The very first time Cynthia's grandmother saw her drawing something on the wall of the house with charcoal. She shakes her head, click her tongue as she says, "See this one now, taking after her grandfather."
Mama Dara muttered. "See her, always looking up and drawing useless things. That’s her nature."
"But what's wrong with drawing?" Cynthia asked her grandmother without looking at her side.
"That's useless; face your studies, or is it drawing these lines that will feed you?" Grandma responded to her and walked in.
That very night, as Cynthia stepped in to retire for the night, she overheard her parents arguing in their room.
"David, so you won't do anything about this, will you, is it until your daughter disgrace us?" her mother said. "Is she not supposed to be serious with her academics and not waste her precious time with nonsense drawings?"
"Let this girl rest now; she's still small. Besides, she's just gifted," her father responded to her mother quietly. "I think it's just in her blood."
*"Gifted? In her blood? Is that all you will say? Her mother snapped.
Cynthia went in, picked up her sketchbook, and curled around her pillow, holding the book tightly, as if it was something precious.
Well, that battle never ended.
"Drop that sketchbook now and go inside to pick up your books." Her mother shouted at her one afternoon.
"But I am done with my homework, Mummy." Cynthia protested.
"So it's all about doing homework now. You have your WAEC examination coming up in a few weeks, and you are here sketching."
Her father was sitting in the dining room eating when her mother was shouting at her. He dropped his spoon into the plate loudly, stood up, and said, "Allow her, give her one more hour, dear; we don't need to shout at her, she needs to be nurtured to mature."
"So, that's what you have to say again, nurture, right? And what if it fails and she later ends up with nothing but these useless papers?"
"Mummy, stop, I won't fail." Cynthia said.
Her mother looked at her, sighed, and without saying anything, she stood up and went in.
Even at school, they see her differently; each year they would write absent-minded on her report card. And her classmates also won't stop mocking her for doodling in margins.
One particular day, she was tearing one of her sketches when her best friend, Kemi, saw her. She quickly rushed to her side to snatch it away from her, but it was too late.
"Cynthia, but why?" Kemi asked.
"My mom says it's useless." She said, almost crying.
"No, dear, no," Kemi said as she shook her head. "Be calm, okay? This is not the best thing to do; rather, prove her wrong and use it for something. This is you, this is your nature, dear; don't bury it, rather fight for it."
Cynthia got home, did all that was expected of her, and went inside her room. She drew that night until her fingers hurt, and she slept off.
In her SS3, a competition was announced, one that has never been done. They always do debate, writing, spelling, and some other competitions. But this time, it was an art competition, a national one at that. When it was announced, Cynthia hesitated as she didn't know if her parents would allow her. Her friend encouraged her to at least tell them about it first.
Later that week, she told her parents; her mother looked at her and shouted, "Art competition? Are you just so interested in disgracing this family? Don't you know you are going there to be used? Your workmates are busy studying, and..."
Her father didn't allow her mom to conclude when he cut her short, "At least let her try. This is a gift she has since birth; allow her. Who knows, it might take her farther than we thought if we join hands together to nurture it."
"And who knows, maybe it will ruin her future, her mother snapped.
"Mummy, please, allow me just this once." Cynthia said with her voice trembling.
A long sigh, followed by a side-eye and then silence.
"Fine." Her mother blurted out at last. But don't...don't worry, it's fine."*
Then came the night before submission. I was on my knees drawing when the light went off, and everywhere was dark.
Cynthia sat down and murmured, "Is this not a bad sign, God, please?" She said as tears filled her eyes.
Just then, her father knocked on her door and entered carrying a lamp. He set it down just beside her sketchpad. "Continue, dear, I'm here with you; your nature is in your hands, so do justice to the drawing as my nurture gives you light."
"And what if it’s not good enough?" She said with fear in her face..
"My dear, I hope you know fire can destroy, the same way it can also warm and do certain useful things. In the same light is your gift, so let your gift warm the world." Her father said as he patted her on the back.
That was the push needed; she grabbed her drawing materials and drew, shadows flickering all around her as every stroke felt like defiance.
The results came out some weeks later. And guess what, Cynthia had won. Her painting was displayed all over Lagos, the news carried it, and the Internet space was filled with her drawing.
It was later the family knew the gravity of what their daughter had won.
Aside the scholarship attached to it, various companies started reaching out with juicy deals. There were various cash gifts from celebrities and the likes.
Later that week when the family gathered, Mama Dara tapped her walking stick, smiled, and nodded at Cynthia, who was sitting on the opposite chair.
"I am proud of you," she said. "Who knows the cloud head would turn lines into bread?"
Her father too nodded at her and smile.
Cynthia smiled back, trying to hold the tears already forming in her eyes. "It's obvious nature gave me this gift, but your nurturing gave me the courage."
And her mother, who hasn't been supporting her, sighed as she looked at her daughter as if studying her. Then in a very soft voice, she said, "I'm sorry, dear, I'm wrong, and I want to apologize to you sincerely. I now understand that "nurture" means "guiding nature."
Her father smiled and responded to her. *"That's right, the real battle is nature versus nurture. And together they help to build destiny.
Cynthia sat there and smiled as her head swelled. And for the first time, her sketchbook, sketchpad, and all her writing materials didn't feel like rebellion but like freedom.
All pictures were generated using AI.
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