I stood at the edge of the familiar dusty road with the scent of earth and rain filling the air, and the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my skin. The village hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been here. If anything at all had changed, it seemed to have grown quieter and more still. There was something about the stillness though, that made the memories hit so hard.
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Last year, I had come back to the village for the first time in five years. And it wasn’t the same. Papa wasn’t there anymore.
Sighing, I took a deep breath and walked down the road. As a child, I used to run along this very pathway with my siblings. We would laugh as we raced toward the old mango tree where we would play hide and seek, or to the village stream where we would play “oga”. But at this moment, everything felt so different. The people, the environment, and the little spaces that once carried the weight of joy and laughter, felt so heavier now; tainted with loss.
My grandfather, Elder Obasi, had passed away two years ago, but it felt like it was just yesterday.
"Tonye!" A voice called me from behind.
I turned to see my cousin, Derra, running toward me. She was grinning widely with her beautiful dreadlocks I always admired bouncing with every step. With a tight hug filled with love and longing she exclaimed “You’re here! I almost thought you wouldn’t make it. Everyone has been waiting to see you.”
Despite the prevailing feeling, I forced a smile. “I wasn’t sure about coming back, to be very honest.”
Derra raised an eyebrow, like she could sense something deeper in the way I spoke. “You know Grandpa wouldn’t have wanted you to stay away.”
I nodded silently, totally agreeing with her. Our grandfather had been loved by the people of the village. He was a man of great wisdom and always willing to give a listening ear to people’s cries or tell a story that made the world seem so bright. He had a way of making sure everyone feels important and turning every mundane thing into something special. He was the kind of man who would take the children to the centre of the compound on nights when the moon shone the brightest, sit them in a circle, and tell captivating stories under the moonlight. Bringing smiles and awe to the faces of the children.
“Do you remember that night he told us about the spirit of the river?” Derra asked while sitting by my side on the edge of the pathway.
I chuckled, though it was tinged with sadness. “How could I forget? I was so scared of the river spirit that I made sure to avoid the stream for weeks after that.”
That memory was so funny that we laughed out so loud, so carefree but it was short-lived as the memories crept back in. Memories of long nights spent with our grandfather, the way his voice flowed like a song, and how every tale he told felt so real. Most times I wondered if the village was built on those stories.
But now he was gone. And with him, that sense of wonder had begun to fade.
As night fell, the entire family gathered in the town square under the very mango tree where we used to play. The lanterns flickered, casting warm yellow light on the faces of people i hadn’t seen in so many years. Yet even with the crowd around me, there was an eerie feeling of emptiness. The space where my grandfather used to sit while laughing and telling stories, was now empty.
I watched as the other children ran around, so oblivious to the loss. I felt the tug in my heart, the feeling that I had lost something precious and irreplaceable.
“Do you miss him?” Derra asked quietly, her voice soft but knowing.
“I do,” I replied with a trembling voice for the first time. “I miss everything about him. The stories, the way he made me feel safe. Like nothing in this world could hurt me as long as he was around.”
Derra nodded, with her face, serious now. “I miss him too. But maybe... maybe it’s not about him being here anymore. Maybe it’s about what he taught us.”
I looked at my cousin with confusion written all over my face. “What do you mean?”
Derra stood up and dusted off her skirt with her eyes shining under the light of the moon. “Remember that Grandpa always told us that the stories were alive as long as we kept telling them. That, that’s how things don’t fade away. We carry them inside us, in the way we live, in the way we share it with others.”
My heart softened. Derra was indeed right. Maybe I didn’t have to hold on so tightly to the past. Grandpa’s stories were a part of me, and they would always be with me forever.
Suddenly, a thought struck me, and I stood up, pulling Derra along. “Let’s go to the mango tree,” I said like someone with a new sense of purpose.
We walked briskly to the familiar tree, its branches swayed gently in the evening breeze. I placed my hand on its rough bark trying to feel the connection to something ancient, something unchanging. Through my mind, I could see Papa sitting there, telling another one of his stories.
While I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, I started to speak with a voice so soft but very steady. “Long ago, there was a river that ran through our village…”
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Derra smiled. Her eyes were so bright as she joined in, and soon the other children gathered around, grappling to sit at our feet, so eager for the story to unfold. The moonlight shone on their faces with a gentle glow, and the village felt alive to me once again.
I instantly knew for a certainty that the essence of my grandfather’s life had not for a second left. He was in the stories. He was in the laughter. He was in the way the children all came together under the moonlit sky.
Nostalgia was not just about remembering the past. It was about embracing it, carrying it forward, sharing it, and finding new ways to make it live on.
And as the children sat at our feet, I felt a warmth spread through my bones. Finally I had found my peace. I had learnt not to hold on to what was lost, but to share the pieces of it that still lingered.