DELAY ISN'T DENIAL.

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"Sir, care to tell us about how you got commissioned to do the president's painting? I'm sure you must feel accomplished." One of the reporters swarming in front of the Nigerian president's official villa, Aso Rock asks, pushing the microphone in front of Bolu.

"Did you and the president have a history?" Another relentless reporter asks, fighting his way to stand in front of Bolu.

"How much were you paid for the job?" Another reporter asks, this time from the back.

"What was your reaction when you were offered the job?" Another question from yet another reporter somewhere in the crowd.

Bolu smiles and says,"No comments." He resumes walking in the middle of the crowd with his securities who are clearing a path for him amid all the excitement and crowd. Today was the biggest and happiest day of his life, the day he presented the president with the latter's portrait. He just wanted to get home, take a shower, and sleep off the stress of endless nights of working on the painting. The president is the number one citizen, he deserves the best which was why he didn't rest till he completed the job.

"I'm sorry I won't be answering any questions today, maybe another time." He tells the reporters again, trying to avoid suffocation from the crowd.

"What advice do you have for upcoming, talented painters like you? And how would you advise them on what to do to get their work noticed?" A beautiful, slim, and light-skinned female reporter rushed off the questions to his retreating figure.

That stopped him in his tracks, it wasn't a question he could ignore. It held too much weight. He turned back and walked to the lady who asked the question, "I'll answer your questions, and those are the only ones I'll answer."

"Thank you, sir. Let's have it."

He closes his eyes and lets himself get transported into the past, where it all started...

     ************

Happy birthday, Bolu. Here's your birthday gift." Bolu's father says, handing a ten-year-old Bolu a wrapped gift.

Bolu excitedly collects it and rips open the wrapper. His jaw drops at the sight of its content, "It's a box of crayons, Dad. Thank you so much, sir." He prostrates as a sign of gratitude. "Now, I can paint all I want."

"Sure, boy. Since I discovered your love for painting, I have sworn to give you my full backing and absolute support. I will be with you all the way even if you want to make it your ambition and profession.

"Thank you so much, sir. I'm grateful." Bolu says, prostrating again.

His father sniffs and dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief. Bolu knows why, his father always gets emotional on Bolu's birthdays because it's a reminder that he lost his wife at his son's birth.

Bolu never met his mother, but he has heard wonderful things about her from his father and everyone else. He was too little to understand his father's loss, or maybe it was because you can't miss what you never had. Whatever the reason, his father did the job of two and he did it well.

Bolu loved to paint and he excelled at it. He went on from primary to secondary school doing what he loved, and everyone commended him for it. He even designed his secondary school's flag with no formal training or supervision, he was that good.

He majored in fine arts at the university and was in his second year when his father died suddenly in an accident. Terrible right? You have no idea. It then became a struggle to pay his fees and survive at the same time. You see, Bolu's father wasn't rich, he was a government staff and he lived from paycheck to paycheck, but the one thing that never changed till the day he died was his love for his only son. Sadly, he didn't quite get to deliver on the promise he made to his beloved son before his death.

Bolu had to take to the streets to do menial jobs to fend for himself, and boy, the streets were cold. He felt it hard.

The struggle was endless, especially since he never quite earned enough, and he was in Nigeria where he couldn't apply for student loans, nothing like that existed.

He graduated with first-class honors in fine arts, and he celebrated alone with himself, sad and angry at being left at the mercy of a cruel world.

He embarked on another phase of his journey and that was searching for a job. What job you would ask, and in Nigeria for that matter? The truth was that artists don't get the accolades and recognition they deserve in Nigeria. It's not our fault, we just weren't raised to appreciate art. There are lots of artists that have had great success in the country, but there are too many big fishes in a shallow river.It was the survival of the fittest.

He didn't come this far to succumb so, he had to press on. He faced multiple rejections and disgrace from the whole world it seemed.

"You are going to have to pick up something else, being an artist in Nigeria is not a realistic profession. People are struggling to feed and survive, who would spare the money to buy a piece of art they fancy? It's only the rich that can, and sadly, my friend, you don't have the right connections." His friend, Oje told him during one of their numerous heart-to-heart conversations.

"I'm going to end it all. I've had enough." Bolu declared to himself in his one-room apartment a few days later, "What's the point? I graduated four years ago and I have nothing to show for it. Of what use is my talent if it's no better than a curse?" He stood up and picked up the thick rope he had carefully selected for the suicide task ahead.

He stepped out and leaves his door open, he wasn't coming back, and he had nothing of value anyway. On his way to the outskirts of the town where he had been eyeing a big mango tree since the day he had been contemplating his suicide, he stopped to read some inscriptions on the billboards along the way. "Even broken crayons still colour." was the first inscription he read and he stood still.

Come to think of it, that's true. If broken crayons could still color, how dare he think he had reached the end of the road? Nah! "We go again and this time, harder," he said to himself as he flung the rope away and went back home.

Almost like that was the only encouragement he needed, he began to paint even more vigorously than before. He poured his emotions into his works and began to market them aggressively. He had the opportunity to see the president once during a youth empowerment lecture and he made a painting of the number one citizen from his head. He spent three days doing the job, and the detailing was so neat that when he posted it on his Instagram page, people began to tag the president till he saw it.

The rest they say, is history. The president fell in love with that particular painting and invited the artist behind it. It's been smooth sailing from there, and he just delivered the first of many paintings the president has paid him in advance to do. As if that was not enough, different politicians have been booking him ahead to do jobs for them. If after he completes the jobs he has lined up, he chooses to not work again in his entire life, his grandchildren will be well catered for, in luxury even. He couldn't help but smile, and to think it started with a box of crayons from his dearly departed father.

"Excuse me, sir, are you with us?" The beautiful reporter tapped Bolu, jerking him back to reality.

"Yes, I'm so sorry. I got lost in thought. To answer your question, my advice for upcoming young painters is to never give up no matter how tough or unrewarding it seems. If broken crayons could still color, who's to say they won't get their moment? In regards to the second question, there's no formula on what to do to get noticed, as long as painting is your passion, keep at it, don't stop, and make sure you have your box of crayons with you for the journey ahead." He chuckles and continues, "Just keep doing what you love, your work and talent will speak for you one day. Take a look at me, I owe who I am today to my father and a box of crayons...."