The box was sweating the first time I had seen it.
It could only be the case. The box was made of wood, and was lying on the floor of the room of my grandmother in Ibadan, and though the afternoon was hot and dry, the surface of the box appeared somewhat wet, as though it had been stifling its breath a long time.
Wisdom, bring that box, here, my grandmother called out of bed.
I got on my knees and picked it up. The box was small but heavy. Dust had also gotten up in my nose and I sneezed.
“Sorry, Grandma. Wetin dey inside?” I inquired and laid it by her pillow.
She flipped her cover and smiled timorously. The fan in the ceiling in the room was rotating slowly and circulating warm air in the room. Children shouted outside, and were racing up and down the street after a tyre. The odor of fried plantain was floating in through the open window.
That box has travelled farther than I, said she to herself.
I brought a plastic chair nearer and sat down. I had arrived at Lagos three days ago due to her illness. My mom said that she required somebody to be with her.
“Open it,” she said.
The lock was dilapidated and already damaged. As I opened the lid the scent of old paper, camphor, flew out. There were Ankara wrappers folded up inside, an old silver bell, old photographs, and collections of letters knotted together, which were tied with an old blue ribbon.
“You can read them,” she said.
“Are they yours?”
“Some are mine. Some belong to someone else.”
I unbundled one of them. The paper was yellow and thin. The handwriting was bold but tremulous in others. My dear Abike was the address of the first letter.
“Grandma, who is Abike?” I asked.
She laughed softly. “That is me. My childhood name.”
I continued reading. The letter was about cocoa plantations, downpours, and homesickness. Somebody signed it with the name Tunde.
“Was he Grandpa?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. He was my elder brother.”
I looked up, surprised. You did not tell me that you had a brother.
He used to travel at my tender age, she said. “Always chasing big dreams. He thought that our village was too small on his account.
I picked another letter. It talked of employment in a port and speaking new languages.
“Did he promise to come back?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. He told him that he would come back after he had earned enough money.
I turned over additional letters. The dates told that they used to do it quite often at first, and gradually began to decrease.
“What happened later?” I asked quietly.
Grandmother was peering through the window. A butterfly flew over the iron bars and landed on it a few seconds, and then flew off.
Then one day the letters ceased, she said.
The room became very still. Even the fan sounded louder.
“You tried to find him?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. Traders and travellers were consulted by my father. Nobody had news.”
I put my hand into the box, and again felt the little silver bell.
“What is this?” I asked, lifting it.
That bell of his, she said. “He carried it everywhere. Its sound brought home to him, he said.
I shook it gently. It was light and distinct, as the spoon and the glass.
When we were children, she continued, he would ring it when he came back to the farm that I could run and open the gate.
I smiled slightly. In my quest to find out I came across a brown envelope that was not folded and was at the bottom. It seemed more recent than the others.
Grandma,... this is still under wraps.
She bent over at once. “Let me see.”
She felt music with her hands when she touched the envelope. She gazed at the hand-writing, and handed it back to me.
“Open it. My eyes are not strong again.”
I opened it carefully. Inside was one folded sheet.
I shifted my throat and started reading aloud.
Abike,
And in case this letter should reach you there are my chances that I have found a traveller coming home. I am safe. Now I am working in a small shop. I will come back when I have earned sufficient money. Be careful not to keep the bell, please. Whenever I hear its sound, I will recognize that I am home.
The letter ended there. No date. Just his name at the bottom.
I lowered the paper slowly. Grandma... you have never seen this before?
She shook her head. Her eyes had tears, which did not drop.
I took long before I waited, she said to herself. I was sitting out at every market day, with the hope that he might come down the road.
I put the letter with great care back in the envelope.
Perhaps, I thought to myself, the one who placed the box was not aware that there was another letter.
“Maybe,” she replied.
An evening prayer was floating in some distant mosque. The sky outside was made orange. The vibration of a generator in the compound was filled with the humming of one of the neighbours.
After awhile, she said, it is wisdom.
“Yes, Grandma.”
Your uncle, your uncle are coming tomorrow. Take this box into the sitting-room. They have never looked into all that was in it.
“Okay.”
She turned back her head against her pillow and closed her eyes momentarily. I put together the letters once more, and tied the blue ribbon. The silver bell would fall out of my fingers, as I lifted the lid to close the box, and struck a gentle blow in the wood.
My grand-mother opened her eyes at once.
“That sound…” she murmured. When we were children it was always evening time.
I put the bell in again and closed the lid lightly. The corners of the room were gradually filled with darkness. I took the box nearer to her bed, and sat down and watched it lying there, as though it had completed one long journey, and was waiting in silence till another should commence.
