Skip to main content

PIANOMAN

 – By Raphaelmary Chukwudi
It was music.
Not the ordinary music you listen to or sing.
But it’s still music.
It’s the music you play,
It was a musical instrument
It was the pianoforte.
Three years after graduating from the secondary school and I was unable to gain admission into the university, I lost hope. Life became meaningless. I would roam from one end of our street to the other without any mission. I felt like a failure as my parents were already tired of me.
My miserable life was transmogrified when Andrew took me to his church and I “touched” the standard pianoforte mounted on their altar.
“Which group do you play for?” their choirmaster had asked, amazed at my raw talent.
“I don’t know the first thing about a piano,” I answered insouciantly. “I suck at everything.”
“Hard life boy?” he giggled, “Notify me when you want to put those fingers of yours to good use.”
The next week, three of my friends were arrested for robbery and I decided to give life one last chance with my fingers.
I told my parents of my intention of being a pianist and they readily agreed as anything better than roaming the streets was acceptable.
I met Silas the choirmaster and he enrolled me into a music academy where I plan to specialize on playing the piano.
Within few weeks of my arrival, I was acclaimed the best student of the piano as I showed skills beyond that of a learner.
Storried Pianoman
“You’ll be as good as Yanni if you work harder,” my instructor would say to me.
On some occasions, we would be given songs to practice. Students who failed to perform excellently were told to stay back after normal lessons for more practice.
The drilling became more intense as it was rumored that Apostle Jerome, the best pianist in the country would be coming to our academy to pick two students for a program in Ottawa.
My skills became better and sharper as I played in churches, parties, clubs and different social gatherings.
My colleagues in the academy knew I was already in Ottawa and that they were just competing for the second place. I became a celebrity as everyone wanted to be associated with me.
Then pride set in.
I would tease my mates for their clumsiness, duel with any of them who provokes me, boast of my skill to any listening ear and jokingly challenge my instructors to a contest.
A week before the supposed arrival of Apostle Jerome, we were to give a freestyle performance in an auditorium.
Three performers before me were told to stay back for more practice due to their incompetence and I looked down on them with pity.
I climbed the stage with ease and played like never before. I played away my misery, my past street life, my formal sadness and my failure. I played off my sudden elevation, my superiority, my impeccability, my matchless skill and my infallibility.
I got lost in the pure bliss of the melodies I was releasing.
I played about heaven and earth, sun and moon, angels and demons, man and woman. I played of the world before creation.
I felt like Lucifer, no, like Saint Cecilia before the throne of God.
“Halt!”
The command brought me back to reality.
“More practice for three hours!”
“No!’ I screamed. “I can’t stay for practice. I am the best pianist here, I don’t make mistakes,” I retorted.
“Yes! You are the best here, but you used the wrong octave and you were playing out of key.”
The auditorium was hushed.
My scrotum tightened with fear. I couldn’t bear staying behind for more practice with learners and being made an object of ridicule.
“I quit!” I shouted with tears as I ran out of the auditorium.
I went back to my street life and became worse till I bumped into Sarah, one of my former colleagues.
She explained how apostle Jerome pick two students during the extra practice hours the day I was asked to stay back.
I went back home, examined my life and I saw that I was very foolish for running out of the auditorium. I resolved to visit the head instructor of my academy the next day to apologize.
The head instructor accepted me and explained how he intentionally told me to stay back for practice that day. He explained how he was the only one who knew the arrival day of Jerome and was very pleased with my performance and wanted me to stay for more practice in order to meet Jerome, but reserved the opportunity to examine me in his own way. He admonished me never to see failure as my downfall but as a lesson.
Though I lost the opportunity of going to Ottawa, I now play for international organizations as I’ve learnt that failure and success are related as he who must learn to ride must also learn to fall.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

FEBRUARY 27

By Ola Vincent Omotade Aderonke will be my only poem that never ends, For a good woman is but a poem. A genuine poem that comes in blue moon. You are a jewel of purest gold, The smile that never grows old. You are the beauty of the sunset sky, The intricate twinkle of a happy star. You are the keeper of an unborn life, A champion, heroine, a candlelight . You are a budding shoot, evergreen, a colourful sweetness. Your laughter is like the whirlwind of the spirit, it  keeps resounding in the valleys and hills of life and motions. Encircling the hearts of men with magical notions. So now the night of January is past and the day of February is broken Today speaks of this calmness, this brightness,the one you brought. Today carries  messages of heavy words, Words that are pregnant with beauty for you. And with my golden mouth and pen, I wish to celebrate your existence. What joy of a fuller and freer life, have I got if onl...

''AM A BLACK ANGEL"

By Ola Vincent Omotade I look dark in the outside But deep within my fragile heart, lies a light. "The brightest light that shines so bright" Just as the rainbow in its gloomily, Brightens and beautifies the clouds, After a stormy rain, so I shine in your gloominess I am a black angel yet I brighten your darkest. So I stood every morning causing a radiance to your awesome smile. Even when it seems am unnoticed, I keep making you colourful and accepted. So many decades ago, I was sent to come make you fulfill To come bring you splendor in vendors. My beautiful self have I sold to your love, I live all day radically enraptured  in your world. I am your BLACK ANGEL

ÌGBÀ ÈWE (CHILDHOOD DAYS)

By Teslim Opemipo Let our mothers come like harmattan haze and swear by the sacrality of ògún if the roof lying above their fathers' house has never been stoned by a boy in love to walk them out for an evening talk. Let our fathers come like a windy rain and swear by the simplicity of òsun if the path that leads to the village stream has never danced to serenades sang by their soles in chase of maidens with braids so long. Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest and swear by the tranquility of the moon if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood fermented with the morals of moonlight tales. In our village, childhood is made of water; kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life and life is the laughter moulded on our lips when we gambol from rivers to trees and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses. Brethren, if you hear an elder saying: growing up kills laughter and joy, do not giggle for they once like us tasted the bliss o...