I once told us the story about how I learnt how to ride a bicycle but I really didn't tell how everything came about.
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Getting to the village that very holiday I learnt how to ride a bicycle, amongst the many bikes I saw in my grand mother's compound was a weathered bicycle which leaned against an old tree. Its faded red frame and rusty handlebars hinted at years of faithful service. Trust me, it was a simple bike, unadorned by the modern gadgets and flashy designs of the other bicycles.
My grand mother received this bicycle as a gift on her twelfth birthday from her father and since then, It has always been her trusted companion through the ups and downs of life. She rode it to school, to her first job, and on long, contemplative rides through the village. The bicycle bore witness to her joy, her heartbreak, and her dreams.
As the years passed, my grand mother aged, and the bike aged with her. It was no longer as swift or shiny as the newer models, but my grand mother couldn't bear to part with it. The bicycle became a symbol of her youth, a time when the world was full of possibilities.
On seeing the bicycle, I asked my grandmother about it and she smiled and began to recount the stories of her youth, the adventures she'd had, and the places the bicycle had taken her. I listened with wide-eyed wonder, and that's when I pleaded with her to teach me how to ride the bicycle since I have always wanted to learn how to ride a bicycle. Fortunately for me, my grandmother agreed but she told me that I had to wait till the next day which made me so anxious that u couldn't sleep till the next day.
The next morning, we both embarked on a new chapter in the bicycle's story. At first, I wobbled and fell, just as my grandmother had when she was a child. But with patience and determination, I learned how to balance and pedal the bicycle. The old bicycle, which had been resting for years, now carried a new rider and a new dream.
My grand mother and I started going on rides together, exploring the village and the nearby villages. The bicycle, although old, seemed to regain its youth with each turn of the pedals. It carried not only me but also the memories and dreams of generations.
As the seasons changed, so did the years. I started going to the village at every opportunity I get, mostly during the holidays. Even though my parents already got me a bicycle, I still prefer that of my grand mother. My grandmother watched with pride as I grew, not just in stature but in character. I shared her thoughts, fears, and dreams with the bicycle, just as my grandmother had. It had become a vessel for the passage of time, a bridge between generations.
Sadly, my grandmother died, leaving a profound sense of loss in the family. But that didn't stop me from riding the bicycle. I continued to ride the bicycle, keeping my grandmother's spirit alive with every journey. The old bicycle, with its peeling paint and creaky wheels, become a timeless connection between the past and the future.
In a world of constant change, my grandmother's simple bicycle stood as a reminder of the enduring power of memories, of the love between generations, and the magic of a rusty, old bike that carried dreams, hopes, and stories through the hands of time. Recently the bicycle spoilt beyond repair and I had no other option that to dispose of it's remains after so many years. I hope my grand mother would be happy that I was able to keep her bicycle till this time. May her soul continue to rest in perfect peace. Amen
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