#03 - Hangovers and Hugs

Dear Friend,

I am at a party. Vodka in my hand, my liver excited for this reunion. My head seems to be floating, old memories fleeting through my mind. Memories I have been holding at bay for a long time. However, the hurt does not come. There is not much pain in this room. I look down at my cup, smile to myself, and have a drink.

Do you drink? If you do answer in the affirmative, why? I am not talking of social drinking – in the presence of friends, and always needing an occasion. I had an interesting conversation with my faves this week about why we drink. The other week, I had a conversation with a non-drinker with his own opinion as to why he thought others drank.  I am wondering if this is the universe telling me to reconsider my search for company at the end of a bottle. Mother always said I was pigheaded. I take another sip and look up from my phone at the crowd cheering on a makeshift stripper.

I am without a reason to wake up, to live. I know that I am not alone in feeling this way. I am wary of your reception to this statement. This is just something said in passing; think nothing of it – like ripping off a bandage. If you ignore the pain, it will be gone in a second.

Netflix is one of my coping mechanisms. Somewhere along the crooked line that is this year, it snuck itself in. I find myself examining the decisions of characters living messy lives from a pedestal of my own creation. It does not matter that I am not brave enough to dare live lives remotely resembling theirs. It is also fun.

I love hugs. The feeling and warmth of them. Do you like hugs? I often find myself lost in the memory of a good hug. And to think I was once terrified of hugs? I once ran away at the thought of hugging someone? Damn.

Stories like this resonate with me so deeply. The innocence, the kindness, the love, the care. It is almost like they occur in a world totally removed from what I know is real. I am such a softie; accepting this made such an improvement to my quality of life. And that is saying a lot.

I am going to have to cut down on my drinking. This saddens me, greatly. I will miss the lightheadedness and the warmth in my chest that comes with a swig of some ungodly concoction that I have brewed. Tough times are lasting, I should be drinking more; tough times are lasting, I can not afford it. Nigeria will be the death of me.

I woke up this morning second-guessing the chaos I left in my wake when I returned earlier today. I do not have hangovers. I just lose pockets in my memory. I am still unsure if I woke up to vomit or that is just an old memory.

I am entering this week fairly positively. The memory of a night spent with two of my favourite people filled with laughs, love, and hugs; a night drowned in the decadent waters of Vodka, and a night spent with myself tearing up at some foreign drama. These moments exist like a brief interlude - in a world totally removed from what I know is real. I am wondering if life is just the pursuits of these interludes. How many of them will make the pain worth it?

I really hope this letter finds you better than yesterday, a little lighter. In my own little way, I am rooting for you. I see you, and you are doing just fine. You can only control what you can control. Breathe.

Sending you the warmest hug. Have a lovely week, friend.

Signing off to Molowo Noni by Samklef, Wizkid, Ice Prince,

“i sasasabi over sabi dey worry me

and kakakaku over kaku dey worry me”

Sine Cera

Osondu

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