Thursday, March 14th, 2024.
Typing. Erasing. Deleting. Scratching head. Listening to Taylor Swift.
"...in your wildest dreams...ah ah ahhh..."
Oh, now it's Halo by Beyonce. The weather is cold. I feel like a character in one of Francine River's books. Flung somewhere across the continent. So small but so significant. With a God upstairs carefully holding every detail of my life with a scarlet thread.
People say I do too much. That I overdo. That it's not that deep and I should learn to calm down. One of my former friends told me that I should never apologize for my 'intensity' because it is what makes me, me. Yes, we no longer talk and sometimes I wonder if it was my too much-ness that finally chased her away.
February was a breeze. March is too good to be true. Your life can change in a day and if that's not the craziest motivation to keep going, I don't know what is.
I haven't traveled home. I am not mentally ready to endure the hawk-eyed scrutiny of my religious parents. Neither am I physically ready to till the earth, burn farmlands, and plant cassava bones. Every day I wake up in this empty hostel, I can imagine the society and morality court chanting 'Shame! shame!' as I bill my parents for more money.
Which child stays back in school when it's closed? Me. The Abido Shaker. The coconut head.
I am figuring myself, my life, my happiness, my grief, my peace ... I cannot leave. I do not expect my parents to take it happily but one day, they will come to understand.
I lost all my streaks because I skipped a day on Youversion. I haven't opened the app since. I now read my Bible physically. I refuse to be flung out of my spiritual journey because of vain metrics.
My bed was seized by the hall rep some weeks ago. I slept on Nessa's bed for three days and realized it was NOT the same. The mosquitoes were more vicious as if punishing me for taking Nessa's space. The network was faster, thankfully. But whenever I glanced at my empty bunk, I yearned for my mattress.
I think I over-healed. A guy professed his feelings for me and my belly quaked with laughter. Now, I no longer spend time thinking of giving anybody a chance. Just one conversation and I KNOW.
My husband is not in Ikpa Road, hopefully. His nails are not unkempt and black from dirt. His eyes are not bloodshot and mean. His voice is not raggedy like an addict. He is not greedy. Manipulative. Narcissistic. Intimidated by 'strong women'. He does NOT pronounce junction as 'yunction'. He does not sneak sex into every conversation within minutes.
So, when a man who does NOT look like my husband professes love, the only polite thing to do is to laugh. In a way that pleases God.
I no longer wait to be appreciated, validated, rewarded, or seen. So, when someone adroitly praised other 'influencers' while I stood with two others like a moron; I graciously clutched my pearls and my bag and started my long trek home.
I no longer do things for free especially when I should be fvcking getting paid. That is why I dropped my number to be added to a WhatsApp group to do free publicity work. Then, immediately I reached my hostel and unstrapped my bra; I exited the group.
I love to make an entrance. And an exit too.
I ideated a campaign video for the upcoming induction for freshers who will most likely not appreciate whatever effort we put into creating it. I had so much fun with Giftii,Erry, Albert, TheGodwinAsuquo and Ibee. IUC is home. Whether you believe it is insignificant.
I realized that value is relative. You will think value is organizing events and giving freshers tips on how to bag a first class.
Meanwhile, the value to some freshmen is that fine senior colleague in the other chamber.
Why are you joining this chamber?
Their guys are fine. I like his eyes.
Kpele o, eyes-ZAIAH.
I withdrew myself from the chamber toxicity, the pressure, the forcing, the manipulation, the lies, the dirty politics.
I am too old to be begging 15-year-olds.
I took some pictures. They were beautiful at first until I stared at each of them for 5 minutes straight and they became ugly.
You're probably wondering where I'm going with this publication. Sit tight. Brace yourselves for impact. We're about to, um...crash.
This train of thought is... veering off course.
Resumption is 2nd April and I hope I stay alive, my ideas stay alive, my consistency stays alive, my creativity stays alive, and my half-virgin and half-relaxed hair stays alive.
I shall proceed to continue dreaming about being an Instagram influencer with big brands I have influenced for in my highlights and countries I've traveled to. I shall scroll on Twitter to check if the decency debate has ended, TikTok to stalk that Nunu girl, WhatsApp to check if anybody has been flung out of the Lawsan group chat and Facebook to see if someone is capping again for engagements.
I shall anticipate Nsitdan's white soup or Mumsy's oily spaghetti. I shall open my Opay, admire the 250 naira inside and consider whoocup for 10 minutes because this good girl something is not funding my lifestyle again.
I shall delete 3 WhatsApp statuses of mine and pretend to be a mysterious, quiet girl. Then after 10 minutes, I will update 6 more because I was wired to over share.
Then, I shall pretend to be in a music video as the rain pours outside; a lover running away from her emotionally unavailable significant other.
*blushes in overwhelming cringe.
Help me hit 200 subscribers before the end of March. Share this amebo publication with another tatafo out there, pretty please.
Bubai!😚
Edit: I just discovered we can now add captions under our images on Substack! Cool!🤭
Edimakuuu! Your writing is just so amazing. 🤭💗
Every single piece from you puts a smile on my face
Creativity at it's peak