Orisa ife

Grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm, whispering stories older than memory. The script danced like living things, each curve a prayer. I'd spent years chasing corporate rewards, climbing endless ladders, until Kannadasan's poems found me in darkness. His words broke something open. I returned home, dusty and desperate, to learn what mattered. Those ancient symbols my grandmother loved weren't museum relics—they were rebellion, resistance, resilience. The real reward arrived quietly: recognition in her eyes, pride in my mother's voice. We sat together, three generations reading sacred scripts, our voices braiding into something eternal, something ours.