THE DYING VOICE OF A NIGERIAN.
Today I got depressed and couldn’t do anything. I think I’m not good enough to be in public space anymore. Everyday I’m being convinced by one or two reasons that I’m actually half of a river of importance in the oceanic world of socialization, beauty and compliment. Too bad for me isn’t?
I’m mostly vague and absent minded to things that concerns deeper self esteem and positive emotions. I’m never knowing why it happens that way, but I should pretend that I’m alright whist I’m not, and that I’m in line with the public set norm. But still why?
Few days ago, I got called by my elder brother that I don’t bother to check up on them any longer as I used to. And I had tried my little best to explain things to him, but he couldn’t understand. The fact is that I’m broken, confused and lost in the world of my own imaginations. And they don’t see any of it. They thinks that as I smiles and walks on the paths of this life that I’m fine, but I’m too far from it to be sincere. I’m dying. Very silently.
You can think of it. When you’re jobless, homeless and partially irresponsible to a certain degree, tell you, life becomes miserable. Nigerian condition does not help. You have numerous talents but requires a lot of funds to sponsor them before you could start earning something from them, otherwise, with great manuscripts I had written when I still had peace of mind I would have been earning even a little from them. But that’s rarely possible as everywhere is locked to favor those who have but privileges to back them up.
Sometimes I would want to talk to someone. Someone who might care, but never have I had any. I don’t keep friends, and whenever I try to, one part of me feels terribly uncomfortable because I lack proper communication skills, but I’m learning. No one feels this. No one sees this. Before I know it some people would come for me that I’m actually a bad person and too toxic. Damn, I hate me for this.
These days to be frank, I have been thinking of ending it all. I don’t know how they might receive the news. They? Who are they? Well, I suppose the eye witnesses and some who would write long threads on me of how cool a person I was. Such evil incensed tributes which would rather mock their deceptive intentions. But how would I know? I would be gone and perpetually sleeping.
My mother of course. What about her? God I feel bad but I take courage. She could be consoled by the fact that we were never close. Sure, she once said that I should die if I ever wants to, but she had apologized and I have forgiven her. But at the other way round, I still bear grudges that my mother never did anything for me except bringing me into this godforsaken world. Nothing. Not school fees. Not feeding. Not shelter. I was too young when street took away my soul, and now I’m bleeding with frustration, brokenness and depression. I’m really dying, but who know nor cares? Tears.
When I look at my journals, four completed manuscripts for novels, seven thousand two hundred and three articles, six plays, two uncompleted novels and unnumbered poems. I feel accomplished but who would take over them? Who would publish them? I hate me really, but I hate the world and its structure the more. The condition here is killing. It overwhelms and triggers suicide ambitions. It’s not really good, but I should place myself as a product of this destiny. Maybe it’s meant to be.
And when I’m gone, just remember that I did me and dared to be different. I tasted music. I wrote and recorded great rap songs. I wrote many beautiful words down to compliment spoken ones. I built a world different from reality in my books. I constructed the greatest ideas and established justice on them. In my books I judged religion, politics and philosophy. I invoked God’s spirit to explain to me in details why men suffers greatly in this lonely world. I can’t tell you less that I’m intellectually sound but mentally insane. My soul has been raped.
Note this. I had great dreams, but if dreams are horses coward would own the best of them. But I didn’t just have a dream, I tried to figure its complexity out, because I wanted to be a rapper and I did. I wanted to write books and I did. I wanted to become a political activist and Sir Charles Oputa gave me a platform to build it. I had visions and beautiful memories and they all played out accordingly except that it never made me good nor achieved. This is my truth and I trust you believes it.
It hurts to realize that I’m writing this inconclusively, but I sure know that I’m no more the child my mother wishes to see soon. I’m no more the friend my friends wants to have. I’m not a partner someone might want to have. I’m ripped and devastated. And when you knocks on the door without it unlocked nor my line connected, say a prayer, because you might never have me again. But for now, let’s still enjoy a little ride of my presence. Nigeria is my nightmare.
