![]() ![]() I didn’t understand most of what was going on, but I remember choristers in oversized blue and white suits, performed Odun N Lo Sopin at the end of the every year. I would follow her to the Yoruba speaking Church she attended. I knelt on the backseat, fighting back tears, waving hard until she faded away.ĭuring Christmas holidays, as kids in some parts of the world listened to Mariah Carey’s ‘ All I Want for Christmas’, I was in my grandmother’s house listening to a more indigenous classic. My last memory of her is watching her wave as my father’s car drove away for what would be last time. I remember how that my sadness had been too deep, too heavy for me to cry. We were sworn sisters and nothing in the world was going to separate us. When my parents weren’t in, we would play Lagbaja’s CD on a large TV with a small screen, watching with fascination, wondering who the man behind the mask was, following the lyrics on the screen while our bodies moved ever so slightly to the music. We spent an awful amount of time in each other’s houses. She took me to the house I grew up in, and to times spent playing with my neighbour’s daughter, Chiamaka. She took me back to younger days and simpler years. Amidst all the banter, someone played Never Far Away by Lagbaja, and it felt like I had stepped into a time machine. ![]() ![]() Some days ago, I left the heat and darkness of my room to go hang out with friends. ![]()
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