PROJECTS

I grew up in Epe, a quaint, coastal village on the outskirts of Lagos. Our home was one of the many houses in a government-built estate designed with picturesque beauty: green shrubs, pretty flowers, cobble stones and white picket fences- a standard fit for the late 80s and early 90s, but definitely obsolete today. 

During the day, the estate was an exciting haven of tranquility and freedom. Sunshine, fresh air and green trees that swayed rhythmically to the sounds of nature, as well as the occasional squeals and joyful laughters of children playing around with careless abandon, all summed up to its glorious beauty.

However, the experience at night was antithetical. Every evening, the once welcoming scenery transformed into a graveyard-like environment. The moon cast ominous shadows, trees swayed threateningly and strange creatures made eerie sounds at every corner.

On the other side of the estate was a thick forest we all called Òwàwà bush;  and unfortunately, our house was at the edge of the layout, separated from the bush by, in my opinion, a weak fence.

Every night, as neighbours retreated to their houses, revealing only the dull glow of kerosene lanterns that shone through glass-paned louvers as signs of human activity; the estate came alive with sounds from the forest. These included nocturnal animals, flies and insects of known and unknown species, gunshots from hunters, ghosts (according to my imagination) and other unidentifiable creatures.

The sound that haunted me the most, which I could not match with any animal or living thing I knew at that age, was a loud, plangent cry that sounded like the blend of  a low-pitched siren and the bark of a puppy. It started at 8 o' clock every evening and cried incessantly till six the next morning.  It would be the last sound I heard before I fell asleep, and the first thing I heard when I awoke the next morning. My imagination went wild with pictures of the face attached to that noise, and boy, you have no idea the stories I wove around it.

Sometimes I was Ralia the Sugar Girl, lost in the forest, being chased by a wicked witch and her pack of wild animals, until a brave hunter came to rescue me. Other times I was the brave hunter, a goddess with superpowers, sent from Heaven to silence these evil creatures of the dark.

One day, I summoned the courage to ask my parents what the sound was. I was told it was called "Òwàwà" in Yoruba, as they weren't certain about the English translation, and without access to the Internet at that time, I had to settle with their description of it. According to them, Òwawa was a type of wild animal in the dog family (or cat, they weren't sure).  They were nocturnal, meaning they slept during the day and came alive at night. Thus, the sounds from the forest only meant that these animals were going about their "daily" activities like talking to one another, playing, looking for food, mating and so on.

This revelation was a great relief to me. Apparently those creatures weren't after my life! They were only minding their businesses and living their natural lives. I slept better from that day onward.

Over the years, as I grew into a teenager, I realised that the cries from the forest kept getting faint as days went by, until eventually, they could no longer be heard. They had been replaced with the groaning sounds of lumberjacks' machines felling trees.

Today, Òwàwà bush is no more. In its place are beautiful houses, modern estates and paved roads. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for civilization, but deep down, I miss the forest that was an integral part of my childhood.