it up. Of all the things in the boxes, it was the one thing I couldn’t remember ever putting there. Ajoke eagerly took the pack from me and hurried out of the living room.
Funmi helped me pack up the boxes of things to dispose of and within 10 minutes the whole place was almost as neat as it was that morning before the rain started.
That was when Ajoke came back into the room blushing, a paper in one hand and the box of crayons in another.
“Honey, what do you have there?” Funmi asked.
Ajoke walked quietly to us and showed us the drawing she’d made. Funmi and I stared in awe at the brightly coloured drawings, knowing it was before she even offered an explanation.
We never knew Ajoke could draw this well! At three years old, her drawing was so good that we just stared.
“This is beautiful,” I whispered, picking Ajoke up.
“This is daddy, mommy, John, Femi and me.” Then she went ahead to describe the real moment she had so vividly recreated on paper.
I looked at Funmi and I saw the same light that used to fill Ologi’s eyes come on in hers as she said, “we’re adding the crayon and the drawing to the memory box.”
I smiled and nodded.
