IGBOMINA

Those were my grandma’s arms and legs. I took the pictures just a few hours before she passed, not knowing we were going to lose her. She had been sick in the hospital, and I was with her when I found myself admiring the tattoos I had always noticed on her and took these photos. One tattoo in particular always stood out, "Rayimi". It wasn’t my grandfather’s name. Although her immediate younger brother’s name was Raimi… but really, who tattoos their brother’s name on their body? 🤪🤣 So one day, I finally asked. She told me Rayimi was a man she had dated and loved deeply in her youth. According to her, the “big girls” of her time tattooed their lovers’ names, and she did the same. Unfortunately, Rayimi later served her what I like to call a premium English breakfast. No be today men de break women!😅🤣 Life moved on. She met and married my grandfather, who never felt threatened by the tattoo. He never asked her to remove it, and so it remained as a quiet reminder of a chapter long closed. In the end, she carried "Rayimi" with her to the grave o. 🙆🏽‍♂️🤣 But not as unfinished love, rather, as part of her story. Because life doesn’t erase our past anyway; it layers over it. That tattoo wasn’t just about Rayimi anymore. It became proof that my grandmother had lived, and loved boldly, risked, lost, healed, and loved again. That tattoo carried the story of her youth, her rebellion, her growth, and her vulnerability. Those were the things I captured and preserved in photos I didn’t know would become the “last photos.” 😥🤍 PS I love tattoos. I am my grandmother’s bona fide granddaughter… but unlike her, I will not ink a man's name for love or pop culture...🙄 I can consider doing it in exchange for money, sha. 😎🤪🤣🤣🏃🏾‍♀️ (Copied)

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The cost of living in Ilorin is expensive, almost like Lagos too