DUNNI’S SONG

Back in the days when my grandmother still had strength in her lungs, when pounding yam was, to her, just another chore; in the days when NEPA failed and lantern shone through the crevices of the brick cubicle we called home; in the days when I was simply Grandma’s Àṣàkẹ́. My grandmother would tell us folk stories under a full moon that made a mockery of our rusty lantern fire and end them with velvety songs of victory or regret. She taught our hands to clap to the rhythm of traditional songs and caused our childlike voices to permeate the cricket-driven night with thrill.

Those were the purest days of my life. I washed the plastic dishes quickly because I looked forward to the time when I sat on the raffia mat to chorus “àlọ̀” with the other children after Grandma’s “àlọ́”. I laughed and cried with the tortoise, and expressed shock when Grandma’s eyes bulged as she told the stories. Much more than those, the songs became my safe space. When I was angry, I listened for an àlọ́ song on anger. When I was scared, I listened for a song by Mr. Tortoise. On some days, my anger or fear remained but was quieter than my high-pitched song. On many other days, I could almost see my feelings fizzle out with some kind of musical stave hanging at the edge of my heart. Freedom. A breath of fresh air.

Adunni, my close namesake and childhood best friend, used to ask me to teach her Grandma’s songs. I obliged and taught her with so much gusto. The songs came from the core of where I more than existed. The songs flirted with my being. They were the places where I knew how to be.

The songs stayed with me even when I thought I had forgotten. I never forgot the words or the melody. The years have worn a different silk of music, but I know my melody by heart. It is on the raffia mat where the children excitedly called my name when Grandma wanted someone to remind her of the song we learnt in the previous gathering. “Ibidunni!”

Now, I am a few days from my twenty-seventh birthday, and I now know Grandma picked up her eight “grandchildren” from the places they were abandoned and raised them as hers. I now know that singing is what I’d love to do. I now know that adulthood comes at you fast and leaves you hanging on by a thread. I now know to “keep quiet for peace to reign.” I now know how to be the perfect adult but not myself. Now, Grandma is bedridden on most days, and her lungs are holding on probably less tightly than a feather will.

I have watched Grandma go from her vibrant youthfulness to wobbling strides. She has lost two grandchildren over the years. My grandmother has become, so have I. We’ve outgrown the folktales and, now, we sit in front of LCD screens. My first love, Bolaji, has jilted me. I have fallen in love many times and bagged a few degrees. I live in a story created and written by the Omniscient One. I have cried and laughed at real situations, and seen light in the darkest corners of home. Grandma is older, so am I.

I am sitting on the sofa close to the bed Grandma is lying on. Her breathing is laboured,  and I can hear it as clearly as I hear my heart roar within me. I have many questions, but questions are the last things I want to put my grandmother through. A humming flows from my larynx, unnoticeable and soft. It is the song from my favourite àlọ́ where Mr. Tortoise interfered in a fight, took sides, and had his nose bitten as a result.

Grandma turns her head ever so slightly towards me, and I hear it. Faintly, but I hear it. She is humming along. I smile at her, and she manages to get her cheeks to rise like the crescendo of the music quickly filling the space between us. Filling the years before us. I can see it all over again. We are under the full moon and Grandma’s voice is beating the crickets’ in the battle for night dominion. The fear is fizzling out with the musical stave on its heel. Freedom. A breath of fresh air.

Grandma is alive, so am I.

The song is here, and after all this time, it still works.