At the start of the weekend, I had my hands on an urgent task. Although it was an exercise I’d done severally, the initial attempts this time—like almost every other time—were flawed with errors. But, from experience, I knew in the end the final product would look nothing like its forerunners. I only had to keep at it, until it was just right. And when I’d be handing it over tomorrow, no one would know how ugly it once was.

While I worked, I was reminded that the perfect, success stories of the big players in our respective fields of interest are most times the edited versions. A lot of dirt had been cleaned out. Likewise, the greater part of testimonies we hear did not happen exactly as they are told.

So?

Yeah, your hustle might not make much sense right now. But, was it ever perfect for anyone at the start? I don’t think so.

It’s May, people! Let’s keep grinding.

I just have to do this, before you get to hear the distorted version from someone else.

……………………

She was standing outside a popular fast food restaurant when I showed up. There was something unusual about her—and to an extent, about me too. As well, the logo of the restaurant seemed different.

“I didn’t expect you’d be waiting for me outside,” I said.

I missed what she said in response. But I did notice that she tried not to look me in the face while she spoke.

Going ahead of her, I led the way in. And in a heartbeat, we found a table. Since there was no option for table service, I stood for a moment, ready to walk to the counter to place our orders.

But she stopped me, saying, “There will be plenty of time for that.”

Taking a seat beside her, I said, “So, what’s the urgency for?”

It was an off the wall announcement she had. “My period is late,” she said rather too quickly. “Victor, I’m pregnant . . . for you.”

I searched her face for the faintest of smiles—a reassurance that it was all a joke. But there was none.

Something was completely off about all of this, and that feeling had been there right from the start. But, at the moment, I could not place my finger on it.

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure of what, really—that I’m pregnant or if it’s yours?”

“Are you sure you’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” she said. Then it seemed she started to talk about ante-natal, the cost for baby care, and how displeased her father would be. But I was distracted already, as there was a loud, ringing sound that had started from nowhere. Although the sound seemed familiar, it just wouldn’t stop.

“Stop!” I screamed.

That was when I opened my eyes. And I realised it was my alarm ringing. The time was 5.45am.

And it was just a dream. 😛

……………………

Wait oh! You didn’t know it was a dream until you read that last line? Ah, ah, what were you thinking na? Yeah, that’s me in the photo looking at you right now. 😉

Even if the greater number of those who’d read this have not been in a labour room before, we’ve all heard of happenings in that space. We know of the cries, the screams, and the occasional insults thrown at the men—whether they are present or not. And as the ordeal reaches its peak, some of our mothers may have promised themselves that once the nightmare was over, they were done with being pregnant—ever! But we know they went back, else some of us would not have been born. Well, to be fair on them, let me assume that some nights were quite cold and their man was willing to provide some warmth—and boom! a new baby was on its way. 🙂

I guess someone may be wondering why I started this way.

You know, like a woman soon forgets her pains, so it will be as regards some of the aches, challenges, or nagging issues we know today. Hey, this is not some sort of a homily, nor is it a castle-in-the-air, happy-ever-after tale. It is just the way life works—at least as I see it. And you can choose to see it that way too.

So, chill. The heat will fade. And light will emerge at the end of the tunnel.

Some time in 2019, I got sick after watching a movie.

It was a tale about a seventeen year old girl, Stella, who had a genetic disorder; a disorder that affects some vital organs of the human body, especially the lungs, resulting in frequent lung infection. It is a condition that can only be managed, as there is no cure for it. In certain situations, lung transplantation may be an option.

As a result, there was little more to Stella’s life other than prolonged stays at hospitals, a set of routines and some—if you really want to stay alive—restrictions.

As I watched, I imagined being Stella—being sick all the time and sometimes being terribly sick. I just wanted to understand the life she had. But I think my imagination went too far, because before the end of the movie, a slight fever had set in. I’d become sick.

Why?

Hell, no! I was not sick. The truth is: my body was only helping my mind to make my thoughts real. And when I forcefully dragged myself out of that imaginary world, the fever gradually started to fade.

Now, here’s the reason I’m sharing this: I think the human body, even when you don’t want it to, tries its best to enlarge the images in our minds, whether good or bad.

So, when next you’re tempted to think of yourself as unworthy, not good enough, or not too pretty or handsome, remember that the rest of your being will find a way to make it real—and, of course, without your permission.

You know, a time like this can stretch some people. The pandemic, its disturbing statistics, and the myriad of theories and postulations circling about can magnify their present vulnerabilities, whether real or imagined. Likewise, the fear that springs forth leaves no colour untouched as it paints a future filled with more than the usual uncertainties of life.

For one, it could be a heightened concern for his survival, knowing that ours is a failed—maybe it’s fair to say failing—system, which favours only a select few. For another, it could be the fear of not knowing if this is actually the beginning of the end. And I know someone whose sense of loneliness has deepened.

I’ve mentioned more than enough worries already, no need to bore you with mine.

But I’m learning how to live right, one day at a time. It means allowing oneself to truly live—and possibly, enjoy—each day without ruining it with the what-ifs of tomorrow.

It’s one day at a time, dear.

One day at a time.

Although it’s been a couple of years, I still remember that morning well.

The day started no different from the ones preceding it: first, I’d get out of bed, and then the typical routine associated with preparing for a new day would begin. And while I am at it, I’d steal a moment to check Facebook and WhatsApp, to see if anyone had left a message during the night. There were no messages to respond to, but as I was about to exit the latter, a message popped up, from Ken—not real name.

Ken: Good morning.

Me: Good morning.

Ken: I’m sorry to disturb you with this, but did you hear about the suicide?

Immediately, my heart started to beat like crazy.

Me: Which suicide?

Ken: Someone you know very well.

For a while, I’d not been in a good place emotionally. I heaved a sigh wondering what this news would do to me.

Me: Who?

Ken: I’m sorry. I can’t type the name. I’ll send you the person’s picture.

I would have preferred he mentioned the name, but I was already too weak to protest. I had the phone in my hand, but I could not look at it, even after I heard a beep, signaling a new message. It seemed like a burden, which got heavier by the second, had been placed on my shoulders.

I heaved another sigh before I checked.

It was a photo of a little rat, with a rope tied to its neck, suspended in air.

Ken: 😉 I’m sure I got you there!

I started typing, my fingers moving at an unusual speed. Then I stopped and erased it all. Instead, I dialed his number. Some warnings are better said than typed. You know, you don’t want the other party to miss the pleasantness of your voice. And, boy! I was so pleasant that morning—I’m sure you understand what I mean. 🙂

To him, it was a joke. But he had no idea how disturbing it was for me that early morning.

I chose to share this as a reminder that this is a tough time for some people. It would be wise to be cautious with the kind of jokes we share or the messages we forward to others.

Take care. Enjoy your week!

Since the onset of the pandemic, more specifically the lockdown, I guess you may have seen a number of suggestions some well-meaning friends have shared as concerns goals a person can—or in some cases, must—achieve during this period. For example, it could be a push to learn a skill, to start or complete that project you’ve kept pending, or to take online courses and trainings. As much as the suggestions are meant to help one make the most of these days, I think such proposals can bully some people into acts that may not yield any meaningful rewards.

Why?

It’s quite simple: We are at different levels in life, hence our core needs and expectations cannot be the same. A man’s true need in this period may be how to find sleep; while for his neighbour, it could be a desire to get his wife screaming like a banshee when next he fulfills his manly duties. And, in the mix, you’ll probably find a man whose sole desire is to silence the voices in his head; voices urging him to take his own life.

Personally, it’s been a time to question a number of things. So far, it seems I’ve found a way to handle a particularly disturbing situation.

Friend, I wrote this to encourage you to pursue what truly matters—to YOU—not what seems trendy or what every other person is doing.

A time of uncertainty and fear,
and unreal theories at every corner, here and there,
a time where riches fail, and hunger the poor struggle to bear.

A time to ponder and see,
that you can worship your God wherever you be,
and, right there, he hears your prayers and every word you decree.

Oh! it is a time to show what it means to care,
to meet a need, to wipe a tear,
to prove that love is more than what two people do on a bed when no one else is there.

A time to be strong, my friend,
for this too shall pass—we will sure see its end,
but while the days linger, do not fret. And peace on you, I pray, will descend.

A time like this . . .

Wow! It’s been a while I wrote a poem. I hope you like it?

A few days ago, and like I often do, I stole away to a quiet place just to have an alone time with my thoughts.

Does everything happen for a reason?

That day, as much as I tried to answer a Yes to that question, I could not. One or two—maybe a couple more of such—experiences would not let me. And as I considered the details of those events, I realised that the belief that there’s a reason for everything was a factor that got me waiting, immobilised, forcing me to accept certain things I shouldn’t have.

Now, someone may argue, “I know people whose failures and tragedies—and all other craziness life brought their way—were the platforms on which they built successful careers or ministries. Don’t you think that’s enough evidence?”

Yes. And I know that’s a valid point. But I’d like you to realise that for the few names you’d ever mention, I bet there are hundreds who had same or similar experiences but who, sadly, have no victory songs to sing—because those experiences destroyed them. I think those stories with happy endings are the way we know them only because the characters involved allowed themselves to heal, to grow, to learn empathy, and to hold up a light that burns from the debris of their hurts. My point is: It was a choice they made; it was not a natural follow-up of what they suffered.

I hope these two would stand out from this write-up: First, trying to find a reason for everything that happens could be a futile exercise. And when life introduces a new and uninteresting sub-plot to the story of our lives, it’s still up to us to decide how relevant this sub-plot will be.

Recently, I’d gone to make some purchases from a shop that sells goods at wholesale prices, even when one is buying in bits. A shop which could boast of its level of customer patronage, as buyers are hardly ever in short supply—which, on the downside, means that you’d probably have to spend more time there than you would in a regular retail shop.

But that day, unlike earlier visitations, I was in no rush. In fact, I intentionally missed an opportunity to be attended to. Instead, and without making it obvious, I listened to a conversation between two young men standing close to me, who possibly are in their early or mid twenties. It was a talk about some other guy, Martin, who had made it big financially.

They talked about this and then about that. But it was this part that got me thinking:

“Guy, reason am na. Make we comot shame say we be graduates ask Martin make him show us the way. For this life, person need helper oh!” one of them said.

The other, in response, said, “And you think say him to help? E be like say you never understand something about this life: People no dey help their fellow wey dem know say get the potential to make am pass dem. Dem go rather help person wey dem know say, anyhow anyhow, the person no fit rub shoulder with dem. See, like we dey now, Martin know say we sharp, we go school and we sabi book . . . na only opportunity we never get. See eh, for this life, person wey see you as threat no fit help you.”

…………………………..

It’s a rhetorical question I have for today; a question for our hearts. But if you want to answer, no problem: Can you help someone who you know will probably do better than you?

Anyway, March is here already.