LIMINAL

CHAPTER I: THE FIRST TEAR

LOCATION: Ala Mmụọ

OGBỤZỌ: Ụzọ-Ndụ-na-Ọnwụ

I stand watch at the threshold for eons uncounted, my essence flowing in perfect rhythm with the boundary between Ndụ na Ọnwụ. I am the Ogbụzọ, the bridge between life and death, the portal between mortality and immortality. I have existed for as long as life has existed. I am the boundary between what is to be and what stops being. Ndi mmụọ must pass through me to start their ịlọ ụwa and the others must pass through me to complete their njem Ikpeazụ. I am ụzọ njem mbido na njedebe. Nke na egbu ụzọ. The veil has always sung to me – a low, harmonious hum that speaks of balance, souls passing from one realm to the next, peacefully, or not peacefully, really, as long as the njem Ikpeazụ is completed. But, suddenly, that song falters.

It begins as a discordant note, barely perceptible. I tilt my head, listening. The threshold shimmers, and suddenly, my all-familiar boundary feels… wrong. Stretched. As if something is pulling at me from both sides, simultaneously.  

Then the vision strikes.

Without warning, I’m no longer at the post. I stand in a mortal dwelling, watching a scene that should not exist. A child lies sleeping, their small chest rising and falling with innocent breath, but I see what the mortal eyes cannot see – two souls occupying one vessel. Two distinct spiritual essences, each complete, each claiming the same flesh. The first soul belongs there – an ọgbanje, the eternal wanderer between realms, its essence normally shimmering with the familiar rhythm of departure and return. But now, it lies disturbed, disrupted, like a song with wrong notes forced onto its melody. The second soul blazes with a chaotic fire, torn from life too suddenly, carrying the weight of unfinished business and burning with the need for vengeance.

The ọgbanje writhes in distress, trapped in its own flesh by an unwelcome presence. The usurper has wrapped itself around the ogbanje like chains, anchoring them both to the mortal plane. For the intruder has no desire to cross into the realm. Not until the scales of justice have been balanced by their own hand.

Two distinct destinies, each complete, each claiming the same flesh- one held prisoner in their own body, one refusing to leave until vengeance is complete.

Impossible.

The child stirs, and for one terrifying moment, both souls look directly at me. The ọgbanje’s ancient eyes, weary and confused by their imprisonment, meet the wild, desperate gaze of the usurper. Two different kinds of awareness blazing from one small face. “What are you doing here?” the ọgbanje asks in a confused voice, while the intruder soul, defiant in their possessive rage, replies: “I won’t leave. Not until they pay. Not until blood answers blood.”

I try to step back, to flee the vision but find myself rooted in place. The ọgbanje’s distressed aura and the usurper’s anchoring fury create opposing forces so powerful they tear through my essence. The boundary isn’t just being stretched; it is being ripped apart by the contradiction, and I have become the unwilling bridge between the soul held captive and the soul that refuses to leave.

I gasp and the vision wavers.

I feel warmth on my face. Wet warmth.

I touch my nose and stare at my fingers in horror. Black. Deep, viscous black like the space between stars, like ichor from the first wounds of creation.

Ọbara mmụọ.

The same divine blood that flows through ndi mmuo agha when they fall in cosmic battles. I’ve never bled before. I am not supposed to bleed. Bleeding means damage. Bleeding means my divine essence is leaking.

Bleeding means corruption.

My ọkụ-ndụ flickers like a candle in the wind. The eternal flame that sustains my existence feels like it’s dimming, being pulled away, drop by drop through the tear in the veil.

“No,” I whisper, but the word comes out as a wheeze. More ichor spills down my chin, each drop heavy with the weight of obara mmuo bleeding into the mortal plane. I can’t tell if this is part of this realistic vision or if I am actually feeling this way. I’m not supposed to be able to. Something is wrong.

I collapse, my vision tunnelling to black, the last thing I see being my own blood pooling on the sacred ground of the threshold- blood that glows with dying starlight before soaking into the veil itself, staining it with darkness that will never wash clean.

I wake to hushed whispers in the soft luminescence of Ebe Nkasi Mmụọ. My consciousness surfaces slowly, like rising from deep water, and the first thing I notice is voices speaking in low, urgent tones.

 “- the ichor won’t stop flowing. Look at the patterns it makes on the healing stones,” Ọgwụgwọ Ndụ is saying, their voice heavy with concern I’ve never heard from the healer before.

“Divine essence bleeding in the mortal plane,” Nkasị Obi responds, their tone carrying the weight of terrible understanding. “This is beyond our healing arts. This is cosmic wound.”

“How long before other guardians feel it?”

“Some already do. The outer threshold keepers report… disturbances.”

Ọgwugwọ Ndụ turns suddenly, their ethereal senses detecting my awakening consciousness.

Their luminous form brightens as they approach my resting place, while Nkasị Obi discretely withdraws deeper into the chamber’s shadows, their presence fading until only the gentle echo of their concern remains.

“You return to us,” Ọgwụgwọ-Ndụ says, their form shimmering with gentle healing light as they come to my side. “How do you feel?”

“Like something vital has been…. Carved away.” I struggle to sit up, my divine essence still seeping away from the wound. “What happened to me?”

“I don’t quite understand it,” Ọgwụgwọ Ndụ says with a frown. “But Chukwu has summoned you. They probably understand what has happened but won’t say. They wait in their court.” They add.

I press my palms into the bed and heft myself up. I still feel a hollow ache from where my Ọkụ ndụ should flow strong and confusion about the current state of events.

The healer’s expression grows solemn. “Go carefully, Ogbụzọ. And remember…..”

“I know. Never look directly.”

As I leave the sanctuary, I understand with growing dread that I have become the threshold’s bleeding wound- a living bridge through which impossible contradictions flow, draining my divine essence drop by drop into the growing tear in the veil between worlds.

BABY: Hell Hath No Fury

Baby has hurt me one too many times and I need to leave before he kills me. That’s the realization I’m supposed to have come to, like a normal person. But the problem is, I’m a little abnormal. You see; normal people don’t think it’s normal for their spouses to abuse them. They don’t tolerate Baby and certainly won’t appreciate his treatment of me. But I appreciate it. So much so that I’d love same to be replicated unto him. The only problem being that Baby is twice my size. Of course I can’t beat him back. I can’t kill him either. I want him alive. I need him alive. After all, he loves me, just as much as I do him and we deserve each other. But he’ll get what’s coming to him, because I’m also really patient and would make it happen.

When I was in secondary school, JSS2 to be precise, my parents got divorced and this girl who was the child of a family friend started a rumour that my father left us because my mother was a slut having an affair. That was not true. It was a lot more complicated than that. My mother had suffered a miscarriage the year before and both parents, for some reason, just couldn’t move past it, not even for the sake of their living child. But I guess grief does something to you, or whatever it is people say. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true, I was bullied and teased relentlessly for a whole year. No one defended me, not even the teachers. I was left to fight for myself. But patience is and will always be such a wonderful virtue because by SSS2, when her mother died from suicide, I started a rumour that it was because she just couldn’t stand the sight of how ugly her daughter had turned out to be and simply preferred death. It also didn’t matter that it wasn’t the truth. She got bullied relentlessly and then I got reported to the Principal and called a “mean girl”. Which was very annoying because every other person got a chance to start a rumour but as soon as I did, I was branded the devil?

But it’ll never matter what I’m called, because you could never pry vengeance out of my cold, bitter heart. You see, I’m huge advocate for taking matters into your own hands, because people need to understand that actions have consequences. Even the littlest of all. And Baby needs to understand that he can’t treat people like that. He can’t do what he has done to me. See, I used to think that Baby loved me and wouldn’t hurt me and if I just acted right, he wouldn’t have to hit me, because he loved me and hitting me made him incredibly sad. But I did everything right. I did everything he asked and he still did. And that got me thinking. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe Baby is just a violent piece of shit that picks on smaller people. Maybe Baby is just a bully. And we’ve already established that I really hate bullies. Maybe Baby really does love me, in his own twisted way and maybe I still love Baby. None of that matters at the end of the day, He simply needs to pay.

WHOM THE GODS WANT TO DESTROY, THEY FIRST MAKE MAD

Baby has an Ex whom to him, the sun shined out of her lovely pert bottom and had it not been for cruelty of death and life itself, they would have been married and popping out little babies and saved me a lot of stress. Poor dear, dodged a bullet. I’m sure she’s ever grateful to the car that ran her over. Tragic thing, I tell you. Or not. I don’t necessarily care for the details really. However, he has kept her phone and a lot of her personal items and every year on her birthday and death anniversary, he’d lock me out of our room and cry about her. I knew what she looked like, what she smelt like, her favourite food, how she loved to style her hair and most importantly, how Baby would never have looked in my direction, had she lived. I have very intimate details about her and understand that I am third wheeling my own marriage. So, who better to invoke than his missing puzzle piece, Chizara. I need to reunite two lovebirds and no, baby doesn’t need to die. The sweet love of his life just needs to be resurrected. Call me Jesus and call her Lazarus as I am about to perform a miracle.

PHASE 1: MAKE HIM MAD

It is Baby’s office’s Diamond Jubilee celebration and my lovely husband has deigned to bring me along as his plus one. It’s the very first time in our six years of marriage that this has happened and he does not need to know that my golden mind has orchestrated it. Jesus performed his first miracle at a wedding ceremony, watch me perform mine at his company’s anniversary party. And it happens while baby and I are conversing with Kalaria and Clara… Well, baby is doing most of the talking and I’m silent, as always… like the good, dutiful wife that I am. Baby is in the middle of one of his talks, which I already zoned out of, when I hear his breath catch and feel his knuckle dying grip on me slacken. He excuses himself and walks away and I stare after him, watching him follow in the footsteps of some woman.

He returns a few minutes later, frantic and says that we need to go. I don’t argue with him. I never do anyway. We just go home silently.

Tonight, he locks me out of our room and I hear him sob the whole night and call her name and ask why she left him and if she’s haunting him or if she were really the one he had seen at the office party. I’m used to him at the point. So, I sleep on the living room couch, which is just as well because I won’t be able to control the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

***

The past few months have been hell for Baby. He has taken to sleeping in the guest room, crying like a Baby, complaining that he sees her everywhere. According to him, she walks past the living room window at night, while we’re in it. He often points at the window and asks “Can you see that?” and “How can you not see her?” when I inevitably shake my head. Then he runs outside and comes back panicked from having found no one outside.

He’s losing his mind. He’s not sleeping well at night, he’s not feeding properly, he’s losing weight. He swears that he hears her voice and her laugh. And worse, an Instagram account has been activated, with pictures and videos that they had taken together while they were dating uploaded and him getting tagged to them. Not at once, obviously. He frantically texts the person behind the account asking who it is and what they want from him and every time he blocks, they just create a new account and continue.

And the worst of all, he keeps getting calls from unknown numbers, asking to speak with his wife Chizara. The very first time it happened, he had argued with the caller that it couldn’t have been her and the caller had given him an accurate description of what she had looked like to prove that they had indeed met his wife today. He’d had a meltdown at that point, convinced that she was still alive and haunting him for marrying someone else. He kept chanting that he needs to find her and make amends.

The past few months have not been a walk in the park for me either. Baby has gotten more violent and often times left me bleeding severely. I have made several trips to the A&E that the doctor has threatened to have Baby arrested the next time I showed up in such critical state.

PHASE 2: DESTROY HIM

It comes as no surprise that he gets fired from his job. The reason though, is the surprise. Apparently, someone has made a compilation of several videos of him beating me and sent anonymously to his office. While I’d like to take the credit for that, I didn’t do it. Or did I? yes, I might have planted some cameras around the house and yes, I might have copied some of it to a flash drive and given to his ever delightful co-worker, Kalaria, but I didn’t tell her to send it to the office, nor did I tell her to get him fired. I merely wanted someone to have evidence of what he’d done to me.

He comes home early today and does not meet me at home. He’s upset, as he should be. Agitated, as he has a right to be. Furious… and violent. I’d not gone anywhere, really, I just hung around the house, waiting for him. Fully expectant of what is to come, as I already got a call from Kalaria with the heads up that he’s been fired and on his way home, I place a call to her, panicked that he’s home and I didn’t get the chance to leave before he did and beg her to stay on the line.

Like the predictable fool he is, he charges toward me the moment I step through the door. He beats me to the inch of my life and would probably have killed me, had the police not wrestled him off me and dragged him kicking and screaming profanities at me. It’s the first time this has ever happened. Nobody has ever witnessed his affliction of injuries on me. Nor has the police ever been involved. Because like the good wife I am, I have always stayed silent. Well, I guess there’s always that day for the owner of the house.

***

Today, I give testimony in court against my husband. I explain to the court, as I have explained to the Police and Prosecutor, that I didn’t think that my husband tried to kill me from a place of malice and lie through my teeth that he hadn’t always been violent. I explain that my husband has been going insane for the past few months and I have done all that I can to help him. They tender video evidence of not once, not twice, not even five times my husband has had a meltdown from paranoia that his dead ex-girlfriend haunts him.

People from his previous place of work have also testified that he’s usually a reasonable level headed person but hearing that he hit his wife didn’t come as a surprise to them, as he had begun to act strangely in recent times.

You see, as much as I want Baby to suffer, I don’t want him to go to jail. No, that just won’t do.

***

My dearly beloved husband has been deemed clinically insane and sent to get help at a mental institution and he’s forever grateful to me for “protecting” him and not letting them put him in jail. He swears that he’d be a lot kinder to me when he gets out.

…..If he gets out.

I’m going to ensure that he never leaves the four walls of that psychiatric hospital. He’ll never recover because there’s nothing to recover from. I planted tapes around the house that kept playing her voice, I paid someone to wear a hyper-realistic mask of her and follow him around, I randomly sprayed her perfume in the room and sometimes, I  paid people to call him and tell him they wanted to talk to Chizara, I planted cameras around the house to record every psychotic break he had, I created several Instagram accounts and uploaded pictures and videos from when they were together and tagged him to them, even better, I digitally altered some of her pictures to make her look older and posted them on that same account, so that he’d be convinced that she was still alive and living her best life. I orchestrated his descent to insanity and I intend to keep him there. Because nobody ever gets away with doing what he has done to me. 

BABY

Baby would never hurt me, He loves me. Sometimes he does things out of the ordinary, sometimes he lashes out, he yells, he says some mean stuff, and sometimes he beats me. But he never does it from a place of malice. He does that because he loves me. He loves me so much that he does not want me to go astray. He is like the biblical good shepherd who strikes with his rod and comforts with his staff. Yes, it hurts when he does that, but I understand. I can be silly like a child, and sometimes, I do not know better. He does what he needs to do to keep me on the straight and narrow. Because he loves me and wants what is best for me. I feel truly lucky that he deems me fit for his love, attention, correction, and care.

Yesterday, I fell asleep while watching a show on the TV, and I forgot to thaw the chicken in time to make Baby’s dinner. He loves to eat freshly cooked meals all the time and I love to cook for him, I do and I’m not complaining but sometimes, I get tired and I want to rest a little and today, when I came back home late from delivering his freshly cooked lunch to his office because I couldn’t get an uber, I should have started dinner immediately but instead, I chose to engage in nefarious activities such as watching TV. Of course, I would fall asleep doing that. My mind was idle, your mind should never be idle.

Needless to say, Baby is irate when he comes home, and his dinner is not ready. Understandably, so, he works so hard to provide for us. The least I can do is be useful to him. He calls for me from the dining at least three times, wondering why the food is not ready before storming to the kitchen. Seeing me still standing by the gas and stirring the stew must have really infuriated him further and caused him to aim a glass at my head. I weave a little, but it still cuts my eyebrow. I feel the blood drip down the side of my face, and before I can react, he is already beside me. He pulls me by my hair and slaps me across my face so hard that my vision goes black, and for the next 5-10 seconds, little stars dance across my eyes. I feel a sting on my lip by the next slap and taste metal.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out. It hurts, but I understand, I deserve it. Baby should always come home to a freshly cooked meal. Baby should never have to ask for his food. At least he is kind enough to correct me when I have erred. Any other man would go outside to eat. But he comes home to me each night, despite my shortcomings.

He must have seen the cut on my forehead, because, he stops, cups my cheek, and wipes the blood with his thumb. He kisses my forehead and hugs me. I need you to understand that baby would never hurt me on purpose. I know it sounds bad, but I promise it’s not all bad. He got me a gift on his way back from work the next day to apologize. And of course, I had his food ready when he came home.

We do what we can for each other. I understand that he seems a little harsh in his ways, but he does everything from a place of love. He would never hurt me. He does not enjoy hitting me. It hurts him, too, but he does what he can to ensure that our union remains successful.

*****

Her name is Kalaria. I learned this a month ago when I came to drop off Baby’s lunch. She is the new accountant and happens to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Long and slender as gazelle with chocolate brown skin, glazed as a doughnut and two-toned lips, over-lined with a brown lip-liner and coated a gloss. I can’t tell if I want her or want to be her.

You see, here is the thing I don’t get to see her often. Because I don’t know where her office is, and even if I did, what would I tell baby is my reason for being there? He does not like me talking to strangers, and as mesmerized as I am, I don’t want to upset him.

So, I sit opposite Baby in the lunch room and watch him eat. He talks about his day, and I usually listen, but ever since the very first day I saw her, I’ve had difficulty paying attention to him. The thought of her somewhere in the vicinity disrupts my brain chemistry. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, what she’s like, if she’s wondered about me as I have about her, and if the thoughts of me have haunted her as they have me.

Sometimes, she comes to the lunch room while I’m there with Baby. She often comes in with another co-worker, Clara. I know their names because Baby told me that he suspected that something was going on between them, but he can’t be so sure as the office has a no-fraternization policy. I’m curious about that bit of information, and the idea of her with Clara makes me want to throw up. I’m not exactly sure why the idea elicits such a visceral reaction.

Today is my lucky day though, just as Baby is about to finish his food, she walks in with Clara predictably in tow. I must have heaved an audible sigh of relief as Baby looks up from his plate of plantain porridge and follows my gaze, and I might have imagined it but…. His face lights up at the sight of her, or maybe it’s Clara that brightens up his day, I don’t know. Somehow, the idea of him with Clara doesn’t leave me feeling murderous.

But then, he does the unimaginable and calls them over and introduces me to both of them. For once, I wished she could notice that I was tongue-tied, but she would never have guessed because Baby monopolized the conversation. That has never bothered me before, as I never have anything to say to anyone around Baby, but today, my blood boils, and I want him to shut up for once.

I shouldn’t think these thoughts. He is Baby, the only love of my life and the only one who should hear me speak. The only one I should want to listen to. I hate that she elicits confusing thoughts and emotions. I should be happy he is extending our afternoons together by doing this. I should be grateful that he finally deems me worthy to be introduced to his colleagues. That means I’m finally doing everything right.

“So, Urenna, what do you do for a living?” I hear a voice ask and am pulled from my thoughts.

I look up and meet her piercing gaze. I feel like she can see me and read my thoughts. I can’t explain it, but I feel like she really sees me and knows that I want desperately to speak to her.

“Oh! Urenna? She’s in-between jobs,” comes an unsolicited response before I can respond, and I’m, again, irritated by Baby. I don’t understand why and don’t even know what my response would have been, as I’ve never had to answer any of these questions myself. Baby always answers because Baby always knows better. So, why am I upset?

“Oh? What were you doing before now?” she asks, still staring directly at me.

I want to say it feels good to be seen, but am I actually seen, or is it the extension of Baby that is seen?

“She used to work as an accountant,” Baby replies again. And I could have imagined it, but she gives Baby a look of disgust.

I sigh.

“Interesting!” She exclaims. “Where are you currently looking at?” she asks.

“She’s not looking for anything right now,” my spokesperson says.

“Is she mute or something?” Clara asks, and it occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve heard her speak.

“Yes, why do you keep answering on her behalf?” Kalaria asks.

Baby seems taken aback by that question. When he recovers from his surprise, he mumbles something about needing to get back to work.

I take that as my cue and start packing the bag to leave, but Kalaria and Clara asked why I had to leave and couldn’t just stay back to talk to them.

I cast a worried glance at Baby. I want to stay, but I can tell that he’s upset. I don’t want to poke the bear. So, I do what I think is right and say I need to go home anyway.

*****

Tonight, I don’t understand why Baby beat me. He says I embarrassed him in front of his colleagues, and I don’t understand what I did wrong. I thought I did everything right. Could he hear my thoughts and tell that I wanted to talk to Kalaria and even found Clara interesting? Could he tell that I didn’t want to go home and start dinner but rather stay back and talk to them? Can he tell that I don’t feel appreciate his actions and despise him a little? Can he tell that for once, I don’t think this is normal and am afraid for my life?

Baby hurt me. Baby really hurt me and I need to leave before Baby kills me

 

 

 

 

THIS THING CALLED LOSS

So, the last time, I noticed that most people complained that I didn’t add an interpretation to the Igbo language. And I sincerely apologize. The interpretations are written in italics right after the Igbo language is written.

The thing with loss is that either it goes away or it consumes you. And, there’s really no telling how it happens to each person. It breaks the strongest of us and strengthens the weakest of us. None of us can predict how we will handle it, and the worst part is, no matter how much you suffer, you never get used to it. Each time cuts deeper than the last. The longer you live, the more you lose.

The worst part of loss is that life goes on, everybody moves on, seasons change, children become adults, everything changes, but somehow, it feels like you’re stuck in that moment. That point where your life stopped having meaning. Everybody moves on, life moves past you, but you can’t, because you’re stuck on loss.

You’re sitting by the window and watching children chatter as they walk to school. Your Adaora would have been ten this year and would have been walking to school with Mgbeorie’s daughter, Ularinma, since they had both been born the same year, had that terrible accident not happened, that claimed her innocent toddling life.

Every day, you sit at that window, in the morning, rocking on the chair, knitting and humming the tune to whatever melody is stuck in your head. You tortured yourself to the sight of other people’s children growing up, and becoming what your daughter would never be, and every day, you feel that familiar ache in your chest for what you had lost.

You revisit that day and wonder what would have happened had you not crossed the road to deal with a customer, had Adaora not gotten up from the mat you had laid her on to sleep and followed you, without you knowing, had that reckless okada man not chosen that moment to speed past your shop and hit your daughter.

It was six years ago again, the green sienna had packed across the road, and the driver had wound down his glass. “Madam, banana gi, o bu ole ole?” he had asked. Madam, how much do your bananas cost?

“Three three hundred”, you had responded.

“Weta ato” bring three.

You had packaged three bunches of bananas in three different black nylons and packed the three into one big black nylon. “I choro groundnut?” you asked. Do you want groundnuts?

“Mba” no.

You had crossed the road without thinking because Adaora had been asleep the last time you had checked. She lay asleep on the mat inside the store. So, when you crossed, it had not occurred to you that she would have woken up, seen you cross, and followed you. The worst part was that it hadn’t even taken that long. One second, you were crossing the road to give bananas to the driver of the green sienna. The next, the bike had sped past and hit something. The next minute, the pandemonium had broken out, and people split in two, some going after the bike man, others rushing to the gutter where your daughter’s head had hit splat.

When you heard someone ask “Obughi nwa Chinyere bu ihe a?” Isn’t this Chinyere’s child? You had raced into your shop, with your heart in your mouth to check on your sleeping daughter, whom you had been so sure you left asleep. When you found the wrapper she had been sleeping on empty, you had almost gone insane, searching for her in every nuck and cranny of that shop, refusing to believe the possibility that the head that hit that gutter was your child’s.

Mgbeoroie had come into the shop as you searched like a mad woman and hugged you, saying “o zuola” that’s enough. She held you, even as you tried to pull away from her and continue your search, because that could not be your child.

You didn’t hear the noise outside, didn’t hear that they had caught the bike man and beaten him to a pulp because the child had died on the spot. You didn’t even remember if you had collected your money from the driver of the green sienna. All you knew was that you needed to find your child, who was alive and sleeping in the store and had probably rolled under a shelf, and you couldn’t find her. She was definitely not the one outside.

More women trooped into your store and tried to hold you as you fought against Mgbeorie, trying to free yourself from her embrace. Murmurs of “chai!” “Hew!” “Omiko!” flew around the store. You heard somebody saying “jidesie ya ike” hold her tight and another saying “dosa ya, ka o nodu n’ala” make her sit on the floor. You found yourself in a sitting on the floor; you weren’t sure how you got there. Mgbeorie was still holding you, somebody was screaming and crying, you didn’t know whom it was; you tasted a drop of salted water. You heard someone ask “A kpoola Ikedi?” have they contacted Ikedi? And another person say “dosa ya n’ezi” keep it outside.

You didn’t understand what was going on. It took you beginning to cough violently for you to realize that the screaming and shouting was coming from you, the salt water on your tongue were your tears, you were sitting on the floor, fidgeting and crying because your child was the ‘it’ they had left outside. Somebody handed you a sachet of water, which you gulped as if you had been stuck in a desert for some time and just suddenly found water.

Ikedi, your husband, arrived shortly after that. From the look of anguish on his face, you could tell that he had already heard the news. You felt a bit of relief because you didn’t have to hear someone pronounce your worst fears, even if it was to your husband. He quietly picked up your child, who had been wrapped with somebody’s wrapper. You didn’t know who had given up her wrapper to cover your child, but you were grateful to them. He cradled the child and turned to you, where you sat on the floor. Mgbeorie helped you up, dusted your back, and held you. The other women helped you carry your goods into your shop and lock up. Silently, you walked home with your hands on your head, Mgbeorie supporting you and Ikedi carrying your child.

Ikedi had broken down and bawled when the crowd had dispersed, and it was just you and him remaining. He had cried so much, his shoulders quaked, and he coughed so hard you worried that he would choke and die. As for you, you just sat there and stared into space, tears rolling down your cheeks.

That day was a day of firsts. It was the first time you had ever seen Ikedi cry, and the first time he had gotten drunk, the first crack in your marriage to Ikedi. He left the house that evening after burying your child in a small carton at the backyard and came back at midnight, drunk and reeking of palm-wine. You said nothing to each other, he went to sleep, while you lay in the darkness and wondered all the ways you could have prevented your child from dying and how you can go on with your life now that the light has been snuffed out.

Your mother and Mgbeorie had gotten you through that time, while palm-wine had gotten Ikedi through it, but sometimes, broken things can not be mended. Even after your mourning period had ended, you could not stop seeing Ikedi with your child covered in somebody’s wrapper. It made it difficult to move past the event and heal as a family, and it didn’t help that you suspected that Ikedi secretly blamed you for Adaora’s death. Which was fair because you blamed yourself too. If you hadn’t crossed that road, your child wouldn’t have seen you and followed.

Your marriage to Ikedi officially ended two years later. When you felt betrayed that Ikedi had stopped grieving your daughter’s death. You looked at him with disgust when he suggested that you try for another child. You took to sleeping in Adaora’s tiny bed over the comfortable bed you shared with Ikedi. Everything he did upset you, everything hurt. You raged at the ability of the world to continue spinning when yours had come to a standstill. The Audacity that Ikedi had to try to move on from your child and even suggest her replacement. He would try to make you happy, and you would throw in his face how your child could never see you happy again and vice versa because she was dead. He would try to take you out, and it was the same. You sneered in his face when he suggested therapy.

Ikedi left when he could no longer bear the agony of you constantly reminding him of Adaora’s death. It was no surprise to you, as you had become exceptionally insufferable. You preferred him gone, and the last you heard of him, he had finally relocated to Togo.

Six years down the line, you still haven’t moved on. Some days are easy, you wake up and go about your say with the thoughts of your child at the back of your mind and on the harder days, you draw your curtains closed and sleep in the dark.

Time has moved on for everybody, but you haven’t noticed because you’re still stuck on that awful day. The day your world stopped spinning. Some people sympathize with your loss and how you’ve been unable to move past it. Other people wonder why you just won’t move on. But none of it matters because on your best days, you see your Adaora, bright-eyed and alive, following you around and chattering incessantly in her little toddler tongue. On your best days, she is here.

AKU… JUST AKU

Aku, Akuabata, Akunna ya, Obiageliaku, Akuchinyere.

Certain events are deemed memorable. The birth of a child, for example. The day I was born, Chiemeka threw a feast; he killed a goat and invited all his friends to enjoy isiewu, nkwobi, and goat meat pepper soup. They say he had celebrated as though Uzoamaka had just borne him a son and not a daughter. But, he was just happy to have fathered a child. You see, my parents had me after twenty-five years of marriage, without even so much as a miscarried conception. My conception came as a surprise to them, being that my father, Chiemeka was 55 and my mother, Uzoamaka was 52. They had practically given up all hopes of having a child when I came along. So, my father named me Aku.

My childhood had been the best I could ask for, with my parents doting on me. I had everything I asked for and even had things I didn’t know I could ask for. People complained that my parents spoilt me, but they didn’t quite understand what it had been like for my parents all those years before me. Especially my mother, who had been the butt of the jokes, she’d been mocked, called a man, and audibly heard my father’s friends and relatives advised him to take a second wife, on more than one occasion. She’d also sometimes been advised to marry a wife for my father, which she would have agreed to, had my father not vehemently disagreed.

I got used to Mama’s animosity towards Papa’s side of the family because of how she had been treated before I came. She never forgave them for all the names she’d been called. She had borne the brunt of their cruelty because they just didn’t understand why Papa had refused to take a second wife and therefore concluded that she was a witch. Several times, they’d tried to throw her out, had called “Prophets” who confirmed that she was a witch and had caused my father to be sterile. They had invited said “Prophets” to exorcise her and funnily enough, she would have gone along, had Papa not chased them away with a machete. Papa told them to leave her alone, severally and when they refused, he banned them from visiting and never travelled to the village again. Not for weddings, not for funerals, not for naming ceremonies, not for village meetings. If they were not going to respect his wife, he had no reason to respect them.

But after I was born, things changed. We started traveling back to the village again, attending events again and Papa’s family members were even allowed to visit again because Papa wanted me to know my relatives. Although, all my cousins were grownups whom I had to call Auntie and Brother and I played with my cousin’s children, who did not understand why my parents were so old. They were some really good times.

Papa took me everywhere in his car, I was his little passenger princess. We attended every event together, including traditional ceremonies and if women/children were not allowed there, then Papa didn’t want to be there. I was Akunnaya to him and even my most mundane accomplishments filled him with so much joy and pride. He packed a bus filled with people for my convocation, despite me not being the best graduating student. To him, my existence was accomplishment enough and even if I’d gone on to live the most boring, mediocre life, the mere fact that I existed was enough for him. I was Papa’s joy and pride, his wealth.

Aku, Akudiya, Oriaku, Odoziaku, Akuerika.

Papa died thirty years later, just five years after he had given me away, in marriage to Obiajulu. The grief was unbearable, particularly for Mama who had been married to him for fifty-five years of her life. She found it difficult to live without him and died six months after, leaving me, alone…. With Obiajulu. The grief had almost killed me too and it might have, had Obiajulu not been there through those difficult times.

For the first time in my life, I was without both of my parents and within a short period, I had to learn to live without them. I felt like a fish, fresh out of the water, flailing around and trying to survive. I had responsibilities and the only child, to bury both of them, I had customary rites to perform, it was an all-around difficult time for me. But I was thankful that I had Obiajulu because it could always be worse. I could be going through that all alone. He was very kind and supportive and helped in every way that he could.

Our marriage survived ten more years, in which Obiajulu’s mother died, we welcomed a child, who died, and Obiajulu decided to go from Obim to Obiora and spread his seeds across numerous women, which led to its death.

Aku…. Just Aku

The end of my marriage to Obiajulu put me through another phase where I had to learn again. This time, how to live without a partner I’d spent 15 years of my life with. And this was the first time, I was ever truly alone. When I’d lost my parents, I had Obiajulu to help me through, when we had lost our child, I also had Obiajulu. He had been there for me through all my difficult stages in life and losing him felt like I’d lost a part of myself. It was like losing a best friend, which in a sense, he had been my best friend. I didn’t know or have anyone else.

For the first time in my life, I was truly alone and it was very difficult. I was learning how to be neither Akunnaya nor Akudiya. It was learning to just Aku. And Just Aku had never had the chance to grow. I had been so dependent on my Parents that I had never felt the need to be Just Aku. I had always felt the pride of being Akunnaya. Doing everything to make Papa as happy as he made me so that he could continue to be proud of me. But I realize now that with the way Papa had loved me, it was not humanly possible for me to have erred in a way he could never forgive. He would have forgiven me of every sin, he’d have made excuses for my bad behavior (did I have any), and he’d have made compromises for my most unreasonable demands. Because in his eyes, I’d just always have been his Aku. I’m also glad that I never caused him pain though and I remained the easiest child to raise because I don’t know that I’d feel pride knowing that I stressed my aged parents. So, yes, I never went through teenage rebellion, I never needed to, there was love and understanding at home.

The situation with Obiajulu wasn’t any different, being that I had come into it, fully expecting to be treated the way Papa had treated Mama, and to be fair, it was good, it was almost perfect until it wasn’t. And looking at it now, I don’t fault him for his choices. I may not have liked them but without them, I won’t have felt the need to want to find myself and grow. Of course, we’re no longer in each other’s lives, as we don’t have a reason to be, but he’s someone I’ll always remember fondly and be thankful to for helping me through what could have been the end of me.

I’m looking forward to this new phase in my life. This phase is where I’m Just Aku and learning all the ways to be happy and content with being Just Aku.

The Ramblings of an unsound mind

Sometime last year, an acquaintance of mine passed. I remember reading his last tweets, I remember the last tweet, remember the subsequent tweets afterward from his brother, about finding him unconscious due to carbon monoxide poisoning, I remember the updates on his condition and I remember the day his brother announced that he passed.

I remember how I felt when I read the news. How I’d thought at the time “Please tell me this is a joke” but on the other hand, I’d also thought “I’m so glad he’s finally found some peace, he was so unhappy and I hope he’s happy now” and I remember how a part of me felt envious of him, for having the courage to do what I’ve struggled to do.

Sometimes, I lurk around his page. It’s dormant now, for obvious reasons and I find myself wondering about him. I hope he’s found peace. I wonder about the afterlife. I wonder if he’s happy in the afterlife if it’s just an extension of existence and therefore a continuation of it. I wish I could speak to him, probably through a seance, and ask all the questions I’ve been burning to ask. How does dying feel? Does your brain understand what is happening to it? Does your life actually flash before your eyes?

I read somewhere that the reason your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying is because your brain is trying to save you. The logic is that when something happens to you for the first time, your brain records it, and the next time you find yourself in that situation, those instincts of self-preservation kick in, so you can find a way to save yourself. So, when you’re dying, your brain recognizes that you’re in danger and searches through your memories for a similar situation you’ve been in, to save yourself, but because you’ve never died before, it doesn’t find anything worthwhile. I’m still not sure how I feel about this information. I guess it’s one of these things that I just know. I’m not sure how true it is, but, guess it makes sense to me.

I wonder about myself, how I’d die. If I’d ever succumb to that constant urge to delete my existence. Sometimes, it’s so compulsive that I wonder if I’ll make it through the night. I wonder if there’s a name for this. I wonder if there’s a treatment for it. I wonder if I’d find meaning in life and not constantly think about ways to die if I were a happier person. I wonder if it’s my fault that I’m so unhappy and if there’s anything I could do to become a happier person and probably be grateful for this extremely unnecessary existence that I have been saddled with, without my consent. This is the reason I never want to have children. I never want to torture them to this meaningless misery.

I really don’t like it here but I continue to participate in it because I’m too much of a coward to actually do something about it and no, this isn’t a cry for help. I don’t need help. Unless the help is in assisting in my demise. Other than that, I’d prefer to be left alone.

I truly hate it here. I should never have been born and as much as I love my parent, it’s hard not to resent them for bringing me here.

The idea of an afterlife seems to me like a cruel joke. I don’t even want to exist in this life, what in the world makes you believe I’d want an eternal afterlife? If I died today and woke up elsewhere, I’d be so pissed off. Once is enough. No afterlife, no reincarnation, and most definitely, no legacies. No, I don’t want to live on in people’s minds either. My existence is a mistake and my continuous existence is a cruel joke that stopped being funny eons ago. I’m so tired of being so… miserable and I want an end to it. But unfortunately, my cowardice takes dominance.

Again, this is not a cry for help, so, please try not to contact me, if for some reason you happen to see this, which I hope you don’t. I just needed to rant. That’s all.

Love, me.

Dear You,

It’s been 3 months and 26 days since our last talk. Yes, I counted. Because at night, when I find myself lying awake and longing to get lost in the mindless abyss that sleep brings, while I lie awake listening to the numbing sound of silence, my mind chooses to play cruel tricks on me. It tortures me to memories of you. Once, seeing you in my dreams left me dizzy with joy but now the thought of it fills me with a sense of dread. You haunt my dreams and waking thoughts. It’s been a scary few months without you, however, I also understand that it was for the better.

You see, I’m not one to badmouth a person just because we’re over, and believe me, this is not me saying our time was so horrible, it’ll be a traumatizing experience reliving them. Far from that. This is me admitting that it was so good that the memories of what we had caused me physical pain. It’s not your fault that everything I touch turns to sand, and it’s not your fault I wreck everything.

And it’s not your fault I wish we’d never met, but yes I do. You didn’t deserve your innocence and genuinity tainted and god’s honest truth, I wish you joy and happiness, I wish you the best and I wish you never meet me again. And it’s not that I’m a bad person, it’s that as much as you’d hate to admit it, I’m bad for you. I’m terrible for you. I’m like a drug, intoxicating and addictive but horrible for your health. Surely, you were going to realize that at one point. That I’m flighty and unstable as waters, that I’m unpredictable and a little too wild. I’m like the thrashing waves that knock boats into jagged rocks and capsizes ships into your calm waters.

And I know you’d be rolling your eyes and saying that my spontaneity and fire drew you to me but remember, my love, that fire burns and I hope you didn’t get seared by my intensity. I knew what you wanted from me and that’s why I wish we’d never met. My inability to be what you need is what has brought us this misery. But then, I guess misery loves company because as evil as it sounds, it brings me comfort knowing that you’re just as maimed as I am.

I hope you find happiness but is it so terrible that I wish it isn’t the same as the one you felt with me? Is it so terrible that as much as I wish you happiness, I’m also afraid of you finding happiness without me or worse, being happier than you were with me and realizing that I was probably dead weight, that brought you down to your knees? Is it so terrible that although I know how bad I am for you, I also wish that I’m the only chance at happiness that you have? That I hope you continue to find me in a thousand different faces, till you realize that I’m all you’ll ever need. I shouldn’t say that. I’m sorry. I wish you happiness.

What makes this worse is the understanding that you’re a phone call away and on nights like this, when I find myself thinking of you, I could just reach out. You’d never be too busy for me. Never too angry to answer when I call. It’s having this understanding but also knowing that I couldn’t possibly do that to you. it’s knowing that nothing is going to change and that I’m still not going to be the person you think I am or could become. And there’s nothing more wicked than keeping someone with you, knowing that they deserve better.

Sometimes, I have nightmares that we’d stayed together and you’d grown to resent me for all the reasons you’d sworn to love me for. I wake up in a cold sweat and as much as I feel relief that it was just a dream, I also sob uncontrollably because you’re not here to reassure me. And I guess I don’t have an answer to the question “would you do it all over again if you could?” I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to resist the oh so sweet enticement of falling into and for you. I don’t know that I’d resist the seduction of that heady feeling I had the whole time I was with you. I don’t know that I’d be selfless enough to not want to set your whole world ablaze.

And I guess I’d never forget you. As much as the memories of you feel like weapons fashioned against me and the thought of you would be the ghost that haunts my dreams and waking thoughts, I also do not wish I could forget you. You’re once in a thousand lifetimes, so I’d take the misery over nothing. I don’t miss who I was before you, because I don’t remember. All my memories, even those before you, have become so tainted that it’s hard to imagine that I was ever without you. I wish we’d never met but I also don’t regret you. So, I guess this is where I am now… conflicted.

I’m sorry, I’m rambling but you’ve always known that I don’t know how to coordinate my thoughts. I just wanted to check in on you in the only non-intrusive way that I could. I want to know how you’re doing. If you’re happy, please do not respond to this. I guess the fact that I hope you respond makes me a horrible fool.

Love, me.

SUB ROSA

Staring out the window, into the night, lit up by the dim, almost romantic street lights, watching the nightlife from the top of my tower where I’ve chosen to be locked up, although not in penance. The floor-to-ceiling window is my favourite place to be in; it gives me the perfect view of the outside world and a tiny reflection of the inside. And right now, while it looks like I’m observing the outside, watching the hustle and bustle of the nightlife in our city that never sleeps, while it seems like I care about what’s going on outside, I don’t. I’m actually staring at the reflection of the silhouette of my lover, who is sprawled on the bed, wrapped up in the silk sheets. She’s sound asleep and I know I should be too, but I can’t. And who can blame me? We have limited time together and the little moments we steal for ourselves are my favourite. 

Tomorrow, we’ll be back with our various partners, we’ll pretend that this isn’t happening, that we’re best friends and not madly in love. I guess in a sense, she is my best friend since she’s the only one I tell everyone and she gets to see certain parts of me that even my partner doesn’t see. It kills me that we’re both married, and to people that we’re not particularly attracted to. And I know it’s unfair to them but we did what we had to do. When you’re a queer couple in a country where your existence is criminalised, it doesn’t particularly leave you with numerous choices. 

We met at my sister’s wedding reception, about three years after mine, her partner was one of the groomsmen. The way she looked that day remains a constant memory in my head. I’d seen her by the bar and I would have said that she was the most beautiful but that’s a line that has been used one too many times. I had just stood there and stared and for the first few seconds, I had no particular train of thought; the woman was too stunned to think, and over the years, I find that she still makes me feel that way. She has me smitten and sometimes, I find myself just staring at her wondering how I’d gotten so lucky. She looks at me and winks as she did at the wedding when she noticed me staring. And it still has the same effects on me. It sends tingles down my toes, leaving me giddy with excitement and blushing like a schoolgirl. She makes me feel like a girl and not a woman.

I sigh and walk back to the bed and lie down next to her, I still can’t fall asleep, so I stare up at the mirror over the bed and take in the moment. The curve of her small body, covered in nothing but the silk sheet that she sleeps under. I often wonder what would happen when we get caught, how much longer it’ll take, and how no one has found out by now. I mean, we’ve not exactly been as discreet as we’d like to believe that we are. It worries me even more that our various partners already know but are just biding their time. 

I trail a finger down her face and she stirs a little. She smiles and says “go to sleep, creepy”.

I close my eyes and images of her flash through as I try to sleep. Her smile as she says “you’re so full of shit” when I say something she doesn’t believe. And as I drift off to sleep, I hear her whisper “I love you”. I thought she was asleep. Who’s the creepy one now?

THE PERFECT HUMAN MASK

The Perfect Human Mask

Although I have perfected the human mask, certain situations come up where I’m at a loss on what the appropriate human reaction should be and thus show my ‘inadequacies’, I’m not particularly sure why they’re called that. Well, I do, I have become quite familiar with how the human mind works and I may not understand certain things but I understand that they believe me to be lacking because I cannot feel certain emotions. So, throughout my life, from my various interactions with people, I’ve been able to learn what reactions would be deemed appropriate by people in certain situations. I have come to understand why they feel those things, even though I don’t have the capacity to feel these things, I have also learned to put out the most convincing performances to make them believe that I understand, feel and process emotions like the people tagged ‘normal’ would.

Once, I had this neighbour whose mother was severely ill and since I worked from home, she wanted me to watch her children so that she could take her mother to the hospital. Her children were a five-year-old and a three-year-old that I referred to as jabbering monkeys. They were really noisy and hopped from couch to table and swung from chandelier to chandelier. I didn’t want to be saddled with such responsibilities and although I knew the reason she couldn’t take them with her and that she couldn’t afford a babysitter to watch them, I still refused. She spent almost an hour begging me and although I knew that at one point, I was supposed to concede, I didn’t. Because I do not like noisy children and I didn’t want her to feel like she’d won. I don’t know how she solved the problem at the end of the day, she never spoke to me again after that and then her mother died, so they had to move. When I told my then-partner what had happened, they had asked what was wrong with me and I genuinely did not understand why they felt that there was something wrong with that. I didn’t want to take those children in, so I didn’t. Needless to say, things got rocky between my partner and me after that incident, they told me that they’d been longing to tell me for a while that it bothered them that I was emotionless. We broke up shortly after that.

Then I met Lara, our relationship was more platonic than romantic. We tried dating but she said that she felt like my emotions were a mask and preferred her partners to be more vulnerable. But we remained friends and with her, I perfected my act. I learned the appropriate reactions to different situations. I knew how to react so much so that I could cry on cue. And that… that was the perfect mask. I weaponized it at the slightest inconvenience and who doesn’t love a damsel in distress? Even when I was the perpetrator, I cried and the fact that I’m a little person made everyone immediately believe that I was being bullied.

However, that didn’t keep me interested long enough. I had gotten bored of my antics and moved on to more exciting things; like figuring out what made people react the way they do. It’s not so much that I felt inadequate, it’s that I was genuinely intrigued. I found it interesting and as much as I hate to admit this, I found myself longing to feel those things that they feel. And So I watched them closely, their mannerism, their behaviours, the way it was so easy to cultivate relationships and I wanted to feel that. I wanted to feel something other than indifference.

So, I got close to Edozie, he was a homeless man who lived under the bridge. It wasn’t out of sympathy or altruism, really. He was more of a pet project to help me feel something. I gave him shelter and food and he seemed happy enough. He wasn’t much of a talker and generally stayed out of my way when he didn’t have much to do. He had told me his gruesome life story and I’d listened and even cried at the end but it was all an act. I was indifferent for the most part but I realised that he’d realise something was wrong if I just stared blankly at him the whole time. But that wasn’t enough. I wanted more, it wasn’t enough to test how good I’d gotten at reproducing these emotions on cue. I wanted to feel something and so I did what everyone in my shoes would do. I drugged Edozie and chained him to my basement. When he woke up, you had to see the look on his face. The progression from confusion to realisation, anger, and then fear. It was beautiful to watch. I must admit, the sound of him begging for his life was irritating and counterproductive as it motivated me to kill him rather than let him go. But there was a thrill that came with having that much power. For the first time, I felt excited. But like all good things, it had to come to an end. I bashed his head in and that was the end. To be fair, he served his purpose. He gave me excitement and for that, I remain eternally thankful. He also made me understand that I can continue to feel excited. It didn’t have to be a one-off.

After Edozie, I had other pets, they were usually homeless people. I was doing them a favour anyway. I gave them food, shelter, and clothing for the small price of my own excitement. I made their last days happy for them and I just know that they died grateful to me. Ah! The things I do for humanity. And I stopped after about ten tries anyway. Connecting with them became a bore, reacting to their sob stories became repetitive, and killing them became like a chore. I was back to being bored and in search of excitement. Nobody cared about them and nobody looked for them after they died. When you think about it, I was the only one who cared about them enough to take care of them and kill them. 

At this point, it was getting depressing just how bored I was. I just needed that kick and nothing was doing it for me.  I even attempted a romantic relationship again and as much as he kept complimenting me and loved how mature and understanding I was and how supportive I was, it bored me. Excessively. All those years I spent perfecting my mask came in handy but I was still very bored. So, I slept with his brother and cried when I got “caught” and begged him to take me back. I felt relief when he broke up with me but I did not feel the excitement that I thought I’d feel from the ordeal. But I guess that’s what I get for insulting my intelligence by planning something that unchallenging. His finding us and crying and giving that long cringeworthy monologue about the betrayal he felt from the two people he loved the most hurting him was very anti-climatic. I was just irritated. 

I needed to plan something big. Something so huge that it might even kill me. I didn’t care if I died trying at this point because the boredom was making me lose my mind. And that evening, while watching the tv, I got a brilliant idea from one of the shows. I mean, the main character was dumb and overall the show was not interesting but I had a better idea of how to handle the situation. And that was just what I did the next day.

I hijacked a school bus filled with children the next day. Is it the best idea that I’ve had? No, but do I like it regardless? Yes, yes I do. I love this idea so much. 

Anyways, here I am, in a bus loaded with children, holding a lighter, having already poured gasoline on them and on myself. I told you I’ll die trying. The children had so much fear in their eyes, some of them cried and the others either held each other or clutched their backpacks in fear. And for once, I wish I could paint; the picture of them, filled with so much fear, clutching each other, screaming, and crying in terror, makes a beautiful souvenir for their parents who stood outside, crying alongside them. Normally I’m not moved by tears but today… today I am. I am genuinely moved to laugh. And I do. I laugh so hard my stomach begins to hurt and tears begin to roll down my eyes. 

This particular mom came and stood by the bus, she held her son’s hand through the window and tried to reassure him that the ‘good guys’ were on the way to save him. You fool, if only you didn’t insist on bars on the bus windows. If you don’t get away, I’ll set you on fire too. Some other moms thought she had a brilliant idea and came and joined her. The image just made me double over in guffaws. I cannot believe how stupid emotions make human beings. 

Anyways, it was beginning to play out for way too long and I was getting bored. So, I did all of us a favour and put us out of our misery. I smiled as I lit the lighter and threw it on the floor and scene. 

THE FLUKE

I’m not a writer, I’m just a fluke.

You know how people find out that you kind of have a flair for something and then they advise you to monetize it, well, that’s kind of the situation I’ve recently found myself in. I wrote a couple of pieces, they turned out great or just okay, because now I’m not so sure anymore, all I know is that one minute I was writing little pieces and posting on my blog, sending out links to my loyal supporters and the next I was sitting before my laptop, staring at the blank page because I just couldn’t figure out what to write. 

Maybe that’s the thing with having loyal friends, they just support you, regardless of how unattainable your dreams may seem and hype you up, regardless of how subpar you may actually be. You see, I always thought that to be a writer, you had to have an idea and worry about execution, or not, just go with the flow and it’ll come to you but when it seems like your livelihood depends on it, you can’t just go with the flow anymore, what worked before doesn’t work anymore, you have to make sure you get everything right and then everything becomes a problem from there on out. 

Now, I’m staring at the same blank screen I’ve been staring at since the beginning of the week, on some days, I manage to write the title, on other days, I just wipe the already written title and stare into space. It doesn’t help that I have the attention span of a goldfish and everything suddenly seems interesting once it’s time to work. 

I close my system and go back to my bed; I lie down and count ceilings for a while. I think of how miserable the last few days have made me, how something that used to bring me so much joy has turned into the source of endless sorrows and anxiety, how my happy place is fast becoming a lot less of that and the thing that used to help me unwind is beginning to suffocate me and I now need to step away from it and just breath. How I suddenly don’t feel happy anymore or comfortable really, with something that used to bring me such innermost peace and how whoever invented working under pressure must have been going through a serious self-loathing phase and had therefore wanted others to feel the same way. 

When it was just me, writing as I pleased, on what I felt like writing and posting when I felt up to it, things were a lot easier, it always gave me some sense of control even in turbulence. Now, having to sub-serve the only part of my life that I presided over made me feel unsafe. There was pressure from having to put out something different from what I’m used to and comfortable with, pressure to impress people I don’t know and who most probably don’t care about my existence and would just carry on with their lives with or without the presence or existence rather, of my piece. And truth be told, all that pressure was beginning to get to me. For at least the first few days of the week, I’d felt a sense of loss in my self-worth, I’d felt really down because as hard as I tried, I just couldn’t come up with anything and the approaching deadline was beginning to feel like a noose around my neck. This newfound reality was fast driving me insane.

So, I go back to my window seat and pick up my laptop, I type a detailed email to the publication, rambling on and on about why I couldn’t take their offer, I hit send, walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of milk, walk back to my window seat and let my creative juices flow.