Dolopo's Story by Jane Kurtz Another story about Jane's First Day in Lagos

The Power of a Word

When Dolapo was about four years old, she lived in Lagos around the time of Nigerian independence. Her father worked at the Federal Ministry of Transport. Surrounding her family's house was a low hedge, beautiful with flowers. To either side were houses that looked just like her house, each with a flowering hedge. In that neighborhood, everybody knew everybody. One person's business was everybody's business.

One day, Dolapo's family climbed into a big, shiny car belonging to the ministry. They rolled out of Lagos along smooth tar roads, all the way to the city of Abeokuta, which was quite a modern place in those days because many of the former slaves that had returned to Nigeria from over the seas settled there. "Soon you are going to see your aunt again," Dolapo's father told her. His voice was as rich with pride as a stew is rich with meat and spices.

Dolapo wiggled with excitement. She hardly remembered her aunt, who had lived with the family when Dolapo was born. But she knew her aunt had given her a special name, declaring to everybody that the child's birth had brought her good fortune. That name was Oluranti: God remembers me. Because of the special name, Dolapo had always felt a bond with her aunt. She was also eager to see her three cousins for the first time.

As the car slowed down for a stop, Dolapo couldn't stop staring. The house in front of her was a quaint bungalow, neat and tidy. She climbed out and looked around at the mango and almond trees and huge, dainty hibiscus flowers. The gardener had used flowerbeds to carve the yard into intricate patterns. Slowly, she walked behind her father up the pathway that was lined with two hedges. They paused at the front door.

Just inside the door was a huge portrait of a man in a wig and gown. Dolapo knew the face of the man under the long, curly wig. It was Lawyer, her aunt's husband. The rest of the house held more amazing things. Best of all were the three small beds draped with sparkling white mosquito nets.

While the adults talked, Dolapo listened to their conversation with astonishment. It seemed that in spite of all his glory as a lawyer, her uncle had come to live here. Dolapo was old enough to know that when a woman got married, she always went to live with her husband. But here was a woman powerful enough to bring the man to live in her house.

Dolapo stared at her aunt with awe. Where did her power come from? She couldn't be a nurse, because she wasn't wearing a uniform the way Dolapo's other aunt did. What kind of work did she do to have a home so lovely that it brought her husband here to live?

"Father," she said. "What is my aunt? What does she do?"

Father's voice was strong with emotion. "You don't know?" He paused. "She's an educationist."

Even after Dolapo ran out to play with her cousins, she stored the word in her mind. Such clout! "Whatever an educationist might be," she whispered to herself, "that is what I must be."

Much later, after she had become an adult, Dolapo would say, "If my dad hadn't given me that big word, I might not have had such a strong dream." The word gave her an edge even in the discouraging times.

When she was in Form Three, the teacher gave out career forms and told the students to list their first, second, and third choices. In all three places, Dolapo wrote "educationist." After the teacher collected the forms, she glanced down. "Dolapo," she said, "What is this? If you want to be a teacher, just say so."

Dolapo stubbornly knew she wanted to be more than a teacher. She had a big word in her heart.

By that time, she had seen many teachers close up, and a piece of her said, "I don't want to be one of those miserable creatures." But even disillusionment never took away the shining feeling of that long-ago day in front of the wonderful bungalow. Even disillusionment never took away that interesting and unusual word.

And today Dolapo is a principal.