I literally just remembered I had a blog last week. All my consistency plans went down the icky drain. So this is all the guilt in me typing as fast as I can so mans can read for finals.
Today, I did something I swore I wasn’t going to do. Ever. I logged into Facebook, and went through the profiles of people I had known in my early adolescent life. Friends once upon a time, enemies once upon a time, attitude givers and recipients once upon a time. A train’s worth of memories launched at me at once trying to make me taste sweet, salty, sour and bitter at the same time. Did I feel nostalgia? A whiff maybe, just a minor note in a perfume concoction that neither smells appealing nor unappealing. It just smells like life. Because that is what it is.
It strikes me sometimes that I cannot boast of a single friend from my Secondary School. But then again, it doesn’t. What would we talk about? What would we have in common? Possibly a lot, who knows? Not me. Would I love to know? No, please. There are chapters and phases in life which I firmly believe deserve to stay closed. The protagonist in those memories does not look like me. Not anymore. She handed over a long time ago. To me, who carries her dreams and aspirations on my shoulders as if they were mine, and she was me. Some had to go into the sea of nothingness because Olamide wanted to be everything😂. She wanted to be both known and private, both modest and extravagant, and both in love and badass. Every possible permutation that implied soft life was what Olamide wanted. And this Olamide can’t keep up.
This one is almost done with Uni, big girl don dey set. And every new day I wake up, is every new day my face wrinkles in a way I cannot see. It’s every day I get closer to discovering a new stretch mark on my butt once every two months. It’s every day I – you get the point😂. It’s every day I guard my island. Ships come and ships go, but my island remains the same. Only it does not, it grows more mature and beautiful as each day breaks. The rains of heaven wash away the dross, every day. The people that stay on my island get planted as trees. Trees that make my island beautiful. My parents are trees, my siblings are trees. My grandpa is a tree in the part of my island dangerously close to my heart.
There’s a part marked ‘X’ on my island for the family I will build from my hands, and my body. It will be a miracle. There’s a part marked ‘Y’ on my island for the empire I will build with my own hands and sweat. Regardless of how small or big it gets, I will insist on calling it an empire. And it will be a miracle. There’s a part marked ‘Z’ on my island where I will sit with my rocking chair and evaluate my spots A to Y and pronounce that God has been good to me. And it will be a miracle. And may the rains of heaven wash away the dross, every day.