I cannot forget the green hard cover, small handheld book, written by Chinua Achebe. I loved his name and perhaps was the only African name I could pronounce properly. I never forgot the title either-‘Chike and the River’. But I did forget that it was a short story and I did forget the themes.
I always talk of this with my grade four teacher and so I decided to reread this book two weeks ago. I loved the story. I wish I could go back to my grade four self and hear Mrs Blair pronounce the African names, I have so much difficulty with the proper pronunciation now. She has forgotten this book and that she even read it to us, but I never did. I think this is where I was introduced to reading, novels, black authors and stories all at since.
Here is the thing. I feel my life has come full circle. My grade four teacher and I are besties and we speak a lot about children and their stories. Some of my best friends and favourite people are Igbo Nigerians. I feel we never understand how far something will go when you put it out there…..I thank my grade four teacher for opening my mind to cultures and books.
I was thinking the other day, as I rode the bus to work, about words and language. I had only just read a piece written by a friend about her son, and I started to wonder about the new words that are added to the lexicon each year. I think about words like ‘woke’, ‘google’, ‘binge-watch’ ‘bromance’, selfie’ ‘cryptocurrency’, ‘podcast’ to name a few. These words become mainstream, and everyone knows them, I mean everyone like my 80-year-old mother and my 73-year-old uncle. Is it in their best interest to do so? Or would they be considered dead if they didn’t?
But as significant as these thoughts are, these are not the real reasons I was thinking about language. It was because I was thinking of sexual abuse and sexual harassment, autism syndrome and mental illness, Alzheimer’s, feminism, and Conspiracy theories, wondering how these were dealt with in the growing up years of my 80-year-old mom and 73-year-old uncle. If the words and the language did not exist, did that mean these things were not real for them?
As I think of the vociferous desire to ban books and thus erase history, I can’t help but wonder if the same is not true about the present and our realities. Where no words exist to help us explain and express our feelings and the actions of others, isn’t that sort of a plausible deniability? I love the times we are living in, but I do not love them at the same time. I love that anyone can self-publish, blog, vlog, upload and write – even as we know censorship and information overload are real. I love that there exist You tube and Tik Tok, Instagram and Twitter even as we know about misinformation and conspiracy theories. I love that everyone is more exposed and aware even if we are not knowledgeable. As I write this, I think too of euphemisms. Why describe something this way?
As I write this, I am also wondering what exist now that we do not have language for. I am wondering what new words are not considered. Can I create a word and give it credence?
It was Father’s Day 2020- and once again, it took the reminder app for me to call him. I would call my stepmom all the time, or even to deliver the message to him, somehow that was easier. I told myself he doesn’t answer calls and after all, he has never called me. And I know he knows how to make calls. But the thing is, I knew he was waiting on my call and so would answer, albeit I was rationalizing. I eventually called him. Somehow, he feels I was obligated to call on Father’s Day, Christmas and his birthday- he didn’t demand much. I write this and I wonder who it was easier for with these calls? Me or Him? I wonder if he expected my sibling to call too, or was this expectation only of me?
After the initial greeting, it was me mostly shouting and repeating myself since it is hard for him to hear me-always. This is how the dialogue went. Did you cook? How is Ms. Pauline? What are you doing? All questions from me- never a question about me from him. These conversations are so hard for me, and God knows- I am a talker. But at the same time, I am always happy to talk to him. It makes me feel good to know I can have a conversation even a monologue with my father. He has not changed. This is exactly how it was and how I remember it the very first time we spent a day together. I was about 15 years old but back then, and mainly silent.
I often think of him and how our relationship has been. I spent a lot of time wanting my father, and I have lived a good chunk of my life missing this relationship. I have made so many mistakes, had so many pitfalls, so many things I didn’t know because I didn’t have that bond with my father. I was angry for a long time, and I felt sad too. But I have since come to know that even if had him the way I wanted it, maybe, just maybe I would not have received what I desired. Things would have been different today. Isn’t this how life is anyway? We glamorize the past, and imagine how things would be if only, and then craft our own versions of reality with misplaced memories of what happened or didn’t happen.
My Father did the very best he could. He gave me all he had. I learnt this and I have peace. I am not excusing his actions. I understand them and I forgive him because of two truths. One I have a heavenly father who is more than sufficient and two my earthly father has his own story. It served me well to learn it.
It is as sure as the seasons change…. when you live on an island like I did, some things were as certain as night follows day. Yet, no one makes a contingency budget line for it, and no one insures their house against it. We make concrete roofs, cut the trees that are too close to the house, and some invest in storm shutters, but for the most part our planning is short term.
So here we are again, another hurricane season and another tropical storm on its way. Yet when you test the temperature of people it’s the same. Fisher folk who refuses to leave the quays, people in low lying areas being warned and no one taking heed. Supermarkets jammed to capacity, bread and other essentials disappear from shelves. Gas stations make a killing too. Window shutters and awnings are drawn, and ply board is installed, animals are secured, trees are reinforced, schools are closed. Kerosene, home sweet home lamps, candles, batteries are gathered and kept close. We hunker down and hope that it changes track at the last minute.
But many take no heed at all. This is where you hear rhetoric like…..” the Lord will protect me”. Or “after the storm nah last fi more than a day” and some others will say, “every time they tell us storm coming and nothing no happen”. And invariably many times the winds blow, and the waters come and blow the houses down. But we are a resilient people and in addition to pulling our socks up and starting over, no one suffers long as you can always run to the neighbors for a place to sleep or get a warm meal. Rest assured people will be there to help, and remittances will flow from abroad. But there are also many times when the storm passes with minimal damage. And then next year despite all the warnings and all the pleas….we press repeat.
According to Toni Morrison, “ the function of freedom is to free someone else.” We can ascribe many meanings to this, from the way democratic foreign policies are pursued to individual pursuits for freedom. Freedom is something we all value, a tangible possession as important as dignity and water. We are created for purpose, on purpose; every one was born for a reason, because that is what the Creator willed and what he wills is accomplished.
But purpose is not static, and if the enduring purpose of freedom is to free others, what exactly does this mean? On my own terms and in my own head, this means I advocate for the marginalized and the dispossessed. It means I help to educate others. It means I liberate shackled spirits. It means I speak the truth. It means I practice kindness, courage and be authentic. It means whenever I feel free in whatever form, I share it, across time and in various ways. Now don’t get me wrong, in some shape or another we do not all have freedom in every respect and as a matter of fact, it does matter when, where and to whom we were born. Did my enslaved great great grandmother have any aspect of freedom? If she did, how did it manifest? And if she didn’t, did that mean she didn’t feel whole and alive??
I know I am who I am because of the gift of freedom. I didn’t earn it, it was inherited and I am speaking here about both spiritual and physical and all other facets of freedom. And so, because I live in this world as a free person, I ask myself, if I had been born somewhere else would be the person I am today? If my ancestors had not fought and rebelled and agitated would I be who I am today? Had I not been educated, would I be who I am today? Imagine the time when women couldn’t vote. Imagine if I lived in a country where women had no agency over there bodies and were not educated. Imagine if I couldn’t choose who to marry, whether to marry and when. Imaging being a victim of war, and most of all a senseless war. The answers seem obvious.
It is right here that I wish to add that while a collective, freedom is also an individual construct. The ways I feel free or not free, the ways I live free might not be apt for others. And more than that, there are so many things about freedom I still do not understand, partly because I have always had physical freedom and also because I take so much for granted. This all suggests then that the way we define freedom matters. Is having a job freedom? Is being divorced, freedom? Is my existence in a democracy, freedom? What about parenting, is there any freedom in that? Is being rich, freedom? What about death? Is being single, freedom? It seems to me that it all depends on whether and how the particular scenario is reflected in one’s life. But whatever the experience, it seems wise to follow good advice that wherever there is freedom, then share it.
For a long time being educated meant little to me. I did not value it. It did not inform my identity and I did not understand or consider valid, the expectations and responsibilities which being educated bestowed on me. That alone was a misconception but I also believe it was humility. I was told and I swallowed it, that education was about social mobility, a career, wealth and prosperity, open doors. I saw the educated having goods, means and opportunities and I thought yes that is what it is about. And I agree it is, but it is not the complete truth either. It means other things too. I just couldn’t justify or find the language to articulate that. I needed an education.
As I age and diversify my experiences, I have seen where this former view is heavily marketed and sold. Societies need and thrive on the educated and actively seek them from wherever they can. If you are not educated or have the potential to become educated, you can be ceded to an abysmal place or treated with scant regard. This is wrong as societies need labour and unskilled labour too. But, I was being educated.
I also told myself after university that I was done with education. I was tired and had had enough of schools. So much of what is learnt in school is just preparation for real schooling. The skills you learn in the workplace, on the streets, with family, at church and in any other social, educational or community setting are just as important. I learnt to write, to speak, I developed emotional intelligence, learnt to manage difficult conversations- not from the walls of an institution. I learnt from interacting, from discomfort, from being afraid, from doubt and uncertainty, from trying, from saying yes and saying No. Life educated me too.
Today, I am grateful for the sacrifices made by all to educate me, including my country. I am privileged because of it and I humbly accept that things would be different without an education. I am happy to be educated as I navigate this world better with it. However, I am also mindful that not everyone is educated and that part of being educated is to know that I have a role to play with and for those persons. I also recognize that being educated means a lot of different things, including that it is a privilege when it shouldn’t be. May I never shirk this responsibility, may I forever be humbly educated, may it always pay it forward.
This is at the top of our collective minds these days as we contemplate the people of Ukraine and that senseless war. I said to myself, they have just dealt with the menace of COVID and now there is a more de-capitulating type of war in their lives.
I say to myself, we know so much about the Russia-Ukraine war but what do we know about years of war in Cameroon, about Ethiopia, in the DRC, Syria, Afghanistan etc.
I think of the ‘cold’ wars we are constantly fighting-the censure on words, the threats to democracy and subversion of rights, the divisiveness of politics, poverty, income inequality, corruption, crimes and fraud.
And what can I say about spiritual warfare……we do battle there daily. Fighting impulses and temptations, struggling to obey and to say grounded.
I have decided to put myself out there more; to creep and crawl slowly out of my comfort zone. As a result, I have been reading way more than usual and reading way more fiction than usual and I am joining book clubs. And I am also saying yes more, yes to things I could easily say No to.
As I read, I am realizing some ‘deficiencies’ in my life. I have really amazing and close female friends but I really do not have this in the collective form. But I do not feel deficient. I am also realizing that much of what I struggle with, is as common as the flu. And as I say yes to things, I am finding these things are fun, pique my curiosity and are learning opportunities in a broad and wholesome sense. And learning is my true love.
I think about one particular afternoon at a dear friend. As soon as the door was opened- the aroma which was warm, savoury, brown, homely hit my nostrils. It was something from the oven. This was punctuated by laughter and chatter as each person worked to fill the buffet area with turnips, salads, breads, dips, stuffing and the like. Dinner was served, prayer was said. Music, we made our own music.
Everyone chose a space at this huge table which didn’t make anyone feel they were not together. We wondered aloud about Putin’s table. Hearty and deep conversations abound about everything and nothing and the kids were all allowed their time to contribute their invaluable insights too. I learnt so much from them and I was impressed with their intelligence and maturity. Plans were made for future vacations. Google was present too, to help patch up our scratchy memories and to keep us on facts. Favourite movies were discussed, the Great Escape, Shawshank Redemption made the list. We disagreed heartily and we bemoaned state of the world, but also reminded ourselves that God is still in control.
Then once the meal ended everyone was up cleaning, clearing, packing and storing- a well oiled machine. It was time for the Easter Egg hunt. This was so much fun- first the kids searched then the adults searched. It was a different way to get us outside and get some steps in as well as practice team work. Once we were too tired and cold, it was time for a movie. Everyone again all found a spot and snuggled together in the couches and under blankets. In this house, noone walks on eggshells and you knew for sure the floors, furniture and décor were not more important than the people who congregated. It was the way the kids face lit up as they saw their parents and grandparents. It was the way it felt familiar to me, reminding me of family time in a different space and time. When we would all get our food shared for us and we would sit on rocks in the yard or on the barbecue, plate on our laps leaving the meat on our plates for last. It was the fact that dinner was never prepared only for those who lived at home but would include extended family, neighbours and old friends.
I thought about what this would do for the kids who partake, would they grow up and do this too? No doubt they will, even if it is in a different place and in a different way. Some things never grow old.
One of the saddest realities for me, about leaving home is the number of people I will, never see again. Some will move away and some will die and for others the communication will go awry. This I am reflecting on today as I heard of another community member’s death. Many other people have died too but the death of two gentlemen really struck me deeply. They were neighbors to each other, of two different generations, both lived alone and both died at home.
I began to think of the circumstances of their death and then I ask myself, are you afraid of dying? I believe I have come to terms with my own death. One of my besties talk of death often with me, he isn’t ready but often wonder if he will know when it’s coming and then many times work himself into a frenzy if something abnormal happens. We often laugh about his paranoia. Death is all around us, yet we have such a complex relationship with the subject. I know my current acceptance of it may very well change.
But back to the two gents, as I pondered their passing I couldn’t help but wonder if aside from what their autopsy results will show; if there was something else. I have being consuming content on the happiest places and people on earth; about what keeps them alive and how do they handle this elusive thing that we call happiness. One of the things that is constant in all their conversations and on all the lists is meaningful connection. We need this like air and I have to wonder if where it is lacking, like the lack of air, if we can die. Anecdotally, I am convinced this is so and I wonder if this had something to do with the sudden untimely death of these two gents. What do you do when you are a loner? What do you do when no one regularly checks in on you? And this is not to say, they didn’t talk to people or go out and interact, they did but I a talking about the deeper, richer fuller type of relationships. The one that give you a sense of satisfaction and joy as you engage, not shallow casual interactions. They type that cares enough so you feel it. The kind of intimacy that takes work to maintain, the type that you are willing to forgive and work through when the bad times come. The kind that will sacrifice for you, the kind you can share your innermost thoughts and fears with, the kind that you can be your authentic self with.
We are built to desire and require such things, we do not do well without them and I have a feeling that although autopsy results will not show this, that many die from a lack of such. It makes me weep and it makes me realize I must keep working at the ones I have, that I must cherish them and validate my friends and family at ever opportunity I get. My life, their lives depends on it.
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