Lanre, Lanre?!
He turned immediately at the sound of his name. He was halfway across the unpaved road, on his way to Mama Sade’s shop where he planned to beg for a loaf of bread and #100 groundnut, to pay later. It was noon already, and he had not tasted anything aside from his toothbrush and close-up toothpaste. His eyes gazed toward the voice, trying to recognise who was calling. Then he saw him, Dotun.
Dotun looked differently Polished, with Beards, and Calm like someone who does not need to chase anything anymore. The whole place was covered with the fragrance from his body.
Lanre smiled awkwardly as he adjusted his collar. His slippers were cracked at the rear edge, and the T-shirt he wore had already begun to lose its shape.
“Guy! Na you?” Dotun asked again, stepping forward with arms open for a hug. Lamre reluctantly hugged him back. It wasn't a long hug, just a brief one like old friends would do while unsure about how far the other has gone.
Dotun was just about to enter Citrus Grill, one of the fancy spots in the area. A place where Lanre only saw from outside and knew from social media reels and smell.
“Make we go chop,” Dotun offered gently. He had noticed the discomfort on Lanre’s face and figured out that he probably was hungry too. Lanre resisted but Dotun insisted they eat together so they walked in.
Inside the restaurant, everything smelled like wealth. The chairs had cushions, on the walls were hung artworks Lanre knew he could’ve made with his eyes closed back then. But now, all he could do was lower his head and whisper thank you when the food came.
Dotun spoke confidently but not with arrogance. He asked why Lanre stopped making artworks and discussed the hidden opportunity in art especially for born and well developed talents. He talked about selling pieces to galleries in South Africa and collaborating with a fashion brand in Paris. He also mentioned Tolu, the quiet one amongst them from secondary school, who now runs an online art mentorship community with over 50,000 subscribers.
Lanre smiled, nodded, and chewed slowly., but somewhere between the fourth spoonful of jollof rice and the last slice of grilled chicken, the weight in his chest became too heavy to hide. His appetite left him. I wasn’t because of what Dotun said, but in what he Could have done and did not.
He cleaned his mouth, stood, and muttered. “Bro, I get something wey I need sort. I wan start to dey go.” Dotun looked up, concerned. “You sure?” Lanre nodded, with a half smile on his face. Avoiding eye contact, he walked towards the door.
That afternoon, when he got home, he sat on his thin mattress, the same foam he had been using since freshman year. The edges were bent and the middle sunken. He stared at his hands, those same hands that once drew portraits in under ten minutes and had classmates chanting his name like he was some kind of creative prophet.
Back then, he remembers. He was the one they all come to for help. Even Dotun and Tolu would run to him whenever they faced difficulties in art. His works were crisp, bold, and confident. Teachers would hang his artworks in their staff rooms. His drawings made it to local exhibitions even while he was still in uniform shorts. But talent is a tricky thing. If you do not feed it, it would not die but sleep, and Lanre had let his sleep for too long.
He also thought about how he gradually faded his passion for art back in the university. The way he got comfortable with the wrong friends. Good guys though, but without passion and a clear vision. They play video games at every free time they get, they discuss the hottest ladies on campus, argued football, celebrities and all sorts of irrelevant topics like who has more money between WizKid and Davido. Art became an afterthought, A "maybe later." And later never came.
He blinked. The room was quiet. Like his once bright future, the bulb above blinked slowly. He still had his hands, although a little bit unsteady. However, they were still able to recall the rhythm.
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He stood up, opened the old wooden drawer by his bedside, and pulled out a long forgotten sketchbook. The pages had patterns as if water poured on it and dried up. The pencil was blunt, he couldn't find a blade or cutter to sharpen it. But something about holding the sketchbook and pencil again lit a spark in him.
He whispered under his breath, to himself. “It’s late, but not too late.” That night, under a flickering bulb and with a stomach half full, Lanre drew for the first time in years. Not for praise nor for likes, but for redemption. Even though he arrived late for the game, he wasn't yet prepared to surrender it.
After his decision to go all in, six months later, Lanre’s drawings were making the rounds on social media again. Although it wasn't viral, it was a real progress. In addition to having a small but devoted Instagram following, he had finished more than 20 commissioned portraits and been included in a local art show. He even saved enough to buy a digital drawing tablet, something he once considered luxury.
At this point, Lanre is still catching up, but he was back in the game, drawing, learning, earning. And for someone who once almost gave it all up, these was more than enough.
This is my entry for the Inkwell fictional prompt #228 title, Late to the game, thank you for reading through