I Think I've Lost the Magic

For the better part of June and July, I struggled almost violently with writer’s block. And it wasn’t for a lack of ideas.

I thought about writing about the wave of Gen Z-led political revolts across the Global South (I might actually still do this, so stay tuned). I contemplated making a full post to tell people to stop referring to me as “the dumb kid from Henry Danger” whenever they hear my name for the first time. I even briefly flirted with the idea of writing a full research paper on how liking chocolate is a sign of low IQ.

Forgive me, I was getting desperate.

There was one particular idea I had that I really liked though. I read your mommy's sugar daddy 😛’s popular post on a day in her life as one of the boys. Then I read Veronica’s spinoff from that: a day in my life as a legally married wife. And just like Atiku Abubakar every time election period rolls around, I was feeling left out of the fun.

So, I picked up my not-so-little, pink laptop, rushed over to this orange website, and typed out a title that would make Buhari roll in his grave: “A Day in My Life as a Tinubu Supporter.”

Creativity dey cry!

But that was where I stopped. The title. I tried every trick in the book. From writing multiple intros, to starting from the middle, to even starting from the end. I brainstormed. I drew “idea trees”. I paced across my living room like a two-year-old experiencing a sugar rush after consuming a full bucket of ice cream.

Nothing.

Initially, I simply brushed it off as writer’s block and convinced myself that if I was patient enough, the words would naturally flow, the plot would eventually form, and I’d find a way to make you guys hate my main character so much you’d feel like throwing a shoe at his face.

It was about two weeks into my state of self-delusion that I realised something.

I wasn’t just struggling to write in general.

I was struggling with something way more specific.

Because every time I opened a blank page, I could write opinions. I could write jokes. I could write arguments. But the moment I tried to invent a person, or a scene, or a conversation, my brain simply refused to cooperate.

That’s when it clicked. I was struggling to write fiction. Something I had done effortlessly all my life.

I hate talking about 2024. I hate talking about it so much.

And I don’t hate talking about it because it was the worst year of my life. I don’t hate talking about it because I couldn’t get into school, or because my parents were having a hard time financially, or because going to church became annoying, or because I got into a terrible relationship, or because I lost a lot of my friends.

That’s not why I hate talking about 2024.

I hate talking about 2024 because I’ve talked about it so much since then that I’m starting to sound like a broken record. The same way you can be certain Remi Tinubu will find a way to ragebait you during an interview, is the same way you can be sure I’ll bring up that horrible period of my life in a random conversation.

And the reason isn’t because I enjoy revisiting old wounds, or because I have a malevolent penchant towards self-harm and deprecation.

It’s because almost every piece of who I am today, is a product of trauma that time has stubbornly refused to heal.

Every major character trait, every distinguishable hobby, every unwanted addiction, every tragic flaw. Somehow, every single one of them can trace their way back to the twelve-month period where I questioned my will to live, fell into chronic depression, and struggled with insatiable anxiety.

So today, when you ask me why I’m so pessimistic about the future, I first have to explain that it’s because I went through a time in my life, when every plan I made concerning my education failed so horribly, that I had to learn the hard way that life has no regard for your spreadsheets, your timelines, or your beautifully colour-coded plans.

When you ask why I'm agnostic, before I can draw arguments from eschatology or theodicy, I first have to tell you about a boy who grew up obsessed with church; a boy who loved the institution with an almost embarrassing sincerity, only to feel abandoned by it when he needed it most.

When you ask why I struggle with romance and emotional intimacy outside of platonic relationships, I have to tell you the story of the person I loved recklessly who treated my emotions like a pawn in a chess game, while I watched my parents' relationship quietly unravel in the background.

When you ask why I’m always looking for a witty response or a snarky comeback, I tell you it’s because I had to learn to use humor to cover up the insecurities, I was too scared to let the world see.

And when you ask why I can no longer write fiction or poetry or anything that isn’t grounded in the stable structure of reality, I tell you that it’s because at some point in that tumultuous period in my life, everything became black and white. Ontology lost its colour, its savour, the je ne sais quoi of existence that gives a Tuesday morning, it’s indefinable intrigue.

The point is that without my trauma I’m a completely different person. And the truth is that not everything that happened during that period was catastrophically melancholic.

I mean, I became obsessed with sitcoms, and somewhere along the way I learned to value friendship above almost everything else.

I started listening to podcasts and eventually reading books to fill up the holes that anxiety created. And in the process, I developed a voracious appetite for knowledge.

I realized that life is wildly unpredictable, and that you can never be fully prepared for the curveballs fate throws at you, so I developed an almost compulsive habit of saving money.

If 2024 never happens I might be more optimistic about the future. I might genuinely believe that we can take down the multi headed hydra of patriarchy, and capitalism, and racism, all at once.

But my articles would also not be as funny. Do you not want to laugh when you’re reading my articles?

That year of my life changed me. And I hate that it changed me so profoundly that I can't have a normal conversation without eventually finding my way back to it; without being reminded of the role it played in shaping the person writing to you today.

But it is a part of me. A part too large to ignore. A segment of my existence that carries too much weight to be folded away neatly and placed in a box that I never open.

Because for all the character development it brought, and for all the lessons it forced me to learn, it's also the chapter that taught me to wound people I genuinely care about with insensitive jokes disguised as humour; it’s still the chapter in my story that makes me incapable of developing and sustaining romantic connections; it’s the verse in my ballad that has turned writing fiction from a lightweight hobby into a frustrating chore.

People always say healing doesn’t flow in a straight line. Sometimes, I wonder if it flows in a strange zig-zaggy circle.

Because along the road to healing there are so many speed bumps to run over, so many potholes to dive into, and so many stray chickens to dodge, that you start to wonder if you’ve landed on a highway in Port Harcourt.

But by the time you get to the end of the road, you realise that you’re right back where you started. You look around and discover you've somehow returned to the place you thought you'd already left behind. Slowly navigating your way through a never-ending journey of introspection, diagnosis, treatment, and noticing new symptoms that never seemed obvious before.

And it’s not because you’ve failed. But because healing was never about reaching a destination. It’s about learning to keep driving.

For a long time, I’ve mistaken a rest stop for the end of the journey. So, I’ve gotten out of the car. I’ve taken a deep breath of Port Harcourt’s soot-stained air. I’ve taken a mental picture of the view around me. But I’ve forgotten to get back in the car.

Because I’ve grown comfortable at the starting point that I turned into a finish line.

I’m no longer depressed or anxious or scared for the future. I’m genuinely happy, content, satisfied even. But I’ve forgotten that this journey isn’t over yet, that happiness isn’t the same thing as healing, that surviving isn’t the same thing as becoming.

So, for the first time in a long time, I’m going to get back in the car, I’m going to rev my engine, clutch my steering wheel, put my foot on the pedal, and this time, I'm going to keep driving.

Because I don’t want to be here a decade from now sitting on the pavement, celebrating the fact that I’ve overcome anxiety and depression, while I'm still imprisoned by pessimism, still terrified of intimacy, still hiding behind humour as a cover for insecurities.

I do not know if I’ll ever be whole.

But I do know the person I want to become.

He’s someone who can fall in love without fear. Someone who can trust life again. Someone who can sit in front of a blank page, pick up a pen, and fill it with worlds that never existed.

Because I think I lost the magic. But goddamn it… I’m going to get it back.

One speed bump at a time.

What I’m Reading: Finishing up “The Lagos Wife”. I’m so lazy with reading these days.

What I’m Watching: At this point I think I’ll watch any sitcom with Ted Danson as one of the leading cast. He was so good on “The Good Place”, and now I’m loving him even more on “A Man on the Inside”.

What I’m Doing: Getting ready to go back to school

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