The Unfinished Story

Chapter 1

My childhood years were filled with pleasurable times listening to my paternal grandmother tell us stories. 

Storytelling in the village square by the popular community storyteller was the pastime of many kids during my grandmother's formative years.

"We assembled twice a week under an Obeche tree near the Oba's palace those days to hear Baba Aro's stories," grandma said. He told more fiction than non-fiction, I learned.

My grandma was one of the few girls who had a Western education when it was introduced to her community.  The popular vocations then were farming by the men and women, hunting by men alone and weaving by women alone.

Most girls were made to work on farms or weave with their mothers. The boys who were smart enough were allowed to receive elementary education that was provided by the Anglican Missionaries in those years.

St Thomas Anglican Primary School was the first school in my hometown of Ikere Ekiti. My grandma was glad that she had an education. She told me of how she loved the girls' blue pinafore, white blouse, with a red tie. 

Only about nine girls in her neighborhood had education in a school of more than one hundred and fifty pupils. They were the daughters of the two Anglican priests, the traditional chiefs, and the two wealthy merchants who sold oil and vehicular parts. Her father was an Anglican priest and farmer.

"As young as we were those days, we nine girls knew we were privileged to have education, and we carried ourselves with pride whenever we mixed with our peers in the community," grandma said.

I always looked forward to her visit to our house in Lagos because of her stories. Apart from the fun her stories gave me, staying with her reduced the house chores I did.

Of all the stories grandma told me, the one I found most amusing was how the tortoise broke its shell due to greed. Grandma's stories always had one or two moral lessons.

While telling another story about a thief who stole tubers of yam from her father's farm, a strange thing happened.

Grandma had mentioned how her father noticed that tubers of yam were missing from their barn. He announced in the farmers' meeting that the thief should stop stealing his yam. 

"Did he stop?" I asked.

"The thief continued to steal our yam, maize, and other crops,"  grandma said.

I then noticed that she stopped talking. Her face looked twisted. She moved her left arm and legs but could not move the right ones.

"Grandma! Grandma!! Continue the story," I said loudly. 

She just stared at me saying nothing.  I ran to meet my mother in the kitchen to inform her about grandma's behavior.

The spoon in my mum's hand dropped as we both ran into grandma's room.

Grandma had fallen to the ground. I screamed her name. She just groaned. She couldn't speak. When she tried to say something, no words came out. I cried.

I cried because grandma suddenly could not talk and walk. I cried because my mother did not know what to do. I cried also because grandma would not tell me any more stories. 

My mother called my father. He told her to take grandma to the hospital. Four men who were our neighbours helped to put her in my mother's car. 

My mother did not allow me to join her in the car as she drove hurriedly out of the compound to the hospital.

"Go back!" My mother shouted at me when I approached the car to go with them to the hospital.

I  cried again. I was alone at home with my younger sister. We had slept with hungry stomachs when my mother came home later that night.

"Can grandma talk now?" I asked my mother the following morning.

"Grandma is very sick, Bowale," she replied.  *She will not talk for some time," she added.
I worried that grandma would not complete her story

Chapter 2

Grandma spent more than two weeks in the hospital. My parents did not allow me to visit her in the first week.

"She is very sick. The doctors are nurses are doing their best to keep her alive," my father told me.

He answered my questions about grandma's health. My mother didn't. 

I missed my grandma dearly. She would have finished the story about the tortoise and would have told me other ones.

Then one day, my father told us to wear our clothes and join him to visit grandma in the hospital.

I was excited. I wore the Kampala shirt grandma bought for me from Ikere. I took my paintings along also to show her. I love to draw and paint. Grandma always liked my paintings. I was happy to see her after about ten days of being admitted to the hospital.

She was the only one in the room in the hospital. They connected a tube to an injection that was on her hand. The tube was attached to a bag of water. Grandma did not answer me properly when I greeted her.  Her speech was not clear, although it was better than before when she stopped talking at home.

I stood by her side and showed her my paintings. She said something I didn't hear and rubbed my head in a friendly manner.  I think she liked my drawing.

Doctors and nurses entered her room and talked to her. She was told to raise her right arm and legs. She could raise them gently. 

"Mama, you are getting better," the doctor smiled.

"Sir, when will she talk?" I asked the doctor.

"Oh! My boy, you have asked a smart question," the doctor said. "Let's be patient. We hope that she will regain her speech."

"Okay, sir," I thanked the doctor.

We left grandma in the hospital. O thought my daddy would bring her home with us. He said she was not well yet.

I couldn't wait for her to come home and complete her story.

One Sunday afternoon, about twenty days after grandma was admitted, she returned home. 

She was in a wheelchair. She could lift her right leg very well but could not stand properly with it.

When I greeted her, she answered, but she could not form a sentence. She could say one or two words only.

"Grandma is getting better. Can't you see?" My mother told me. 

I hugged her; she hugged me too. Her right forearm was much stronger than it was when I last saw her in the hospital.

A man came to our house to press grandma's body. He made her stand, then made her walk with a frame. Gradually grandma started moving slowly. I held her hand while she walked inside the sitting room.

A woman also came to help her talk. Grandma started saying more words than before. One day, she said to me, "Bowale, come."

I was happy that she remembered my name and talked to me. I ran to tell my father about her improvement. He was happy.

"Grandma, can you continue the tortoise story?" I asked her.

"Bowale! Stop it!!" My father said. "She is still getting better. Don't disturb her."

I was not sure grandma would remember the story anymore. She continued to walk better with a stick but her speech was slower to improve.

Nine months after she was discharged from the hospital, I heard grandma singing in her room. I ran to her and joined her in singing her favourite song. She taught me the song a long time ago.

Gradually, she began to speak well again.

Chapter 3

Grandma resumed telling me other stories. I enjoyed all of them.

One day, I reminded her about the story of the thief who stole tubers of yam and maize from their barn.

"Bowale, you mean I have an unfinished story?" grandma asked.

"Yes, ma."

I told her that she couldn't finish the story because she stopped talking and fell that day.

"Oh! I see. Thank God that I am well now," she said. "Can you remember the part of the story I told you before I stopped?"

I told her the part of the story she told me before she stopped.

"Thank you, " she said. Then she continued the story.

"The thief continued to steal our food items despite my father begging him to stop. One day, my father told his friend who was a hunter and blacksmith about the matter."

"Who is a blacksmith?" I asked.

"A blacksmith is a person who makes things out of iron. Examples of the things they make include hoe, cutlass..."

"And knife?" I asked.

"Yes, you are correct. The blacksmith offered to help my father. He made big traps like the ones they used to catch bush animals.  He made sure the traps had very sharp points that could pierce into the body of somebody. The trap is the type that the thief would not be able to quickly remove because it would tear the skin more."

"Ha!" I exclaimed.

"The plan worked," grandma said.  "The blacksmith and my father decided to take turns sleeping in our barn so that the thief could be caught. The traps were put, near the door and below the window on the floor, where the thief would enter into the barn."

I smiled at the plan.

Grandma continued, "On the third day of setting the trap, my father heard a loud noise inside the barn very late at night. The town crier's foot was injured by the trap."

I opened my mouth in surprise. "Who is a town crier?"

"A town crier is the person who announces important information in the community. He goes from place to place shouting and telling people what the king wants to do."

"So what happened to the thief," I asked.

"My father blew his whistle that night to wake other people who might be sleeping in their barns  to come out and see the person who had been stealing their crops."

"What did they do to the thief?" I asked.

"He was reported to the village council. He was beaten publicly in front of the Oba's palace and was sent away from our community."

"Hehehe!" I laughed at how the thief was caught. I thanked my grandmother for finishing the story.

About the Author

Ademola is a Consultant Family Physician and writer. He is the Medical Director of a family hospital, Nathaniel Health Consulting, Matogbun, Ogun State. 

He is an author of many books including storybooks. He regularly writes on health-promoting topics and encourages positive behavioural change in his articles.