The past is but a memory. Yet, memory is a powerful thing. It anchors us, shaping who we are and connecting us to the experiences and individuals that have entered our lives. These memories nurture our present and shape our future. Some recollections come with a weight we would prefer to erase, yet others, regardless of their brevity or insignificance, define us and remain incredibly vivid.
I often reflect on the narratives of my youth, especially those linked to my maternal grandparents, Osoke and Odume, whose legacies consist not of material riches but of integrity and resilience. I remember Osoke—her name meant “burning embers,” a tribute to her fair complexion that seemed to glow with an inner fire. One day, she taught me how to swim in a manner that could be described as both unorthodox and terrifying. Without warning, she threw me into the Ezute River. I splashed, panicked, and fought against the water until I reached the shore, gasping but triumphant. By the time Osoke had waded back to shore, I was already standing there, shaking but proud. That day, she didn’t scold me or coddle me. With a subtle nod, she conveyed a profound message: resilience. It was a lesson that would stay with me, silently guiding me through life’s subsequent trials.
I also remember one particular rainy day at the family farm. The rain pounded relentlessly on the thatch roof, and the air inside the farmhouse was filled with the smoky warmth of a logwood fire. My grandfather, Odume, sat beside me. He was a man whose every gesture was deliberate and measured. I must have done something to upset him that day—I was a mischievous child by nature—because he reached for a cane. Before he could strike, I darted out of the house and stood at the base of the hill where the farmhouse was perched. I shouted up at him, daring him to chase me down the slippery slope. Odume stood in the doorway, laughing, his eyes twinkling with that wise, knowing amusement only the elders possess.
“Come back if you can,” he called.
I stood there, shivering in the rain. Neither of us moved. It became a silent stalemate, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Yet beneath the surface of that moment was something deeper than discipline or defiance. It was a dance of love and respect. In the end, he didn’t need to strike me. His laughter, the warmth in his eyes, the strength in his stance—all of it taught me that lessons can be learned in ways other than punishment. That day became etched into my soul as a testament to patience and understanding.
Odume’s strength, however, was tested to its limits during one particular Ulor Festival. The festival was a time of love, community, joy, music, and dancing. During Ulor, grief was outlawed. No tears, no mourning—just celebration. It was in the midst of this joyous event that Odume received the news that his youngest daughter, Rose, had died during childbirth. Rose was the baby of the family, Odume’s last born. Her death shattered him. Yet, he did not break the rules of the festival. He carried the burden of his sorrow alone, stoic in the eyes of the community.
Later, when the festival was over, he told the family that he would sometimes sneak into the bush to cry. There, among the trees, hidden from the world, he allowed himself to grieve. It was a story that haunted me. It showed me that strength does not mean the absence of vulnerability. Strength means knowing when to carry your pain and when to share it. It means understanding that there is a time for joy and a time for sorrow, and that both are necessary for a full life.
Both Odume and Osoke have long since joined our ancestors, but their presence is still with me. They didn’t leave me money or land. There was no tangible inheritance to pass down. What they left me was far more valuable: memories of resilience, love, laughter, and lessons learned in quiet moments. These are the treasures I carry, and they are the ones I will pass on to the next generation.
Their legacy makes me ask: What are we leaving behind?
In a world obsessed with material wealth and status, it’s easy to get lost in the pursuit of things that fade with time. Money can be spent. Houses can fall into disrepair. Possessions can be lost or stolen. But virtues and memories? They endure. They inspire. They shape generations.
When I think about the things that are truly important, it is not the car in the driveway or the zeros in a bank account. It is the way we make others feel. It is the stories we tell and the love we give. It is the moments of courage, like swimming to the shore when life throws you into the deep end. It is the moments of patience, like standing in the rain with someone you love until they are ready to return. It is the moments of vulnerability, like sneaking into the bush to cry but returning with the strength to carry on.
As we navigate our own lives, we must consider what we are sowing for the future. Are we leaving behind memories that will nourish our children and grandchildren? Are we passing down virtues that will help them survive the storms of life? Are we teaching them resilience, empathy, patience, and love?
We often think of legacy as something grand and public. We imagine our names engraved on plaques or our portraits hanging in hallways. But true legacy is often quiet and unseen. It is found in the way we listen when someone needs to be heard. It is found in the way we forgive when it is hardest to do so. It is found in the way we show up, again and again, for the people we love.
There is something profoundly powerful about small, everyday acts of love and kindness. Osoke throwing me into the river wasn’t just a lesson in swimming—it was a lesson in survival and trust. Odume laughing at me in the rain wasn’t just a moment of discipline—it was a lesson in patience and understanding. And Odume grieving alone during the Ulor Festival wasn’t just a demonstration of strength—it was a lesson in balancing joy and sorrow.
These moments may seem ordinary, but they are the things we remember. They are the things that become important.
As I reflect on these memories, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Grateful for the lessons my grandparents taught me, even when I didn’t realize I was being taught. Grateful for the love they showed me, even when it was expressed in unconventional ways. Grateful for the resilience they passed down, which has carried me through my own trials and tribulations.
To those reading this, I offer a simple invitation: Take a moment to reflect on the memories that have shaped you. Think about the people who have left their mark on your soul. What did they teach you? How did they love you? And most importantly, what will you carry forward from them?
Then, think about what you are leaving behind. Are you sowing seeds of love, patience, and resilience? Are you creating memories that will nourish those who come after you? Are you leaving behind a legacy of virtue and strength?
The things we remember are not always grand or dramatic. Sometimes they are as simple as a rainy day on a hill, a laugh shared across generations, or a quiet cry in the bush. Yet these are the things that become important. These are the things that endure.
In the end, we are all storytellers. We are all memory keepers. The stories we tell, the memories we create, and the virtues we pass down will shape the world long after we are gone.
May we all strive to leave behind something worth remembering.
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