On lessons learnt.
It’s 2:37 am. I’m staring at the white screen of my laptop, and a Google document tab titled "2022" is staring back at me. I am scared to write. I really don’t know how to start.
But I’ll try.
For starters, there is usually this scent of hope in the air towards the end of the year, and I admire how people look forward to the new year. This is when you hear people talk about their reflections, goals, new year resolutions, their projects, and everything they plan to do once it’s the new year. You begin to see your friends drawing up vision boards, setting themes, and making a list of things they don’t want to take into the new year. It’s beautiful to see.
Please stay with me, I’m trying to build courage.
2022 taught me many things. Things that I didn’t think I would know. Things that dealt with me in ways I’ll try to explain, subsequently. I learnt that friends are capable of causing you pain, and giving you grief. They will hand it over to you like it’s a bowl of ice cream, and you won’t know until you eat it and it sits in your stomach. You know, I used to think death was the oldest form of tragedy. With movies like One Day, Tolkien, and A Light Between the Oceans, I was convinced that no pain could surpass that of a person who is bereaved of a loved one. But no. I think the oldest form of tragedy is unrequited love, and I learnt it the hard way. I learnt that people will make choices, and you might not be part of them. And it’ll hurt a lot. It’ll hurt so much that you’ll wail, and cry, and then shout. If you are not careful, your neighbours might rush to their windows and tell you to calm down, take care, and that even though they don’t know you, they’ll tell you they love you just so your agony might lessen a bit. You’ll laugh mirthlessly because truly, people never know what to do with other people’s grief.
I learnt that grief has the capacity to squeeze you dry, and wring out every iota of life in you. Your friends will watch you cry, and watch you sleep, and watch you repeat the cycle. They’ll ask you if you want anything, and even if you shake your head, they’ll bring you food, and hold your left hand, telling you sweet words. You’ll look at them with pity for trying; trying hard to drag you out of this hollow you have become, and your heart will break again. I learnt that grief has a raging appetite, that makes you want different things — to spit, to cry, to vomit, to kick, to scream, to want tears, and if you allow it, you can desire death. Its hands are very unstable, and might tug at your vocal cords, leaving you to stutter for weeks. Your parents will then drive down to see you. They’ll pray for you, and give you twice as much as you ask of them. They’ll tell you things you already know. Things like I love you. Don’t be sad. Call me if you are crying again. Sleep as much as you can. Take a break this week from the library. Eat well. You'll start staring into space a lot, and you'll quickly zone out of conversations. Because grief feels like an endless landscape of white light that distracts you each time you blink.
Isn’t it interesting, the things we can be punished for?
I learnt that we can bear much more than we predict; much more than we can even imagine. I learnt that time is like fresh water, and if you are patient, its cleansing power will wash your pain away. It’ll shed all those memories like dead skin, bundle them together, and toss them to the bottom of the ocean. That there’s always light at the end of the tunnel, and you’ll wake up one sunny morning and see a rainbow instead of that large spread of achromatic light your eyes have been used to. You’ll accept that life is nothing but a nasty, brutish affair, and it’s those pockets of happiness with the people around us that keep us sane.
I learnt that people are not so special. We make them special. It’s the light in our eyes that makes them shine so brightly to us. Sometimes, that light shines as a result of their actions towards us but really, if that light dulls out, they’d just be any random person walking the streets. But I have also learnt that, regardless, if you allow it, friendship is the most beautiful thing that can ever happen to you. It is eating with them. It is taking walks from YemYem to the library, devouring meat pies. It is discussing ideologies and attempting to analyze religious theories. It is helping you lose your coarse hair because one minute ago, you were crying about scraping it off. It’s the late-night conversations that make you kick your legs in the air and laugh your bowels out. It is sitting outside your hostel and eating suya together. It’s listening to you talk, and talk, and talk. It’s quickly coming over to your corner in the library to say hi and ask about your day before they leave. It is planning to eat Amala at one of your favourite spots before the end of exams. It is washing your dirty dishes for you because you have been too lazy to. It’s sitting in comfortable silence, and ignoring each other in the same room. It is buying you Pringles because it’s your favorite snack. It is cooking at 10:30 pm for your friend who called you, crying, saying they were drenched in the rain. It is the sheer delight in your heart when you see one of them, or two of them, or all of them at the same time. It is in sharing earbuds and Airpods until you can finally afford your own. It is the constant reassurance that they are there for you. But it is also realizing that they might not be there for you all the time because, just like you, they are humans too. Friendship is seeing the dark, ugly side of who you are.
And staying regardless.
This year, I have found so much comfort in the Bible. And I learnt that, when backed with the Word, prayers can be quite poetic. You are likely to say something like this:
So, I pray that the knowledge of the word will come with grace and ease to practice it. I will not fall, my faith will not falter; I will feast on God as one friend feasts on another. I am, and will be, kept in, and by, God.
Or, if you are battling unbelief, something like this:
I want to believe that you won’t give me stones for bread, or serpents for fish. But Lord, my faith wavers. Please, help my unbelief, and give me the grace to believe that you are faithful, and not slack concerning your promise. Open my eyes to see that you are nothing like us, mortal men, because you do not lie.
Nothing brought me more joy this year than knowing that the One who hears all, hears me.
2022 taught me to be vulnerable. Recently, I wrote about my struggle with societal views on body image and how it affected me and my self esteem. Believe me when I tell you writing that essay was excruciatingly painful. It really hurt to open myself up like that. But I’m glad I did that because the joy, the freedom that came after? There was nothing like it. It felt like I shook myself free of a rope tied around my neck. I also started to write more for people I care about even though it took a lot from me. It left me incredibly open, you know, susceptible to attack; at risk. That act of making you the persona and going on about my thoughts as regards your features and things that I like — and maybe things I don’t like — about you takes a lot of courage. Because you always go back to what I said to you, how I expressed myself to you. You can always use it for or against me. Vulnerability can be scary, because we are afraid to show someone our very core. Infact, most times, if we do it well, we’ll end up with nothing to hide, nothing to keep to ourselves. It’s terrifying when you think about it. Letting anyone that close.
Moving forward, I have concluded that it’s silly to think that one can escape from disappointments and pain. Life isn’t that fair. So in 2023, while I keep that bitter fact in the back of my mind, I am going to do what I have always done, and do it even better. I am going to read, write, cook, sleep, enjoy the company of my parents, bask in the love of my friends, extend grace to the people in my life, put in all the work in my career, read a lot on environmental law, snack on Pringles, tell the man I like that I’ll miss him, and go out as often as I can. I am going to live.
I wish you a beautiful new year, dear reader. I pray you’ll be guided by grace, and be rich in blessings. I pray the hand of a friend will always be near, and you won’t have to deal with the pain of loneliness. I pray the sun shines warmly on your face, and on your back, and the earth will hold you firm. I pray you discover many things that’ll spark joy in your life, things that’ll give you many reasons to laugh. I pray you remember why you started, and even on days when you are tired and confused, you won’t give up. May you live, breathe, and be full of warmth and color.
It’s 3:03 pm, and I’m exhausted.
