The smell of old paper hit my nose hard when I opened the door to my uncle’s bookstore and stepped into the store. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun wasn't too hot, just the perfect heat to go with the gust of wind that was blowing. A sign that December was almost around the corner.
I stood at the door briefly and looked around the bookstore. Sunlight from outside filtered through the dusty louvers, landing in soft squares across the floorboards. The once heavily filled room now looked like a room slowly forgetting how to be itself.
Gradually, the shelves were becoming empty. Some books lay in loose stacks on the floor, waiting to be boxed. The air inside was thick, warm, and still familiar. A sign that the books were still breathing. For years, that familiar scent had welcomed me into this little world where magic lived inside books.
"That scent from the books is a sign that they're alive no matter how long they stay on their shelf. Eager and willing to lead you into their world of possibilities." My uncle had said to me one day I asked why the books had this scent you just can't resist.
But today, although the books were still eager, something just felt different.
Maybe because that was the day we were closing the shop.
"Uncle!" I called out. My eyes scanned the room, searching for my uncle.
"I'm over here." I heard his voice from the far end of the room, up a ladder, holding a duster in one hand and an almost worn-out copy of Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart in the other. His glasses were slightly down on his nose as he turned to see me.
“Zerah,” he said, smiling. “You truly came.”
“I told you I wouldn't miss it for anything,” I replied, dropping my bag behind the counter where I used to sit and read for hours, and walking closer to him. “Alright, tell me what to do. I want to help.”
He looked down at me from the ladder and smiled. Then he nodded and turned back to the shelf he was unpacking. “I am trying to pack from the top down. Try and box those ones on the floor for me."
I looked back at the heap of books scattered on the floor.
"What would you do with all these books?" I asked, so curious to know.
"I’ll donate some. Others, we’ll see.”
I didn't question his reason. I just got to work boxing the books on the floor. We worked in silence for a while, side by side. I made sure to gently pick each book and arrange them ac-cording to their sizes in the box. Pausing at intervals to glance at their covers before putting them into the boxes. My fingers didn't forget to caress a few of them I’d read long ago. Some things which helped to shape my dreams as a writer today, before adulthood and Lagos life added the remaining touch.
I was almost done packing when I found it. Chimamanda Adichie's Purple Hibiscus. The story of Kambili, a character I had so much admired as a thirteen-year-old girl when I first read the book. Her quiet strength had stayed with me for days. It was so much that I even wrote her name in my diary. Sometimes I wish she could be real, so that she would be my friend.
I froze and sank to the floor with the book sitting perfectly between my hands. Its edges were almost worn.
“That one again?” I heard my uncle ask.
I smiled, brushing a speck of dust off the corner. “Do you remember how this was the first book that made me cry?” I said without looking up at him.
He laughed in a dry and croaky voice. “I always wondered how because it wasn't a tragedy, was it?" He asked. "I mean it's a good book and any good book that doesn’t touch you hasn’t done its job. I guess that one touched you differently.”
“Do you mind if I keep this one?” I asked in my baby voice looking at him now with so much pleading in my eyes.
He smiled then gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Of course. You’ve earned it.” Then he proceed-ed to unpack the shelves again.
There was a silence between us. No one spoke apart from the sound of my uncle's duster on the books. And the sound of the books slamming against each other as I boxed them up.
Then I spoke out of pure curiosity. “I still don’t understand why you are closing the shop,” I said, looking up at him.
He stopped again and glanced around his shop. Then he took a deep breath. “I've asked myself that question too. But business is just too dry these days. People prefer reading from their screens now. And my eyes…” he adjusted his glasses from his nose to his eyes and shook his head. “They’re tired. Besides, I'm an old man and can't climb these ladders every day. So I thought about it with my family and we agreed it was time to retire.”
I wanted to argue. Tell him the world still needs places like this. But on a second thought his family was right. He was getting old. And he was right too. Things were changing. Technolo-gy is taking over.
“So what now?” I asked him, concerned.
“Go home. Rest. Maybe write something. Instead of letting my experience go to waste, I would rather repurpose it. I know you've not read a story about us, our origin. Just the white man’s tales, right?.”
I nodded.
He smiled and looked into the space. There was something in his eyes. “It’s time I listened to my inner voice and write about us. About our ancestors.”
I looked at the Purple Hibiscus sitting beside me and picked it up. “ I'm sure it'll be my best book ever and not The Purple Hibiscus anymore." I smiled. "Oh, and I’ll be your first read-er.”
He chuckled. “I’ll hold you to that.” He returned to what he was doing.
We packed for another hour, unaware of when the sun dipped lower. To me, I wasn't just packing books, I was packing memories too. And now, it is ending.
As I left the bookstore that evening, holding onto the book I had in my hands. Purple hibis-cus. I reminded myself of how that single book would forever hold the memories of an old world into the future.
Not just the memories. To me, Purple Hibiscus wasn't just a book; it was an opening to a chapter of my life I cherish now. If I had wasted it then, I wouldn't have wanted it now.
Waste not, want not.
