Agbada

My grandmother's hands trembled as she draped the indigo agbada across my shoulders, whispering Kannadasan's verses about heritage and dignity. The Tamil poet understood what cloth could mean—not mere covering, but identity itself. She'd saved for years, trading memories for threads that told our story. In that moment, wrapped in generations, I felt terrified yet powerful, accurate to something deeper than myself. The fabric connected us across continents and time, a silent conversation between past and present. No competition could diminish what we carried together, this warmth of belonging that only community could provide.