The drive home was quiet, my father's eyes fixed on the road as I stared out the window. My mind was in a whirlwind of thought. I couldn't shake the feeling that my whole life had been a lie, and now the pieces were finally starting to fall into place. But with every answer came more unanswered questions.
When we arrived home, I went straight to my room, my father had asked me to rest. I didn't plan on resting, though. I had a mission and it was to find the pastor who might hold some answers about my past. I sat on my bed with my laptop open, and began to search for any information I could find on the church my father attended. After what felt like hours, I finally found a contact number for the church office.
I dialed the number, my heart racing as I waited for someone to pick up. A warm female voice answered, and I explained my situation, asking if they knew anything about Pastor Adeyemi. The receptionist put me on hold, and a few minutes later, she returned with a phone number and an address. "He's retired now," she said, "but he still lives in the area. You might want to call ahead to make sure he's home."
I jotted down the information, my hands shook slightly as I dialed the pastor's number. He answered on the third dial, his voice warm and gentle. I introduced myself, explaining how my father had told me about him, and I asked if I could visit. He agreed, and we scheduled a meeting for the next day.
The rest of the day passed in a blur as I prepared myself for what the pastor might tell me. My father came to my room once to ask how I was doing, and I forced a smile, not wanting to worry him. The truth was, I was scared. Scared of what I might learn, scared of how it might change everything. I decided to go and have a cup of water from the kitchen. I ran into my Dad in the kitchen and I told him of my plans to see Pastor Adeyemi. He gave me the "go- ahead" and I decided to go to bed.
The next morning, I dressed in a simple outfit and headed out to meet the pastor. The drive was shorter than I expected, and soon I found myself standing in front of a small bungalow, surrounded by lush greenery. I took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and waited.
The pastor answered, his eyes warm behind thick glasses. "Ah, child, come in," he said, his voice full of kindness. I followed him into his cozy living room, filled with books and photos. We sat down, and he looked at me with a gentle smile.
"Your father told me you were coming," he said. "I'm glad you're seeking answers. I remember the night your father found you like it was yesterday."
My heart skipped a beat as I leaned forward, eager to hear every detail. "What do you remember?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
The pastor closed his eyes, a faraway look in his gaze. "It was a cold night, one of those rare nights in Lagos when the harmattan winds blow strong. Your father came to me, frantic, holding a tiny baby girl in his arms. He had found you in a basket, wrapped in a small blanket, near the church door. No note, no identification. Just you."
I felt a lump form in my throat as I listened to his words. "Did you see anyone suspicious around?" I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.
The pastor shook his head. "No one. But there was something... a small piece of fabric caught in the basket's handle. It was a piece of cloth, soft and white. I remember thinking it might be important, but it got lost in the chaos of helping your father care for you."
I felt a surge of disappointment, but the pastor's next words caught my attention. "However, I do remember something else. A strange woman, came to the church a few days later, asking about a baby. She was frantic, worried sick. But when we asked her to describe the child, she seemed hesitant, unsure. We never found out who she was or what she wanted."
My mind was racing. Could this woman be my biological mother? Did she change her mind about abandoning me? So many questions swirled in my head, and I knew I had to find out more.
The pastor handed me a small box. "Your father gave this to me a while back, asking me to keep it safe. It's the blanket you were wrapped in, and the piece of fabric I mentioned earlier. Maybe it'll help you find some answers."
I took the box, feeling a sense of gratitude toward the pastor. As I stood to leave, he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Child, the truth might be complicated, but it's also beautiful. You'll find your way." Let us pray.
We held hands as we prayed. After the prayers, I felt good.
I smiled, feeling a sense of hope I hadn't felt in a long time. I knew the journey ahead wouldn't be easy, but with every step, I felt closer to understanding my past and myself. I thanked the pastor again and left his house with the box clutched tightly in my hands.
As I walked back to my father's car, I couldn't help but wonder about the woman who had come to the church all those years ago. Who was she? Why had she been so frantic? And what had she been looking for? I felt a pang of curiosity and determination. I had to find out more.
When I got home, I carefully opened the box and examined the contents. The blanket was soft and white, with a faded small stain that looked reddish. They hadn't washed it, it was pretty dusty. I gently unfolded it, and a small piece of fabric fell out. It was the same piece the pastor had mentioned, a soft white cloth with a tiny embroidered flower on it.
I studied the fabric carefully, wondering if it might hold some clue to my identity. As I turned it over in my hands, I noticed a small thread that seemed to match the fabric of the blanket. I wondered if it might have been torn from the blanket, or if it was a separate piece altogether.
I decided to show the fabric to Aunt Ife, hoping she might recognize it or know something about it. I called her and I asked if I could come over, and she agreed. So I decided to go to her house. QAs I arrived at her house, I could see the concern in her eyes.
"What's wrong, child?" she asked, as I showed her the fabric.
"I found this in the blanket I was wrapped in," I explained. "Do you recognize it?"
Aunt Ife's eyes widened as she took the fabric from me. "Where did you get this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The pastor gave it to me," I replied. "He said it was caught in the basket's handle."
Aunt Ife looked at me, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. "I think I know what this is," she said. "It's a piece of a traditional Yoruba wrapper, "iro ni" she said in Yoruba. My sister, your mother, used to wear one just like it."
My heart skipped a beat as I processed this information. Could this fabric be a clue to my mother's identity? And what did it mean for my own identity?
Aunt Ife's eyes locked onto mine, and I could see the numerous questions there. We both knew that this fabric might hold the key to unlocking the secrets of my past. And we were both determined to find out more.
I leaned forward. "Please Auntie, tell me more about the wrapper," I said. "Anything you know might help."
Aunt Ife nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "The wrapper was a traditional one, made by our mother. It had a specific design, a pattern of flowers and leaves. If this fabric is from that wrapper... it might mean that your mother, or someone close to her, was involved in your abandonment."
My mind was racing with possibilities. Could this fabric be the connection I had been searching for? And what would it mean for my relationship with my father, with Aunt Ife, and with myself?
As I looked at Aunt Ife, I knew that I had to find out more. I had to uncover the truth about my past, no matter how difficult it might be. And I knew that Aunt Ife would be right there with me, supporting me every step of the way.
Together, we would unravel the mystery of my identity, and find the answers that had eluded me for so long. The journey would be long and difficult, but I was ready. I was ready to face whatever lay ahead, and to discover the truth about myself.