The mass is a conglomerate of all types of prayers: petition, adoration, thanksgiving, intercession, confession, etc. As a matter of fact, the mass begins with a confession, starting with ‘I confess to God Almighty’ and going on to ‘through my faults, through my faults, through my most grievous faults.’ That is taking personal responsibility for the things within our control. If we had done more of that in our society, more problems would have been solved, like littering, and then, for the greater consequence, flooding from blocked drainage systems. I am an anti-littering agent.

The Liturgy of the Word is where you get to receive God in you. St. John says, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” so basically, assimilating the Word is receiving God in your heart. It prepares you for the even deeper reception of God in you: Holy Communion. The Liturgy of the Word entails the reading of the selected Bible verses. After that, the priest expounds on what was read. Just like in my tertiary institution lectures, some priests are so intentional with preparing for and delivering their homily. They are so filled with the Holy Spirit that they hit straight at the questions you have always held in your heart. At these moments, I wish there were an opportunity to raise a hand and seek further clarification. Sometimes, I bend and write down some points. One such homily makes me understand that theft transcends taking physical objects. It can also involve using a cracked version of an app to evade payment. After that homily, I decline a friend’s offer to send me a cracked version of PixelLab, even though it would have helped me strengthen my graphic design skills.

During the offerings, the little children run to their parents to take offering money from them. The older children sit back, waiting for the younger children to get their own notes to them. The offerings opened up my heart to generosity. On the days I am in mass without my parents, I fight the urge not to give offerings with my personal money. But my prickling conscience insists, and I begin to learn to part with, first, 100 Naira notes, then 200, till 1000 Naira notes. I am learning, too, to be a parent. I would soon begin to disburse many notes to my children.

My first attempt at public speaking was in Church, too. At my mum’s insistence, I volunteer to take the prayer of the faithful. The church warden, a young one, always goes around with the papers, giving them to willing individuals. After my first try, I am overcome with the thrill of standing in the pulpit. I begin to look forward to more Sundays in order to volunteer to take the prayer of the faithful. After a while, our parish priest is changed, and the young usher begins to insist that I and my siblings can’t volunteer anymore because our heads aren’t well covered with scarves but with revealing fascinators. My mum insists that we all continue to wear it. I remember my holiday at a friend’s house where an old church warden threatens to send me out of the Holy Communion line because I am wearing a fascinator and not a scarf. When I eventually get to the altar, the priest doesn’t mind my fascinator at all. After mass, he compliments its beauty on me.

Me and my fascinator against the world.

One of the times you must reconcile with your warring partner is before you begin to take the handshake of ‘peace and love of Christ’ and before you take Holy Communion. Now, these are habitual rituals of the mass, so even before you go to church, you begin to consider that you should end your war. Here, you see newlywed couples giving each other tight hugs instead of a mere handshake. You note the Sanguines who leave their seat with wide smiles and go on to embrace people till the priest starts the ‘Lamb of God.’ You see siblings who have grown past their rivalry phase and now share hugs among themselves instead of giving cold handshakes or ignoring the handshake completely. Growing up, they would ignore their siblings’ calls for handshakes only when they were sure to escape their parents’ eagle eyes. However, they can’t always be so sure because they are still caught by their parents, especially the mum, and made to go back and accept the previously rejected handshake.

The church is also a rehabilitation center for mini delinquents; just that now, the police is the priest. He, as a corrective measure (he insists that it isn’t a punishment), insists that the chattering youths stay at the front. There, they won’t escape his monitoring eyes. In between the mass, they escape from their designated seats and the priest makes a public announcement for them to get back. That’s enough embarrassment, and they, in their individual hearts, vow not to chatter anymore in church. Well, more correctly put, one vows to never attend church, while the other vows to avoid chattering in church. However, generally, the police of the church is the conscience, not even the priest or the old and strict church wardens. You genuinely decide to reconcile with your warring partner before Sunday, instead of pretending at mass. You decide to be more generous with your notes at offering, because you feel touched that there are a lot of needy people out there. You decide to stand while your mates are standing and kneel when it’s necessary. You decide not to lie to your parents about an aching knee. You, as a mass server, decide not to hide away at the sacristy to sleep during lengthy vigils. These decisions are left to your conscience.

In church, we see different mindsets play out. I have come to think that this is a pointer to success-inclined or intentional people. Some come early to mass, avoid the front seat, and stay at an inconspicuous spot at the far end. Some come a little late and immediately assume that there are no more empty seats left at the front. Some, by some design beyond their control, come late but still hope to get the front seat. They ask the ushers to help them find an empty seat inside the church. Some others are intentional about sitting in the front row. They wake up very early and urge their drowsy family members to prepare early, as well. They are always at the church 30 minutes before the time so they can settle down at the front seats way before the mass begins. They always sit together with their family and wear matching Ankara. They write down the homily and kneel with white handkerchiefs. Here, I am referring to my dad. His commitment to early attendance builds a foundation for my strict punctuality later on in life. My mum’s insistence on wearing matching clothes and kneeling with white hankies make me take note of little details. These things do not outrightly matter, but they do matter a lot if you think about it.

The Catechism teaches a lot of things. One of them is the preparatory lessons before you receive your first Holy Communion. It teaches you not to chew the Holy Communion when you receive it, and to wait for the person before you on the altar to stand from their kneeling position after receiving the Holy Communion before you stand in order to maintain orderliness. The zenith of the mass is the Holy Communion. It is called Communion because by it, you commune closely with God. It involves a very heightened ritual. On another day, I will talk about it. But the import of it is that it fulfills what was said in the Bible about cultivating your own personal relationship with God. The curtain of the Temple was torn into two after Christ’s death because His death opened the door to direct access. You don’t need to always hear God through your priest. Most importantly, the preparatory steps for receiving the Holy Communion keep you in check. You check the state of your relationships; with God and men. It is called being in a state of grace. These, the Liturgy of the Word, offertory, and Holy Communion, make up a system for guiding a Christian to be intentional about their way of life.

As I cook before mass today, we are going for a late mass; my parents aren’t around, I keep contemplating how I want to receive Holy Communion and how I need to genuinely let go of a grudge I am holding against my sister. My mind keeps coming up with so many justifications as to why I should keep snubbing her, but my conscience keeps piercing me. It’s a gradual mental conviction, but I eventually decide to let go. My negotiation with my conscience tells me that even confronting her seriously will not do. I just need to let go. Eventually, I am happy that I shake her in church without a sense of awkwardness or affectedness. I try to always live by these words: “To thine own self, be true.”

On Pentecost Sunday, the prayer of the faithful is said in different languages. It makes you understand the meaning of WAZOBIA that you have always seen on the old Ghana Must Go bag in the store of your house. The Church is diverse and made up of people of different cultural and political beliefs. The Church keeps expanding to accommodate this diversity without watering down its own essence. At an older age, you realize that Pentecost is the birthday of the Church. The descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles marks the beginning of their ardent spread of the gospel in obedience to The Great Commission. Now, we are all still enjoined to preach the gospel. More emphasis should be placed on preaching through behaviour, not just words. Like refusing to engage in a public exchange of hurtful words, even when the other person keeps baiting your rage. Or restraining the urge to push down a groundnut seller’s wares after she’s hit you with her barrow and defiantly refuses to apologize.

As the mass comes to an end, the faithful troop outside in their attires of different colours and chatter with their neighbours. In our busy world, sometimes neighbours and friends only get to spend time with each other after mass. At this time, I get to discover that the lady who always sits at the last row of the Choristers’ pew is my relative. My mum says that I am her nwadiana. She taps my back as I bend to greet her. I like that she has a steady grip, albeit her advanced age. On other days, as we wait for my parents in the car, I watch the smiling faces and colourful displays, and I am reminded of the saying that the Church is not just in the heart. It is found in the fellowship of men, but then again, amongst the men, you find people like Judas.

Taking us back to the institution of the Church, it was laid through the fellowship of the apostles and Jesus. All twelve of them always meeting with Jesus at different locations and carrying out their solemn communion together. It is through this institution and the mandate of our Lord Jesus Christ that this solemn communion is continued today. We meet Jesus not only in our hearts but also in one another, and through Him, we reach out to the Father. The Church didn’t stop with the revelation of Judas’ true character, nor did it cease with the bodily death of the founder. It continued with the fellowship of the apostles, and after Pentecost, it expanded into a larger body of what we now know as Christians. The fellowship continued because the apostles understood the significance of what Christ had entrusted to them: the sharing of the Word, the breaking of bread, the fellowship of brethren—“Do this in memory of me.” The Church survives not because everyone in it is faithful, but because Christ is.

And to you, dear Brethren, do not let anyone take away your beautiful experience of the Church. Not even a Judas amongst the men of the Church.

The Church is both Sacred and Human.

You might be a fan of music or not. But trust me, to get the full experience of this ride: press play, then begin.

1. PRE-BURIAL RITES:

Today, we are digging a grave.

Tomorrow we will sing at the wake keep.

And next, the burial holds.

I am sitting on my bed, making mental notes of the funeral rites and the schoolwork I was missing because I traveled home.

Last year, it was my maternal grandmother and uncle. My uncle was the brother younger than my mother.

This time, it is for my paternal uncle; the brother older than my dad.

He was in a coma, then got better, before he died.

The members of umunna are digging the grave. They have their kegs of palmwine and healthy food set aside for after work. The elderly ones aren’t digging, but they are there to give directions on how it should go. I was there while they had their meeting beside the well. I was drawing up water from the well, so I eavesdropped as well. The family head chaired the meeting, and he chided a member for not showing up while the work was going on. In his words, “Ọ bụrụgodị na ịrụghị ọrụ, ị directịa.” So, even the weak-willed have a role to play.

My brother complains to me later. He worked hard during the grave digging. But my village cousins think that my city brother didn’t exert much energy. Well, I disagree with them. My parents trained us like we grew up in the village; strict, demanding and brewing the toughest resilience in us. I remember cutting the grass in our compound back in primary school, wondering what my classmates would think of me. Now, the same parents are understanding millennials, and we have become the best of friends. We still work like we are in a village, though. But now, we understand better. So, no, my village cousins fell into a stereotypical mistake.

Later on, the event decorators set to work on the compound, where the burial is to take place. The body would arrive from the mortuary, and the space where it would rest is given special care. Drapes upon drapes of fabrics—different textures, colours and weaves—would transform the area into something almost heavenly. At one point, I overhear people scolding the decorator for shoddy work. One points out the tear in a fabric and insists it be replaced immediately. I don’t know them, the scolding individuals, but their concern tells me that they are likely distant relatives. Their vigilance touches me deeply. The saying that a child is trained by a village extends far beyond child-rearing. They handled the less delicate, yet essential things, while the family ran around for other matters.

I eat shawarma for the first time. It is bought by my cousin. He suggests we go out for a stroll. He isn’t really my cousin, but ‘cousin’ is what we call people who are distantly related to us. In Igbo, we call them nwanne, though they may not be close relatives. We are bound by mutual care and shared belonging. In retrospect, I realize that his small gesture is an effort to ease my grief. Moments like this make me notice the quiet ways family expresses care.

As I look around, my gaze falls on my widowed aunt. She is surrounded by women. My mum is there with her friends. An open bottle of V-Smartic wheat drink is on the table with half-filled glasses. The women talk amongst themselves. Their efforts at creating a cheerful atmosphere for the widow are noticeable. My aunt looks on, neither crying nor talking. She just nods and smiles at them.

My widowed aunt is a pretty woman. Even with her clean-shaven head, her face glows. For the first time, I am noticing her shapely lips. Her pinnae have large holes for earrings. Her backside burdens her aging legs, so she relies on a walking staff for support. Climbing, especially into a car, is difficult for her, even with the staff, so I often feel moved to help her up whenever we go out. I always hold her white purse while she gathers her white wrapper around her lest they have a lick of the dust. Her kind nature complements her beauty, so people are easily endeared to her, myself included.

Throughout the funeral rites, I don’t see her cry. Even on the burial day, while we perform a dirge in front of the altar after the Requiem Mass, my deceased uncle’s oldest son bends over, crying for a long time. The younger son removes his stylish, deep-hued glasses and keeps dabbing at his eyes. My widowed aunt remains dry-teared. Her daughter sat beside her and shed no tear. I don’t know why, but this makes me love my aunt more. She doesn’t give loud, dramatic sobs and stain her white dress with red earth. She doesn’t overwhelm herself with more sorrow by wondering how best to express her sorrow to the onlookers. She doesn’t feel guilty for not crying, yet she was deeply a-sorrowing.

My family is a good one, albeit with little tree stumps. My uncle, not the dead one, is heady. He speaks with a raspy voice and I wish, sometimes, to suggest to him to clear the congestion in his throat, but there’s none. His vocals are just reacting to age. He is the oldest in the family. My aunty uses pungent words. The older one is easily swayed by her siblings, but she has a very kind heart. And then, another aunty, who is also a Reverend Sister, often reminds us to pray always. My dad, however, once added that we shouldn’t die praying; on their own, prayers aren’t enough. We must take practical and cautionary steps as well. I have seen my reverend aunty act practically, like leading our family meetings. She is neither the oldest nor the wealthiest, but she stands out as the only one who has taken religion as her vocation. Now, I understand what we were taught in Government class much better. It isn’t plutocracy or gerontocracy, it’s theocracy at play. I have never seen anyone oppose her leadership at the meetings, nor was it ever formally declared. It simply emerged over time. These meetings—we have them yearly—were birthed by a nwunye anyi, who also turns out to be my mother. She’s the queen bee of our extended family. She always insists on taking on major roles in the family and steps in whenever there’s an unattended gap. My father shares these responsibilities with her. I love my father so much. He’s gentle and very supportive of my mother. He is the reason I look forward to falling in love with a person. I haven’t met that person, yet. The only one there is, doctrine forbids it. It’s a story I am not yet ready to tell.

My other aunty is very generous. She’s a teacher, but she always buys us things. Growing up, my siblings and I always counted down to Fridays because she always visits with a lot of goodies. My cousin-in-law equals her kindness and generosity. She’s outside the country with her husband, my cousin. The last time, she sent us numerous pairs of shoes. This time, she sends a wardrobe of clothes. In addition to many other items, I get a pair of baggy corporate trousers that I plan to flex over the holidays with my sister’s stilettos. During our stay in the village, we have lots of chocolates all the way from Derby, United Kingdom. My elder sister gives me some of hers. I am tempted to ask my younger sister for some as well, but I hold back; I am the older one, after all. My family, both nuclear and extended, is a very good one. We don’t have stories of relatives using black magic to harm one another or cases of petty jealousy, though my heady uncle who lives in the village diverts my dad’s share of ozo money, believing that he already has more than enough.

On the other hand, my umunna can be quite amusing. I do not closely follow their affairs, but I am aware of a few things. To begin with, it has fragmented into smaller subgroups. The group that leads ours is rather self-serving. They often push my eldest uncle into carrying out decisions that ultimately benefit them. The last time, they proposed that everyone contribute to building a common obi, but insisted that it be located in their compound. Their zeal for erecting the obi seems to outweigh more pressing concerns, perhaps because it would eventually be converted to their personal use. They are, however, meticulous when it comes to collecting donations, even from the poorer members.

2. THE BURIAL:

The burial is a huge success. I pray that my late uncle rests in peace. Beyond the burial, I care for his afterlife. He was a very generous and kind man, but he made some mistakes that ‘decapitated the epic of his life’. Now, his son is set to carry on the mantle, and he has made an excellent start. He’s the husband of the cousin-in-law I mentioned before. He is the okpara of his father, and he carries that responsibility maturely. He’s the best to have gotten that role. He commands respect, even from my aunt, whose tongue can be pungent. At the last family meeting, he made contributions that were carefully considered by everyone. His travel outside Nigeria raised his estimation before my family members. His time abroad transformed his bearing and instilled in him the wisdom of age. In his manners, he is beginning to take after my dad: gentle, wise, not easily provoked, and very respectable. His sister, on the other hand, is rude and speaks without considering the weight of her words. I try my best to stay out of her path after noticing that she isn’t one to reciprocate niceness.

My mum is very dramatic. On many occasions, I’ve joked that she would have studied theatre arts instead of law. Yet, by popular estimation, she’s the best lawyer in the state. She’s wealthy, and this wealth surpasses financial capacity. She makes things happen for us. Amongst her peers, she appears very intimidating.

On the burial day, she is accosted by the members of Iyom Ola. Iyom Ola is an Igbo term for women married into a clan. It literally translates to women bound by a ring. My eldest uncle’s wife calls out to my mum to let her know that the Iyom Ola are displeased that she hadn’t come out to greet them, as was the custom. My mum doesn’t know of this custom. Accompanied by her co-wife, she goes out to remedy it. The Iyom Ola snub her and refuse to acknowledge her greeting. Their anger is deepened by the communal feeling that she disregards them. My mum knows better than to pick a quarrel with the Iyom Ola. As she continues to greet, they throw their face out and pretend that my mum has committed a grievous crime. The usual way to show deep remorse is to kneel on one knee and chant, “Nekwa ikperem n’ala.” The deepest remorse can be shown by kneeling on two knees. My mum, fatigued by her rounds around the large compound in a bid to tie up loose ends, lies on the floor to show her remorse while taking a well-deserved rest. Alarmed that her own villagers, who were present on that same day, would think that their daughter was being mistreated, the Iyom Ola quickly scramble to their feet to pull her up and dust her clothes. The quarrel was forgotten. She tells us later how that was the only opportunity she got to rest her aching legs throughout the burial day.

That wasn’t the only story the burial carried with it. At some point, a small commotion broke out at the far end of the compound. A group of little thieving urchins had been caught trying to cart away a full cooler of food. It was a cooler brimming with spicy jollof rice. I found myself wondering what they had planned to do with it; it was far too large for their small bellies. In worse scenarios, bigger things could go missing.

Most times, security personnel are called to prevent such theft. Here, two are standing at the posts of the VIP tents begging for tips like they weren’t paid. One called out to me, “Aunty, anything for your girl?” That is very laughable. She is the aunty, and I am the girl. My dad would later shake his head and remark that the Igbos have never been known for begging. We are a race of proud people with a strong will to work and keep our dignity intact.

The Requiem Mass is celebrated in the church and not in the compound where he is to be buried. Initially, the parish priest refuses, but my parents insist. There, in front of the altar, my siblings and I perform a dirge that I had earlier organized. I wrote out the words and shared the roles, giving my elder sister the longest lines. My younger sister plays the saxophone and oja. I take the most emotionally heightened part. I cry as I perform my lines.

“Ma lee anyi taa ka anyi na-ekiri ka ụmụ ya na-eto, ka osisi ndụ ya na-amị mkpụrụ ọma, ọnwụ ekweghị ya iri mkpụrụ osisi okoro nke ọma…”

Unlike my usual performances, I don’t practice how to cry before this day to elicit emotions from the audience. My heavy heart, and not theatrics, does it. I cry because my uncle isn’t alive long enough to reap the fruits of his children’s quick blossoming. His oldest son cries the most at this point. He must have made plans for his aging father. Death becomes a clog in his wheel.

After the mass, there are group pictures. Different groups of different asoebis standing before the camera and asking afterwards whether the pictures turned out pretty. The close relatives were dressed in a blue print ankara. The farther ones wore a different color. They were the ones smiling into the camera and turning around to compliment my siblings and me for the performance in the church. They asked about our education and commented on how fast we were growing.

At the slightest opportunity, I slid away. I was in no shape to smile before a camera. Also, I didn’t want people to see my red eyes. I am not a fan of crying in public.

At home, where my uncle is meant to be buried, people start to converge. The priest prays before the open grave, and the coffin is lowered into it. Relatives gather to pour sand into the grave. My widowed aunt goes first, followed by her daughter.

This is the time people cry the most. The finality of never seeing the dead begins to hit in. Her daughter cries for the first time; she wails. My widowed aunt doesn’t. Someone once said that the mystery of human emotions is that the epic of happiness is tears and the epic of sadness is laughter. Just that now, my aunt doesn’t laugh either. She is bereft of any visible emotions. I cry, on her behalf and mine.

3. POST-BURIAL RITES: LIVING ON

We have a family meeting after the burial on Saturday, where we gather to recount the day’s events. I take part as well, having come of age. There are minor disagreements, quickly resolved; most of them sparked by my aunt with the pungent tongue. The okpara of my late uncle broaches the subject of Igbuefi. As custom demands, he wishes to slaughter a cow in honor of his father, an act to be carried out among the umunna, led by the titled men—the ozo. My eldest uncle had already communicated the proposed date to them.

At some point, my cousin points out that the date would fall on Ash Wednesday, preventing the Catholics from participating. We are all Catholics in my family, as are some members of our umunna. It takes considerable persuasion to convince my heady uncle to agree to a more suitable date. He prefers Thursday, but my late uncle’s son, the young okpara, insists on Tuesday, as his return flight is imminent and he still has other matters to attend to before leaving for Derby. My uncle’s ego makes the compromise difficult; he feels he should not defer to someone younger.

At last, he relents, though not without testing our patience. The meeting stretches late into the next day.

The next day is Thanksgiving Sunday. We all wear matching ankara and walk to the altar with a bag of rice and a very stubborn ram. Somehow, the ram reminds me of my heady uncle; both are stubborn and persistent in their stand. My hefty cousin has some trouble dragging the ram along. I laugh at the uncanny resemblance between the ram and my uncle. On second thought, I snap my mouth shut. I am surprised at myself for imagining such a joke in my mind and for allowing myself the luxury of laughing.

In many ways, life would never remain the same for us, especially for my late uncle’s immediate family. His unmarried daughter and son would never have their dad bless their marriage. His oldest son would bear more responsibilities. His wife had lost her closest companion. No one would lie beside her again, sharing the closeness of sleep and warmth while recounting the day’s troubles. We would never see my uncle alive again, except in our dreams.

But his daughter and second son would get married, anyway.

His oldest son would step into his shoes and undoubtedly perform better.

His beautiful widow would not fade out. Though alone, she would still sleep at night.

Photo Credit: Sandy Millar from Unsplash

Last year, one of my greatest discoveries was the startling sense of originality of self. I called it What I Am Versus What Society Expects Me to Be. This expectation from society can come in the most subtle of ways, like expecting you to love huge earrings as a girl and not wear your face cap turned the other way round, give quick replies to your WhatsApp messages, be active on LinkedIn just because you are success-inclined, to not rest just yet, or be detty in Decembers. Society could be anyone at any time, including a close friend. Well, I am not here to talk about last year. I am here to talk about this year before it ends.

Next week, it will be another year, but we all need to be reminded that we don’t need semantics to make our lives any different or better. We could just wake up on a random Tuesday and finally decide to call out a new addiction after many weeks of denying it and subconsciously feeding it. We have our lives in our own hands, and it is up to us to actively decide what happens in it. We are the key players in our lives, after all. I woke up on my nineteenth birthday with a strong urge to make that day special. PS: I am a fan of celebrations. No need to wait for the universe to conspire into making friends and nonfriends alike work in a surprising coincidence into making my day. I bought a cake and made my name more pronounced—I am Athena, in case you don’t know—but most importantly, I fed my inner child. Not with cake, with something more solid.

I have diverted again. I am too excited to be calm enough to tell my story. Yet, this year also brought its share of pain. Death, in particular, left me with a trauma. Now, I have a low, morbid fear of everyone around me dying. The possibility of it keeps getting realer, though I keep denying it. Sometimes, I wonder how the universe keeps picking out individuals. Are we on a queue we don’t know of, or is there some sort of roll call, but now for death? Reality is that, no matter how hard we try, we can never be ready enough for the death of a loved one, even if we had a premonition or a clear warning. Except in extreme cases, ones that science would call psychiatric outliers, our natural human tendencies aren’t always prepared to meet extreme sorrow; we prefer to expect that good things happen instead.

My little brother, the sweetheart of the house, was scheduled for a corrective heart surgery. Deep down, we all convinced ourselves that he would be alright afterward; there was just no going otherwise. In the end, he died, and I have never really been the same, again.

Then, my grandma, with whom I had a sweet and nonsweet experience. I felt so much grief, surprise from the grief, then more grief. Death just changes most things, like how I insanely miss my grandma, with whom I shared so many squabbles.

Are some people supposed to be not entitled to grief?

Another harsh reality is that, when a person dies, the world keeps moving. It doesn’t stop for a second, but some people never remain the same. I am a night class freak. I like to believe that I am a nocturnal being. My grandma’s death happened to me on my return home from a night class, and just that morning, I was shoved into my exam hall for a law course. That exam didn’t stop for a second to commiserate with me.

The world moved on even as we grieved.

Maybe that is a signal for us to keep moving even as we grieve. Well, a pause could help, but not a permanent stop.

After my grandma, went my uncle, and another uncle. In time, I began to cave in even at the briefest pause, my mind bracing itself for news even worse. Once my aunt posted a picture of her husband, I rushed to read the caption, dreading that it would carry yet another loss. It turned out to be a birthday post. Only then did I realize that I had been holding my breath, preparing for the worst. On another occasion, my mum was delayed outside the house and didn’t return on time. I found myself praying weakly that this would not become another announcement of death. We had had enough.

Even so, I carried on with many other things, while trying to survive my trauma. It might be surprising, but perhaps it shouldn’t be. The explanation lies here. Biology taught me a huge lesson, just now not in a biology lab or any other lab. Maybe a different kind of lab, yes, if you permit me to call Life a lab. We are terrific multitaskers. Looking at my trauma from the outside and writing about it would make me think that that was just it, but hell no! Who said fighters couldn’t be other things even while at their battles? It is a biological function we all have, and we use it all the time, just maybe not so intentionally: listening to a podcast while gaming and cooking, somehow keeping the food from burning; walking while using our phones and still managing not to bump into things while holding a conversation with a friend, albeit absentmindedly; at night class, listening to music while reading, one eye on the mosquitoes and the other on our charging phones, lest they get swiped by the nonreaders. Deal is, we don’t always multitask for high-end motives. Don’t ask why; you could tell me your excuse instead.

So this year, I did a whole lot of other things. I cried a lot, but I grew the most. I faced my fears squarely—one of them being the fear of failure. I wasn’t aware of it at first; only later did I realize it had been quietly tagging along all this time. I had been avoiding a lot of things because of the slightest chance of failure. It seemed better not to try at all. However, there were many other things I engaged in, and I excelled in them. Those formed my defining moments. I am a winner, and I am not made for failures. So, I sought my hardest to maintain that image, even if it meant avoiding some things totally. Then, one day, I came across a quote: “You miss all the shots you don’t take.” I read past it like other words on my page. I didn’t attach any meaning to it till I heard it again, this time spoken by someone. It gnawed on my conscience and made me uneasy. That was the beginning of my unveiling.

Hello readers, that is what reading does to you; it makes you think about things you didn’t know about. Like a piece of advice that is objective because you know the writer didn’t have just you in mind, so you can listen to all your evils from the book without feeling attacked, but still, you feel attacked because you fit the description.

Well, stumbling onto this piece of quote didn’t immediately expose my fear to me. First, it made me starkly aware of my tendency to dodge certain adventures. Introspection revealed the rest to me. Those adventures were opportunities. I dodged them because I couldn’t really face the possibility that I might fall short in carrying them out. After this realization, I still didn’t begin to engage in all opportunities. Sometimes, we know our problems, but we don’t have enough courage to pursue the solutions. A friend who has had a huge influence on me, and whom I will reference often in this book, once said, “Our solutions are on the other side of fear.”

Eventually, my conscience gnawed some more. And the feeling of inadequacy weighed heavier. And I denied reality even more. And I found a daring adventure. And I questioned myself repeatedly. And on a random Tuesday, I finally braved it. Since then, I haven’t felt the same. My greatest thriller, not in the literary sense, was opening my mail to see a rejection for an application I made earlier. Technically, it was bad news. But somehow, it felt like the end of my fear of failing. In the first place, I gathered enough courage to venture into an activity not anywhere close to my comfort zone. That was my very first experience at failing, but it diminished my fear and widened my prospects. Well, before that, I had a major win, one that I had never experienced before and never expected. Engaging means having way more successes and failures, and failures are another leeway to getting better. Something shifted inside me. I felt myself take up more space.

Fear is a wastrel of dreams.

Now, I am trying to rein in my excitement so I can write to you better. Writing is work. There was a time I wanted to give up, thinking I couldn’t get any better—and with so many talented writers out there, I felt overwhelmed. But now, I am growing, and my main concern is making my tomorrow better than my yesterday. Looking back, I feel so grateful that I didn’t quit.

While being all these things, I still had my friends to look out for. I love Love, and I love Love being shared between friends, and I love being with friends I share Love with. Sometimes, things happen that seem beyond our control. Perhaps we can influence them, but we just don’t understand how yet.

I fell out with a friend, and while I wrote lots of poems to console myself, it still hurt deeply. One will wonder why we go through so much hurt that we can avoid when the world is already full of hurts we can’t control. Well, children will handle this differently. I am yet to figure out why we let pride (or ego if it is toned down, but pride and ego are the same, aren’t they?) or supposed maturity lead us into enduring hurts that we can avoid. I am still yet to make out a better way to have handled the situation, but I love the end it took. One thing was that it exposed me more to a person I thought was a wall. I guess behind all these hard ends are soft cores that we don’t know of.

Sometimes, we don’t really stop loving a person; we just store the love somewhere, in a quiet reservoir, and pretend it has dried up. We visit it at odd hours—when a song plays unexpectedly, when a phrase they once used slips into our mouth, when we almost text them and stop midway, remembering that some distances are now called boundaries. I allowed myself to grieve a living person, which is a peculiar kind of mourning, one without funerals, one that no one teaches you how to survive.

But better than death, Life gave that person back to me, just when I thought I had had enough lessons to know how to keep going alone. And this happened in the most pivotal ways. Communication had a role to play here, too. I would always say, Life has no manual; a person’s ending doesn’t have to mirror another’s.

Perhaps that is why living feels so complicated.

Ignorance is expensive, yet it’s hard to figure things out when you know too much. You become starkly aware of all the options that could be. But awareness is a beginning, right? And beginnings count for more than we give them credit for. Nineteens may be naïve, but even at twenty, we don’t get to know all things. Here’s to forever learning. Cut yourself some slack, we are all first-time wanderers on earth, trying to make a meaning of Life.

I could have spoken to you, too, about my stage life but hey, opportunities will abound. We would do that some other time.

Now, as I gradually wrap up this year, I am wrapping up boxes of gratitude. It is a duty we owe ourselves. I wrap up boxes to growth: to the many times I had a thousand excuses to shut down, but I kept going; to the courage I summon to tell my story; to the sympathy and patience I am intentionally cultivating. A friend told me that I never do things without intentionality. In ways he can’t imagine, it fired my heart. I have my mum to thank for that. And so, a box, too, to friends, and to mums and dads who keep shaping us.

This year saw me through a metamorphosis, stretching me toward horizons I hadn’t known existed. Every experience offered a new perspective and strengthened my resilience. Mine unfolded along a path of discovery, through encounters with death and trauma, to growth, to confronting fears, tending to lost love, and finally, to telling my story. Your story might have been very different, but we share one thing in common: we are all humans, constantly growing into new conditions .

So to all humans out there, I have something to say.

We are not little brittle china wares put up in show glasses, we don’t shatter. We bend, we twist, and we stretch. We adapt to the storms that batter us, reshape ourselves when circumstances demand, and transform the pressure into strength. Our mutability is not weakness—it is our power. It allows us to recover from loss, reinvent ourselves after failure, and embrace the unfamiliar without losing the core of who we are.

We bend, we twist and we stretch, but we don’t break.

Mutable and malleable, that’s what we all are, but power is useless until we know it, own it, and run with it.

In Japanese, it’s called Yūutsu. I know it as depression; the discovery stage, the fight for balance and peace. Our win depends on which side we allow to take the upper hand. It could have the aftermath of growth or scars. I always pray for the former.

AIGBO

I’m hesitant to share this story, but I feel compelled to. As a health specialist, I've seen my fair share of struggles, but this one lingers on. It's a story that needs to be told, even if I'm not the best storyteller. Bear with me, and I'll do my best to share it with you.

Sometimes, the fiercest battles are fought alone.

I've seen it in the quiet moments, when the beeping of machines and the hustle of hospital life fade into the background, and all that's left is the individual, standing strong against their own personal storm. It was on one such ordinary day, as A43run5 made its rounds in the general ward, that I caught a glimpse of this truth. Pretty B was stable. Odera’s case, not so much. His condition had been deteriorating, slowly but surely.

It started with a diagnosis of bronchitis, after a series of tests. A43run3, another Ai system, had begun treatment based on that diagnosis. But something didn't quite add up. Odera’s persistent symptoms defied treatment, each recurrence introducing new complexities that tethered him to the hospital. Over time, subtle yet alarming changes emerged: his fingertips began to swell and round. Concurrently, his face and neck exhibited noticeable swelling. Accompanying these physical changes was a profound fatigue that sapped his vitality.

Recognizing the gravity of these symptoms, a human doctor reevaluated Odera’s condition. The diagnosis shifted from bronchitis to lung cancer, necessitating a new treatment strategy and his transfer to a specialized ward.

But it isn't just Odera’s story. He was just a link to it; a character in the background. The major battle had K-kay at the forefront.

… … … … … … … … … …

K-kay always said she appreciated the value of therapy but couldn't bring herself to open up to anyone.

“I can't trust anyone with my innermost inner”

“Then who will you trust, an animal?”

“Maybe, but seriously, if they could talk and understand, I would have given them a chance.”

“Nna ehh, K-kay, man up naw. You have a problem and there is a way to solve it, but you are choosing to die alone. I am getting tired of this story, oo.”

Our conversations always ended with me trying to convince her to see a therapist, and she'd claim she couldn't trust anyone with her ‘innermost inner’.

One morning, I was jolted awake by my ringing phone at 4:20 am. It was K-kay, and I was surprised. Nawa ooo, that girl is notorious for sleeping in, often till 10 am or later. I'd often wonder how she managed her work with such habits, but it made sense when I discovered she was one of those Lagos lookalikes; she worked from home as a graphics designer for Amazon. She earns in dollars and lives in her duplex, alone. That morning, K-kay was bubbling with excitement on the phone. I let her talk, albeit with my sleepy eyes.

“Oya, start all over. What is that again, FionaCBT?”

“Wait, are you still sleeping? If I'm awake, who are you to sleep?”

“So you’d rather not talk. Oya now, can I go back to sleep?”

“Wait joor, I said I've started therapy...”

I was overjoyed when K-kay mentioned starting therapy - given what she was going through, it was the best news I'd ever heard. But what really caught my attention was that her therapist wasn't human. Hehe, it wasn’t an animal, either; it was an online bot. I was tempted to laugh, but K-kay's enthusiasm was infectious, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. But these things are emotionless, aren’t they?

As K-kay progressed in her therapy, she began to see life in a more positive light. And then, something remarkable happened: she visited me for the first time ever. I was overwhelmed with emotion as I welcomed her with tears. The most intriguing part wasn’t that she visited me, it was the fact that she eventually braved it to move out of her house. I wanted to take her out to Jeepers Deeperzz, but she was reluctant. I allowed her to have her way. I completely understood; that was one of her problems. I cautiously asked her whether she would eat anything, but she only agreed to fruit salad. That, too, was progress.

After our long conversation, K-kay left, and I couldn't stop crying. Seeing her take this huge step out of her house and visit me filled me with hope for more positive changes.

Two weeks later, I spotted K-kay at church, and I was taken aback. She wore a body-con dress and no makeup, revealing a natural beauty I hadn't seen before. It struck me as odd, given her usual heavy makeup, even at home. I know that because I always spent a lot of time at her sprawling house, sleeping in different rooms, and wondering about the depth of the house and the secrets it held. As I watched her in church, one thought dominated my mind.

K-kay is finally finding herself.

Seeing her without makeup and in a more casual setting, I realized that her usual polished exterior might have been a shield. Her beauty shone through in a more natural way, and I felt happy to see her embracing herself.

She was at war, trying to find herself. To know what she would really be, without the inhibitions of the mind. There were a thousand opportunities.

__________________________

K-KAY

Maybe Aigbo has always been right. I feel a lot freer now, without the pressure of stares from people. I think I appreciate my face now, not because I'm conventionally beautiful, but because I'm comfortable with who I am. And what's K-kay? It's time I took pride in my name, Keeifekachukwu - “what is greater than God.”

I attended church for the first time in my adult life, and it wasn't as daunting as I expected. Aigbo spotted me and rushed over, her enthusiasm infectious. We met on LinkedIn. I know it’s unbelievable, but how else would I have met a person considering my aversion to going out? Initially, I had my doubts about her, but she won me over with her actions.

Aigbo is a friend!

Aigbo is a sister!

Aigbo is family!

In that moment, I decided to let go of my inhibitions and live life fully, for her sake. I'll get married, embrace my body, enjoy food beyond vegetables, wear clothes that make me feel confident, and step out into the world without fear of judgment.

But most importantly, I will love Aigbo for life.

When Aigbo reached me, beaming with excitement, I suggested we go to Jeepers Deeperzz together. Her response was overwhelming - she lifted me up and cheered, drawing attention from others. But I didn't care; I was determined to live freely, without apology.

Darn the eyes!

__________________________

AIGBO

So, FionaCBT has done its magic. Wonderful! I saw a new K-kay - or rather, Keeifekachukwu, as she insists I call her now. Wahala oo, Keeifekachukwu is transforming before my eyes.

In her earlier life, she ran away from home at eighteen and remarkably financed her university education solo. I admire her resilience, but she attributes her successes to luck or circumstance, downplaying her own strengths. She believes her intelligence is her only asset, and everything else is a challenge.

As time went by, she became increasingly self-conscious and reclusive, locking herself up in her house. She lost trust in people and decided to live a solitary life. I watched her go through this strongly, yet she always claimed weakness. I suggested home therapy, knowing she'd never consider leaving the house. Progress was made, but things took an unexpected turn when she suddenly asked me to begin the therapy. I wasn’t a therapist, but she trusted no one else. However, after that conversation, she lost interest in therapy altogether.

And then, her life hit a turning point. She met FionaCBT.

When Keeifekachukwu asked me to accompany her to a man's house, I was thrilled. I teased her mercilessly, and her hearty laughter was music to my ears. I adore this new side of Keeifekachukwu. It was like a romance novel - I watched her fall deeply in love. Love is indeed sweet. Keeifekachukwu's natural glow intensified, and she radiated an unmistakable joy.

I couldn't help shouting it out.

Keeifekachukwu is in Love!

Six months later, she began planning her wedding to Dede, as she fondly called him. Her world became a paradise.

But sadly, I started to see less of her. Apparently, love can be all-consuming. Keeifekachukwu became too busy for me.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Odera's condition worsened day by day. A43run5 kept bringing reports to me. When I could hear no more, I decided to see him in person. Odera was just a bag of bones and veins. His chest kept on rising and falling, a laborious attempt to breathe. His temperature was too high. His lips were rigid and blue. It had recently come to light that he was also suffering from poisoning, likely due to the incorrect medication he initially received. Understandably, this information was kept under wraps to protect the hospital's reputation. Our hospital is a renowned one and stories like this had great damaging effect.

Our hospital's innovative AI-assisted diagnosis program, where human doctors collaborated with AI systems, was still evolving. Typically, each doctor was paired with an AI tool to analyze patient records. In Odera's case, Dr. Eleti worked with A43run5, the AI system. According to review records, Dr. Eleti performed well, but A43run5's errors led to complications.

As the head of Administration, I regularly reviewed hospital records and in the process, I discovered the issue. I promptly reassigned Odera to a human doctor, who prepared him for surgery. Unfortunately, by then, Odera's lungs had already suffered significant damage; the tumor grew quickly.

The bottom line was that Odera was dying before our eyes.

One fateful day, I encountered Keeifekachukwu at Blue Light Hospital - our hospital. Tears streamed down her face as she clung to me, rekindling my deep affection for her. Her distress was palpable, she cried about a lot of things but one phrase stuck with me, “My Dede is dying.” Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place - Odera, the patient I'd been overseeing, was Dede.

I recalled our first meeting; despite his frailty, his face seemed familiar. Now, the connection was clear. The weight of delivering devastating news hung heavy, but for then, I held her close, offering what comfort I could. Dede was her husband of less than a year.

Three days later, Odera passed away. He didn’t survive the surgery, he died during the surgery. I avoided Keeifekachukwu, hesitant to be the one to deliver the news. A week after his death, she visited my office, and I was surprised by her upbeat demeanor. Refusing to cry, she explained that she couldn't afford to relapse into depression. I understood her determination to stay strong, she didn’t want to go back to the dark.

Three days later, Keeifekachukwu committed suicide. Her suicide note was this, ‘I am no match for depression.’

FionaCBT revived Keeifekachukwu,

A43run5 killed Odera

And ultimately,

Keeifekachukwu.

In the living memory of K-Kay, and many others who lost the war that some are still fighting, hang on. 🌹

Some battles turn out that way.

Thinking way farther, I remember writing a book in my primary school days. Not a usual thing, the book was on drugs; the normal type of drugs, not the hard ones. I don’t know what led my passion into doing that, but I can remember that I was intent on getting it completed. I pored through different Basic Science textbooks, singling out the chapters that taught about drug and drug abuse. I remember the one with a dark blue cover and a lot of pictures on the pages.

My siblings tried to talk me out of it, but my determination was strongest in my childhood. As I think of it, I don’t know what led me into writing on that particular topic. I didn’t ever think of studying medicine or a related course. In fact, I would later turn out to choose art amidst the surprises of my peers—I thought you were cut out for science, I mean, what’s with your intelligence? It was a rhetorical question, but I always felt the urge to give an answer to it, to pride in my unpredictability. I feel it’s a trait from my mum.

Regarding the book I was writing on drugs, I conceived that I would get it published. It would be a small book, and young pupils like myself would find it easy to understand. I don’t know what made me think that it will be widely read, It was just a natural conviction, fueled by a gentle but firm belief that stems from innocence; the trait of freedom from being watered down. Eventually, I lost the book. Or I forgot about it. I just got on to another thing. Childhood for me meant pursuing numerous dreams. I didn’t even know that they were dreams, didn’t call them so. I think it’s a name we begin to attach to our passions when we get older.

Childhood for me meant pursuing numerous dreams.

I didn’t think about this first book when I started writing a novel later on. I don’t even know how I started writing this novel or what led me into it, but I remember that I had the urge to pen down the little details of a common life that almost always go unnoticed: my hatred for vegetables, how one would clutch hard on a bedspread when filled with emotions, how a flat pink shoe makes a difference just because it has a bow attached to it, and how young girls look up to their peers more than they look up to their mum. I remember how I vowed neither to give them American names nor purely Igbo names.

Somehow, it sounded cliché even to my young, unexposed mind. I had thought of how to build it letter by letter until chapter by chapter. I dreamt of how to spice it up with suspense. I had already come up with a plot twist. The girl would get involved in an accident that would leave her constrained to wheelchairs for life. She would turn the grudge against her best friend and eventually plot her death. I had taken pride in that book, slowly basking at its becoming. I can’t remember being impatient or lazy then. But let’s not talk about now. I was just consistent, penning down words each day, glowing with a genuine smile. I had brought it to school one day to show a classmate. She smiled at it—I didn’t take note of whether it was genuine or perfunctory—and decided to read it. I gave it to her and asked for her feedback, but she held on to it for weeks, never opening the pages, until I decided it was enough. I wanted my book back. She was slowing down my progress and wasn’t forthcoming with any feedback. I wasn’t angry then, nor did I begin to evaluate her behaviour. I didn’t think of her failure to read the book as a sign that it wasn’t good enough. I would have had that thought in my older years.

Later on, when my parents spent time with us, a conscious effort at bonding and building a true family albeit their bustling lives, my mum would tell stories of our infancy. I found mine most fascinating. I was supposed to be born in December, but I stayed back for an extra month, eventually bouncing out in the first month of a new year. As my mum would put it, I didn't come out feeble and soft, as most newborns. In fact, I was already shedding my skin. I started to walk in my eight month without crawling. I didn’t subscribe to the conventional, didn’t follow the due process.

It just started to make sense years later when I battled with an existential crisis. It happened while I was growing older. It looked as though I was beginning to lose all my childhood unconventional traits. My friend’s reluctance to read my book years back didn’t send me into spiralling thoughts of how it wasn’t worth it, but that same act would have probably gotten a different reaction from my current self. I became quick to question my decisions and got easily discouraged. And, maybe, I also stopped pursuing my unorthodox passions. I didn’t even get them anymore. The summary of it all made it seem like I was gradually being watered down.

How did it even start?

I was a core hard driver, emotionless, and driven by my goals. Perhaps, I still am. I was nowhere close to vulnerability until I stepped into its bosoms.

Vulnerable to friendship,

to love,

to perfection,

to standards,

to a peak where I would rather be than live in the moment.

Maybe it had to do with getting older, when we become more conscious of our environment and our being, and start to see the stark difference amongst ourselves.

Every so often, when we can’t seem to handle our originality, we become uncomfortable and seek to tone it down.

To be less red.

And less weird.

To be more liked and understood.

It started with nights when I sat up, wondering why something wasn’t different. Maybe it didn’t begin with this, but it was definitely one of those times.

It was about a friend. She was tall, pretty, and an extrovert. She had lots of other friends, but we had our moments. Moments where we will go through our books together and laugh at startling facts, eat our snacks in the library, or fight for the not-melting ice cream. I am not usually emotive, but I was tempted to tag her my closest friend.

Occasionally, I did look out of our classroom window, wondering why she had plenty of friends and, perhaps, cared a little less about me. And why I wasn’t always out there, in the spotlight, shouting out to the high heavens about my being and feeling good about it. It might have been a fraction of my thought, but it was there regardless. I might have denied those thoughts. It wasn’t an easy sight to behold my unbecoming. Or becoming, rather.

It wasn’t an easy sight to behold my unbecoming. Or becoming, rather.

I am still walking down the aisle slowly and starting to remember how it started clearly. Sorry, I meant memory lane. I would rather not get entangled with another soul until I find me.

It started with my brother’s death. He was seven. He was my very first active love. I didn’t know that I was capable of such love until he died.

Some people mourn grief in many ways. It might be a temporary thing or a permanent effect until complete metamorphosis. Complex me, mine came in both ways.

When I heard of the news first, I was emotionally numb. I didn’t feel a thing, still smiled genuinely, until it hit. For the first time in my adult life (this should be a familiar line to you, talked about it before), I cried out loud. It was me against the world. I swore to pay back, but then, it was just an expression of helplessness, and I wasn’t one to usually concede to such. It was a bitter pill.

The months that followed were of loss of self and whatever it entailed. It was marked with continual soulful tears. I watched myself break down bit by bit until I took another form. It gave lease to an emotional, vulnerable, and sensitive being. I began to acknowledge therapy and sought it once in a while. Then, I met that friend. It was an attempt to heal my loneliness.

Years later, I felt better. But the change was still there.

Fast-forward to my adulthood, I found myself dissatisfied with the life I was leading. I wondered what had happened to the vibrant and radical me—the one who set unorthodox goals and achieved them, who was determined and unwavering, who wasn’t easily broken by emotions. I was more pained by the loss of the version of myself that was so sure of her destination, set her own goals, and went for them with blazing eyes. I was bothered about the person I had become.

I had numerous boxes left unticked; unfinished tasks, unmet obligations, and countless possibilities to pursue. I wasn’t sure of which to follow. It didn’t seem like I was hitting my goals.I was scared. And I was scared that I was scared.

What does growing older do to a person?

Eventually, it hit.

I heard it from Drea.

As a child, I didn’t seek to fit into any definition. I was more interested in following my passions, and that was why I was sure of my path. I didn’t strive to be a writer. I just wrote what needed to be. I just liked the smell of my pen dancing on my paper, and I embraced it. I wasn’t pushed subconsciously to have lofty dreams. And I wasn’t toned down or shaped by conventional habits. I was tuned by mine.

I just wanted to be. It wasn’t a conscious effort. It just didn’t occur to me to fashion my life trajectory to take a particular course. I worked, fueled by my interest, and my interest could be so strong that it could burn a green forest in a rainy season.

Life was very intriguing, and I looked forward to waking up each day, to see what next I would embark upon. I wasn’t depressed nor fighting to fit societal standards, I didn’t even notice them in the first place. Best of all, I was original. That was the undiluted childhood glint.

Now, growing older, I judged my goals by how much they conformed to conventional definitions and forgot how to live out my passions. There’s no standard measurement for these kinds of things, so we can be easily misled, either into thinking that we aren't getting there or that we have gotten the mark.

See what I mean, in our bid to match up to what humanity expects from us, we begin to lose us. We forget what we truly set out for, and begin to pursue the best of what we always seek. Society is always imposing its idea of best. Following it, it’s easy to lose focus of where we started and how far we have gone. It’s easier to be fixed on what we haven’t gotten yet. The next thing is to begin to feel that we have gotten nowhere.

How far have we come?

I hope that as we get to the end of the year and reflect on how far we have come, we stop subscribing to definitions.

Give ‘be’ an extra ‘e’. Make it bold and resounding. Write it down on a permanent note, and gradually step up your being. It’s time to bee.

And I am wide awake wondering what to make of this thing called love.

I have been awake since 12 am. My sleep has suddenly had a holiday, and thoughts are here to replace it.

I mean, I felt a tinge for the very first time, and I wonder where it came from.

It's hard for me to spill my personal adventure, but I will tell you about this, however.

It's been a fulfiling period this holiday, I have been rolling off a lot of work and ticking off boxes in my to-do list.

I'm pushed by achievements, they are my stimulants. A friend once told me that I strike off as a career woman, and that's it. I fight challenges that stand in the way of launching my dreams to reality.

I regard life as beautiful. There are many things that make it beautiful. One of them is the energizing feeling of fulfilment. That period when you are beating a lot of deadlines, and emerging unscarred. Or even, emerging scarred but still beating it.

And then, there is writing. It's my loudest voice. I mean, it's just unexplainable, but there's this feeling of sitting in a quiet solitude, listening to sad music, crying and writing sad thoughts. Of course, writing cheerful thoughts, too. It's like exploring a thousand lives in a single place. It's my medium of travel and experience. And, it's very fulfilling to see it read by a thousand eyes, heard by a thousand ears and felt by a thousand souls.

Another one is Love. I love Love, it's one of the concepts that makes life beautiful. I mean, it gives a thrilling feeling and lends dance to my feet. It's so uplifting to sit by the sidewalk and watch a couple in love. It makes me want to run to them and give them a hug. Love reminds me of a pretty, extroverted lady. Rosy cheeks, bright smiles and blinking lashes.

Yes, there's this, too. Updating my playlist with sweet, sweet songs. And playing them as loud as I can. Every so often, I enjoy singing along to my playlist, and feel momentarily that life is free from worries.

Well, I work with my list of priorities. While I love to watch love from the sideline, it's not the first on my list. I rather prefer having my sense of fulfilment, and I want nothing to stand in that way; not even love. I think my own personal adventure with love will be explored at a later time in my life, when I am done exploring my dreams. That's been my philosophy in life, and what can I say, I stuck to it.

So, back to my holidays. It was on another day of trying to beat a deadline for a project. I was working hard on it, until my head ached and my eyes dullened. For a recess, I decided to cool off and work on one of my writings. I took on my ear pods, one of my most prized possessions, and walked outside. I was listening to a song and feeling the scenery. It was evening, on a lonely road lined with huge green trees. The evening was cool, but my heart felt warm. Not my heart, really, but somewhere in my bosom. I waited on Nyctophilia , the goddess of my inspiration to grace my presence. For a second, I looked up, and my sight caught on a shiny, cute, little, red sports car. Then, somehow, my thoughts drifted to a being. A being that I am most reluctant to tell you about, but I will anyway. I'm just hoping that you forget this faster than I spill it.

Well, that being is one of my friends. I have countless male friends because they are more forceful in chasing their dreams. Well, for this person, we got determined, shared a lot of dreams and worked on them. Over the holidays, I got more forceful with realizing my dreams, I don't know about him. I hope he doesn't see this. As I walked that evening, my thoughts, for a second, drifted to him, and my heart wobbled. The warm feeling in my bosom got warmer, and my body got lighter.

I brushed off that feeling. Oh well, more like I tried to, but it stuck to me like a leech.

For a moment, I stopped and thought. I still have a lot to achieve, I would rather not let myself down. I mean, I have conjured the lady I would be, and definitely, I am so getting there. Furthermore, I want nothing to get into my way of achievement. And like I said before, not even Love.

Funny is the fact that not seeking love has kept me focused. I see it, I write it, but I don't seek it; I never do. As I laid, wide awake, now by 4:58 am, willing my alarm not to ring out, and searching my mind for the pieces of these fleeting thoughts, I wrote. I wrote about struggling, vulnerable girls. That was a talk that I was to deliver in the daytime. Like a flash, a tangible thought came to my mind, and I sprang to my working table. I opened my laptop and started working. I typed away until 11:40 pm.

And that was the end of it. I had totally trashed the idea of love. I threw away my admiration for it, even. I stopped waiting by the sidewalk to feel couples in their honeymoon. And, I stopped writing, too. It swished my thoughts with soft, sweet-smelling ideas, and I don't want that.

I got head deep into my work; therapy, lectures, fashion designing, editing, public speaking and growth stimulation.

Life became busier, so did I. I moved with its fast pace until I fell. Did it come out right? Okay, I didn't fall flat, I was caught before then, so I'd rather say that I tripped.

And Veeray caught me.

And in a fleeting moment, I remember the word, 'icy'. It suddenly looks beautiful to me, just like a friend whose beauty I suddenly notice, though I have known them for years; the Japanese call it Yūgen. I picture it in a graceful cursive, I mean the word 'Icy', sprawling out on a royal blue paper. I remember, too, how I have that word on the threshold of my thoughts. I was chatting with a friend on WhatsApp, and as I was typing, my keyboard's autocorrect feature changed 'ify' to 'icy'. And now, as the pulchritude of our pool danced into my thoughts with this word, I can't help but feel it; 'icy' is a beautiful word.

Somehow, my thoughts drift again. It seems to be sailing with the pool's current. I begin to evaluate my holiday. It has been a highly satisfying and rapidly unfolding experience. I require your full attention to share this with you. I've always been nostalgic for my past self, haunted by the bittersweet feeling that I've lost touch with the person I used to be - the one who was more capable, more driven, and more promising. I can't say exactly what went wrong, or what changed, but there's definitely a difference. It makes me wonder what growing older does to a person. I don't know exactly when the feeling, this sad nostalgia, came upon me, but I know something; it was steadily taking my peace away. I decided to work on it. In a solitary reverie, I jotted down the memories of my youthful pursuits, a catalogue of joys forgotten. Or rather, joys abandoned, because I still hold them dear in a distant part of my mind. Over time, I noticed that subconsciously, I offered excuses to my curious brain for why I no longer engage in these joys. Gradually, it began to breed the feeling of inadequacy in me. Of these activities, one pained me particularly; essay writing. In my younger years, I was so neck deep into it, it was a natural talent. Gradually, we drifted apart; essays and I, like old friends losing touch. Honestly, we did lose touch. I began to look at it with wistful sadness. I yearned to revisit the craft of essay writing, but I feared being left behind by the evolving landscape of academic writing, where the nuances of endnotes, footnotes, and references became increasingly complex and technical. Lately, I've noticed that almost every essay I've read touches on intellectual property, a subject that ventures far beyond my comfort zone and feels utterly daunting. Like music, it sensed my hesitation to rekindle our connection, and slowly faded away from me. Essay writing became a distant dream, one I never pursued.

However, with great pleasure, I reveal that, after all these years, I finally – at long last – got to write an essay again. A friend's gentle push did it. It was a subtle prod, I didn't even realize how much it could achieve. Amidst my journey of sculpting a beautiful piece, I felt the strings of fear and dissatisfaction loosen from my stomach. It's not a big deal, after all. I'm learning about referencing, just about to venture into endnotes and footnotes. As I learned, almost without realizing it, writing's rhythms and structures quietly took root in my mind, like a river carving its path. I spent a night awake, my busy hands tapping away on my phone and making quick jots on my book. I felt a sense of elevation as the night wore on, fuelled by the thrill of crafting a piece that seemed to come alive under my tireless efforts. It has finally added to the boxes of my achieved to-do list. I was no longer the man in The Alchemist, who always dreamt of making a journey to Mecca but never pursued it. I imagined his eye painted with a wistful hue. No, I wasn't him any more. I became Santiago, found a treasure in my repository of words, added to my knowledge, and made it home. This, definitely, is home. Despite a nearly sleepless night, I woke up feeling surprisingly energized and eager, my excitement about the essay trumping my exhaustion. I made a deep resolution within me; To do this, over and over. I couldn't help but wonder why I hadn't pursued it sooner, instead of getting stuck in a wistful sadness. Fear is a wastrel of dreams.

Again, my thoughts drift, this time, to that gentle push of my friend. And to that friend, himself. He was just like his push, gentle but determined. And now that I think of him, he is a hard nut to crack. Tall, thin head, scanty beards, good-looking; it is easy to mistake him for one of them, but he isn't.

He was concerned about his inner fibre, it stood him out. He embodied the values of a bygone era, a fading culture that prized morality and integrity. Yet, he didn't possess the rigid, antiquated quality often associated with those who cling to traditional morals. Now, as I try to figure it out, he reminds me of vintage monochrome photographs. They appear in black and white, but somehow, they are the fascinations of the antiquarians. The antiquarians have seen the world in all colours, but they choose to study the stories frozen in black and white. And in that regard, he is particularly notable. He is a blend of particular things, of particular interests. The more I think of it, the clearer it seems. He isn't a character in a fairytale, and that's why he's a hard nut to crack. At one occasion, he had said that I remind him of an older sister, and now that it whiffs through my thoughts, I let out a low chuckle. This holiday had me running to him for help.

Were older sisters supposed to do that?

But, there was a comfort about it, one that couldn't be found in Google or any Ai. One that, though it disarms him, lets him keep up his guard. One that makes me rack my brain before I find the words with which to write about him. One that makes my writings about him enshrouded in a mystique that leaves my readers intrigued. But here's a simpler aspect to him; like most boys, he loved the colour, blue, and football. It tied him to humanity, to the common man. And as was expected of the knights of the old, he had a soft spot for the female gender. On one occasion, he had told me that he was a woman activist, yet when he heard that I was a boy child advocate, he let out a giggle, and I quickly understood it. These things were rare.

Just as I looked forward to more research work, I look forward to speaking to him about them; even more, speaking with him.

His name is Iffy.

Oops, that's autocorrect again.

I mean, Ify!

At this last thought, I gathered the courage to look at my toenails, they were glittering with cerulean nail polish. It resonated with the pool's colour.

Isn't it a coincidence that cerulean represents peace and relaxation; that Ify liked royal blue, which for him signifies honesty, kindness, and friendliness; that my toenails were a glittering colour of cerulean; and that my life has started to take these trajectories?

My sister had captured the moment. Friends are beautiful creatures.

She had cut the extensions of her locs, though she was a law student in a university that banned locs.

It was exhilarating! New! Confident!

The moment she stood up from the polished tiles of her corridor, from under her mum's deft fingers, she walked to the nearest mirror. No, she used the window Instead. She had been Impatient to walk to the room to use the mirror there. As she admired her new look, she released her breath. Only then, did she realize that she had been holding her breath since sitting down, anticipating the new her. This is how she wanted to look. Short locs, not modified by expensive extensions that were already getting old. Not adorned by bob wigs, or brightly coloured scrunchies that made her look like a Disney Princess. She loved the new her! The locs weren't very tidy. They were bouncy from the short length. It didn't make her any more beautiful, but somehow she loved it. She didn't care now, what other people's evaluation of it would be. She knew that Ralph would say, “Pweto, what happened to your hair. You are not looking so girly any more.”. She, also now realised how much she had mastered Ralph. She vividly created a mental image of these words rolling out slowly from his pink, full lips. He would say it slowly because he will be afraid of hurting her, but he would say it anyway. Bobby would chuckle, requesting she take off the scarf from her head to reveal her new look. With hesitation, she'd briefly debate his request, and then, he'd jog over and pull it off, coaxing her into showing her new style. For a while, she would want to drag it back and cover her hair, but on a later thought, she would sashay with it confidently, and savour the surprise in their eyes. She was finally living her own world. She didn't have to prove to people how beautiful she was. It was a matter of subjective value, and she was focused now, on less trivial issues. She has been making plans of her future. Those plans were her dreams. She had once admired a friend of hers who told her of his dreams, they were very elaborate dreams. His hands were flailing as he described this dream, he was running short of breath, he had shiny eyes, and as he recounted this dream, his passion consumed him. Its exactness was as if he had told this dream over and over again, or that he had sat in his study and planned every single detail. “I must work in the US embassy”.

And she asked him a very sincere question, “How do you make such huge dreams and believe in them?” In reply, he told her that he has been making huge dreams since childhood and most of them played out. She was intrigued. And at that moment, she searched for her self belief.

It was beautiful that; now, here she was, looking in front of a window, admiring her locs, and growing a firm resolution inside her never to give up on her dreams. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. She had suddenly remembered how her mum was surprised to see her readily seat on the floor, but she knew her reasons, herself. She had crafted her schemes well. First, already knowing the position she would take while her mum would cut her hair, she had the tiles thoroughly polished. She hated any and every single speck of dust, everyone in the house knew that. Then, she tidied her mum's room early enough to pacify her, and proceeded to tell her how she wanted a new look. Her mum had just agreed to cut half of the extensions, but she had insisted on having everything out. To discourage her, her mum told her that she would have to sit on the floor to have her extensions cut. With a mischievous smirk, she readily abandoned her butt to the caresses of the well polished tiles. 'I am best at what I do', she thought to herself.

Bubbly hair, sparkly eyes and a firm determination to succeed. That was the girl she had always wanted to be.

Teary dears aren't over.

“I can solve every single problem in my life.”

I said this with unshed tears in my eyes, with a strong feeling in the heart, with the most resolute conviction in me. I have never had this kind of resolution except in childhood when I dreamt of lone small flowers making beautiful paradisaic gardens. And childhood has been a faraway memory made faint by the chisel of time. This, here and now, was a time when I was battling self-doubt. And trying extra hard to grow.

The previous week, I had rolled off an excellent public speech. I was upbeat for weeks. In a way that felt empowering. Yeah, baby, I could do it! It was a pleasant reminder. I mean, for one whose stage fright was enough to doubt one's talent, I had a joyful cry.

Growth is beautiful! It glows, especially after a tiresome effort. I cried more, and I laughed even harder. I desired to do this more, unlike usual, I craved it. To stand before an audience, again, and roll out the words so easily, It was beautiful! As I laid on my bed that night, I tried to recreate the scene somewhere beside my heart. Me, a beautiful dark girl,—this discovery is a recent one, I am starting to appreciate myself more. Cheers to growth—standing tall and delivering a heartfelt speech. I didn't have to condition it to my brain's thought, I just rolled it out. For the first time, I didn't think that the evaluative eyes of the audience were hitting in. I didn't think like a 10-year girl being scrutinized by a group of older girls in school. I didn't think, I just felt. When I started talking, I would rather not stop, it was exhilarating. I laughed with my audience, now more like my peers. It reminded me of a waterfall I once visited with my aunt. My audience (I am proud to call them mine), and I cascaded like the silvery blue water from a cliff; it was a beautiful waterfall. After several reminders to round up due to time constraints, I ended my speech (more like an interaction), and felt triumphant. As usual, it was a battle, but this time, I was the girl holding the trophy. I walked to my seat, sat down without a pounding heart, and felt peace.

That was peace. That was freaking peace!!!

ANOTHER BATTLE WOULD COME, BUT THIS GIRL HERE, THIS VERY MOMENT, FELT PEACE!

I had thought that my problem days were quiet behind me; like eons apart, but here was I staring another one in the eye. This was different, though. I didn't feel like I was in a straitjacket as usual. I was entirely different. At first, It felt overwhelming but gradually; It wasn't that any more, I felt right. It was like a necessary concern that I would surmount at the end, but as at that time, I didn't know how. And unusually, I felt emotional. I did cry, but I didn't cry with despair. I cried with ease, with hope, with the feeling of being human. I looked forward to being acquaintances with this problem. I didn't deny its existence or its gravity. From the depth of my bosom, I willed it to appear in its truest colours; bare and with no shade. As I wrote this, I sat in the hallway, opposite a busy classroom, and cried. I didn't, in the usual way, furtively clean off the tears. No, I consoled myself sweetly. Not in the manner of being embarrassed, of wanting to keep a straight face, of trying to prove to people that there were girls who didn't cry; who were strong. I was past that stage, and now, reminiscing on the past days, I smiled. A very wide smile, albeit the tears.

Now, let's get back to this problem. I'm a multitasker. I can proudly say this to myself now because I am past those days. I had got my belief back. Gradually! Trust me, it is a slow but steady journey. It did have hills and pitfalls, but here I am, looking back and smiling to myself. It was sure a worthy adventure. So now, I have numerous engagements. Though this was my very first year in the university, I certainly had loads. But that was fine. I love to get engaged in things, it gives me the feeling of fulfilment. Let's roll it off, should we? Personally, I do a lot of things as a pastime. And for self development, I won't forget that. And then, there were positions held. I was an assistant associate editor in the editorial board, a court clerk and a treasurer in a student body. And then, there were academics. We were about to dive into our annual fun week, and thereafter, exams stood a lurking.

Somehow, I felt I hadn't put in enough efforts in academics, in the organizations I held posts, in writing, it was that overwhelming. Doubtful enough, I conjecture magnitude in my overly imaginative mind. At this moment, I was wondering if I was doing the same thing or was reality really staring me in the face, eyes, rather because it was piercingly direct. As I sat; crying, ruminating on the gravity of my problem, and sitting on a busy corridor, I was met by a senior colleague in school. He took me to a quiet corner, quite surprised to see me crying; on a normal day, he always met my buoyance and aplomb. At length, we talked, he told me that he felt this was just a case of me overthinking issues. While I understood that he may be correct, coming from an objective point, I also recognized the fact that I, and I alone, knew the gravity of my concerns since they were personal and majorly internal. As he tried to assuage my fears, I conversed within myself. I could hear him, but I was barely listening. I was engulfed in my own thoughts, prodding myself to proffer a solution that's well suited to my situation. I mean, I am the only one well abreast of this difficulty. No matter how hard I tried to explain it to someone else, I find out that I was just conveying the words without applying the gravity of these events that tormented me. Ineffable is our emotions. How emotional are humans. How human I am.

This, too, is a concept that I have come to terms with, after a very long time. I am a human, after all. And this realization has helped me come to easily detect my difficulties, many they are. And as I ruminated upon this thought, I was reminded again. As humans, we can never know it all; human motivations, intentions, driving force, reasons, name it. This cajoled me back to reality. Here was I, listening to a senior colleague, not knowing his evaluation of my situation but concluding that its effect was lost upon his senses of perception.

And his next words did impress upon my consciousness.

Let it wait, heaven will not fall!

In this unveiling moment, I agreed with him.

I had always lived on multiple tasks, but here now, priority knocked. In as much as I wanted to achieve as much as I could, they were situations where one would have to suffer for the other. Sacrifices still abound. And they come with choices, dilemmatic ones.

There are times when our desire to live quality lives are threatened by constraints, numerous constraints, or so we think! It did sit me down to think. Choices lined up, choices of contrasting issues. You get one to lose the other, and I was ignorant of that fact. The beauty becomes this, some moments call for specialization. An idea, concept, job, occupation, career, or pastime suddenly needs more attention than the others. That moment becomes its prime. The more I think of it, the more it becomes clearer. That is the reason sometimes, things just work out even with our very little efforts, and then some other time, no matter the level of brawn or brains we apply, it just sets it foot down and silently refuses to budge. With my senior colleague's prompting, I realized that this was such moment. I had to pick the tasks in their prime and work with them.

And what happens to the rest?

They will wait, heaven won't fall.

Then another arises, that we may pray for wisdom to recognize tasks in their prime, life is an enigma.

I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, I saw a comforting stare within them, and immediately, I knew what to do.

I would get home, and with a paper, list all my obligations, duties and luxuries. I would create a comprehensive plan of how to engage in as much ones as I could, picking as much pressing and primal ones as possible. I am a freaking multitasker and I remember that! And the ones that I can't attend to at the moment? They will wait, but they won't be forgotten. I would get back to them, and face them with as much energy as ever. My belief builds up more. Remember, I can solve every single problem in my life. Now, I realise; it all starts with belief.

I took the hanky he offered, wiped my tear-streaked face, took his hand, and we walked away together. For me, I agreed with that spirit within. I will surmount this difficulty at the end, and my grip on his hands became tighter with resolution.

Mine was such a moment!

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I'm scared, instead, of losing my parents.

I don't know, this thought hangs heavily on my head and leaves me staring at the page of a book, that I am meant to be reading, for hours.

Surprisingly enough, and more scaredly so, I am not shuddering at this thought. And it freaking scares me more. It's just like I am planning a holiday in Miami after my exams. I'm sitting and thinking of how to console my siblings when it happens, of how to practice stoicism, of choosing the most generous aunty to live with, of promising myself that even when we are all dispersed, I mean my siblings and I, I would make an extra effort to call them at least weekly. I'm not willing myself to forbid it, I am just wondering how dry-teared my eyes will be, or how I might end my education and find meaning in other things. I'm scaredddddd! I'm thinking of confiding in my sister about this engulfing thought, but then, we share the same parents. I don't want to put this fear into her, too. I'm telling my friend about it in a carefree but hiddenly tensed manner, and he is telling me how it's never possible, of how long my dad will live, and how he will reap the fruits of his labours. But this doesn't dissuade the thoughts. I know it's possible. I know it's freaking possible. Life happens in a split second. I don't deny that I will cry when it happens, I am just scared that it seems that I have resigned to my fate. I am meant to fight it, but the spirit just..... lies. It lies low like it has accepted the possibility of that occurrence. But then, I fear it happens.

I will tell you how it started. I have a friend, a very good friend. 'Good' is a clichely word to define him. He is my one radical friend. We have been seat mates since my first day in school. On one of the good days, he called me early in the morning, at 8:35am. That was a Sunday morning. I was in the church, though about to go home, the mass was just dismissed. I picked the call and gave a very cheerful greeting, while chiding him for calling so early on a Sunday morning. “I know you don't go to church, but I do.” No reply, it was cold on the other side of the line. I expected peals of laughter from his side, he is so generous with it. I called his name, and he replied in a calm, solemn, grave voice, “My dad is dead.” The world and everything in it stood still, except my brain. It fluttered and raved. It said words that I, couldn't even hear. The only audible word came later; JESUSSSS! The gleaming faces of the people around me, streaming out of the church, blurred. My family members, smiling into the camera; an old-time tradition of ours was oblivious of the silent tears welling at the base of my heart. For moments, I thought of a reply to give him. It did really touch that he called me this early. It did touch! He told me that his dad died at 1:20am. Such agonizing moments till now. And I wondered, how did he spend the hours that just passed by? Damn!! Words fail me.

How do you console a brother when you are so bereft of words? When you are suddenly heartbroken by that which pierces him? When you suddenly get to an emotional level lower than his, but he does need that consolation more than your pity?

“Kel, I am praying for divine consolation.” For what human words will do equal justice to the despondency of man?

As I earlier said, I am writing my tough exams.

Very tough exams that make me spend all night in school, trying to swallow large chunks of textbooks that I could forget the next day, immediately after the exams. Large chunks that could possibly be rejected by the lecturer, it must be written in a certain way. On a particular night class, as a way of a quick recess, I came online on WhatsApp. Whoo! I saw a message from Chisom. Crazy Chisom, the girl who I shared countless crazy moments with throughout secondary school. She didn't know it, but at the period I was battling my silent depression, I did find succour in her. She was one girl I vibed with, and still did. So, immediately I saw her message, I was quick to reach out for a response. And then, I read the message, clearly. It said, “I LOST MY DAD.”

My heart skipped a bit. I quickly went offline. I was bereft of emotions. Like, does this ever end! For a quick moment, I was grateful that I had earlier turned off my read receipt. I wasn't planning to give her a reply, soon. Don't blame me, I was scared. I tried my best to push off the thought from my mind. I couldn't believe it, Chisom's dad was dead. That sweet girl! Her dad was freaking dead. As time passed, I felt heavy guilt. Real, heavy guilt!

Chisom, how do you feel? How are you coping?

And, on a day, after going through a series of self prep talk, I called. I did, and with teary eyes, I wanted to know how she truly felt. How does one so bright and gay cope with grief when it eventually comes knocking? And her reply came, slow and hesitant. “Please, don't ask me. Mama already cried enough, I don't want to.” It was a desperate plea. A plea of one that was just inches away from a sad river but didn't want to fall into it. A delicate breeze was enough to push one in. One with a failing spirit. A spirit that wants to fight but doesn't know how to. Chisom was trying to be strong, I saw through it. Her last words were a more desperate plea. “Please, pray for me.” and click, the phone went off.

This brought, to my bare sensibility, the great possibility of a short life. What, then, will be the meaning of a life that hoped on longevity, and didn't tow the early roads of discovery and purpose? That knew of death but thought it far away. If life could be so short, we only have one remedy. Find meaning in it, and do it earlier than it becomes late. In Charles Bukowski's words, we are all going to die, all of us.

And then, the import of life just hit so hard.

Secondary school, especially boarding schools, are full of scars.

Childhood trauma does real damage.

And what else should you know?

Depression is underestimated, trust me, it really is.

Basically, I learnt these myself, I wasn't told by anyone. It's said that experience is the best teacher, but some things are better not experienced. I will tell you about them.

Before that, there are two things that I will let you know about me; I am brainy, and I hate mirrors. One more thing, I am an extrovert, but I have stage fright. And another; I read a lot. At a very tender age, I read Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun, though I spent most of my time, sneaking around while reading it. Dad didn't approve of my reading it, he said that I was too small to do so. Another book, Why You Act The Way You Do by Tim LaHaye and in my childhood objectivity, I chuckled to myself, “I am a Choleric Melancholy.”

Those were the

Days I believed in my strength, physical and emotional. I hate to cry in public, I did rather stifle my tears than go announcing them. But embarrassingly, I cry whenever I am angry. Such a shame!

Days that I appreciated my ingenuity.

Days that my determination to succeed worked for me.

Days that my tenacity drew me up. There were days I felt no crap!

As a child, our nanny once told me that I was the least pretty among my siblings, and my siblings laughed really hard. No offence was taken, maybe it was a joke after all.

Growing up, I discovered that I had the worst singing voice among my siblings, people didn't hesitate to point that out, over and over, to me.

Then, I didn't really look good in photographs, but I looked real good in my bedroom mirror. That's fine, I stopped taking pictures. And while my elder sister grew up and had countless tight-fitting gowns which made her look curvy, I decided to try one too. They all laughed, “You look like your Recorder, thin and long.” I laughed, too, didn't want to look more left out than I already was. Once, during the Christmas holiday, we went to our village. I have a cousin who is my age and whom we all believe looks just like me. Whenever our nanny's words ringed through my ear, I looked at her and reassured myself that I wasn't hideous, and it worked. One day, a visitor said, “Imi ya ebuka, o buzikwa nne ya muru ya?” I bowed low and greeted her while smiling. That was the last day I went out of my way to greet village visitors.

In my family, music is a thing. We all play musical instruments, mine is the recorder. My sisters play the guitar, saxophone, and xylophone and my brother, the piano. At a point, I decided to move on to the violin, I don't really like aerophonic instruments. My mouth gives a funny O shape whenever I play the recorder, coupled with the fact that I fell down in my primary school and got an injury on the flesh between my lips and nose. In my later life, I was operated on. This gave me special happiness, my condition elicited pity from people. Well, I was keen to learn violin but by a twist of circumstances, it moved over to my younger sister.

My family is a jolly one. Whenever things weren't bad, we had a superb time together. We joked about lot, maybe expensive ones too, but we all laughed together. I got to a point where I graduated from primary school and had to move on to secondary school. I was to go to a boarding school, and it gave me great joy. I love adventures and new experiences.

My first day in school was a good opportunity to express my bravery. As I watched my teary classmates bidding their family members goodbye, I felt cool for not crying. It is actually not my thing, I don't cry. Coupled with the fact that I had an elder sister in school, I envisioned a really fun time in school.

Boarding school life usually doesn't go as expected. Partly because in our childishness, we gave little thoughts to being intentional, and partly because people lack sensitivity. Anyway, I was a victim of both. We once had a hall of fame session in my hostel. It happened at night, so at a point, I went to bed. The next morning, a brat met me and told me that I was branded the ugliest, people around us laughed. That was my first great cultural shock. I was used to tacit remarks about my looks, but no one has ever braved it to my face. No one, especially my peers. Of course, I will beat the hell out of them. I am strong and I know it. But this time, I didn't feel rage, not anger. I felt one of my despised emotions. I felt embarrassed. I felt teary and so I felt more embarrassed. I was embarrassed at myself for my looks, and I was more embarrassed by the stinging, choking urge to cry. Darn it! What's happening? That day, I didn't go to the refectory. I felt that the whole world became acutely aware of my looks. I wanted to miss classes too, but my hostel matron would hear none of it. I felt that weird urge to purge myself of emotions, but I was too ashamed to speak out to someone. In the end, I pushed in my tears, and applauded myself for my bravado.

And life continued, only in a different hue too little to be noticed.

I played a lot during my secondary school days. And I like to exercise authority, too. I'm already talking too much.

I had a friend in my first year in secondary school. Okay, I mean a group of friends. We were all in the same corner, we all had pink bedsheets, we were all January borns, and we were all in the same class. We had so much in common. One of us, Blessing, was so extroverted, had numerous friends from higher classes, had lots of good stuff and, above all, had a sister who kisses her goodnight, every night.

Another was an emotionless freak like me, but she cried on the first day (later claimed that she only cried out of extreme hunger and not from the feeling of homesickness), and she has numerous pimples too. The last one wasn't in our class, wasn't a January born, just had a pink bedsheet. She had a sister with her in the school, just like me. And just like me, she also had tiny squabbles with her sister, though hers was more frequent.

One day, we were all in the corner, I was lying down, trying to catch some sleep and the other three were chit-chatting. Suddenly, I heard my name. It was Zitel's voice, the pimpled one. I am naturally very curious, especially when it involves being talked about, so my ears immediately pricked up.

“Her sister is way finer than she is.....”

Okay, that's normal, I have always heard stuff like that.

“But her mum is not.”

Then, I froze. Has my mum been included in this crappy stuff! I held on tight to my blanket and slept off, willing myself to journey into an endless dream. I woke up to meet a wet patch on my bed. Now, this isn't me. I might be ugly, but I am not dirty. Only dirty people are bed wetters. I had to solve my problem, really quick; to clear the mess before anyone notices it. So I took out the bedsheet, dumped it outside, cleaned my bed and dressed it with my blanket.

We went to the refectory together, as we were wont to. As I leaned on to Blessing, smiling and whispering to her, I suppressed the urge to push her down the stairs. But we kept on being friends. That's what friends are for, to stick to each other even through gossips.

On my birthday, I got plenty of gifts from them. My first emotional moment; feeling love from non-family members.

Another day, I was taunted by them, again! And gradually, abhorrence crept in. I shuddered whenever classes were over, and I remember that I was going to my corner. Slowly, but steadily, I withdrew into my shell. Then, I felt another emotion; loneliness.

In the ocean of people, I paddled alone. We vibed still. We exchanged gifts, and shared fun, in the spur of the moment, we looked into each other's eyes and saw love. Our togetherness grew, the taunts grew, our love grew, and my lonely resentment grew. We were the best group of friends.

As days passed by, that personality got hold of me and sat me down. Thanks to constant reminders from friends and non-friends, I drew a mental picture of myself. It was ingrained in my mind. Now, I hated mirrors! It was a most taunting reminder of me to me. And using powder became ridiculous, like I mean, isn't that medicine after death, and decay? Well, I was gradually adjusting to life. I'm very pragmatic, I give that to me. I don't fantasize or anything, I am just realistic. And anyway, fantasizing isn't meant for people like me. It is reserved for Blessing, and her kind, who get goodnight kisses every night. I only had sincere prayers, every night. Prayers to wake up and not find a wet patch on my bed. It was becoming a constant thing, maybe to convince me of my filth. I could only clutch to one hope, I use a blanket, and every wet patch just requires one thing; turn it over to a dry side, and make a more sincere prayer. I just hope no one finds out.

On a fine Saturday, I was badged. Guess? I was badged the dirtiest. And for the second time, I fought the stinging, choking tears pooling at the base of my throat. I fought with my mind, too. A strong argument on whether I was worth it at all or not. I wondered, too if my best friends would laugh about it. I clutched onto the hope of a continued friendship with them. I don't want to be lonelier than I was. I need them, I really do.

After that day, I was afraid to talk to them. I avoided our dormitory, completely, only coming back late at night to have a sneak sleep and leaving early in the morning.

After some days, I summoned the courage. I approached Blessing, and asked for a bar of soap. With smiles, she gave me one. Phew! Narrow escape. I promised myself to never make a gash on our friendship, intentionally or not. I don't ever want to become lonelier than I was.

On a rare day, I discovered my new talent; I could draw. That came off as a surprise to me. Can I ever be compatible with drawing? Well, it happened. I always liked to show my friends my drawing. I wanted to remain sure of their approval. On a night prep, I drew a ridiculous face with lots of pimples. With a smile, I took the picture to Zitel and asked her to guess the owner of the face. She looked at me blankly, then I got up, gave a hug and a wide smile and said, “It's you, dear. Isn't it obvious?” She stared at me, and looked out. That, surprisingly, was enough satisfaction for me. I love to draw. Every stage of resentment on a piece of paper. Now, that is a slip of tongue.

Out of my group of friends, I was the only one who went over to arts class. Eventually, we, naturally, all drifted apart. I felt relieved, I was tired of having to smile at someone while wearing a black heart and fighting my mind of the thoughts of being a third wheel. I started nursing the thought of finding myself, I once read that in a book. Meanwhile, I stopped drawing, I don't know, maybe I lost the inspiration to draw. My new class gave me the opportunity to meet new people, but I would rather not mix in. I dreaded that thought of feeling like a third wheel, again.

At this stage of our lives, the holidays were a time of escapades. People always came back with juicy stories of their adventures with new boyfriends. That, didn't move me at all. For one reason, only the beautiful ones attract people, and two, that's just childishness. I am moved by goals and not frivolities. Somehow, I still stuck with Zitel, and occasionally, we did talk about them mockingly and laugh. I discover that I might have a lot in common with her. Every so often, I hope we become the truest friends, and other times, I just stick to reality; manage the little you can get.

A time to never forget; my school built an Ultramodern Hostel. It was the first of its kind. My set and the set above us were told by the school management to pack into the hostel; we were the highest set. This brought in another phase in my life. A new environment, I love change. By a twist of whatever luck I had, I was made the house caption of my floor. My house matron was the widely hated type, she was a very strict woman, but I was cool with her. All she demanded from me was that the right thing be done, that isn't a problem. Coupled with the fact that I am very hard-working, we managed to get along quite well. But heading my set girls wasn't easy on me at all. I had to make a choice between them and my house matron. If something goes wrong, my house matron would demand that I produce the person, but my set girls would expect I don't. Now, either way, I always end up in trouble. When I had enough of it, I decided to stick with my house matron. My set girls were over-demanding and insensitive. Like, I was formerly overlooked by all and now, all of a sudden, everyone wanted to get a favour from me, at the expense of my relationship with our house matron, of course. I was starting to like her, notwithstanding her strict bearing, she showed me love. She was quite impressed with my brains and honesty. Well, I give that to my mum. You are either bad, or you are her child; you can't be both. Plus, she married a brainy man. Now, my house matron also expected a lot from me. The pressure became two-sided. Gradually, I developed more haters than my house matron. Here, my stoicism helped. Hate me, like me, I don't give a durn! Life was sweeter that way.

Well, In my new corner, I had a caring, boisterous, easygoing bunkmate. As time wore, she brought in two of her friends to join us in our corner. By extension, I became their friend, too. We shared and did everything together. When we moved on to a new class, we all became seatmates. I once felt that feeling; I am covered, I got good friends.

Pressure! Pressure! Pressure!

I got a lot of it from my set girls and house matron. Overtime, I gave into brooding. House captain was a post of privilege in my school, mine was only different. I was the house captain of my own set, it was a battle of hierarchy. Brooding gave me a thousand reasons to get depressed. I mean, notwithstanding my fighting spirit, things were always difficult for me. I fought hard to please my house matron, she was gradually losing hope in me. I started feeling the pains of being hated, everyone was so generous with rash words; about my wickedness, about my looks, and what not. So unlike me, words started to get to my bone marrow. I brooded and brooded on every single thing. At a point, real disaster hit. My brother died, the world was let loose. My wall of emotions crashed. I could barely pick the pieces and fix them back. I cried for vengeance, for vindication, for ease and above all, I cried for beauty. I was rest assured now, that the worst things always found me. I sought my solace in the solitude of my pillow. I took a thousand steps back and observed everything, everything! I had no best friend. I had long come to the conclusion that my friends were only just friends to my bunky and not mine. That thought gnawed hard at the base of my throat. And just as fate was wont to dishing it out to me, I had a quarrel with my bunky. More like one-sided quarrel. I was too weak to keep up with malice with anyone. Later, I found out that her reason for the quarrel was based on a false allegation. As a house captain, she thought that I had a hand in her suspension. She was earlier reported for an offence I had no idea of.

Under the burden of all this, I struggled to just survive. Her friends backed her up, I always expected that. In the heat of it all, I discovered that I was only surrounded by them, it was so suffocating. I had to change my sitting position in class, at least, to have less encounter with them. I struggled to strike a balance, between academics, my post, my sanity. I couldn't keep up with writing (earlier on, I replaced drawing with writing).

Amidst it all, I managed to keep on breathing. I came face to face with a greater task; passing my external exams. In a bid to keep up with the struggle, I grew. I grew, and I craved to grow more. Intentionally, I started out on the journey of growth. Wholistic growth!

Every so often, I felt myself tilting towards betterment. Other times I felt no change. Now, hear me out. Growth is slow, especially in its earliest stage.

And that growth starts with the mind.

At some point, I grew into two people. A cheerful, boisterous extrovert, with heads up high. I love to carry my aura boldly, but while in my solitudinous moments, I brooded deeply. I was alone, could never get a friend to myself, went by unnoticed, nursed a hurt of the death of my younger brother, always met the dark and unfair side of life. But there were days! Days I cracked a funny joke, and I didn't laugh alone, days someone stood up for me in a quarrel, days I checked my result and was the first in my class, days I sang loudly, and it didn't seem so bad, days I spent teaching my classmates, days I woke up smiling.

Then, one day, I reconciled with my bunky and her friends. One of her friends, Kathy, became very close to me. I discovered that she, too, fought with emotions. She never had a personal quarrel with me, but had to back up her friend in order not to feel left out. I introduced her to my journey of growth, and together, we faced the world. Things still hurt, but they became much more bearable. Growth was still slow. We still managed to survive.

Somehow, I graduated from secondary school with my sanity intact. One of my joys was that I cleared all my papers. It was a mini consolation. I'm not bad at all things, after all. Done with secondary school education, I was staring another phase in the eye. I decided, wholeheartedly, never to allow anything make a cut on my happiness. I wanted to see myself in a different light, to be really objective. And I went a step further in growth. I became a therapist, too. Funnily enough, pieces of my life started to align like a jigsaw puzzle.

Let's take a breath and name it. I could draw, write, dance, feel people, know and understand people's personal situations and I grew into a therapist.

Gradually, I felt the need to be loved and love, but first, I wanted to be loved. I hadn't given into fantasies, I wanted true love. I sought it in the eyes of staring strangers, in the messages of pestering Facebook friends, in the tones of long voice notes, and in the frequency of kind compliments. Maybe, I actually deserve love, just maybe.

But there was a snag, I rarely get seen. IFUNANYA. Love only happens when you get seen. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be admired. I wanted to be confident. I wanted to be beautiful, too, but I knew that, that wouldn't come easily. I'd rather not disgrace myself than to lay foundations on my face. I didn't brave that. Then, I gave in to clothes and fashion. It brewed confidence in me, I don't know how, but somehow, it did it. But I couldn't really get myself to walk on heels before a crowd. It made me really anxious and wonder whether to smile or keep a steady face. Funnily, whenever I practised in my bedroom, I felt like a model. Perhaps, it was just that the staring eyes unnerved me. I started to take pictures only at sunrise. The bright sun gave it a good quality, sheeny skin and a surprisingly fine face. And at lucky times, I struck a good pose. I once heard a passing compliment. You can make a good model. I yearned to hear it again and again. Maybe, there was hope for me. Somehow, I was getting somewhere. I should be seen, and possibly, admired.

On an unexpected day, I opened my WhatsApp, (I am a WhatsApp freak), to see a message from an unknown number. On enquiry, he said his name is Ken. He got my number from a group we were in, said that I was a rare type and wanted to connect. We started to talk. Sometimes, I had rare fantasies of falling in love with him, but it just wasn't there. Maybe I had given up on love and decided to move on. Somehow, I discovered that he was dealing with emotional situations and I became his therapist. He wasn't my first patient, neither was he my second. The point is, I already had many patients before him. Therapy was my thing. At least, it didn't fail me like beauty did, like love did, so I gave it my all. I maintained a serious but friendly relationship with my patients. Somehow, I so understood his situation, it had a lot of similarities with my earlier life. He, too, was afraid of love, and didn't think he was good enough. First, I cultivated a friendship with him and tried to create a breeding ground for trust. Gradually, he opened up freely. He had a pessimistic mind, so I got to work. Growth started, but he was a bit resistant. Normal, people are controlled by their mindset, same with him. With time, Growth increased. I was getting somewhere. Meanwhile, I had totally given up on love, but not on clothes, though. I focused my energy on realistic goals; writing and therapy. I found another passion, spoken poetry. I battled with stage fright and self-doubt. I fought between quitting and being a mediocre. At last, I made a bargain. Keep practising. I AM A LIFELONG LEARNER.

Then, in the midnight of another rare day, I opened my door to love. I tried to be brave but I was ecstatic. It was Ken. He was hesitant but steady. HE SAID THAT HE LOVES ME! I didn't doubt, I felt it. Maybe this wasn't as sensible as I used to be. But I couldn't halt, his words rejuvenated me! So, I could be loved? We chatted for long periods. I wanted a call, but couldn't brave it. What if he hates my voice? I shook that thought quickly. If he loves me, he should love me wholly.

My mind didn't buy that immediately, but on a strong day, I picked up my phone and ringed him. He picked, and so did I; his palpitating heart. He was shy. I struck up a conversation and somehow, we got carried away and lost track of time. We talked for a straight nine hours. He had a nice voice, I couldn't stop melting. I asked for his picture, and he sent some. I felt cheated. Mehn! Did I deserve him? He is so handsome. A tear dropped. I felt unsure of myself.

Did he really love me? Was he ready to love my looks? Was this really going to last?

His voice brought me back,“Your voice is beautiful, keep on talking”. I froze, so did my voice. Did he really say that? For two splitting seconds, the world froze with me. I have never really heard a seemingly sincere compliment. And, again, he repeated it. I cried, and from the depth of my heart, I loved him. I saw flowers of purples and reds, and knew what real love could be. I was in love. I love Ken. I confided in him about my insecurities, and he promised to love me fully, and dangerously so. It was us against the world. I couldn't help feeling loved.

The next day, he didn't call me. I felt a stab in my heart. I was so uneasy. Was he immediately disinterested?

I tried not to cry while sleeping. Maybe, some things are too good to last. That night, I slept with a sad smile, life is really unfair. The next day, I woke up to a thousand missed calls from Ken. He asked how I was, and apologized for not checking up on me for a whole day. His phone had a problem, broken screen, and he took it to be repaired. I heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn't a repellant, after all. He still loved me.

Days, and our love grew. Ken is so real. I easily confided in him. It was just like I was in love with my brother. We yearned to meet each other. We got admission into the same university to study Law. It was merely a matter of time before he would come down to the east. I always dreamt of our first meeting. I counted, and so did he. We had so much in common, had the same birthday; 20th, but not the same month, loved music and poetry. We always listened to music over the phone and sang together. He has a knack for philosophy, and is knowledge personified. Personally, I learnt a lot from him. He made me feel every inch worth it.

On the 19th of July, I sent Ken a break-up letter, and cried for the rest of the day. Circumstances had shown that we weren't meant to be. He was a pathological liar, his love notwithstanding. It took me six months to actually brave up and end it between us. I would rather not be blinded by love, I saw it, but I was hesitant to act on it. I love Ken, and so did he, but I had long-term issues in mind. Trust bothered me, too. He gave me a million calls and begged me not to leave him. We talked for the whole day, and remained friends. Still, it's us against the world.

I started school in September with so much intentionality and mental freedom. I wasn't a girl craving beauty and love. I was a new spurt of growth. I was me in many colours.

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