My grandfather’s house is one of my favorite places in the world. The last time I was there I took photographs and wrote this:
You can miss something, and not want it back. Nostalgia is good. It is safe, now too far. It is warm, sometimes. It romanticizes. It is revisionist. Keep one eye on the past (who are we without our history, good or bad?). But make sure the other is on the future (because who are we without hope?) — December 2nd, 2019.
It was one of the rare occasions I opened my window. I saw the light (and the fan’s sneaky shadow) and I knew I just had to record this. I went to the balcony and just stayed there with my camera and mosquitoes. Why do I love this so much? It reminds me of my paternal grandparents. It reminds me of my village, Osi-Ekiti. It reminds me of salt at doorposts inviting people to celebrate. It reminds me of goats with eyes as intelligent as humans. It reminds me of fresh irú. It reminds me of the rhythm of the mortar and pestle early in the morning. It reminds me of the biting harmattan wind when the blanket doesn’t reach your legs. It reminds me of the Oro dancers at midnight and their singing whips. It reminds me of long empty tarred roads. It reminds me of yellow kegs of palm wine sitting in the fading moonlight. It reminds me of the grand piano that herded my grandfather’s corpse down the aisle in that Anglican Church. Maybe I love this so much because it reminds me of everything that makes me soft, everything that blends all of my paths into a single purpose, and everything that makes me look for warmth in simple places. Maybe. — October 8, 2019