I grew up in an atmosphere where words were an integral part of

Host: The rain fell in fine silver threads, wrapping the old bookshop in a veil of melancholy. The wooden shelves, darkened by age and moisture, groaned softly under the weight of forgotten literature. The air was thick with the scent of paper—old, yellowed, and alive with memory.

In the corner, Jack sat by a lamp whose flickering light painted shadows across his sharp face. A cigarette rested between his fingers, unlit, as though even the act of burning something was too loud for this place.

Jeeny stood near the window, watching raindrops race down the glass like competing thoughts. Her hair hung damp against her cheek, and her eyes shimmered with that peculiar blend of sadness and awe that words often awaken in the sensitive.

The world outside was chaos—horns, voices, the neon haze of the city—but in here, the only noise was the soft turning of a page.

Jeeny: “Wole Soyinka once said, ‘I grew up in an atmosphere where words were an integral part of culture.’”

Jack: “Soyinka... the man who carved rebellion out of language.”

Host: The lamp flickered, throwing a brief shimmer across the spine of a book titled The Man Died. Jack’s voice, low and husky, carried a blend of cynicism and admiration.

Jack: “It’s a beautiful line, but also naive. Words? They’re decorations on the cage of human behavior. Culture doesn’t grow from words—it grows from survival, from power, from necessity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Words are what survival sounds like. They’re how a people remember who they are after power crushes them. Soyinka knew that. He lived under dictatorship, was imprisoned for using words to speak truth. And yet, he still said they were culture. That’s not naivety—that’s courage.”

Host: Her voice was gentle but fierce, like rain that refuses to stop even after the thunder has passed.

Jack: “Courage, maybe. But also blindness. You really think poetry saved Nigeria? Or any country that bleeds? Words didn’t stop the soldiers. Words didn’t keep the bullets from flying.”

Jeeny: “But words made sure the world remembered the soldiers, Jack. When you silence words, you erase memory—and when you erase memory, you erase people.”

Host: The rain intensified, hammering the glass like an applause from unseen hands. Jack leaned back, the cigarette still unlit, his eyes narrowing in contemplation.

Jack: “History remembers blood before it remembers ink. Words are fragile—they die with the speaker.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we’re sitting here surrounded by their ghosts.”

Host: She gestured around the bookshop. Shelves upon shelves of words, the echo of centuries bound in cloth and leather. Dust caught the lamplight like suspended time.

Jeeny: “These people—Shakespeare, Baldwin, Soyinka—they lived once. But their words still breathe. That’s not fragility, Jack. That’s immortality.”

Jack: “Immortality? Or illusion? Maybe we keep their words alive because we can’t bear the silence that comes when reality wins.”

Jeeny: “You think silence is real? Silence is just the space between words. Without it, the symphony collapses. You can’t have culture without that rhythm—language is the heartbeat.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the table in slow irritation.

Jack: “Culture, Jeeny, is built by doers, not dreamers. Farmers, engineers, soldiers. Not poets sitting in cafés thinking about metaphors.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. The farmer tills the land—but the poet names it. Without words, what would he be tilling? Without stories, how would he know why the land matters?”

Host: There was a pause, long and weighted. The rain softened, as though listening. The lamplight steadied, bathing the scene in amber stillness.

Jack: “You’re saying words give meaning to what already exists?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying they create what exists. Every revolution, every nation, every love—begins with words. When Mandela spoke, when Lincoln wrote, when Soyinka defied silence—those weren’t decorations. They were detonations.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, a single moth circling the flame in slow, dangerous worship.

Jack: “Then why do words fail so often? Why do people still kill, still hate, still destroy—after reading all these great truths you worship?”

Jeeny: “Because words can’t save us alone. They need hearts to listen. But when they are listened to—they move mountains.”

Host: Her eyes burned, her voice trembling between conviction and sadness. Jack looked at her for a long moment before answering, the corners of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Jack: “You sound like you grew up inside a library.”

Jeeny: “I grew up inside stories. My father was a teacher. We didn’t have much, but we had words. They filled our evenings. They made our hunger bearable. They gave us dignity.”

Host: The room fell quiet again, save for the rhythmic drip of water from a leak in the corner. The smell of wet paper filled the air, nostalgic and tragic.

Jack: “Dignity,” he repeated softly. “Maybe that’s what Soyinka meant. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about literature, but identity. That a people’s soul is shaped by their stories.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When he said words were part of culture, he wasn’t romanticizing language. He was saying that words are the memory of pain and pride. Without them, culture dissolves.”

Host: Jack reached for a book from the nearest shelf—a worn copy of The Lion and the Jewel. He turned it over in his hands, tracing the faded letters on the spine.

Jack: “He used English to fight English colonialism. There’s irony in that.”

Jeeny: “No irony. Power. He turned the colonizer’s language into a weapon of liberation. That’s what words can do—they shift from being chains to becoming wings.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the reflection of the lamp trembling inside them.

Jack: “You make it sound like every sentence is a revolution.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Every time someone speaks truth, especially when they’re not supposed to, the world changes—just a little.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked loudly. The rain had slowed to a whisper. Outside, the night deepened, but the shop remained a small universe of gold light and unspoken thoughts.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe culture isn’t born of power or progress. Maybe it’s born in these—” he gestured at the books “—these fragile, foolish things people write when they can’t contain the truth inside them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Words are the only rebellion that doesn’t need permission.”

Host: A long silence followed, warm and weightless. The lamp hummed, casting long shadows like brushstrokes on their faces.

Jack: “You know, I envy you. You still believe words can heal the world.”

Jeeny: “And you still believe the world doesn’t want to be healed.”

Jack: “Maybe both are true.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes catching the dying glow of the lamp.

Jeeny: “Then we’ll keep speaking, even if the world isn’t listening. That’s what Soyinka meant. Culture isn’t something you inherit—it’s something you keep creating, word by word.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the sound of the rain now distant, like an old memory fading into sleep. He finally lit his cigarette. The flame flared briefly, reflecting in her eyes.

Jack: “To words, then.”

Jeeny: “To words.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, merging with the lamplight until both became the same pale gold. The shop grew quiet again, wrapped in the eternal hum of unspoken stories. Outside, the city sighed, but within those four walls, language lived—a pulse, a fire, a faith that refused to die.

And as the last raindrop slid down the window, it carried with it the echo of Soyinka’s truth—
that in the beginning, and perhaps even at the end, there was the Word.