In The Time Machine of Memories
I will never forget the day my granny hurt me to save me.
Almost everybody in Nigeria is angry with every other Nigerian. And for just reasons.
Nowhere is this more evident than on Nigeriaโs Twitter (X) space. You wonโt have to scroll more than two or three screen pages of scrolling to come across insults and verbal assaults over issues over which there are disagreements.
Follow me to Mastodon or Bluesky, where peace and decency reign.
Of a truth, these other platforms have their load of bullshat users. But you have better control over those you connect and share with.
Embrace sanity.
Yesterday on Twitter, a well-known British politician with Nigerian roots made derogatory comments about immigrants entering the UK. Her words drew non-salutary remarks from some Nigerians at home and abroad.
Currently, I donโt know much about UK politics. As such, I will refrain from making comments on topics I am not well-informed about. As I listened to her comments and the ensuing reactions, which seemed justified on the surface, one thought instantly sprang to mind.
The memory of my loving grandmother.
I spent my pre-teen to late teenage years living with my grandparents. My parents resided in a distant town in another state, a full day's travel away.
My grandfatherโs house was a modest adobe one-story building. His day of farmwork done, heโll hop on his gorgeous Raleigh bike, riding back home on this sleek black beauty from Britain.
Ascending the stairs, my old man soon finds himself perched on the balcony by the window. There, he took his rest, though ever alert and not completely oblivious to happenings around him. All his children had become parents themselves, and many of them resided far from their childhood home.
His grandchildren were either playing or running errands for their grandmother. Every child grew up knowing that Grandpa was a no-nonsense man. You either shape up or receive Papa's disciplinary cane for your misconduct.
On one of those school-free days, he ordered me to join him for work at one of his farm plots. Coming from a large family, there were many hungry mouths to feed. I must contribute my share of manual labor to help with the family's upkeep.
The farm, about 2 miles away, was the nearest to the house. Then, trekking that distance with our heads overloaded with farm produce seemed like a brisk walk.
At the farm, we labored on till around midday when we had our lunch โ of roasted yams. After finishing lunch, we took a brief break before resuming work with the afternoon weeding session.
Not long after the second half resumed, I told my grandpa I was exhausted and could no longer continue. On that day, my progress on the job was slow. To make matters worse, I had a painful, unhealed open wound on my leg. Every physical action was a source of acute pain.
My grandpa would have none of my complaints. I must stay fast at my assignment till the closing of the day.
Out of respect and awe, none of his children, all of them already parents, dared disobey him.
I had no other option. So, it seemed.
But I knew what I would do.
Patiently, I waited for him to venture deeper into the farm. As soon I noticed he was out of earshot, I made a quick escape.
Home, here I come.
โGrandpa, Iโm sorry, you will have to join me at home when youโre done.โ
No, I wasnโt sorry. But I knew I had earned his anger, but I was ready to face the consequences.
Grandma rescued me with her armor of words.
My grandpa returned from his farm. And true to form, he ordered me to report at his judgment hall. Upstairs.
โOlatoye, why did you run away from the farm before finishing your work โฆ?โ
Quivering in fear, I picked my steps, ready to ascend upstairs. My time of reckoning has come.
It was then, that my grandma appeared on the scene. Grandpa was upstairs, while my grandma was downstairs. Knowing the inescapable judgment awaiting me, she rang out with apologies on my behalf.
โO, papa, please donโt be angry. This foolish lazy boy, all he knows, is how to eat. He doesnโt know how to work. Papa, forgive him. Next time, he wonโt try that nonsense again. Papa, please, no vex. โฆ.โ
On and on she went until my grandpaโs anger was pacified. The punishment I was expecting, involving multiple cane strikes on my back as I lay flat and face-down before him, was deleted.
On that day, what amazed me most was that my grandma was by my side consoling me all the while he was pleading to my grandpa.
In the breaks between her pleadings, she whispered soothing consolations to my ears.
โDonโt mind your grandpa. Sometimes, he could be so unreasonable. I don't understand how he expects you to get much work done when you're in so much pain from a slow-healing wound...
I couldnโt believe my ears.
Grandma, rub it on. Rub on the soothing balms โ your words of comfort and consolation.
My grandmother was scolding me in front of my usually unyielding grandfather to protect me from the harsh cane lashes he had planned to administer to me. Simultaneously, she was appealing and interceding for my grandpa to temper his justice with mercy.
His mercy prevailed on that day. I was spared his judgment because of my grandmaโs on-the-spot intervention.
I was forgiven. All because of my grandmotherโs love.
A few months before my grandpa passed away, I noticed that the man had completely softened and mellowed from his truculent temper. He started exhibiting great gentleness and patience with his restless and irritable grandchildren.
The man, once feared by the entire household, now responds with patience and understanding whenever a child's misbehavior is reported to him.
โHey, forgive him. He is a little child. Children donโt always know what they are doing โฆโ
Case dismissed.
Once more, I was completely astonished.
The judge has received enough evidence to pronounce the guilty verdict on the miscreants. But here I see him tempering justice with mercy for the accused, and setting free the guilty child.
Grace.
Barely three months after I left home, my grandpa died. My grandma joined him about twenty years later.
To non-Nigerians reading my story, you may think that my grandpa was a hard, abusive, and cruel man. No. Never. That's how we were raised.
Grandpa and Grandma both love their grandchildren in different ways. Tough love from my grandpa. Tough and tender love from my grandma.
Five decades on, with my children and adopted grandchildren by my side, both tough and tender love have carved their rightful places in my heart and home.
Bringing the past into yesterday
Reflecting on the comments from the Nigerian British politician yesterday, my late grandmaโs act of tough and tender love, rescuing me from certain though undeserved punishment 50 years ago, came to my mind.
I asked myself the question,
โHow would you have acted if you were in the same shoes as the said politician?โ
My answer,
โI would have acted the same way my grandma talked tough against me before my grandpa to save me from receiving an undeserved punishment.โ
Things arenโt always the way they appear. Maybe Iโm just seeing things from a simplistic, see no evil, hear no evil, and do no evil point of view.
Well, what do I know?
Share your mind with me in the comments.
Thanks for reading. Connect with me via AkinTree. This story was originally published on Medium.