The Teapot of Yesterday

The Teapot of Yesterday

By Shakirah Ayanloye

The teapot's chip gave it an eerie look. It wasn't any crack. The jagged edges suggested that the teapot had seen something deep and painful. Even time couldn't heal it. The blue pattern had faded over time. The once delicate swirls now resembled shadows of ghosts on the ivory porcelain. I had found it at the Bodija market, where old things went to rest. The market buzzed with noise. Vendors called out, buyers chatted, and metal trays clattered as they stacked wares. Yet, in the chaos, the teapot stood still, as if waiting for me. The old man who sold it to me had an odd way about him, his smile more knowing than kind. His eyes twinkled with mischief, as though he was privy to secrets the world was too busy to hear.

I laughed, thinking it was the ramblings of an eccentric vendor. We haggled, but he wouldn't budge. He understood something I didn't: the teapot's price wasn't about the ceramic. The memories inside it, memories yet to be shared, also held importance. I gave in, purchasing it more for the story than for the teapot itself.

That evening, I set the teapot on Mama's kitchen table. It sat next to her favorite tin of ginger biscuits, the same one she had used since my childhood. It was a bit worn, but it had the kind of sturdiness that suggested it had stories to tell too. Mama, who never liked knick-knacks, gave me a resigned look. "You've brought another antique for me to clean," her eyes seemed to say.

She had a way of seeing through things, of recognizing the history behind an object even when no one else did. Her hands had handled many things over the years—pots, cups, and plates, some of them as old as me, and others much older. But this teapot, with its strange aura and chipped spout, seemed different. She sighed, but I saw the curiosity in her eyes. Despite herself, she felt intrigued.

"Leave it to me," she murmured as she began preparing the hibiscus tea. She boiled water and measured the loose hibiscus leaves with precision. Then, she poured them into the teapot. The steam spiraled up, carrying with it a scent so familiar, so unplaceable, that it made my chest tighten.

It wasn’t hibiscus. The smell was unique. It smelled like wet earth, sweet mango dust, and the unexpected scent of Grandma’s powder. Mama froze, her hands trembling as she raised the cup to her lips. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, she seemed to be somewhere else. Somewhere far away.

"Ibadan...1965," she whispered, her voice shaky, as if the words were fragile and lost.

I took a sip, unsure of what I was about to taste. The warmth of the tea settled on my tongue, and in an instant, I felt as if I were nine years old again. I ran barefoot through puddles from the afternoon storm. My laughter echoed down the street. I heard Mama calling me in. Her voice was sharp, like always. "You'll catch cold!" she warned me for staying out too long after the rain.”

I saw the veranda—the wooden planks worn smooth by years of use. I could almost taste the pap and Akara waiting for me on the low, round table we used for family meals. The memories seemed buried beneath the surface of the tea, waiting for me to discover them once more.

That evening, as Mama and I sat together in the kitchen, the world felt smaller. The refrigerator hummed, neighbors chatted, and the floorboards creaked. Everything faded into the background. It was us, the teapot, and the silent stories it carried. Mama shared stories of her childhood in Ibadan. She spoke of long nights by the fire with her sisters. I could detect the aroma of palm oil frying and hear her mother singing in a gentle tone in the kitchen. The stories flowed in enough that night, as if the teapot had unlocked a door sealed for too long.

The next morning, we brewed black tea with cloves. The scent filled the house, rich and comforting. Then something strange happened. It wasn't the tea's aroma or the cloves. It was the feeling that came with it. The scent felt heavy, like it brought voices from another time. I could almost hear the laughter of old friends who were gone. I also heard the soft whispers of songs sung by cousins now living abroad.

We sat in silence, the kind of silence that comes when the air is thick with memories. It's the kind of moment when people with decades of life experience come together. The only thing left to do is listen to the echoes of their shared history. It was as though the room was holding its breath, waiting for us to acknowledge the passing of time. I could feel the weight of the years pressing down, a reminder that time, like tea, is best enjoyed with patience.

That afternoon, I took the teapot with me as I ran errands around town. It felt odd to carry something so delicate through the busy city. It was like holding a piece of the past in my hands. Ibadan's streets buzzed with noise, yet the teapot served as a quiet anchor. It grounded me in a moment that was fading quickly. When I returned home, the sunlight was fading, casting long shadows across the yard.

That night, as I was heading to bed, I wandered into the kitchen to find Mama sitting at the table. The teapot rested in her hands again. Her fingers traced the chipped edge as if it were an old friend. There were tears in her eyes, but there was also a soft smile on her face. Her gaze was distant, but it wasn’t sadness that shone in her expression—it was something more complex. It was a blend of loss and love, of time passed and time cherished.

"Some memories," she said, her voice a soft whisper, "are best sipped with care."

I nodded as understanding dawned on me. The teapot wasn’t an object. It was a vessel—not for tea, but for the stories that generations had passed down. It held secrets and reminded us that even simple things can take us back in time. The objects we touch are that—objects—but they can mean so much more.

The teapot sits on our shelf. It’s quiet and unassuming. It blends into the background like an old friend who knows when to stay still. But every so often, on rainy evenings, I catch Mama glancing at it, her gaze soft with nostalgia. I can tell she’s lost in thought, thinking of something distant. It exists only in the gaps between moments.

One evening, when the rain was particularly heavy, I found myself in the kitchen again. The soft thrum of the storm outside made the air feel thick with the weight of memories. I reached for the teapot, almost without thinking. Mama was at the counter, peeling yams, but she paused when she saw me. I could tell she had something to say, but she didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, we made tea together. This time, we brewed a mix of lemongrass and ginger, a recipe passed down from her grandmother. The scent was sharp and cleansing. As the tea steeped, I found myself asking more questions than I had ever dared before. I wanted to learn about her childhood, my grandmother, and the stories I had never heard.

Mama's voice softened when she talked about her early years in Ibadan. She and her siblings played under big mango trees. Their lives were as simple as the seasons in their small town. She shared stories of family gatherings. Laughter filled the air. The kitchen buzzed with the smell of delicious food cooking. There were also stories of heartache. Some lost loved ones too soon. Others faced tough times when they migrated. These quiet moments helped shape her into the woman she is today.

As I listened, the room felt warmer. Time and space blurred as I pictured the world Mama once knew. It was a world I could never return to. But in that moment, I could almost taste it. I could feel it, as if I were there with her. We walked barefoot in the rain and laughed with cousins who had long since gone.

The teapot sat in silence between us. Its chipped edge reminded us of its fragility and the many years it had seen. It wasn’t an object anymore. It was a bridge. It connected yesterday to today. Brewing tea brought generations together.

Magic, I’ve come to realize, isn’t about spells or wands. Not possible to remove the adverb. It’s in the quiet things, the things we often overlook, the things that speak to us in ways words cannot. Magic is the taste of yesterday, brewed fresh and warm in a chipped teapot that knows all your stories.

Sometimes, I grab the teapot. I don’t want tea; I want to relive those memories. I want to feel their warmth in my hands. I want them to wash over me like the smell of wet earth or Grandma’s powder perfume. I pour the tea, savoring the process and allowing the moment to unfold before me.

Each time I sip from it, closer to the past. The teapot seems to whisper, reminding me that time isn't a straight line. It’s a circle that brings us back to where we started. In that quiet kitchen, with the teapot between us, I know that we are more than the sum of our years. We are the stories we carry, the memories we keep, and the magic that lives in the simplest things.