I’ve been wanting to say for a while that I have little knowledge - if any - as to where my life is headed. I have this piece of paper, carefully rolled in a cylinder container that I carry around at the bottom of my suitcase. It has my name on it as well as the logo of the most pretigeous university in Africa and - if that isn’t enough - it testifies that I went to classes, that I did not know what it felt like to sleep for 9 hours on a weekday - or on a weekend, if we are being honest and that I scrambled for noted, for quotes, that I wrote letters and essays longer than I care to remember and finally that I wrote exams that were set to test my ability to reingurgate what I could learn in a forthnight and that passed said exams - however gracefully.
It was six months ago and I imagined that it would define me, that it would change me - better yet, make me - but there is only more work to be done. It is like thinking that you have climbed Mount Everest only to realize that sure, yeah, you made it to the top but it was Table Mountain, honey. So, like, chill.
And Table Mountain is fine. Not every one made it to the top, you’ve seen your peers fall behind - or fall altogether - so there’s some merit, there’s definitely some credit. It is Table Mountain, it is a foundation, it is start to some-thing. The thing in question - I am clueless as to what it pertains.
And since I am being honest, I want to write. Everyday of my life, I want to put words down, I want to tell stories, I want people to read them and think it is all very splendid. And when people are done reading my stories, I want them to go to theathers and movies and see these words take form, take shape, take space - exist in time, above & beyond oblivion. And, above all, I want it to be enough. I want to be enough. I want to have this gift - that, which I imagine is my gift - to suffice, to make my family proud, to feed me, to feist upon.
Lately, it has been a series of ‘no’, of trying to knock down metal doors with cotton-bud swords. I have felt like Ashanti in every one of her music videos - stuck in an image of herself that she is the only one to see, unable to keep up nor meet expectations. And it feels “easier” to do what I am told, to ask others what I should do, who I ought be/become - Oh, the irony.
And this, here, writing has helped - like nothing and no one else has or could have. I wake up with words, I wake up with the need to say something even if it is for one person to hear; it would have been enough. I wake up to this flaming desire; there is no escape. But like I said, I don’t know what will be; it is complicated. And the odds are never in our favor and the fault remains in ourselves so I will see and - hopefully - I will write.