A soft breeze blew across Utica Avenue, Brooklyn. Windows chattered as they clicked, creating rhythms to the ear. Utica’s old walls, broken tiles, and cracked concrete clearly reflected the lives of the people who lived there. It stank of homelessness, stray dogs, and poverty, mostly among Africans who had forgotten their roots, their cultures, and had firmly clung to the trends of New Yorkers. The fish had forgotten the waters that stirred its growth and made it strong. It had renounced its culture, language, and even its hair color. Only a few differed, upholding their culture with dignity, passing it on to the next generation. One of these Africans was Akin, a 32-year-old man of great valor. He held onto his culture and traditions fiercely. He refused to let them go. He refused to let distance be a barrier. He believed that the ways of his ancestors should not go extinct, nor should his mother tongue.
Akin sat on the balcony, arms spread wide, gazing outside his apartment. His thoughts wandered, soaring across the oceans, miles away to his hometown—his roots. He could feel the warm embrace of the village stream, the market square—he could hear chattering, exchanged greetings: “Ekaaro, Aje a ya o!” in Yoruba. He remembered how children would greet their parents—males would prostrate, and females would kneel. He smiled. Okaka in Ibadan was so homely and welcoming. The culture was specific yet beautiful. His thoughts drifted, and he could hear his mother’s voice: “Wake up! Wake up! Only lazy men sleep at this hour. Go help your father.” He would go help his father mould clay at the riverbank. Oh, how his hands spoke perfection at such a young age! Clay—the base of his craft—became his friend. The sun aided the process, quickening it. His mind was far away until he felt a touch. It was his daughter, Omosewa, kneeling as she greeted, “Ekaaro Baami.” The Yoruba culture had become a strong foundation in his home. It didn’t fade from his memory easily. This culture had sculpted him into the man he had become, and he would pass it to the next generation. His wife, Wunmi, was also a strong shoulder to lean on.
After morning prayers, Akin set out to work. He worked in a bottling factory, a mile away from home. As he walked across the vibrant streets of New York, filled with people chasing their dreams and cultures blending, the city came alive. People chattered as they walked. Honking horns could reawaken the ears of the deaf, and wailing sirens sounded like moving bells as street performers added to the hullabaloo.
In this concrete jungle, Akin walked daily. His footsteps spoke of resilience—swift and sleek. Passion and determination radiated through his body. His resilience made him work tirelessly, even when others felt he was pushing too hard. He would always say, “I didn’t come to count stars in New York.” This diligence earned him visible recognition from his superiors. Akin was different. He worked with passion and became a shining light among others. After two weeks of assessment, Akin was promoted.
What most people didn’t know was his ability to sculpt. In his home, in the far-right corner, lay his pillar. He would head there immediately after dinner. Even when he worked double shifts, the relentless fire within him kept pushing. His father’s words echoed in his mind: “Never forget the son of whom you are; the fire goes through the clay for perfection.” This room took him on a journey whenever he stepped into it. The sweet fragrance of his hometown overwhelmed him. Clay, his old friend, welcomed him as they moulded beautiful pieces together. Each sculpture bore an essential mark with symbolic motifs. They looked ancient, with a touch of modernity. The symbols spoke of life, power, and stability. Some had scarification patterns and tribal marks, representing the beauty of the Oyo people. Accompanying these traits were the crown (Ade)—a prominent symbol of authority in Oyo, worn by the Alaafin—horse tails, the staff of office (Opa Ase), royal beads (Ileke), elephant tusks (Ekutu), the drum (Gbedu), and the sword (Obe).
The sculpture room held hidden glory. Akin decided to share it with the world. He began showcasing his art through various platforms: the digital space, fundraising, and meeting various organizations for sponsorship. Some called him archaic, others labeled him a madman. He was shocked that the people mocking him were Africans. What had happened to their culture, their heritage? Had it all been shoved under the table? He pitied them. They had forgotten their “ori iran”—their roots. They wandered aimlessly like a river without a source.
Back in his home, he looked up at the sky. A sweet breeze blew. He believed his ancestors were behind him. Days after seeking sponsorship, some rejected his proposal, while others wanted to exploit his talent. He bluntly refused. His neighbors constantly called him a fool, but he agreed, “I am a fool—a smart fool.”
After a while, “Form Forge,” a sculpting company, sent him a mail expressing their interest in projecting his work. Akin was elated. He beamed with joy as he shared the good news with his family, and they celebrated together. Months later, Akin had transformed. He dined and wined with wealth, yet humility remained his watchword. He greeted both the young and old as he passed by. People in Utica began to imitate his ways. Their cultures were reawakened, and they began to incorporate their heritage into their families. Akin became a role model to many. His pottery presence mirrored exclusivity in various media outlets. Akin had established a showroom where his pieces were displayed. People knew that his pottery was not just beautiful but also deeply rooted in tradition and culture. He had left a legacy for the new generation.
As Akin’s reputation grew, so did his impact. Amidst his pieces, Akin stood proudly. His art spoke volumes. He felt a sense of pride and fulfillment. He knew he had made a difference. With a warm smile, he gazed at the bustling New York City, knowing his legacy would live on.
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