What do you want to be when you grow up?

What do you want to be when you grow up?

This is a common question asked of many children worldwide. When I was little, my answer varied depending on my mood. I went from wanting to be a ballerina to a musician, a jewellery maker, or a graphic designer. As you have already noticed, everything I wanted to be when I grew up involved creativity.

When I was about eight or nine years old, my father asked me this question, innocent and ubiquitous in many ways. I didn't think anything of it and answered honestly and boldly. This answer came from my chest.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Before I realised that coming from a West African household, there were three paths set out for me. I was either going to be a doctor or a lawyer. Suppose I failed at both of those things. In that case, I could become an accountant - and a chartered accountant at that, not just any ordinary accountant. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" he asked. I looked him in the eyes and confidently said,

"When I grow up I want to be a graphic designer." In my excitement, I didn't realise that my father's facial expression had changed, but I ploughed on. "I want to design album covers".

Allow me a slight tangent.

I was born at a time when album covers were a really massive thing. My favourite album cover to this day, which sticks out in my mind, is Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon cover. The reason why I love it, and I am still mesmerised by it, is another story for another day. Growing up, because music was a significant characteristic of our household, I came across album covers from loads of different artists, from Fleetwood Mac to The Carpenters, and the mix of photography and artwork that made Fela Kuti's album covers iconic. Where others were drawn to the music (that came second for me), I was drawn and mesmerised by the imagery. I wanted to understand how to combine imagery and text to tell a story or convey something of the music beyond those images. Quite impressive for a nine-year-old, no? I shared all of this with my father.

Strangely, there was a long pause. It was long enough for me to know that there was something wrong.

You must understand that I have only ever seen my dad angry twice in my entire life. One of those times, that anger was directed at me, and this was the incident that unleashed it. When I say that my dad went ape shit, I'm not exaggerating. I can't tell you verbatim what was said. But it was something along the lines of:

"Are you crazy? … "There is no money to be made in art and drawing"… "I will not allow it!"… "I will not allow any child of mine to become an artist or musician or draw posters!"… "What a waste!"… "You could be anything that you want to be!"… You would be a brilliant lawyer or doctor, something noble and professional."… "Yet you want to do art? What nonsense."… "You will never do it and if you do it, it will be over my dead body."

What is a nine-year-old to make of that? I was shocked because I couldn’t understand what precisely his objections were. How could someone who loved and cared for me have such a profoundly adverse reaction, disdain and disgust, to a dream of mine? In hindsight, I can also see that cloaked within that anger was a disappointment.

As I said, I don't remember the specifics, but I remember that he was shouting. As I took in the torrent of his violent confusion, inside my little mind, two vows were made in the silence of my shattering heart. The first vow was that I would never share my dream or anything precious to my heart with anybody, including my dad. The second, unbeknownst to me at the time, was that I would never disappoint my dad; whatever he wanted me to be was who I intended to become. That, my dear friends, cost me more than I would ever know.

Also, in that moment, I understood that to be an artist was to bring shame to my family.

But why? Why was being an artist so terrible? Being an artist meant ending up on the margins or fringes of society. Why? Why was being an artist, particularly in this West African framework, deemed to be something of a shame? I struggled to comprehend since so much of the beauty and joy that we experience in our own household, from listening to music to watching television together as a family, was brought to us by artists. Through these disciplines, our world expanded. We watched our stories, sometimes told without words. Our dreams were legitimised and came to life, giving us a glimpse into possibilities that we thought were impossible until now. Yet, we were not accepting of the people who made those things.

So began the active suppression and silencing of my creativity. I learned to hide it and dismiss it. I never spoke of it again; my creativity was never wholly suppressed. I continued to make things, write, design, and draw. These were allowed to be displayed as long as I was reminded they were mere hobbies.

But it was still gnawing at me. This restlessness is what set me on the road less travelled. It was never my intention to bring shame to my family—I never wanted to do that. However, I also wanted to know why I couldn't shake off this feeling that this was the path I was meant to be on. Why was I being called to something complex, counter-cultural, and counterintuitive that I knew would disappoint so many people?

I’ll bring you part two of this story in the next blog post. I will take you into my teen years, where my struggle continues, but I find some solace and make some discoveries.

So, until we gather again, move towards your dream - one step at a time - no matter how small.