Singing has always been one of my passions and my favourite pastime. I joined the school choir as early as four years old, and I became familiar with solfa notations at the age of 10. You would always find me seated with the choir during my childhood years. I sang from my heart, and truly, I did mean the words I sang, those I sang in prayer, those I sang with emotion, and those I screamed out from the bottom of my lungs simply because the rhythm and melody were just too beautiful to sing while maintaining calm and poise.
I had my first singing performance at the age of eight. I was to sing a psalm and Alleluia during the Holy Mass celebrated on graduation day that year. I was excited, and I wanted to prove to everyone that I could do it. I guess it was childhood excitement.
I remember telling my mother and father that I was selected to sing the psalm. They were happy and impressed.
“I will wash and iron your uniform”, my mother said. “You need to stop drinking cold water”, she added.
“Make sure she sleeps in warmth; we wouldn’t want her to catch a cold", my father said.
My parents were in full support, and I practiced every day. I remember staying for about an hour after the end of school to rehearse and perfect my tune with the help of the choirmaster.
“Wake up, Seyi! Are you still sleeping?”. I heard a voice wake me from my dreams. It was my mother. I groggily rubbed my eyes and uttered an almost incoherent “Good morning, ma” in greetings to my mother.
“Today is the day. You are going to be singing in front of the entire school”, she said to me, like I needed to be reminded. I didn’t want to be reminded. I just wanted to pull my blanket back over my face and stay asleep. I think I was actually scared of singing in front of the whole crowd.
“Get up this instant!”, my mother said as she pulled away my blanket from my body. The gust of cold air that hit my almost bare skin woke me up indeed.
I kicked my legs at the empty air in protest. “Go and have your bath, please, before you get punished for sleeping in!”, my mother said again.
I grumbled as I stood up to go to the bathroom, took an empty bucket, and walked towards the kitchen. I stopped by the sitting room to greet my father, who was already awake, reading the newspaper.
“Good morning, sir”, I said.
“Ah, Seyi. Good morning. How was your night?”, he inquired.
“Fine, daddy”.
“Go and get hot water from the kitchen and have your bath; I will be dropping you off at 8:30am”, he instructed. “Be sure to wake your sister to do the same before you bathe”, he added, and he continued reading the newspaper. My father was a journalist, you see.
I mumbled a yes in affirmation and went to do as instructed. My mother had prepared my favourite breakfast, bread laced with butter and hot tea. I ate after dressing up, although I could only eat a little. I was nervous.
My father dropped my sister and I off at school, and he promised that he would be watching from the crowd and also that my mother would join him later.
I walked towards the hall and joined other pupils in the choir stand. I had to rehearse my psalm quickly to exercise my voice and make sure I remembered the tune. The Mass was not to start until 9:00 a.m. I waited in my seat, unable to run around or play with the other kids because I was afraid to forget my tune.
I wore my cream-coloured uniform, which was a gown with my school logo scattered all over it; my collar was set, and my belt was tied in a perfect bow at the back. My two-inch shoes were neat and black and fitted my feet perfectly, clad in pure white socks. I felt neat and confident.
I stood up after the first reading and approached the altar as I should. The walk to the altar was a long one, and the walk from the altar to the stand was even longer. I kept feeling like I would trip as my confidence wavered. I held my head up high and walked a step at a time, just as my father does. I could picture him in my head as I did so.
On getting to the stand, I picked up the microphone and introduced the lyrics to the chorus before I proceeded to sing. The moment I started to sing, all forms of nervousness disappeared, and I just wanted to connect to the lyrics of the song I sang. I became one with the rhythm and the melody. It was blissful singing that way—I didn’t even remember the crowd seated in front of me.
I took the alleluia as well and descended from the altar to go back to my seat with the choir. Shouts of a job well done greeted me the moment I took my seat, and I was filled with joy.
The Mass was celebrated in a fine manner, and I ran to my parents after it ended. They commended me for a job well done and said they were proud of me. My younger sister, Eve, just looked at me in awe and was excited along with me.
It takes a lot to get things done, so much preparation takes place before the D-day. I had spent extra time rehearsing one tune for weeks, and then on the day I was supposed to sing, I almost bolted out of fear and nervousness. Thanks to my mother, though. We all need our support system to help us prepare, to encourage us, and to be excited for and with us. I am glad I had mine.
