It’s such an overwhelming rush of hope to be able to write again and to be genuinely excited and expectant for a year devoid of nothing else but joy and my likkle dignity ( Don’t laugh if you know, it wasn’t funny or easy but lol)
2017 was a humbling year and it hurt.
Not all through honestly.
My friend called from America to say She saw me on Skinny Girl in Transit (Hugest S/O to Bimbo and Chiamaka and the entire Ndani TV).
Mama I’m finally a recognized actress!
But it still hurts… like a wound that resists clotting. It burns my mind and sears my soul because I’m 24 years old and I don’t know if the life I think I chose will bring me joy or death.
I declared that 2017 was the year I take over, 18 days into 2018 I feel taken over…
I don’t believe or I believe too much.
I hide when I can’t deal and that affects me.
Nothing I want to do is possible because I’m not qualified.
And even when I feel qualified, I don’t seem to care.
When I voice my thoughts, they are so unnecessary that I question my entire existence.
I am. I can. I will, but I can’t seem to do anything right.
I try. I predict. I analyze, but it’s just not enough to bring the resources my way.
I pray. I beg. I’m quiet, but it’s not enough to show respect or remorse.
I cry, but it’s too much. Too soon. Too fake.
I’m afraid, but it’s irrational, illogical and makes me no money.
When I’m equally spontaneous? Too callous. Too reckless.
Ooh and let’s not forget attempts at forgiving myself… selfish, unfeeling and unfit for family life.
I bet the sliver of hope that keeps me going is listening to the good in everything and believing it will get better.
I have to believe I’m moving forward.
I have to believe it’s not over.
I have to keep completing things.
Because death is at my door.
Death has visited me once before
Left its deadening grip
And now I’m at war with it.
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