From shadows to light

Chapter 2: Ammar Alade

Ammar Alade had everything. And nothing.

At 27, he was heir to the Alade name. That name opened doors in London, Lagos, and Houston.

Tall. Dark skin that glowed even under fluorescent lights. Hair cut low and lined perfectly.

Eyes the color of deep coffee that made aunties at the Yoruba cultural center sigh and whisper "omo olomo" behind their fans.

He could buy the building. The street. The whole block in Peckham if he wanted.

But the Alade townhouse in Kensington felt like a gilded cage.

Dinner was at 8pm sharp. White tablecloth. Silver. His parents at the head.

"Zainab Adeyemi’s family is on the board, Ammar," his father, Baba Alade, said, cutting his steak.

"The Adeyemis. Good people. Old money from Ibadan. You should consider her. It’s good for business.

Two families coming together. That’s how we built this."

His mother, Mama Alade, reached over and touched his sleeve. Her bangles sang.

"A man needs the right wife, omo mi. Someone who understands our world.

Not some… artist. Not some girl who draws on walls."

Ammar smiled. The polite one. The one he’d practiced since he was 10.

"E pele, Baba. E pele, Mama. I hear you."

Inside, he was screaming.

After dinner he escaped to the third floor. His studio.

The room smelled like turpentine and coffee. Canvases everywhere. Half-finished.

Not portraits of politicians or landscapes of Lagos like his father wanted.

Abstracts. Colors that bled. A massive unfinished mural of an Iroko tree with roots breaking concrete.

He was tired of board meetings. Tired of "networking" at galas where people asked him about oil prices in the first 30 seconds.

Tired of fake laughs.

He wanted something real. Something that didn’t come with a contract and a seating chart.

His phone buzzed. Email from the Yoruba Community Centre in Peckham.

Subject: Muralist Needed. Pay: £500. Deadline: 2 weeks. Contact: A. Alade

He was the A. Alade. He funded the center.

He opened the applications. 12 of them. Most were boring. Corporate art. Safe.

Then one made him stop breathing.

Portfolio: E. Adeyemi.

First image: A girl, back to the viewer, painting an Iroko tree on a brick wall.

Second image: Adire patterns morphing into faces.

Third image: Charcoal sketch of a woman in iro and buba, holding a paintbrush like a weapon.

The artist statement was one line: “I paint because I wasn’t allowed to speak."

Adeyemi.

Aunty Sikirat’s niece.

The quiet one who came to the Eid programs and never talked to anyone.

The one who wore hoodies to cultural events.

He stared at the sketch for a long time.

Then, before he could think twice, before Baba could call it a "distraction,"

he hit reply.

"E. Adeyemi,

We’d like to offer you the mural. Come to the center Saturday at 2pm.

Come ready to work.

-A. Alade"

He closed his laptop.

For the first time in months, he was curious about something that wasn’t on a spreadsheet.