My family's house is large; it was built in an ancient way, yet it felt like a paradise while growing up.
Due to how big our family is, there are several rooms in the house. When you enter from the front, The building is facing the gate directly, with three rooms on the left and three rooms on the right, directly facing each other.
Between the rooms is a wide passage; there is a door at the front and back of the passage, making it look more like a parlor.
That passage is properly decorated with portraits of my grandfather and family pictures on the wall from the entrance of the passage on both sides of the wall facing each other till the exit.
If one is coming from the rear, immediately you enter through the door of the passage, there is a window beside the door. It's a local kind of window: the window is protected by four iron rods horizontally arranged, having a small space in between that can't allow a human head to penetrate.
On that window, a large four-cornered portrait of a military man is placed. The portrait fits into the window perfectly, and it is placed within. You can only remove it whenever you want illumination and put it back later.
While growing up, I loved being in the passage often. I spend most of my time staring at the pictures on the wall and asking questions about the people in the pictures.
And my father would give me the necessary answers, going as detailed as he could.
Of all the pictures and portraits in the passage, there is one that I love the most. The portrait on the window.
The painting was captivating, the olive green color of the dress on the man boldly showing three words on top of his left pocket: Gen., Murtala, Mohammed, always caught my attention.
The portrait is the biggest in the passage; unless your attention is not there, your eyes must capture it.
Each time I stare at the man in the picture, questions run through my head, “Why was he so bold? Why wasn't he smiling?” He was just too serious looking, wearing a uniform that I don't know, and a cap.
One day, while I was in the passage with my father cleaning, I decided to ask questions.
“Daddy,” I called to get my father's attention while he was removing cobwebs from the ceiling with a broom.
“Yes, what is it?” he answered, remaining focused on the task.
“Daddy, who is this man at the window?” I asked, touching the painting.
“Which one?” He looked in my direction while his hands were still up, holding the broom.
“The one I am touching,” I replied.
“Oh, that's General Murtala Mohammad,” he responded and continued working.
“Daddy,” I called him again.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Who is this General Murtala Mohammad?” I swayed the broom in my hand as I asked.
He cleared his throat, “Murtala was a former military head of state in Nigeria. He was a soldier and a good leader.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed. Then began to sweep the passage slowly while my Dad was still taking cobwebs off the ceiling and walls.
“But who brought his painting to the house?” I interrupted again, when I stood up to stretch my back.
My Dad turned and looked at me, then continued working without saying a word.
“Dad is offended,” I said to myself, and continued sweeping without saying a word again.
“Your grandfather did. Murtala was his favorite military leader; he loved the man so much and always told us about him. I can still remember the day he brought the painting home.
The smile on his face while he placed it on the window that day was unfathomable. May both their souls rest in peace,” my Dad replied after a few minutes of silence.
“Amen, Daddy.” I smiled faintly, wishing I knew my grandfather.
“Now, finish up that work; we have other things to do,” my father instructed.
That conversation stirred my love for the military. Since then, I wanted to become a soldier and a good leader like General Murtala Mohammad.
As in the case of last year, when I visited our family house, the painting of General Murtala Mohammed was still at the window. I don't know if my uncle's children have taken it off currently; if not, it should still be there.
N.B: All Images Were Generated By Gemini AI
