The Sound of Crayons

An uncle reflects on love, family, and fatherhood through the joy of a crayon-covered wall

Word Count: 998

In Africa, we say it takes a village to raise a child. And it’s true. It really does.
I’ve never fathered a child. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it feels like to raise one. I know it very well. Because in our family, and in our culture, once your elder sister has children, they are yours too.
I am Uncle Bayo. But to my niece and nephew, I’m more than that. I’m the one they run to when they break something before their mother finds out. I’m the one who braids stories into their bedtime, who carries them sleeping from the car to their beds, who shows up at school with jollof rice on sports day. In every way that matters, I am a father.
I remember the first time I saw the wall.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon. NEPA had taken light, and the fan was just spinning lazily on backup. I dozed off on the couch for maybe twenty minutes. But when I woke up, the house was too quiet.
That kind of silence is never a good sign when children are around.
I followed the trail: crayon wrappers, a pair of socks, a suspicious giggle.
And then, I found them.
Tunde, my sister’s first boy, was standing in the hallway looking very proud of himself. Beside him, Ijeoma, my darling mischief, was on the floor, holding a red crayon like it was a magic wand. And in front of them, the wall.
My wall.
Covered.
There were suns with smiling faces, people flying in the sky, a goat wearing a crown, and a house that had chicken legs. In the middle of it all was a tall stick figure with a beard and long legs.
“That’s you, Uncle,” Ijeoma said, like she’d just drawn Mandela himself.
I should have shouted. I should’ve scolded. That was the adult thing to do.
But instead, I knelt beside them.
“You drew me taller than the house,” I said.
“To us, you are,” Tunde replied without looking up.
They handed me a crayon. Blue.
“Draw something,” Ijeoma said.
So I drew a tree. They laughed. She said it looked like upside-down okra.
We sat on the floor for almost an hour, drawing nonsense: a flying drum, a banana car. Tunde drew a cow with three eyes. Ijeoma added a crown and said it was the queen.
And in that moment, I realized: this is it. This is what they mean when they say children are a gift.
In this part of the world, we raise children together. Your sister’s child is your child. Your cousin’s child can sleep in your house for a week, and nobody asks questions. That’s how we were raised. That’s how I was raised. Love is not owned; it’s shared.
There were so many moments like that, small but rich.
Like the time Tunde fell and scraped his knee. He ran past his mother, straight to me. “Uncle, it’s bleeding like a river,” he said, tears on his face, voice shaking.
I cleaned it and said, “You’ll be fine, small general. Just battle scars.”
And the night Ijeoma had a bad dream and came to my room quietly, whispering, “Can I sleep here? Just today?” She curled up next to me, and I stayed still until she slept, breathing steady.
That’s fatherhood too. And I felt it, strong and deep.
We left the crayon wall for years.
Visitors would look at it and ask questions.
“You didn’t stop them?”
“No need,” I’d say. “This is their world. Let them draw it the way they see it.”
My sister didn’t love it, but she understood. She would just sigh and say, “As long as it’s not on the front door.”
Eventually, when we repainted, Ijeoma was the one who stood in front of the wall and touched it gently.
“Will I forget it when it’s gone?”
“No,” I said. “You’ll remember it better.”
We took photos. We laughed about our ‘art gallery’. Then we said goodbye to it with paintbrushes in our hands.
Now, they are older.
Tunde is in secondary school now, tall and full of deep thoughts. Ijeoma still draws, but these days it’s on tablets, not walls. Her hands are more skilled now. But when she gave me a drawing for my birthday, I couldn’t stop smiling.
It was a house with chicken legs, a stick figure with a beard, and a smiling sun.
“You remember all that?” I asked.
She nodded. “Of course. You think we’d forget?”
I framed it. It’s in my sitting room now, beside my certificates.
People ask if I regret not having children.
I tell them no. I have children. Maybe not by blood, but by bond. And the bond is just as real.
Fatherhood is not always about who gives life; it’s about who gives love. And in this community, we do not raise children alone. We raise them together. We lift them up, not just with our hands, but with our stories, our laughter, our patience.
So when the house is quiet these days, I don’t panic like before.
I smile. Because I know someone, somewhere in this home, is dreaming. Maybe drawing. Maybe imagining.
And if I’ve done my part well, they’re imagining a world where love surrounds them, crayons are allowed on walls, and uncles can be superheroes too.