27: Graft.
We are colourful atoms of stifling stories.
Dear Friend,
Today, I found myself in the backseat of an ES350, a paid ride, unplanned.
What fascinates me the most about this city is how we trust strangers simply to escape traffic delays. I noticed that, over time, I have unconsciously adopted this strange habit myself.
When the car pulled up in front of me and announced my location, I instinctively squinted at it, glancing at the driver before sliding in.
My judgement was simple: Hausa accent, clean cut and Lexus. Verdict? Not a ritualist. The neatly pressed shirt sealed the deal for me, bonus points.
That day, a podcast was my small indulgence before entering my self-imposed cage, that quiet construct of capitalism. Just before stepping out, I decided to listen to something different. Scrolling through my downloads, I landed on an old episode of Menism, untouched for so long it felt like it had been gathering cobwebs.
Tap, tap, earphones plugged in.
The very first voice that came through the speakers stopped me cold. That was my man. My actual man. And in that instant, I knew this wasn’t going to be a casual listen; I was strapped in for a ride.
After all, it isn’t every day you stumble into three grown, bearded men laying their hearts bare, dissecting what it means to date below your standards while wrestling with the shadows of imposter syndrome.
The mix was messy, raw, human. Exactly my kind of chaos.
Then they read a listener’s dilemma: a man, weary and frustrated, complaining about the avalanche of broken partners he kept meeting.
By then, I wasn’t just listening. I was locked in, seatbelt fastened, unable to move. I was glued.
I expected a thoughtful response. But instead, they took a dramatic turn, reducing the man’s dilemma to nothing more than a debate about dating women with traumatic pasts. If I could describe how I felt, stunned is such a small word to quantify it.
This is not an attempt to stifle the weight a cheating partner carries in your life, but have you thought about our parents? Childhood is the first dance room, where love is the music, and we learn to sway our hips as they do. Their missteps become our stumbles, their pauses our hesitations. And it’s that choreography that shapes how we later move through love.
But then they had me where someone mentioned that trauma can be passive; inherited by friends exposed again and again to traumatising stories until those stories begin to shape their notion of things.
And just like that, it set me in the mood for writing.
Friend, we are colourful atoms of stifling stories
Stories we hold dearly and pass on to those brave enough to sit and listen.
We are fragments of our past, and this past, hopefully, holds stories that won’t make our foreheads morph into lines when someone whispers something simple, like “I love you.”
I understand that these words are heavy. Eventually, they may roll off their tongues and land on the floor like an ice cube: shattered or slowly melting away with time. Still, that should not be a reason to fret.
Friend, if there’s anything to take away from my ramblings today, it is this: the love we give and the love we receive are often rehearsed long before we know what they mean. Yet even with borrowed traumas and broken beginnings, we are not condemned to repeat the same choreography.
Like I always tell my friends, “This one little heartache won’t make me stop.”
This child writing to you is on a voyage. They call it healing; I call it rest.
Whether we call it healing or rest, though heavy, it is still worth carrying.
Recommended Reads:
This month, I have been struggling with reading for pleasure. I wish I could juggle my job and the things I love, but the truth is, I am still at the start of my career, and whatever little time I have goes into consuming career-related knowledge. Still, I started reading a book by a Nigerian author. It is an unpublished but brilliant collection of authentic Lagos stories, and it’s been an exciting ride. Since I can’t recommend that one, I’ll plug you into the good stuff.
Last year, I got my hands on a collection of short stories by my man, Paulo Coelho. Everyone who knows me knows that my all-time favourite book is The Zahir, and by extension, I’m a Paulo loyalist.
This book? A good read. Trust me on that.
Visual Interlude:
The Still, Small Voice:
“The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It’s our handle on what we can’t see. The act of faith is what distinguished our ancestors, set them above the crowd.”
Hebrews 11:1-2 MSG
To Wubaby’s lashes. If idolatry weren’t a sin, I would build an altar for those eyes. #boycottglasses!