Life, Memory & Beds

When Dabesaki told me he was doing an exhibition on beds, I wondered what story a bed could possibly tell.

I clicked on the submission link and realized a story was required alongside an image of one’s bed.

Click, click…

I snapped a picture of my freshly made bed.

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The Bed I Earned

As I began to think about the story of my bed, I found myself facing the daunting task of reflecting on my career. How I got to where I am today, and how I was able to own such a bed.

After returning to Nigeria from university in 2015, one of the first things I realized was that I could not afford my own apartment the way I had in university. It broke my heart.

I craved solitude.
I wanted my own space to be the version of myself I thought was already perfect.
I did not want to be around other people who would corrupt this intellect I had acquired while I was away.

I was arrogant enough to think, at that time, that I was grown.

The great thing about Nigeria is that it is supremely humbling. Whatever chip one carried on their shoulder. In Nigeria… none of the rules of the world apply.

As is my nature as an engineer, I began to think of how to solve my problem. I didn’t want to squat with my cousin and I didn't want to live with my parents indefinitely. The only solution, I decided, was to work hard.

So I did.

I worked as hard as I possibly could until I was able to provide for myself the kind of life I wanted. I discovered that I still had some growing up to do. And when it came time to get a bed, I commissioned the biggest one I could find.

I wrote that story and sent in my submission.

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Communal Bed

A few weeks later, I drove to Lisa Suites, curious to see what my creative friend had done with the exhibition.

After signing in, I walked into the exhibition room and was met with a large bed. It seemed almost unreal. It stopped me in my tracks.

I scanned for the information card.

Communal Bed

Suddenly, I was back in Kaduna.
On a rainy Friday night.
The day my father died.

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The Longest Journey

I was in Abuja when I received the news.

The news hit me like a train.

My greatest fear in life had always been losing a parent. I used to believe the world would stop dead in its tracks if one of my parents died. Instead, the world continued...indifferent.

I was suddenly filled with a desperate yearning to be close to dad. If my world was going to end, I wanted to be near my family when it did.

I tried. By God, I tried to get home in time.

But per Islamic rites, my father was buried shortly after the Asr prayer while I was still coordinating my travel logistics. It was the longest journey to Kaduna of my life. I begged the driver to go faster because my sadness was consuming the entire vehicle and I wanted out.

I did not make it in time.

Everything in my body wanted nothing more than to smell my father.

As his daughter, my faith is as unshakable as his was. In that moment, I understood how powerless I was in this world.

When I finally arrived in Kaduna, I rushed to his room. It was the next best thing. I had already accepted that my father had returned to his Maker. Seeing his body would change nothing.

That night, three of us crammed ourselves into my father’s bed.

My two younger sisters and I.

Each of us nursing a grief the others could not soothe. Yet there we were...desperate for the last traces of him that still lingered in the land of the living.

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Counting Pillows

At Lisa Suites, I counted the pillows on the communal bed.

There were 6 pillows.

It could hold my father, my mother, my sisters, and my brother.

I wanted, more than anything to lie on that communal bed with my father and everyone who loved him and missed him as deeply as I did.

I swallowed the grief that threatened to burst through me and continued walking.

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Other Beds

On the left side of the communal bed stood a simple metal dormitory bunk bed.

I was ten years old again.

My father was dropping me off at boarding school for the first time. When I chose the top bunk, he asked if I was sure I wouldn’t fall.

Across the room sat a baby cot. The kind used in hospitals.

And then I understood the story the exhibition was trying to tell me.

“We are born in beds, and we die in beds.”

“I get it,” I whispered.

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What Art Does

The exhibition did exactly what art is meant to do.

It transported me.

It forced me to experience a range of emotions and to come face to face with who I am, where I have been and where I am going.

I had been skeptical about an exhibition centered on beds. I didn’t get it at first. But I have now learned that beds are not passive objects in our lives.

They are very active participants.

As I walked through the exhibition space, I paused before a global wall of beds displaying stories from over seventeen countries where my own submission hung. Every story was different.

Beds mean different things to different people.

• For some, rest.
• For others, sleep.
• For some, sex.
• For others, death and grief.

I read and listened to how beds shape our lives from birth until death.

An object of utility suddenly posed philosophical questions.

The Life, Memory & Beds exhibition was everything I expected art to be. It took me on a journey from childhood to adulthood.

And that, right there, is the sign of very good art.