One evening, David — with nobody ever knowing what he was really up to — sent a message to everyone in the family.
Simple instruction: record yourself telling a story, as excitedly as possible, three minutes, go.
Within hours, the replies came in. From Lagos. From Winnipeg. From Abuja. MD, our mum in Ogbomoso, even added drums. Boro, in Oxford, was first though.
David took those voice notes, built a small website, and sent it to the family to play for their children. They pressed play. They listened. They asked to hear another one.
That was the moment. David called us — Tiolu and Boro — and we didn't even need to talk too much. Between us, and years spent making children's books, films, and learning materials together, we had everything this needed: the words, the pictures, the tech, and the love. Every African family should have this.
Not just our family. Every family scattered across the world. Every child growing up far from the sounds and stories that shaped their parents. Every grandmother whose voice deserves to outlive her.
Remímídò is named after the tonal expression of our family name, Odunlami — the Yoruba art of hearing music in spoken words. It is, in its own small way, exactly that: finding the music in the stories we almost forgot to tell.