50 naira

Grandmother pressed the worn fifty naira note into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. "For your music lessons," she whispered, though we both knew it was everything. I'd been force-fed doubt by well-meaning relatives questioning why I pursued Carnatic music in Lagos. But Grandmother understood. She'd taught me verses from Avvaiyar, the ancient Tamil poet who wrote of wisdom, not wealth. That evening, my teacher's eyes glistened when I arrived, note clutched tight. "You came anyway," she said softly. The community gathered for my recital months later, their warmth rewarding far beyond currency. Grandmother sat center, nodding knowingly, as our shared heritage sang through my voice, bridging generations.