HAPPY MEMORIES

Recently, at midday, I find myself smiling fondly at memories I do not remember making until they started flashing rapidly, a rhapsody of several happy moments, good people, friends, and lovers.

I remember a sketchy hotel I stayed at in Ibadan to attend the wedding of a friend of a friend, the dirty linen, scratchy blanket, and pink walls that almost seem to have the effect of closing in on one.

Then I remember switching to another newly built hotel with better facilities and nice art decor in the lobby. I remember going shopping for plums, it was the first time I was having them. I remember endless gist with my partner.

I remember my first apartment, the day I moved in alone in a new city some few days before Christmas. I think five days precisely. As I shut the door behind me and turned the keys, I felt relieved to finally be able to say I have my own space, truly be alone, and do as I please.

I remember my first time at a boxing match. It was a kickboxing event that a friend suggested. I wore a purple and white adire ensemble which needed the safety of pins when the zip of the shorts gave out for some unknown reasons. Thank God for scarves and girlfriends who come to restrooms to lend a hand.

Sitting at the edge of my seat as I watched the fight get more intense and the energy in the room became palpable as Adrenaline ran high with each thunderous echo of support from enthusiasts. It was my first time so I tried to maintain dignity.

Speaking of first times, I remember my first kiss. If I am being honest, it happened on a dare and a little bit of blackmail. Now the name of this gentleman eludes me but I remember that I was pressured to kiss him to enact the true spirit of mommy and daddy in the role play we were engaged in. Afterwards, our many witnesses in persons of our playmates threatened to report to my parents that I kissed a boy. I had to trade my meat for a week to buy the silence of those sneaky lot.

I had this favourite outfit as a child I loved to don after school. It was a jean skirt, a white shirt tucked in, and a pink belt with a love buckle paired with my “Shaba” hairstyle. I had an accent too because I travelled to London one summer. I was the subject of mockery for many months after because I had become “oyinbo” calling water, “warra”.

On my first day in uni, I remember the gold colour of my dad’s Nisan as it drove me to the hostel, the very last mileage that automobile could afford before it finally gave up the ghost. All of the things I could possibly need were crammed in the car along with my ever-loving and supportive family, who saw me off till I checked into my room. I didn’t cry, I had done this before when I went to a boarding house at a much younger age. Practice makes for improvement they say.

My first night in boarding school was quite chaotic, to say the least. All junior students especially jolly just come (JJC) which category I solidly belonged were invited to the square where we were asked to perform our talents. Yes, we were a source of entertainment to overbearing seniors who had nothing better to do on a school night. I remember that one girl, a year my senior won the award for her angelic voice. It was in that gathering, I met my future best friend at least for the duration of junior school.

The day my dad beat me in primary school that I would never forget was this particular school morning. We had set out for school as usual, I was seated in my dad’s car and he was about to kick start but suddenly stopped as though he forgot to do something very important. Little did I know that my whopping was scheduled or maybe it was amendable but my answer sealed the deal.

The day before, I crossed the road without calling an adult to help me. I did that with my brothers following. My father apparently set up a neighbourhood vigilante to supervise his overzealous daughter. You see, I took my responsibility as the bringer of my brothers from school as we walked past canals and pig sty quite seriously.

He asked if I crossed the road by myself and of course, I lied, my dad asked me to follow him back inside, I did without any iota of suspicion and got the thrashing that set me straight for the rest of the day. As I type this, I remember the precious tears I shed that day.

There is this exam called common entrance we take in my country to qualify into high school. I had been studying so hard so I could meet the cut off for my desired school but on the day of the exam I got sick and couldn’t really perform optimally. I remember stepping out of that exam hall dejected because I knew I didn’t do well enough. I looked heavenward, said a prayer to God saying please let me get in here. I can’t remember what I bargained with but as it would happen, for the first time in the history of that school, they organized a second batch exam.

I remember watching “Saworoide” for the first time although this consciousness is faint. I cannot put into words the cathartic effect of watching culture and love intermingle. Till date, I cannot get over the effect of this stellar production.

I remember Christmas shoes in boxes, sleeping eagerly on Christmas Eve with my heart beating loud from excitement. I remember my super boo, stories a cartoon that showed on television and my Jeovah’s witness neighbour who had these colourful pamphlets and my book of bible stories that illustrated all my favourite stories in the bible. I remember falling in love with all the colours. I remember the days of Telly-tubbies, silver hawk, Johnny Bravo, and Dexter.

I remember my first surprise birthday, I came back from school to see that all our household items were out in the yard and my parents were nowhere to be found. I thought we were being robbed and the robbers were in transit, I also wondered why they wanted cooking utensils. I finally found my folks at the backyard, there was a cake from sweet sensation saying “Happy Birthday Dara.”

I remember the first day I ate “Nkowbi”, it was at my dad’s childhoodfriends’s house on a visit.

One afternoon after school, I called for my mom as usual and my dad said she was in the hospital. As I child I thought that meant she got in an accident so I exclaimed, what! Turns out I got the cutest baby brother. I do not remember walking through the hospital doors but I can remember the bundle of joy wrapped in my mom’s arm, so tiny, sparkling, and fair.

The first time I ever got on a plane was as a child on my way to London for a summer vacation with my mom. At that time I had not internalized my fear of heights so I was able to sleep soundly.

I remember the feeling I had after writing my last paper in Law school, it felt like a weight I did not know I was carrying was lifted of my shoulder. I remember cozy nights spent watching horror movies…

I could go on and on, the more I remember, the more I realize how much more there is to share but that is what a lifetime is about. compiling memories of meaningful existence or otherwise. It is said that we are all storytellers and I think that is true. There is a story in and with all of us. It is in the smile we collect, the affection we give and receive, the words we speak and how we choose to remember.

Romanticize your life, live like you are a dream untouched by reality, stumble around with your head in the clouds, stare at the sky, chase the stars, dawn and dusk, look for opportunities to make new memories, and be deliberate about how you choose to echo the events that happen to you.

Lastly, as Catburn sang “Who knows what we’ll be if we live more and love more.”

So, Live, Love, Laugh!