Most of my childhood holidays were spent in the countryside.The reasons I looked forward to those visits were because we were allowed to play without being censored, allowed to go to the river to swim or catch fish without any form of restraint, catching fun from watching the numerous ceremonies held at the market square, the unusual cases brought before the Palace's court, and the vibrant communal spirit that thrived there. It was not so in the city where we lived. Apart from the fact that people mostly minded their business, terrible things also happened on the streets which made them very unsafe for children to wander about, without an adult to chaperone them. So our minders would walk us to and fro school, church and almost everywhere else, so much so that many of us felt we were not different from the inmates of the maximum security prison.
The village was wild and free. No threat to lives or properties. We were close to Nature, fresh air, and Grandma's food seasoned with different local spices, tasted much better than the processed foods obtained in the city.
One of the things I loved doing then was gazing at the stars at night, beside listening to folktales told under the silvery moon.
After supper, I would slip out into the yard, lie on my back, and gaze at the endless sky. The stars seemed so close I could almost reach out to pluck them.
“Grandma!” I called, pointing upward. “Why are there so many lights up there? Do they ever fall down?”
She came out slowly, her wrapper rustling, and lowered herself on a bench beside me. “They don’t fall, my child. They shine the light. And each one is carrying a story.”
“A story?” I turned to her, wide-eyed. “Like the ones you tell us under the moonlight?”
She chuckled softly. “Even greater. Those stars are the handwriting of God. Look closely and you might see your own life written among them.”
I gasped. “Mine? Truly?”
“Yes, yours.” She tapped my chest with her wrinkled finger. “Every person has a star. You, Dede, Makua, your father, your mother, everyone. That's why there are so many stars up there.”
I squinted at the heavens. “Which one is mine, Grandma?”
“That is for you to discover,” she said gently. “It will call to you in time.”
We lay there in silence for a while, her hand resting warm over mine. Then I whispered, “Do the stars ever get tired of shining?”
Her laugh was low and tender. “No, they don't. That is their work. Which is to remind us that no darkness lasts forever.”
Years later, when I was leaving for the bigger City for studies, she hugged me so tightly I thought my ribs would break.
“Remember, Oyirinnaya (the son who looks like the father),” she whispered, her voice thick, “wherever you go, always look at the sky. Even if it looks empty, the stars are still there.”
"Okay, Grandma,” I"ll always remember that.
But this city was not like our own little town or the village. When I looked up, there was nothing, only skyscrapers, a heavy glow of streetlights, billboards, and smoke.
“Where are the stars?” I muttered at the blank sky. “Where are the stars?”
After weeks of searching for stars up above, I stopped trying. I buried myself in my studies, the noise and the rush, but the handwriting of God I couldn't see.
"… Your story is written up there, can't you see?" I heard Grandma say. I blamed exhaustion for the hearing lapse.
One evening, weary from the day, I climbed to the last floor of the hostel. The air was thick, the city buzzing below as I lifted up my eyes to the sky.
It was then I saw it. One lone star, faint but it was there, shining through the haze.
My chest tightened. I heard her voice again, as clear as if she were standing beside me: “You need only one star to tell your story. Don’t look for plenty. It is always one for each person.
I whispered back into the night, “I see it now, Grandma. I can now see my own story — It was always written in the stars.”
And for the first time in years, I felt at home, even under the city sky. And from knowing that even my story is written in the stars.
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