My First Memory of Time
An Igby Prize for Nonfiction essay about childhood memories of the festive season, and our relationship with time by Nigerian Kemi Falodun
If you come to our house right now, you’ll see a blue clock hanging on the wall of the living room. The second hand drags as if it would stop the next minute. But the clock has, in fact, been there for years. Even before we moved here, it was in my childhood home in Owo, a quiet town in southwestern part of Nigeria, ticking on and on, as extreme dryness, cold, dust, and fog gradually took the place of rain.
My first memory of lying to my mother was during the festive season. At the backyard, large pots were balanced on round, metal stands, and firewood already split into various sizes were arranged underneath. Oga A., our gardener stood with arms akimbo beside the flames surrounding the stick on which the goat was being roasted — throat slashed, mouth agape, revealing its burnt teeth and depth of agony before life was snuffed out of it.
When the cooking began, my sisters and I ran little errands such as going into the house to fetch the jar of salt. For the most part though, we sat around, listening to stories from the women who had come to help my mother, as the fire provided heat to our bodies, a welcome respite from the cold. It was not until I was thirteen and we relocated to Lagos that I realised that the Harmattan elements I experienced as a child were not evenly distributed in the country after all.
“Kemi,” my mother called as she was adding seasoning to the egusi soup. “Go check the time for me.” I don’t remember how old I was, but I must have been young enough for it to be socially acceptable to still not be able to tell the time, although my mother had tried to teach me. I slowly counted my steps as I walked away, hoping she’d call me back and send my sister instead. In the living room, I looked up at the blue clock on the wall, and my mother’s voice came back to me:
The tiny lines are separated in fives. The minute hand goes round to make an hour. Take note of the number the short hand is facing. Now, from twelve, count the small lines to where the long hand is.
I knew this, theoretically, but what I was seeing on the wall didn’t make any sense to me. Frustrated, my eyes dropped to the TV. On OSRC, a group of women in white shirts, black skirts covering their shoes, and berets drawn over their ears, were singing:
Odun n lo s’opin o baba rere
F’iso re so wa o tomo tomo
Oun ti yoo pa wa l’ekun o lodun tuntun
Maa je ko sele si wa o baba rere
I stood there watching as they lifted their faces to heaven, asking God for protection. The “Ember Months” — the last four months of the year — were known to be the devil’s most active and favourite period of the year, as he was always on the prowl, looking for families to throw into grief before the New Year.
Fortunately, my brother passed by then, and I knew what to do.
“Fifteen minutes past ten,” I proudly said to my mother
“That’s very good,” she said, smiling. “You checked it yourself?”
“Yes!”
The events that followed evade me now. Perhaps I went back to my brother to teach me, to make true my lie, knowing my mother could ask me to check the time in the future and I didn’t want to be found wanting. I’d say you should ask him, but he most likely cannot recall. Anyway, what does it even matter now.
Do you know the thrill that comes with taking risks that do not have serious consequences? Or the pleasure that comes with taking something without it being given to you? How it bubbles from deep within your belly, spreads across your chest, and travels down to your feet, propelling you to start jumping in excitement?
While my mother was busy stirring the soup and adding water to the rice, I watched as my sisters reached into the bowls containing fried chicken and goat meat, and scurried away with some pieces in their hands. I watched as vultures lunged at the entrails of the animals and flew urgently to the other worlds. These creatures that did so easily what I was struggling to do. Maybe I didn’t exactly think of that then. But now as I record this, I remember those vultures and I envy them. How they came, took what they wanted and moved away quickly. So quickly. On occasion, I got lucky, but most times, as soon as I tried to take a meat or two like my sister’s did, I heard my mother’s voice. “Kemi, drop it now!” I say this because even now, I still struggle to lay claim to the things I know I deserve.
When the jollof rice was ready, my mother dished it for each family in the neighbourhood. I don’t know how she determined the number of meat to put on it, perhaps it depended on how close you were to our family or how well you behaved that year. My siblings and I, went from house to house, delivering food in white glasswares. We left their houses with their regards to our parents in our hearts, and their money wrapped in our palms. I remember often raising the crisp fifty or one-hundred naira note to my nose. Who doesn’t like the smell of money?
Some relatives arrived in the afternoon and, after tiring cycles of kneeling to greet, food and drinks were served. I was fascinated by their colourful hijabs and the way they prayed, bending their heads at intervals. I couldn’t wait to become an adult so I’d convert to Islam and wear pretty hijabs too.
I once asked my mother why she brought the clock to Lagos. It’s so old, why didn’t you just leave it in Owo and buy another one here?
“But it still works,” she answered.
It’s been many years since I asked her, but the answer remains the same: it still works. Apart from the memories of living in Owo, the clock is one of the few things that have stayed with my family a decade later. It was there when I joyfully thanked my aunts and uncles for Christmas money, it is here now that I’ve become someone who buys gifts for her nephews and nieces. Time is the silent witness in all that we do. It is watching, watching, and never leaving us alone.
The day that began with morning devotion in the living room found me in the evening looking out through the window. The events that took place in-between — cooking, eating, visits — were almost the same as the previous and the following year’s. I stood, watching as leaves fell from the almond trees in front of our house. The following morning, I’d have the pleasure of crunching them under my feet.
Kemi Falodun is a Nigerian who writes writes short stories, essays and book reviews. You can read more of her work on Kemifalodun and follow her on Twitter @kemifalodun.
