Let's briefly talk about my grandparents house in the village, (Mr. Uman's abode).
The road to my grandfather’s village always ended at the same place.
Its walls were made of mud and memory. The zinc roof had more patches than metal. The windows didn’t have glass, just old wooden shutters that squeaked when the harmattan wind blew through.
As kids, we called it haunted.
As adults, we called it poor man's house.
But to my grandpa, it was a home.
Every rainy season, the roof would leak. Every dry season, the cracks in the walls would grow wider. Neighbors would say, Chief Uman, abeg make you pack. Build a new house.
He would just smile, tap his walking stick, and say, this house tumbled with me, and it will stand with me.
Inside that tumble down cottage were the richest things I knew.
The smell of corn roasting on firewood.
Stories told under a lantern when NEPA took light.
The chair Grandma died in, still covered with her wrapper.
And the door that never locked, because anyone hungry could enter.
One year the rains were too heavy. The back wall finally gave in and collapsed.
We all thought that was the end. The family gathered to convince him to leave.
Grandpa walked through the rubble, picked up a broken brick, and sat on it.
A house is not cement, he said. A house is where people are remembered. If you pull this down, where will your children come to hear about us?
We didn’t build a new house.
We rebuilt that one. Brick by brick. Patch by patch.
Not to make it modern. Just to keep it standing for memory sake.
Today the cottage still tumbles. The paint is still peeling.
But when I go back to the village, that’s the first place I visit.
Because some houses don’t keep you warm with heaters.
They keep you warm with history.
Some things are not meant to be new.
They’re meant to be remembered.
Have you visited your grandparents house before?
If yes, tell us your experiences.