So I finally decided people do not have a clue on how to sympathize with those grieving
They turn up to you asking the silliest questions, making stupid statements, so they, not you, can feel better when leaving.
“Are people still saying bad things to you?” “Do you feel better now?” “Are you okay?”
As if that is not bad enough, they go “Time heals everything” “People never appreciate no matter what” “You’ll understand this is all in God’s plan, someday”
Man, y’all suck a dick! Don’t give me your bullshit I-was-only-trying-to-sympathize-with-you face when I give a rude comeback.
I didn’t plan on having any of these. I’m okay. I’m not bothered about things getting better. I want my old quiet life back. I didn’t plan on losing it. I didn’t plan that.
PS: There’s an unwritten rule of people stopping the sympathy and show of affection after 3 days. That’s how it be. That’s when they stop the back pats at night and the sorry stares, and “Guy howfar na?” is the returned greeting they have. That’s when their conscience becomes guilt-free when they pass by, snubbing you. That’s when…
I no longer like reading novels. They bring so much expectations of life. Make you believe in so much, the make-believe might kill you. And worst off is the emptiness you feel, the blankness of everything called life the moment you finish a book and are forced to return to your dull stale existence.
And apparently it has become a tradition for students of my school – not just girls, but also their male counterparts – to wait outside the hostels and scream in mock and admiration and a whole lot of mixed feelings in a bid to appreciate the dresses and dinner attires of the beautifully sculpted students as they stride to the venue of the occasion. What pure joy seems to cover the face of a student when they walk past and hear screams from fellow students complimenting their sense of fashion. This happens once a year – towards the middle of a 52 week calendar. And I don’t refer to April fool’s day. Oh the mockery. The stupidity of our human ego has a zing often confused to be the same as the ego, called pride. It’s all so beautiful, so pleasing to the eyes, so wonderful. How boys stretch-forth-arm-hold their dates and walk to the venue of the event like it is their last walk on this surface. Only to be disappointed and find out their dinner is going to be carried out without tables or without the celebrity they thought had been invited.
The way to Mararaba is a busy one. Nasarawa State is an irony of itself. A state where names are called different from how they’re spelt, and the names you see on signposts don’t correlate to the area you’re in. Like how you walk through Masaka and see signposts showing you Karu. Lol
So this is me, a minute, small, little, insignificant, infinitesimal part of the busy road; everybody thrilling in their own manner.
Me on the public transport bus – araba as called by Abuja people, Molue as called by Lagos people, and Bus as called by the dry Benue people – everybody seems to be enjoying the trauma of suffering. I can see the two women in front of me chatter away about women gossip. A lady just boarded the bus, and is greeting everybody like they are her family members. The man behind me is shouting over his voice in a bid to have a conversation with the driver. The discussion of fuel scarcity comes up. It seems to rouse up everybody’s attention. Even the sun looks happy today, it’s been giving out so much heat – probably because it wants to be cool. I feel grossly non-Nigerian at this stage, because I’m embarrassed I’m uncomfortable when everyone else seems to be thriving.
Me down from the bus. Everybody is carrying out activities as normal. I see a sugar cane seller push his wheel barrow past me, women are seated selling oranges. There’s a fuel station near by, but everybody is buying fuel from a young man’s keg outside the station. Oh, the irony called Nigeria. I’m particularly drawn to this man’s enthusiasm as he passes screaming at the top of his voice, “yogo, yogo. Buy yo yogo”. He apparently is selling yoghurt, I presume. Hausa men are thrilling. I see a young man seated so calmly, almost like he’s molded. His shirt bears “versage”. That must be the newest Versace branch. Children run about in their torn panties with their protruding bellies pouring out. I see a mother whipping her daughter without mercy. Two men are about to fight. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn. I see no one. I hit a stone. I feel sorry for it. The sun gets hotter. Why does it look like I’m the only one feeling the heat? I see a pair of sandals I’m particularly attracted to. I get it of course for a meagre sum. Northerners seem to not care a lot about money. Many guys surround me trying to convince me to purchase their wares. Nigeria is full of entrepreneurs. I get thirsty. I buy a sachet of water, because I doubt anybody drinks bottled water in this part. I acquire what I got to town for. Now to return to my boring school without real life, just fine girls. About fine girls, I see one walk past. She seems to be unaware of how pretty she is.
Me going back to school. I get on a cab, I do not aspire to perspire in a public transport bus like I did when coming. I’m ashamed of my non patriotism. The journey back to school is uneventful. I miss the thrill of the bus. I get to my school gate. Haaaaan. I can’t wait to graduate.
“Shh!” that’s the sound they expect us all to hear in our heads to the silence that we’ve conjured from all the screams of nothings we’ve been making. We’ve all for so long been really fighting hard to make word plays, our words are no longer serious enough to mean anything meaningful. We’ve all been bent to think this – everything we see everyday and have been forced to live with – is normal.
“Puberty is just a phase. Adolescence is an age range right?”At age 10, it’s normal if we watch porn as long as our parents don’t catch us. At age 12 we should have had our first kiss or we really are not doing things the way they’re done now. At age 14, fashion should so rule our life and world and nothing should seem more appealing than that new shoe or that hairstyle that is trending. And we’re made to believe it’s normal this is the period you should grow pimples and have X-ray vision being able to picture a girl naked yet she being dressed with a whole armour.
This is normal right? Why should we complain?
Bent have our minds been, shape shifted to fit in a small box they now call your cranium and force you to think within.
“People do these things” It’s normal for every teenager to be addicted to their phone more than to actually living. And being sad is a phase of life every ‘smart?’ person goes through. It’s perfectly fine, in fact, it’s encouraged for every youth to limit their thought processes to just things they understand and just things they should think of, like being presentable to the opposite sex, and being present with the opposite sex, and being a present to the opposite sex, and not wanting the opposite sex anymore, but practicing opposite sex. This is the 21st century, and anything goes. Anything but our stupidity. Our stupidity stays. So many a time, people that even want to bend out of being bent, and become straight and not be gay like everyone else and not be ordinary, end up being ordinary in their extraordinary aspirations.
And if your brain has not tired out at this point, and you’ve actually read to this part of this write up, they’ll tell you it’s all gibberish. “Give it no thought. It’s just a troubled mind blabbing at past midnight.” But that’s not not expected. They want you to be just like the rest. They’ve even put voices in your head. You’re using one of the voices to read this now. But by all means, play your part. We, humans, have found a means to survive through the ages and places. It’s called adaptation. So I will not blame you if you close this page at the end of this having nothing stirred up within your emptiness. You too, want to survive. They’ll find a way to end you before you renegade. But we should all live within our means. Life is too short to make it shorter. You can’t escape from yourself, so hide behind it. Hide behind it and just shh!
Loving is an essentiality of existence. It is a part of survival in this loveless life. You need to love people to make it through every day being able to stare at their faces. You need to love life so much to have nightmares yet letting yourself go each time the sleep beckons. You need to love your family, your education, your religion. But this one most important necessity that should most be loved, yet many people sacrifice to love others; you need to love yourself. You shouldn’t love anything more. Look yourself in the mirror and appreciate you. Tell yourself how good of a person you are; how awesome your personality is. It isn’t pride if it is true. Don’t in a bid to being humble, deny yourself of your right to loving yourself as much as that person that wants you to bend and change to their own standards, love themselves. Love you. This is a public service announcement. ✊✊
I toss and turn on my bed. My stomach feels like a trained WBC champion boxer keeps hitting from within. I clench my eyes shut because somehow the pain feels less that way. I have still not found a correct position to lay without feeling like the pain would soon end my life. My roommates make jest and mock, “The almighty Ameh that claims to never be sick, can’t stand up now”. I reserve my comments in spite. They’re not worth my worded combat – not like I can afford it right now. My lower right stomach-part feels like a wall made of cement that has been punched flat to a slice of paper. My heart rate is fine and I wonder why. I sweat profusely and I try to understand why my body still wastes energy in producing sweat when its only concern right now should be saving me from this pain. I sit up. It feels better like this but my back hurts like hell. I walk out, barely being able to move. I vomit all I had last night. It’s 3am now. All my roommates are asleep. “Why can’t I just sleep too and have a temporal rest from all this hurt?” I lie down hoping to find sleep. The subsided pain increases like the price of fuel and my white blood cells are obviously like the president – away to another country. My mind is calm. I usually have a billion things racing through my head, but this pain has crippled my thoughts. I think about all the times I was fine, and wish I could have made better use of those times. My head starts spinning. I feel the urge to vomit again. I gently walk out and empty my stomach of the nothing in it. I feel a tad better. My eyes are shutting now. It must be sleep. I concentrate on enjoying the peace.
Next. I’m awake. I see many people gathered. All of them weeping. I meet someone and ask him what’s happening. He keeps weeping. I try to tap him and my hand goes right through. I remember I’m smart. I am at my funeral. This is funny though it’s not. My mother is gruesomely rolling on the ground weeping. Now it’s not funny. My dad tries hard to not cry, yet I see the tears roll from his eyes. My brothers are all pale. They still do not want to believe I’m dead. Someone I barely recognize talks about how I used to write on dying, or on being sick. “Sickness is not poetic” she says through the tears. I repeat her words. Sickness is not poetic. I feel a force dragging me away.
Next. I’m awake. It was all a dream. My stomach pain is still there, but I’m grateful I’m not dead. Wheew.
I enjoy puking.
I’m lactose intolerant, yet I continuously ingest milk so my body involuntarily expels the unwanted nutrients through my oral orifice
I love having to lose electrolytes because of retropulsive peristalsis of my oesophagus
Pouring stuff out of my mouth like Niagara
Being ill is not being sick. It’s just a state of mind
And I enjoy this state. It’s what I thrive in.
I prefer it to the heartbroken state.
I’m not weird. I’m just delusional.
Dead. That was the state of the author of life, like he hadn’t read his own publication.
He wasn’t a hen yet he lay, lay still. Cold like his disciples had said our love would grow; what would the righteous do now that fallen was our foundation?
For three days Life was unalife, hidden down below, away from light
And it was questionable to say the least, if this was truly the Christ
Second by second, hour upon hour, our faith faltered and our hopes derailed
Where was the God he had told us of? We watched as our hope of success failed.
Beaten. That was our situation, and we like Adam hadn’t yet faced the serpent
And someone mentioned that this man called Jesus claimed to be a native of heaven yet lacked the divine accent
He sounded just like the rest of us. Mortal.
And as our faith in God crumbled like the tower of Babel at the word of God, the word of God was opened to us like a portal
And on the Sunday, the Word of God was risen. Like the flower, he rose.
And love had grown cold. It was no shock our hearts froze.
Our knees became weak and our voices cracked as our brains refused to believe the image portrayed by our eyes.
Jesus stood alive. Impossible was the only word transmitted through our neural synapses as our action potentials realised
Realised there was a divine potential. With our visions perfectly clear, we noticed we were blind. And though we saw the word, we couldn’t see through it like Eli.
And all the way we had been viewing things from our own perspective, limited by our heights and we lied.
We came to see that we couldn’t see above our selves and above our obstacles. We were at the end of a tunnel without real light.
We like the blind man need Jesus to mix his spit with mud and put dirt on our faces so we might see life
We like the blind man need Jesus to mix spit with mud and put death on our faces so we might see life
The image produced by our optic tract made from the rays of the sun was from the wrong source, and I
I discovered we could never truly see until our vision was derived from God’s eyes.
Words unformed spill down my thoughts as tears not cried struggled to hold still within my eyes.
My heart beat faster within it’s thoracic cage. I couldn’t hold back my emotions.
My mouth trembled struggling to pour words, out yet failed, succeeding in just its tremor
As I tasted the best Jollof rice man had ever conceived to make.
“This is what happiness tastes like” I informed myself, as I made a mental note to never forget God’s existence.
Only God could have inspired man in our ignorance to formulate something called Jollof.
You know how “Hallelujah” is regarded as the Heavenly language? I’m sure Jollof is served in heaven also.
God is good.
As I lay my eyes upon this piece of writing the author has decided to theme a love story, a horror piece of writing encoded within the fallacy of emotional waste of important time called some word fabricated by people in a bid to waste their precious time, my mind smiles at the foolery as my heart rate increases due to the similarity of the tale I look upon, to mine. My eyes too remember the deception, the facade, as the black and white pages of the book now seem gold and yellow to my tired visual apparatuses.
I’m back again at the moment I first lied to Rose about feelings I never had because I wanted her to not be so distant anymore. I needed her to be open. Less secluded. She might have been contemplating suicide for all I know. I liked her, but my mouth pushed me to say more. That’s not the sad part. I look back at my face as my memory paints it, as she blatantly left me alone in a desert of her own, giving me words of…
Oh, I’m blabbing again. I should just enjoy this novel in peace.
And I still have not understood the concept of life
Just yesterday, this tulip was adamantly appealing, attractive beyond comprehension
And the only reason I had not taken a selfie with it was because it was stark naked
Its nipples pointed out like they were trying to drill a hole through whoever dared hug
And this tulip that was once the allure of all eyes near and far,
Today is no more than a withered flower
And though it rains everyday, I still do not understand why this flower never got watered
You were once a tulip. My tulip. But now you’re nothing but a soon-to-be once a pretty flower
And I still don’t understand the concept of life