LET ME TELL YOU HOW TO BE LEGENDARY

 

Photo Credit: Valentin Kremer

I traveled back with my father to his home, the place he grew up. It felt good to bask in my father’s nostalgia. And in the knowledge that I would someday bring my children home and tell them tales. Like my father told me. 

He told me of their favorite spots. The buzz centres. The most popular retail stores. The ShopRites of our time. In his days, visits to them were seldom done and carefully planned to fall on special days and reflect the occasion. Everyone on their Sunday best, with open flannel trousers and Afro thick hairstyles that have endured the rakings of a hot comb. It was also where girls were taken to be swept up their feet. Children waited in anticipation for goodies from them and would hold on to the branded cellophane bags for days as their bragging rights.

Photo Credit: Boston Public Library

On days like this, I know there is no escape from his well-curated music list. By that, I mean albums and albums of Fela and the Blues taking their turn to play. His hand drumming on the steering wheels as he shakes his head to the rhythm of the music. He tells me about the hit songs. How they swept their young feet into the music floors. Bodies moving on their own until it wears itself out. His eyes widens and his voice rises in excitement. This is my first cue. You know…he begins. I do not know. But he already knows this. He smiles, slowly. It is my second cue. And just like that, we travel back in time. To his youth. He continues, “I used to skip classes  just to go for Fela's concerts. I will take on more work and save every penny for tickets. It's a pity Micheal Jackson didn't come to Nigeria. I would have dropped out of school to meet the King of Pop. Did you know he shut down Brazil and Japan when he visited?” I didn't know. I nodded anyway. I grew up listening to Bob Marley’s ‘One Love’ everyday till it became my father's ringing tone. I had to listen to it every minute. My father is a die-hard fan. I knew better than to not nod. We will gradually return to the present. He shakes his head—or shudders, I will never know—as if just finding himself. “They were legends,” he tells me. His voice never losing that edge of excitement. It goes an octave higher. I lose his hands in an endless wave of gesticulation. This time, I know. I agreed with him wholeheartedly. They were legends. All legends refer to the past. And this one, no less. 

On good days, I never tire of teasing my father about his legends. I tell him he is living in the past. He scoffs and calls me impossible. He explains how wrong I am by ticking them off his fingers. Fela Kuti. Bob Marley. Micheal Jackson…he stalls. I know. He knows. We had a growing obituary list. 

Photo Credit: Rehany Mooy

When I think too hard about it, I imagine their songs were like our Afrobeats. Reigning like they will never stop. But they do. Like the ones before them. And the ones after them. It meant that I will someday bring my children home to old glories. However hard I try, it may never make sense why we had to dress up to shop when we could have just placed an order. I will try to explain why Tems won the Grammy twice and understand what it means to talk to a wall. It meant that my grandchildren will one day accuse me  of living beyond my time—like I accuse my father—if I still like their songs a little too much then. I stilled. I rather not think hard. 

When I think softly about it, I think of the temporality of it all. Stylish Fashion. Trending Music. Hit songs.  Even the so-called happening places which never happen forever. They remind me of times and seasons. They come and go, along with their craze and rave. It is not always easy to pinpoint the when. Sometimes, even the how. We'll just wake up one day and realize that they have become legends, exaggerated tales we tell children to make their eyes round in incredulity. (If you know my father, you'll know he will never drop out of school. And just how literally is shutdown?)

Photo Credit: Alejandro Cartagena 

Whichever way I think about it—whether hard or soft—I found that I didn't just want to be a legend (oh! Mistake me not, dear. I will be a legend). I want to be more. To excel effortlessly and be the best at what I do. To make an impact. To touch hearts. To make them swell with hope. I want to be legendary. To live well and far beyond my time. It's not that I will not die. I know I will eventually make it to the obituary list. I want to leave something behind. Not just anything. A smile. A heartful of hope. A mark on the sands of time. A legacy. Something legendary.

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It's been difficult distinguishing between legend and legendary. It almost felt like shooting myself in the leg. The first difference lies in their parts of speech. One (legend) is a noun, while the other (legendary) is an adjective. Even more is in their usage and context. Legend as used here is defined by the dictionary to mean: “a story in which a kernel of truth is embellished to an unlikely degree” and legendary as: “of or describing someone who is very famous and admired, usually because of an ability in a particular area.”

The truth is that most legendary people become legends. But it's not all legends that were legendary. So then, what makes a person legendary? I am not the first to wonder. My friend did. It was his WhatsApp catchy line for the longest time as if asking me what I am asking you. What makes a person legendary? Don't look at me for an answer. I would have started with it if I had one. I would have already been legendary. I wouldn't have been bothered by my father's nostalgia? 

I will only end if you promise to tell me when you do find out. Until then, it will be a tale for my children to bear, like I have borne my father's. 

To every Rose that grew from Concrete; Blossom!