I pine for a magical visit to Ekiti to embrace family elders who remain in our ancestral home. My parents, sisters and I will board an early bus destined down dusty roads into the rural heartlands that raised past generations of wide-eyed children on these red soils.
As we near the familiar brush and palm clusters marking the village outskirts, I will crane my neck eagerly from the open window inhaling earthy air tinged with woodsmoke. My waiting aunties, cousins, grandparents will rush laughing to swarm the van as it pulls in, their strong arms clutching my family close after months gone by. Under starfruit trees, little ones will tug us by the hands begging for tosses into the air and hometown songs from our childhoods here.
The humid evening will carry scents of the feast to come - Aunty Tope toiling proudly over sizzling pots in the outdoor kitchen, amala dough mixed masterfully with gbegiri nutty stew just the way this village best remembers. While sharing spoonfuls of her richly spiced accomplishment my uncles will recount old tales of gods walking the forests beyond these same farm rows. After the dishes are cleared and we help tidy the yard, my siblings and I will sit by Grandpa's feet as village elders share wise fables and proverbs over chilled palm wine.
When the time comes for dancing, my cousins will outfit us in rainbow patterned fabrics worn by generations who danced before under these garlands. We will sway in time stomping red dust into the air marking this sacred ground that has held the rhythms of our ancestors for centuries untold. And for a glimmering moment, with family surrounding me and drumbeats guiding our song, I will feel the truest magic is not some illusion but rather feeling the unbroken circle of past, present and future for one divine instant woven flawlessly, gracefully into one unending stream.
Thank you for reading, see you in my next post❤️❤️