Dear Friend,
This was never how I planned to return from my absence, the long silence. Nigeria is threatening to kill all of us and I am afraid.
I have always lived with fear, convincing myself each morning - all my life - that the thought was irrational. Telling myself each day, despite the grip that fear has had on me since the time I almost drowned in JS3, that to live with such fear is not only untenable but unhealthy. It has been difficult to live with something that I can not fully explain, no matter how much I try to find the words, to edit and edit.
In SS1, this fear pushed me to write a poem on my class blackboard. I do not remember the entire poem but I can never forget the first line: Scared am I, of sleeping and waking… I remember my classmates laughing at me, the reason I do not know, or have willfully forgotten. I laughed with them, at myself. Oh sleep, it is a gentle thing/beloved from pole to pole… How could I be afraid of sleep? And waking? I realize now, as hindsight works, that it was not just the sleeping or the waking; ‘existing’ frightens me. And to do this in Nigeria, to exist in this country? I am constantly terrified.
Today, the fear that I am drowning has compelled me to face the blank page. I do not know what will be achieved by this outpouring, by this admission, but I can not deny the overwhelming emotion anymore. My cup runneth over. I can not suppress it any longer, pretend that I am fine, that I am okay. I am not. I do not believe I ever really will be. I am afraid.
I have always believed that I am living in a country on fire, even when it seemed like there was no smoke. Watching Nigeria confirm and make my fears a reality is taking its toll on me. I am no longer doing a good job of hiding my fear from my relatives - they can all see it in my eyes and have no idea what to do with it. I am always looking over my shoulders, anxious, knowing that even my hypervigilance does nothing to protect me.
Growing up, I always believed that my mother was too afraid. We lived in a house that had: the main gate, a gate leading to the backyard, a burglary protector, a door with three locks, and an inner protector. As puberty arrived, I deemed her fear excessive, overbearing, controlling - the curfews, the incessant rules, the restricted movement. Aging and Nigeria have shown me that I was a fool. An idiot. I have long since inherited the fear of my mother. Rather than feel subdued, the knowledge gives me great comfort - sharing this thing with my mother.
I want to tell you how much I hate Nigeria. How much the thought of this country sickens me. How I fear that I will die here, watching as each effort to escape is snatched away from me, shut down violently. How I fear that to die here, for me, would be the greatest show of my helplessness, my uselessness… meaninglessness. How no matter how much it seems I am okay, as long as I am here it is all a mask, a smokescreen, a lie. There is nothing here for me, for us. Nigeria has deemed us its enemies, you and I. I am afraid, for you and I.
Over the past year, I have seen more of this country than I would have liked to have seen. Ignorance is truly bliss. From the communities bordering Cameroon in Cross River to the communities that line the road that leads to Damaturu; Nigeria is on fire. Nigeria is also untenable. I have seen the suffering in the eyes of the people smiling and welcoming me on such work trips. I smile back but it hurts each time. I do not like the work I do; It is unsustainable. After we leave, I am left wondering, for days on end: how they make ends meet, how they navigate the hell that is this country. I wonder if they know, like you and I do, that Nigeria wants us dead.
I do not like the work I do. I spend days facilitating training for health emergency management but each question and answer session is filled with questions I have no answers for. Issues of light, food, drugs, water, the roads… I spend time apologizing for the government, for failures in systems that are far beyond my reach. I tell them, I am also helpless. We all are. They laugh, I smile. In the face of our discomfort, and our country’s indifference, we are finding humor. This is no way to live.
To die in Nigeria now is to have people denying your death, mocking the end of your life, contorting truths, and questioning our collective memory. Time and time again, they take from us our lives, our dreams, and tell us that we are liars, enemies who only seek the downfall of the country, our home. From Lekki to Kaduna, they tell us that we are the ones wishing evil upon ourselves, destroying our home. Warsan Shire writes: no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I question those who call us liars, who insist that we wish this upon our country: who makes their own home the mouth of a shark, the barrel of the gun?
I have known for a long time that I will not survive here, or that even if I do it will be just that surviving and nothing more. Only a shadow of myself, folding myself and dreams so that I can remain hidden from the eyes of my country, and from my country’s god(s). The Nigerian god and gods (political, religious, and government leaders) are the same. I am reminded of Whiskeyjack’s advice to young Ganoes Paran (which he willfully ignored - a fellow idiot, lol): the best life is the one the gods don’t notice. You want to live free, boy, live quietly. I am afraid because Nigeria is making it even harder to be a shadow, a ghost, to live quietly.
Someone once wrote to me: do you have plans to relocate? cause God no put nigeria next to your name, na just location… I laughed it off. I am afraid of this Nigerian god. The one that endorsed the vice president as a Pastor, the one that yoked itself with a dictator. The one that gets involved in politics then ignores the cries of children, fathers, and mothers demanding a better government. I fear that I will die here, within his jurisdiction, committed to his bosom by his faithful followers, even as they deny my death.
The first quarter of the year is over. Nigeria continues to take from me - my plans, my job, my friends. It is becoming a struggle to just live. I do not want a side hustle. I am tired of being conflicted about what home is, where home is, and if I belong anywhere. I am tired of dealing with ambivalent feelings when my friends escape the hell that is our home - joy that they can finally breathe, sadness that I am being left behind to die, alone. Existence is pain, and living in Nigeria is exhausting.
I am waiting to go home - the place that has the majority of my meagre belongings. I still find it difficult to feel safe there, after a break-in happened a couple of weeks ago. I thought this work trip would help to suppress that but Nigeria of course will not allow that. Nigeria takes no breaks, always sinking lower. I keep getting daily reminders that I am not safe here, not safe anywhere. I do not know what to do with this fear. I am genuinely tired.
I am hoping that this letter finds you well, or somewhat so. Nigeria is trying to kill us and I can only hope that it does not succeed. That we all survive - it is the barest minimum, and yet weirdly, in our home, the best we can ask for. I am hoping that you find something that sparks joy, even in the hardest of times, even if for the briefest of moments. That you do not forget that you are deserving of joy, of ease. I am writing to remind you, to remind me.
Speaking of joy… If you read One Piece and haven’t caught up with the manga, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!?!
Have a lovely week! And please, stay safe. I am rooting for you.
I have not seen the second season of Euphoria, yet, but the soundtrack seems like it is still clear. I have not been able to stop listening to songs off it for the past couple of weeks. So here’s me leaving you with the one that’s currently playing right now.
Signing off to I’m Tired (From “Euphoria” An HBO Original Series) by Labrinth, Zendaya
“Hey Lord, You know I'm tired of tears
Hey Lord, just cut me loose”
Sine Cera
Osondu
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