It Takes A Village, Sometimes A Town Or A City
How do we succeed? Do we always have all it takes to do it on our own? And what about pride, what's up with that guy?
Quick question: Did nobody really pave the way?
Or, ‘how’ did the chicken cross the road if nobody was there to hold his feather(?)
For the African giant (not the chicken), I don't think that the road was not paved, but I always try to stay away from deliberately controversial conversations.
Hello, you!
Is 2020 still looking bright? What’s something you’re proud of this week? Me, I finished a story I’ve been writing for about a month, and I submitted it last minute. I didn’t completely hate it too. Yay me!
Let's talk about something for a second. In this part of the world, when a child is born, he is typically not born in isolation. That is, there are uncles, aunties, grandmothers, grandfathers and everyone else who just wants to take care of the child in some form. Let's not even get into the downsides of that. But that's where the saying, ‘it takes a village’, comes from. In doing this — being groomed around family/friends — there's an informal support system. There's also more: the child learns all sorts of world views, perspectives and things he wouldn't ordinarily know if it was just his parents/immediate family.
It's the same thing professionally. You can't survive on your own, in your head. There's so much you can learn from people in related fields and so much they can learn from you. No man is an island and other stories.
PSA: Half of this is just me shouting out to Tobi, Ruth, Kachi, Ifedolapo, Sayo, KT, Tolu, and everyone who lends an eye (and more) when I have stories that need to be read. It takes a village. If I ever come out and say I'm the best writer under 21d and that no one paved the way, call me out (that's if Toni Morrison doesn’t come down to earth to shame me first — happy posthumous birthday, Mama.)
Still on the village, and paved ways...
There's a story about a boy so proud, he didn't think he needed any help. He often laughed/mocked people who asked for help. The boy was particularly good at wrestling too. His father and grandfather had been great wrestlers who trained him in the art of wrestling. He was such a good student that he became the best in his year. He never stopped reminding the other boys that they could not match up to him. Because of his pride, none of the boys and girls in the village liked him, so they came up with a plan to organise a contest between him and a stronger wrestler. They didn’t tell him who the opponent was. All they said was that the boy’s opponent was much older, more experienced and much stronger. The boy said there was no one stronger than him. On the day of the contest, his mother served him several wraps of pounded yam and egusi with several chunks of meat. Instead of drinking water, she gave him a 50cl bottle of coke to down his food. Feeling quite full, the boy said he was ready to fight.
He got to the square where contests were held a little late. There was a crowd gathered. He hadn't expected such fanfare, but this didn't scare him. He did some stretches, took off his shirt and got ready to fight. Then a masquerade in a colourful face mask and colourful attire jumped into the ring. This was his opponent. The boy was shocked but wasn't given enough time to process his shock. So he fought as he knew. At first, he didn't have any chance.
The masquerade was an expert and had a size advantage. But after two rounds where the boy split his lip and bruised his shoulder, he gained some courage to at least finish with dignity. If this was a movie, a bubble speech with the talking head of his grandfather would have appeared over his shoulder, cheering him on. But this was not a movie. Somehow though, in the third and final round, the boy remembered some tricks and was able to outdo the masquerade. It was a shame, to see the masquerade beaten by a young boy, so the villagers boo-ed and started to troop away.
Seeing that the contest had ended, the boys and girls from the boy's class felt a renewed sense of respect and distaste for the boy. But the boy couldn't care less. He had been badly hurt by the contest, yet he remained an undisputed champion. When he got home that night, his mother offered him beef the size of my fist.
At night, he had dreams where he became the masquerade and was in contest with a frail, little boy. The little boy defeated him hands down in all versions of the dream.
There's no moral here. Take this story and make of it what you will.
Ope's reads
Let's start with the two literary things I read in the past 24 hours. Pemi Aguda don did it again with this brilliant, brilliant story that adds to my shitless fear of motherhood and pregnancy. There's also this, In Search Of Wonder In Iseyin by Kemi Falodun.
Some key stuff on intermittent fasting which I've been doing off and on all through February. 4kg down, 1 to go. You know how I said I stay away from deliberately controversial conversations? Well yeah. It's the same with internet outrage and arguments.
My sleeping habits have been a disaster — body clock and other stories. That's why I was grateful when pocket curated this story on sleep hygiene in one of their emails.
Is losing a living partner (breakup, etc.) worse than the loss of a partner to death? Losing the language of love, H/T Fu'ad, the plug of the pluggest. Speaking of, remember how last year a couple of cool people from my office went around West Africa, eating and telling uber cool stories? Well, there's a ton more of those on our YouTube channel. Make sure you check it out and SUBSCRIBE.
At the start of this year, I wrote about how it's important not to put pressure on yourself. It's still quite relevant, don't forget to not do that, and to not let your inner critic enslave you.
What's a week without Modern Love? Would you fall in love with your partner again if they were a pretend stranger? A basic summary of that episode, but listen.
Remember how I said it takes a village? This beautiful essay about Binyavanga who influenced the lives and careers of many, many, young African writers was published on Granta this past week. Read it and weep.
Talk to you next week, my friend. Be good.