Lostness in Ọ̀yinbọ̀ Town, 2020 | Story
One day I found myself making work out of pressure, an installation that was made in my first year towards an uncomfortable deadline. I began to weave and twist a long shear strand of blue netting around a yellow satin strip draped and pinned to my studio wall, it was entrancing.
Being the dragger of things, the manipulator and leader of unconventional waters I played in it so much that when I became aware of it, I realised the patterns and knots made, all reminded me of home.
At a time in Ibadan when Grandmama taught us to knit with broomsticks, not because we were poor but honestly improvising because she didn’t have that many knitting needles at home, it was genius and practical! Afterwards, we made tea biscuits, which was grand.
Or moments of feeding my brother little balls of Eba when he was a toddler because he couldn’t eat big chunks that much.
Or when I'd weave long strands of grass in Grandmama’s garden into a bracelet to accompany my daisy chain. I can still remember the dew from the stigma, I was 10.
Warm summer days that did not let you forget where you were, or the joy and love that surrounded you. From the food and the laughter to the noise and the scatter, it was a privileged bliss.
Some years later in Uni, I am romanticising memories where forms, smells and sights were made and discovered, and I am appreciating the difference but fearing it too, in Ọ̀yinbọ̀ land I am lost here.
Very very lost.