Death of a key master.

So, we have leapt forward several years now. I have finished university and am living and working in London. I graduated with honours in Arts Management, a degree programme that I switched to from Accounting and Finance. (That’s another story, definitely for another day!) because I harboured dreams of running the Barbican Centre in London one day (which, of course, never happened. LOL!).

Remember, as I have said in previous posts, my creativity continued to seep out in ways I seemingly couldn’t control, but in tiny ways that seem benign, certainly to my parents. Arts Management was a way I could satisfy this creative curiosity and hunger because I was studying and learning about the arts, and that’s all that mattered to me.

I moved to London and worked in PR. Eventually, I worked in film and television, mainly in administrative roles. Nothing inspired my imagination, but I had some great experiences, including an internship as a cinema programming intern at a cinema chain in London. As a film enthusiast, this was great, but at this point, I’m no longer fully engaged in anything artistic, and at this juncture in my life, I no longer dare to pursue it.

The year is now 2010. This is the year that my dad passed away after a long illness and a series of health complications. And it is while I am in my therapist’s chair, trying to make sense of what I am feeling and why it feels like a part of me has died along with my father, that a thought, the size of a tiny, unassuming seed comes into my mind,

“What if you pursue your artist life now?”

“Now is not the time”, came the rebuttal to what seemed like an absurd notion. Yet the absurdity wouldn’t go away, and this time, it came as a command:

“Now is the time to pursue”.

Although I tried to object, the notion seemed insistent, gentle, but firm. The time had come for me to pursue my artistic life fully. I felt at peace about it. I felt scared but relieved. I could pursue my dream and put to rest this restlessness and discontent that I had had for so long.

However, I am aware that it is no coincidence that this came at the same time as the passing of my beloved father. It took me back to that critical incident I described in an earlier post, to that nine-year-old girl trying to understand why the person she adored in the world was so angry at her for wanting to pursue something so dear to her. I also knew at that moment, in the therapist’s chair, that this was a possibility I could entertain because my dad’s passing released me of one of the vows I had made at the time of that incident – it would be virtually impossible to disappoint him since I no longer had to be what he wanted me to be.

Please don’t misunderstand, my father was many things, but he was no monster. I think he wanted me to be happy in his own way (although maybe warped). Also, at a time when it was frankly unfashionable and considered a waste of time and resources to educate any girl child, he persisted in the face of ridicule to give my sisters and me an education. As a woman, my dad knew an education was a key that would enable us to break the shackles of our West African society's norms and afford us many opportunities as women. So, imagine, with this, coupled with so much potential, your kid comes to you and says she wants to be the lowest of the low. I think I would be disappointed, too. Maybe.

Now, the door was open. What was I going to do?

I sometimes wonder if my dad was still alive. Would I have had the guts and courage to pursue this artist's life? I will never know.

The next post is the fourth and final part of this story, which will take you into my adult years to yet more adventures on roads less travelled...

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