So its Friday the 13th!
Am I supposed to be scared? No way. These oyibo people and their superstitions sef.
Me, I have lots of good news to sing about….
Straight up, my daddy got me my first piano recently. Just the right size and weight and it has real piano and organ sounds, not all that silly stuff you find on kiddie pianos. It even has its own drum and different musical instrument sounds. So its very nice and I really like it.
Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful but….. I am already feeling the weight of human expectation on my little shoulders. Apparently, there are all these wonderful blind musicians that are famous all over the world, and three in particular that my father and mother just will not stop talking about. Stevie Wonder. Cobhams. Ray Charles. My mum even knows Cobhams personally. For some not-so-strange reason, I feel as if I am expected to become like them. Ha!
My dad doesn’t say it directly, but he is forever planting me in front of the music speakers and starts playing ‘Isn’t she lovely’ at the loudest volume, as if I am deaf. At first I was really happy to listen to the song and would give my widest, cutest eight-toothed smile, believing the song was all about me. But then, it quickly became like, “Okay dad. I heard it the first time. And the second time, and the twenty-teenth time…..” Well, it turns out it isn’t all about me because it seems all dad wants is for me to be like Stevie. It’s not about the lovely baby Stevie sings about. If I had my way – and just to be ‘too forward’ as they say – I would turn it around and sing the song back at dad like, ‘Aren’t I lovely? Aren’t I beautiful? etc etc. I can imagine my dad’s face. ‘Yes, yes, yes. We know you are lovely, Didi. And you can sing. We are all singers in our family. BUT PLAY THE DAMN INSTRUMENT!“ And I would give him my cute little smile again, just to disarm him – and frustrate him – even more.
But why do parents always think the good parts of their kids come from their side of the family and the ‘bad’ parts from the other side? I mean, my dad probably thinks he can sing. So does my mum actually – though to be fair, she’s not bad. But nothing like her sister Aunty Ngozi or her brother, Uncle Emeka. Those two are heavenly. Uncle Emeka used to play the piano and sing to me in his sweet voice even when I was in my mother’s belly. But both mum and dad each claim my obviously wonderful voice exclusively comes from their side of the family. They also argue that my angry barking and maddening squeals come from the other side. So after hearing both sides of the argument, I decided to find out for myself and listen out for evidence…
One night, when only God knows what was doing them, they started playing with some kind of funny computer app which allowed them sing along to their favourite songs. Oh, My, God! It was atrocious – my dad especially. I don’t know whether they had overdosed on Aptamilk or whatever adults drink to get high, but I had no choice but to attempt to drown out their voices with my own singing. Which only made things worse by forcing them to sing even louder. In short, the less said about that unfortunate experience the better. To be honest, I think I quickly realised that my singing talent at least for now, comes from my mum’s side, until proven otherwise. But we shall revisit this topic at a later date, because that dispute is not going to go away any time soon.
Funny enough, one talent they both agree on (whether or not they claim it to have come from their own side of the family) is my egg-laying talent. I am quite proud of it actually. I am now laying eggs about four times a day and I love the way my mum gets so mushy (forgive the pun) whenever I succeed. I think it’s because my egg-laying was erratic when I was still small – well, smaller – and mum was constantly worried. But now, it apparently is of the right bulk and has a ‘mature’ aroma. And not only do I now lay about four times a day – sometimes even as many as six times – I also lay two types of eggs: no 1 and no 2. Its the no 2 that mum gets really excited about. Dad, for some reason, seems a little less enthusiastic. He’s okay with no1 though, but they are obviously less valuable.
Dad says my no 2s are in fact dinosaur eggs. My understanding is that once I lay the egg yoke, mum carefully wraps and straps them nice and neatly into shape in their protective pampers shells and then places them in a special incubator-type place. I’ve noticed that only mum handles the no2 eggs, dad never comes near. It must be that they are so delicate and valuable that it takes special care not to destroy them, and only mum has that skill. I think Dad sells them to the government or maybe the Dinosaur Protection Society for a very high fee and I am pretty sure they are used to feed the dinosaurs. I heard on the TV the other day that dinosaurs are a threatened specie or even extinct, which means my dinosaur eggs must be absolutely priceless. Yesterday when dad mustered up some rare courage to take delivery of my no 2 egg (mum was not at home and it was a first for him) I was actually quite worried for him. So I helped out by laying only a small one. At least, it was better than nothing at all. I reckon it would at least pay the electricity bill. Or maybe even for garbage disposal. But I feel so abundantly blessed to be able to contribute these rare eggs to the world. I only wish I could do more. All said, mum and dad can’t complain that I am not contributing my own quota to the family income, even at a mere one years old.
Finally, I have to mention that I am standing on my feet now. Yes o, without support. I decided to get up, stand up to prove a point. Again mum and dad seemed to go ga-ga. For what reason I have no idea. I am not going to pretend that I even have a clue why everyone is making such a big fuss about it. Could it be because I am an independent young baby-girl that insists on standing up for her rights? I don’t know about all those adults around me but I don’t see them standing up much. They are always sitting down or even lying down. I mean a good example is power. If you simply lie down all the time you have no power. In Lekki, I am told there is never any light. Not that I would know the difference, being blind. But I do know that everybody just lies down in the darkness, sweating. So when are people going to stand up for light? Is it fear, sheer laziness or what? Personally, I hate it when my mum or dad lift me up and then go and sit down. What’s the point?
So I’m standing up by myself, for myself.
But ultimately, here’s the thing:
“Aint nothing gonna break my stride,
Nobody’s gonna slow me down.
I got to keep on movin’….”
Ha-ha! Seems there were some good songs before my time!