Crossover | Kiisi Adedipe
The last day of 2015 fell on a Thursday. It was in the afternoon when my mom first voiced her concerns about attending the new-year crossover service at our family church. On a good day, it was a thirty-minute drive, but holiday festivities had diluted any sense of normalcy. Then again, “normalcy in Lagos” will always be an oxymoron. The traffic was unbearable. There’s also something about the year’s end that makes Nigerians twice as wary and alert to risks. So, she suggested a change of plans: we’d attend the Redeemed church just five minutes from our estate instead.
I liked that church. Its close proximity stirred memories of the first church that nurtured me as a child. And then there was the teenage ministry with the cute guy who caught my boy-curious eyes. Teenage churches weren’t my favourite, but on those Sundays when my mom drove us there after my dad made his way, that guy was all the incentive I needed. It’s funny now how little things like that stick with you.
That night, the church was packed—with everyone. And I mean everyone. I had never seen the bungalow so full. As I took in the busy environment, the pastor led us through the usual Pentecostal prayer of thanksgiving: “Thank you for January, February, March…” His voice carried on, but my mind wandered. It sifted through the months of 2015 until it landed in August, particularly the time spent with family in Barrie, Ontario.
Barrie had quickly become our annual retreat from the frantic pace of Lagos. One random afternoon, in between playing big sister to my cousins—a role I rarely assumed as the last child—my mom returned home. She had just visited my brother’s school, and I guess the trip sparked something in her mind. She paused and stood across from me, her bag in one hand and a slightly crumpled envelope in the other. Her face was calm, but the flicker of resolve in her eyes betrayed the weight of what she was about to say. After a brief second of silence, she asked a question that would change the course of my life:
“Kiisi, do you want to move to Canada for school in January?”
At first, I froze, unsure if she was serious or thinking out loud. But the way she held my gaze told me she wasn’t joking. We had talked about the possibility of my move a few months ago, in the parking lot of the bungalow church. I remembered the hesitation and sadness in her eyes then as she entertained the thought of me—her baby—leaving so young and so soon. Perhaps sooner than she had expected.
Her initial hesitation had also been fuelled by offhand comments from the adults, masked as concern. Though I wasn’t present during their conversations, I could imagine the taboo in their voices: “Ọmọ Obìnrin?! A girl child?!” The same people who insisted girls mature faster than boys seemed to convulse at the thought of a young girl moving abroad to study.
That summer afternoon, something about my mom had changed. Her reluctance was gone, replaced by a quiet certainty I couldn’t fully understand. Still, I grabbed her offer with both hands. There were no rose petals, no flashing neon signs, no lover on one knee with a diamond ring—but my 14-year-old self squealed the loudest “yes” I could muster.
Watching American shows like That’s So Raven and Victorious formed my expectations of high school abroad. I pictured myself in dim hallways, spinning the combination of my own locker, decorated with artwork that showed off my personality. I imagined chatting away with friends I was yet to meet, eating lunch together in the cafeteria after picking up a tray from the lunch lady with a hairnet. Aside from the predominant ratio of white students to other races, my Christian high school was completely different. It had plain lockers, there was no lunch lady, and most people ate outside the cafeteria.
That crossover night, the church was alive with excitement as the clock hit midnight. It was the same rush of energy I’d felt when I said yes to a new life. People hugged each other as they sang a chorus of “Happy New Year,” and swayed to songs of high praise. For some, it was the widest smile they would wear all year. Sure, they wouldn’t greet you as warmly the next time you see them, but in that moment, I shared in their joy.
As we stepped into the thick night air, the heart-palpitating sounds of fireworks pierced the sky. Like the lawless fireworks disturbing the sky’s rest, the reality of my upcoming move unsettled my thoughts. Staring out the foggy window of our Honda CRV, I suddenly realized how much I was going to miss the bumpy roads leading to my estate. My mom’s never-ending complaints about the gallops that needed fixing before they ruined the car were among the small things I would be leaving behind.
Sunday mornings with her, climbing the blue plastic stool in her closet to grab her round box of fascinator hats, and spending fifteen minutes debating between the feathered ones and the short ones. Holding hands with my grandma in the car as she shared stories, like the one about the tribal tattoos on the back of her arm. Belting out lyrics of Aṣa’s Bed of Stone album with my dad on my way to school. My little cousin was three when I left. I had been there for his birth, just a couple of days before my birthday. I still remember the proud smile on my face as he took his first steps. I would miss placing him on my hip and taking him everywhere with me. I felt hollow.
There was nowhere else the sound of my name held more meaning. Whether it was an errand to go or an invite to come, the “Kii” pronounced with emphasis, followed by the delicate ending of “si,” conveyed a kind of care that commanded my full attention. It was always a distinct and familiar tone. Even my little cousin’s attempts at pronouncing my name were more accurate than anything I would hear in my new home.
My move didn’t feel final until February 14, 2016. While hearts around the world basked in the sweetness of love, mine sank. That evening, I stood in the biting cold of Toronto’s Pearson Airport, watching my mom roll a trolley through the entrance. For the first time, I wasn’t going in with her. No one could have prepared me for that gut-wrenching realization.
From that moment on, the harsh reality of goodbyes ruffled me. I wish someone had told me that the next time I saw my grandma, her once-firm grip would be weak. Her memory would falter. Her fair skin, once radiant under the sun, would soften with the wrinkles of old age. My little cousin wouldn’t stay little forever, and if I tried carrying him the next time I saw him, I might end up limping away like Jacob in the Bible.
I didn’t anticipate how much the last nine years would change me, too. How my foolish moments would make me wiser. How I would fall more times than I could count, but leap even higher each time. There was no warning about having to let go of people, and learning to process the tangy ache of being let go of in return. No one told me that on a summer day in 2017, I would stand face-to-face with my own flawed humanity, ready to become united with perfect divinity. That sorrow would sometimes knock on my door uninvited, but joy, resilient as ever, would bloom still.
At 23, I have discovered that bumpy roads are not confined to my estate. They are an inevitable feature of life’s journey. But that hasn’t deterred me. I have learned to see each bump as an invitation to lean further into trust, to deepen my dependency on the One who has gone before me.
And on the days I am tempted to do otherwise, I think of that wide-eyed and hopeful 14-year-old girl who was bursting with excitement about the possibilities ahead. Every time I choose childlike faith over fear, I catch a glimpse of what she saw.
That brave girl was onto something.
Kiisi Adedipe is a finance professional by day, writer by night, and a child of God every second. She is the co-author of Ife, a collection of short love stories, and the founder and co-editor of Saphar Collective Magazine. Kiisi also runs Talking Faith, a Christian blog where she shares lessons from her walk with Jesus. Her dream is not only to continue sharing her own stories with the world but also to provide a platform for others, especially the younger generation, to do the same.
Cover image by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash