The Wooden Heirloom: The Family Akpoti
NB: Akpoti is a Yoruba word for STOOL.
The Akpoti.
My earliest memory of ‘the Akpoti’ was when my paternal grandmother came to visit. My dad calls his mum Iya Ruki. Iya means mother in the Yoruba language, so her name means mother of Ruki. Ruki is my dad’s younger sister, in other words, my aunty.
In Nigeria, mothers are called after the name of their first child, but for some reason unknown to me, my dad’s mother was called after her youngest child.
This was the first, and sadly the last time I saw my grandma. Iya Ruki passed away in the year 2008. Weird how it is just recently I discovered her birth name was Hadiza Kade. I sometimes wonder what kind of life she lived. This would be a story for another day.
Back to the Akpoti.
The Akpoti, I think I heard this name from my mum or dad, I can’t remember, but it should be from my dad since it is a Yoruba word. I think I was three or less when she came visiting my memory fails me. But I can remember Iya Ruki vividly.
A smallish oldish dark-skinned lady. Her choice of clothing was a native wrapper and shokoto with a white hijab over her face. Iya Ruki told us stories at night, mostly folklore sitting on the Akpoti. Oh yes, the Akpoti. A new sturdy Akpoti.
Before she visited, there was a rickety old brown stool in the kitchen. I can remember tidbits of its features. It was always situated close to the kitchen entrance door, and its legs looked like it was about to fall off.
Grandma needed the Akpoti to do her ablutions. My grandma was a practicing Muslim, but her son, my dad, was a Christian convert. Funny how history changes as children grow up.
The other day my dad promised to buy me books at Wuse market. When we got there, the people who sold books were nowhere to be found. My dad wearing a sad look on his face said these words. ‘Everything has changed.’
Yes, things do change, rules do change, and even cultural beliefs change with time. Like the Akpoti did.
The Akpoti!
Why do I keep wandering from it? The Akpoti is a Yoruba word for stool. Iya Ruki was old already so she always needed to sit to conserve her energy. She sat to cook, eat, perform her abolitions, and tell us stories.
Have I told the story of how the Akpoti was created?
The old rickety Akpoti had to be changed in preparation for her coming. My mum took it out and had a new one commissioned. This new one was sturdy and finer, but there was one issue. It was heavy.
The Akpoti was so heavy that I had my right foot broken by it.
The Akpoti fell on my feet. My mum told us to take an afternoon siesta. On my way to bed, I decided to increase the speed of the ceiling fan. The fan controller was high for me to reach, so I needed a tool to boost my height. The Akpoti was the needed tool.
After carrying the heavy Akpoti from the kitchen into the room, my little 3-year-old hands were tired, and guess what. My hands gave way, dropping it on my right foot. Yes, my little foot got broken by the Akpoti. Sigh, an afternoon nap of a sweet-blowing fan turned into a nightmarish afternoon.
Why do I keep wandering? I should stick to the Akpoti.
Yes, my mum got the new heavy Akpoti. And it served Iya Ruki well.
The stories she told us were all in the Yoruba language since she couldn’t speak one stitch of English. It is funny how for me, her granddaughter, the reverse is the case. I can’t speak a stitch of Yoruba, but I can speak English. Times and things change.
My grandma is dead, but the Akpoti made for her still lives in my kitchen.
The Akpoti tale would be incomplete if I don’t speak about its life with my mum.
When Iya Ruki left back to the village, Oke Ode. My mum used the Akpoti in her kitchen. Mainly for when she wanted to serve us food.
I remember so well how she would place the plates all around her in a circle and dish out everyone’s food, calling each of our names. The Akpoti, her throne from which she sat to dispense out her sweetness to our palates.
The Akpoti was also sometimes used as a stool for my siblings and me to stand upon while washing plates since our hands could barely reach the sink.
On rare occasions, when there was no money at home to buy kerosene to cook, my mum sat on the Akpoti at the back of the house to set up firewood. This Akpoti has smelled almost all the food I had in my childhood. The ones made out of abundance and the ones made out of lack.
My maternal grandma also used the Akpoti whenever she visited from Benin.
We always referred to her as grandmama. Grandmama taught me how to turn semovita sitting on the Akpoti. Specifically, how to make semovita for my father as she sat by the firewood outside laden with instructions on preparing smooth lump-less semovita.
Today, that Akpoti has found a home in my kitchen.
It is still used as a ladder in my kitchen, but this time to reach the higher wall set. When it is not used as a ladder, it serves as a platform to position my electric kettle to boil water.
On very, very rare occasions, I stand on it to wash plates, during which moments I am taken back in memory and where I stood as a child.
The Akpoti is very easy to carry now. It still looks sturdy as of day one, with not a single nail, out of place. Not one shaky leg on it. In fact, you won’t even believe it has gone through the hands of 3 generations of women.
I wonder what use the next generation would have in store for it. I wonder at which little child’s hands it would feel heavy on. And I wonder which generation would let it go like my mother did the former old rickety Akpoti.
But for today, this Akpoti is mine to use. It is my story to tell. Today this Akpoti belongs beside the walls of my kitchen.
Today this Akpoti belongs to this Yoruba writer, with an Esan mum, whose maternal and paternal grandmothers are Benin and Fulani women respectively.
My dear readers, this Akpoti story is now yours; yours to stand on, yours to sit on, and yours to carry.
To our 101 Faithfuls, here is our prayers to all of you. May your life be as sturdy as my Akpoti. Soo sturdy would it be that even in trial and tribulations you would stand still, unwavering, and strong.
