Grey Is The Color
The musings of a mute. Originally posted on May 11th 2022
I lost my hearing in a thunderstorm.
A rather loud one when my head was at a rather odd angle against the floor favorable enough for sound amplification and my auditory demise. One would read that and feel pity for me. That is all wasted. I’m surviving, living my best I dare say. One would also worry about my supposed anxiety when a storm is up ahead, but that too is wasted.
I was anxious of her once, but the storm lost its power upon my realization that I couldn’t hear her terror anymore only felt her gentle soothing breeze, and if I closed my eyes, I could fly among her grey clouds.
Grey, a color I learnt to love with all its mundanity. Washed out, worn out, old, discarded, forgotten grey. I learnt to see myself that way, I learnt to love that about myself and the clouds and by extension, I learnt to love the storm. Meditating on her, reading a nice book by the thatched window as she unleashes her terror like the masquerade during the ILI JI OFUU festival.
Papa is worried sometimes. He tells mama that I would never grow up like the rest of the boys in my age grade. I don’t know if he would be surprised that I gave up on the educational system a while back.
“Wée ndidi, o ga di mma”
“hold on, it’ll get better.”
Mama would solicit in hand gestures attempting to reignite the passion for education that had died and long since drowned in the River Niger. Doctor Emmanuel said we all had to learn the hand gestures, said it helped with communication between us since along the line, I lost the will to speak.
Papa was too ashamed and in denial to learn. “the gods forbid that my child is a mute, a retard!”, he spat. That was the last time we spoke, saw even. I still live under his roof, still enjoy(if I can still call it that) the privileges of being his son though there are three more boys, but we are never in the same place. If he is upstairs, I’m down. I stopped eating with the family since I sense how much I dampen the mood.
The tales Ada would share in the lantern-lit evenings were but a memory that has evaporated as steam from the kettle. That was fine, I did enjoy my own company. It gave me room to explore the crevices of my own mind and enough space to create worlds and their heroes. Mama and Papa fight or at least quarrel in hushed tones because of me, more now than ever. I see it on her face and in the heaviness of her shoulders when she comes to see me after every episode.
“O ga di mma”
She would gesture, whilst fighting back tears as she’d stare at me for what feels like forever, then draw me into a tight yet gentle hug. The words always seemed like they were intended more for her than they were for me. Always labored, always putting up a certain rehearsed bravado. I can only respond with silence, uncertain if I should respond in hand gestures, what to say or if anything should be sad at all.
Sometimes, I wish times were different, less grey, with beautiful hues and tones. Papa returning home from the farm, responding to my greetings with equal enthusiasm, lifting me six feet away from the ground and into a warm sweaty embrace, sitting around with my brothers as Ada tells us stories she cooked up or read from one of her many English books on the evenings we don’t go to the market square along with the other children.
Do not waste pity on me as I’m all alone in this world, do not hiss and wail and implore the gods to change my fate. For as the gods have blessed me with this fate, they also have cursed me with the gift of Akukó.
Grandpa tells me every time he comes around, that I have eyes that speak more stories than all his peers gathered at the market square on a cool Eke evening, that if the words and worlds he could see from them ever escaped and penetrated ears of another, I would be a famous storyteller in all the land.
One day I would tell my story, many stories for those who would listen. I have many in my head and one thing they all have in common will be the grey sky and the stubborn boy who told stories to any who would give ear. That day is not today, as I stare into the horizon. A storm is approaching.
ILI JI OFUU- new yam festival. An annual festival celebrated in the eastern part of Nigeria around august to mark the new harvest of yam.
Akukó- storytelling
Eke- one of the four Igbo market days