It’s 12:58am.
I’m in Toni’s room, and my heart is pounding fast as I struggle to think about what to write. The sky is painted midnight blue, and the air is quite chilly. I feel content with Toni’s presence, and I enjoy basking in the safety that comes with ignoring ourselves in the same room. I think I’m going to ramble a lot in this piece. I’ve been battling writer’s block for months, and now I feel disabled. Birthday pieces are often reflective. People get to reflect on their growth, loss, gain, and the beauty they’ve become in the past year. Then there’s me, staring at my screen, scrambling my brain for something, anything.
21 was a year of hard things. Of lessons, of ardent loneliness, and uncertainty. Exactly one year ago, I was heavy with new grief, and I was unsure of what to do with it. It brought out a part of me I had never seen before. I didn’t realize how hard it was to pick yourself up from the gulf of pain and be intentional about recovering your joy when all you want to do is wallow. When all you can do is wallow.
There were times I tried, but it was clearly far-fetched. Times I spent in my bed with a nose clogged with mucus and a face stiff with dried tears. Sometimes, I would call my friends and bare my heart out with words punctuated with tissue breaks and quick coughs.
But God, who is so tenderhearted and full of kindness, showed me mercy, and there were days church sermons breathed life to my anguished heart, and I left free as a bird with hope for the future. Some days it was as simple as talking to Demilade or Toyin or Browne and I would laugh so loud my parents would ask me if I was the only one living in the house. There were days my eyes were not clear enough to see. On those days, my people held my hand and led me back to myself, and as they took my hand, my feet found strength to walk, and before I knew it, I could sleep with lightness in my heart. My people held my hand. To be honest, 21 would not have ended well without the kindness that seeped from the corners of their mouths, without the hands that reached for me in the dark, and promised me I always had a home to come back to, without their soft palms holding my heart with tenderness.
I have seen love. I have felt love. Raw and undiluted.
Right now, I am happy. Happier than I was one year ago, happier than I thought I would be one year later. I’m happy I have gotten over the period of sadness that lingered as a result of the absence of the thrill I once had. I’m happy my body has gotten used to the void that was created. It’s like remembering a framed picture that was once hung on a wall, but got shattered into pieces. I stared and stared at that space until it looked like other walls in the house — normal. I’m happy I get to talk to my close friends, and I don’t bring up the bad memories 21 chugged down my throat.
You know, newness can be strange sometimes, and the passage of time from sadness to joy can be melancholic.
You have probably gotten used to my little notes on grief, but this is the last time I’ll write about it. I tried hard not to create an identity behind it, and I’m glad I found strength to let the pain go. No doubt, the lows have been low. But praise be that I found comfort and peace and succour. I have recovered my original self, free of grief and gut-wrenching pain. I’m excited about what 22 has in store for me. This year, I know I want to bend and shapeshift and grow and become in all the ways possible. So shall it be.
Happy birthday, Banke❤️.
It’s 5:01 am.
