The trail
My name is Deji, a native of Ikolo land. I was a painter, yes, you've heard it right, was. My paintings were exceptional, people from other clans long to see me paint which were paid for even before the work was finished and soon I became renowned. I had never imagined a day would come when I'll drop my painting brushes. I had two sons and a daughter. My wife Adele would always praise my works until this tragic day. I had made a beautiful painting to deliver to a customer and had taken Femi, the youngest of my sons along. Just before we arrived at the town, we got into an accident that claimed the life of Femi and made me a cripple. I probably would have been able to paint but my wife Adele never wanted to see anything that looks like painting again, not because it reminded her of Femi, but because she blamed my painting for the death of her son.
But the trail lived on.
Bolaji, my eldest son grew up to love painting, but his dream to become a painter was not easy to accomplish, not when Adele was alive.
"I never want to see this useless career called painting around me, not after it had caused the death of my lovely Femi" she will say.
People say time heals, but it never did for Adele, because her wound never got healed.
Bolaji would sneak and go paint outside which he sold to pedestrians. But it seemed painting was cursed in their lineage. With each painting came a sorrow, not on him but people around him. He did everything possible to ensure he became a global painter, but then, he ended up in a wheelchair and caused his friend to lose his life. Before Bolaji's tragedy, he had a son. The son grew up to love painting, but there was a trail that was left behind for him to see how the people who took that path ended. But he was resilient, if it was the fate of every painter, he was ready to take it but there was one way to go out of the trail, to become a fugitive. A choice he took.