One of my earliest memories is the one of my meeting Grandpa. It goes like this…

I was very little. Probably four or five… Can’t remember which. Mummy had bathed me and dressed me and done all the things she normally did when we were about to go out. Then Daddy came and put me in the car and we zoomed off.

I remember sticking my face at the window and watching as trees and cars flew by. In my small child mind I started a game and counted the trees as they passed but I kept losing count. At fifty-something the car entered into a compound and parked.

Mummy opened her door and came to get me. She held my hand as Daddy switched off the engine. I meanwhile was busy looking at the compound, my eyes as wide as dinner plates. It was a quiet, quaint place and a man with gray hair was smiling and waving… At me? I checked if anyone was behind me, perhaps I was mistaken.

Nope. Mummy was back in the car struggling with something in the boot. Daddy was helping. Definitely me.

I waved back. He beckoned me over. I looked at my parents, and refused. Even at the distance I noticed he looked a bit like Daddy, if only Daddy were a lot more older.

3 minutes later, I got to meet my paternal grandfather. Genius, award-winner, unrepentant afro-centrist and extraordinary storyteller.

It was that same day he told me my first folktale, one of Ijapa. (the tortoise) and Yemoja (the queen of fishes)

That… My friends, is a story for another day.

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