The villagers say my grandfather’s stories could awaken the deep sleeper. Honestly, I believe it.
This night as usual, the air is cool, the lantern flickers and we are all sitting with our legs crossed on the raffia mat. By the time Papa clears his throat with that loud hrmnn hrmnn sound, even the crickets seem to stop to listen.
Papa continues to tell us the tales of his peacekeeping journeys. His cane tapping the floor for emphasis. “Children, do you want to hear about my adventure in Lebanon?” He asks. “Yes!!” We all chorus.
“In Lebanon,” he continues, “the sea was so blue you would think God poured his best ink inside it!”
My cousins giggle but I lean forward with wide eyes.
“And the women…” Papa’s voice drops. He scratches his grey beard and grins. “Ah! Let me not corrupt your small ears. Just know that they were as fresh as fresh palmnuts!” But he immediately clears his throat twice with his “Ehm! Ehm!”. Holding his folded hand to his mouth.
The whole mat explodes with laughter. My cousins roll around, but I just sit there imagining all of it. I see the blue sea, the women that look too fine beyond description and the foreign world Papa says exists.
When the others run off, I try to stay behind, scooting closer to his stool.
“Papa, is the sea really that blue? Is it bluer than Mama’s wrapper?”
He chuckles, tapping me on the head.
“My boy, it is bluer than anything you have ever seen in this village. One day, you will surely see it yourself.”
“Grandpa, will you take me there?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “By the time you are ready, I will be too old to walk my dear. But if you can keep your ears open, the world will call you.”
Before I can ask what that means, Mama’s voice thunders across the room.
“Ade! Leave Papa alone! You will disturb his sleep.”
“Mama, just one more story…”
“No more story! Go and sleep before mosquitoes turn you into suya!”
I drag my feet towards my room while looking back. Papa winks and mouths, “tomorrow night.”
And so it becomes our ritual. Every evening I make sure the lantern is burning bright and Papa is ready. Even when Mama shouts, even when my cousins run off to play “oga” under the moonlight, I sit there, so hungry for more stories, dreaming of the day I will see what Papa saw.
Years pass by and I get into the university. Papa’s steps are way slower now, but his voice still carries that power.
You would think, my fantasies had gone. Far from it! My dream of the blue sea is still stronger than ever.
I see that campus life is a jungle. Lecture halls are so full that latecomers stand outside, peering through the windows. The monthly allowance I get from home barely lasts a week. Most of the time, I soak garri and tell myself it is cereal. But every night, when the hostel noise dies down, I sit under the single dimly lit bulb and open my laptop.
I write scholarship applications like love letters. I write it one after another, explaining why I want to study linguistics abroad, why language fascinates me, why I want to see the world beyond Nigeria.
“Again?” my roommate Sam ask me one night, with a mocking smile
“Again,” I reply, not looking up.
“You just want to marry oyibo women.” I laugh.
“Sam my guy, if I don’t leave this country, Papa’s “ehm ehm” stories will choke me.”
He laughs so loudly that the neighbors bang on our wall.
But deep inside, I am really scared. For two years, I keep applying and keep getting rejection letters that always start with “We regret to inform you…” Night after night, I try to fine tune my words but it seems like its all a waste of time.
Maybe this is foolishness. Maybe some dreams are just too big.
The next morning, I wake up and I seem to remember Papa’s words — “If you can keep your ears open, the world will call you.” And so I try again.
Then one fateful morning, my email pings. I open it quite lazily, obviously expecting the usual news.
But the first line makes me sit up so fast I hit my head on the bunk above.
“Dear Adewale, we are pleased to inform you that you have been awarded a full scholarship to study Linguistics at the University of Cambridge.”
I blink and rub my eyes while reading it again.
“Sammy!” I scream, shaking him awake. “Sammy, read this thing abeg before I faint!”
Squinting his eyes at the contents of the mail, he shouts and grabs me in a bear hug so hard that my ribs ache.
Within minutes the whole corridor now knows Ade has gotten a scholarship.
Two months later, I am seen standing at Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The air smells like freedom and jollof rice from the cafeteria nearby.
My siblings are all over my hand luggage like they want to sneak inside it. Mama keeps crying and pulling my collar straight.
“Don’t forget to call me o!” she says for the tenth time.
“Mama, I will call,” I say with sincere joy.
Papa stands a little apart, leaning on his cane, his eyes shining like wet glass. I walk up to him, and he puts a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Remember, Ade mi,” he says softly, “the shore is beautiful, but it is still water o. Don’t let it carry you away o.”
I nod and hug him so tightly that I can feel his bones.
Minutes later, I am seated on the plane.
I hear the engines roar and Lagos begins to shrink way below me, and my heart beats so hard like a pedal hitting against the bass drum.
I press my forehead against the window and whisper, “Finally Papa… I am going to see your blue sea.”
