I dipped the brush into the palette, watching as deep indigo bled into soft ochre on the canvas. The colors swirled, and just like that, the world around me faded into the background. Painting always had a way of pulling me under, dragging memories from the recesses of my mind where they had been locked away. Each stroke of paint wasn’t just pigment; it was a story, a fragment of my life that refused to be forgotten.

The first memory rose slowly, like mist over a lagoon—my childhood home in Ibadan, Oyo State. I could hear the faint sound of my mother calling from the kitchen, her voice carrying the sharp, rhythmic tone of irritation. "Àárínade, o ti délé nìyẹn? You’re home and still sitting idle? Go and wash those plates!"

I was nine years old at the time, small for my age and often lost in my own thoughts. The other children in the compound thought I was strange. I didn’t play “ten-ten” with the girls or race along the dusty paths with the boys. Instead, I sat under the almond tree with a broken sketchpad I found in my father’s old briefcase, scribbling portraits of leaves, stones, and shadows.

Secondary school was a strange place, almost like a battlefield, where every student fought for survival. It was in that school that I met Dara. She was the first person who noticed my drawings. "You’re really good, Àárín," she said one afternoon, peeking over my shoulder as I sketched the outline of a butterfly. I liked Dara instantly. She had a gap-toothed smile and an easy laugh. She was everything I wasn’t—social, confident, and endlessly curious.

The art teacher, Mr. Yusuf, was notorious for stealing students' ideas. One day, he hovered over me as I was sketching a scene for an upcoming class project—a woman’s silhouette against the backdrop of a storm. "Hmm," Mr. Yusuf murmured, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "This is good, but it could be better." He picked up my pencil and added a few lines to my work. I hated when he did that—turning my art into his.

Getting into university felt like a small victory. But the celebration was short-lived. My father stared at me with disbelief when I announced my intention to study Fine Arts. "Art? You want to study Fine Arts?" my father asked, looking at me as if I had suggested joining a cult. "What will you do with that degree—paint signboards for people?" In Nigeria, art wasn’t seen as a career. It was a hobby, something to dabble in on weekends. But I couldn’t let go of my dream.