HiveComb

Paul isn't a man of many words these days. He had seen it all. Although his eyes still held the light of someone who once stood before a crowd and made them feel things.

His steps were slow. With a back bent just a little more than it used to. An old man who had lost the strength of his youth. With an aura of the man who had seen it all.

Each morning, he arrived at the old community theatre in Surulere where he worked. He was always early, he would have his keys jangling in his hands and his mop in the other. He'd go from sweeping the dusty wooden stage to the audience seats. Cleaning it as though he were preparing it for the second coming of Christ. Be it school plays, awkward rehearsals, or poorly funded shows. He did his work with the same zeal.

Years ago, before the gunshots, the hunger, and the loss that came with the war. Paul had been something else. A vibrant young man with a dream in his heart and fire in his eyes. He had always had a dream of becoming an actor. Way back in his university days, Paul was the leader of his group, writing plays that lightened hearts and brightened smiles. And his performance on stage had a voice that filled rooms with a presence that made lecturers stop to watch. People who watched him then knew he was on the verge of becoming a national star.

Then came the Nigerian Civil War that took all his dreams with it.

Overnight the campus became empty. Paul Pa packed his dreams into a tiny bag and ran into the bush. Although he survived the war, his dreams didn't. Things changed, visions were different. There was barely a theatre left or an audience to watch, and by the time the country would find its pace again, his future, which was as bright as the sunlight, went dark.

So, he took a job as a clerk in a factory. And as time went by, he fell in love and married Agatha, a beautiful nurse. Their love blossomed, and they were blessed with five children, whom they raised together.

Years passed and life moved on without waiting for anyone. But Paul never found joy in his job as a clerk.. He yearned for what he truly wanted. His first love, acting. He kept auditioning for plays from time to time, but directors wanted younger men with fresher faces.

“You’re good,” they’d say, “but this part needs a young blood full of energy.”

With time, it became harder for him to hide the lines on his face. His rejection grew colder and hurt more.

At that point, he gave up and tossed his small brown notebook filled with lines, dialogues, and unfinished monologues, which he always kept in his pocket, into his drawer and forgot about it. His dreams only lived in his heart and not his head anymore.

He finally retired as a clerk and took a job as a janitor at the National Theater in Surulere, just so he could be close to his first love. If he couldn't live it, maybe he could feel it.

Now, every day, he would sit backstage watching actors perform. Somehow, he made himself believe that it comforted him. Just like the voice of an old friend that never left, whispering to him.

Then one Thursday afternoon, something happened while rehearsals were going on for a small play called The Mango Tree. One of the actors, an old man just about his age collapsed in the middle of rehearsal and was rushed to the hospital.

The director panicked. The final play was in two weeks, and there was no understudy. He went about yelling to whoever that listened

“Get me someone to block the scene,” the director barked. “Is there anybody who can read the lines? Anyone?.”

But nobody volunteered or had anyone.

Then a frail voice spoke from behind the stage. “I can read it,” said Paul. His voice was frail but firm with the boldness of a man who knew his onions.

They all turned to see him standing there with a mop in his hands.

“You?” The director asked, raising a brow.

Paul nodded. "I can do it."

There were chuckles from the cast.

“I need someone who knows the lines, Oga. You're just a janitor who knows nothing about acting." The director wrote him off. "This is serious business." He added and sat on his seat then he buried his head in his hands.

But Paul didn't give up, he walked to the center of the stage. His love for acting fuelled him. Suddenly, something shifted in the air. Without a script. He read the lines, he had memorized the entire play just from listening.

“I may be old, but I have seen the world twist and turn like a wet towel,” he began, voice deep and steady.

The room went silent. The director raises his head to see him act. All eyes fell on him

Paul didn't stop there; he moved slowly, with the grace of a man who had found a lost love. His hands tell the stories in each line. His eyes carried the weight of the character. He made the character come alive. This time, not as performance, but as truth. Like a life he had lived before.

Everywhere fell silent as he said the last words. But not because she was bad, but because he was good

The director stood up slowly, his eyes filled with admiration and surprise. “Get him a costume! We just found our character."

Paul looked at the director and the heavens. He smiled. Finally, he had found love again.

For the next two weeks, Paul rehearsed with the younger actors. According to the director, he was a natural. Living every scene like it was his life. He brought out his old notebook from his drawer and started writing again.

On the day of the show, the theatre was full. And for the first time in years. Paul's children sat in the front row, confused and surprised. They didn’t know their father had ever acted. He had never told them. He wanted to, but it always felt too late.

That night, as Paul stood on the stage in his full costume and the light came on his face. Paul did what he had always known how to do best. Drilling every line till the light went dark and the curtains dropped. Then the hall erupted in cheers.

Backstage, the cast hugged him.

The director shook his hand. “You just showed me that even though you're late to the game. You can still make the team and be the best. Congratulations Paul, you're a star."

Paul smiled.

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