Memories are relics of our loved ones when they transform into liminal beings. Memories are afterimages, persistent in place of the original. Memories are fortitudes, the courage to bear loss, to embrace the reality of loss, and yet, to accustom ourselves to the ethereal presence of our lost ones, which will henceforth be dictated by concepts more boundless than time, place, and even memory itself. This is our most profound consolation, that our transformed still dwell among us, albeit in otherworldly forms. Yet this is sometimes not enough, because we don’t feel their presence. The knowledge that they’re with us remains what it is: knowledge, unprobed, uneventful. And such knowledge, though it may console us for the time being, doesn’t wash the pains away. Nothing completely washes the pain away, except the epiphany of investigating this knowledge, exploring it, arousing it, so that it makes interactions with our transformed possible.
Ishola Abdulwasiu Ayodele’s My Grandmother Weaves Everything into a Song is an interrogation of profound emotions explored through his grandmother’s eyes. She’s the woman you see on the cover. Dressed in blue ankara, blue which symbolises royalty. Sitting against a concrete wall. Palm supporting cheek. Eyes focused, staring right at you, staring into you. This collection you are about to read is an immortalisation of her memory.