Taking Stock Or Introspection
In which I admit that I'm turning 25 in a few days.
Hey, you!
How are you? The past few days have felt like recycled experiences; nothing new is happening even though each day comes with it’s own unique story line. Dbanj’s criminal and despicable behaviour, coronavirus deaths, BLK. There’s no point rehashing ugly details.
In a few days, I’ll turn 25. I’ve been thinking about life: my life — introspecting. I have no doubt that 15-year-old Ope would be proud of this Ope in some ways — who knew I’d be managing the powerhouse called Zikoko and doing some very wonderful things with my team? Aye? That sort of thing. Dissapointed that there’s no book or publishing deal or that the MA has still not been gotten. We move, yes? Even 24-year-old (aka 21c-year-old Ope) is proud.
What’s something you really wanted as a teen that you don’t have now? Mine is wealth. It’s surprising that I’m not filthy rich TBH.
Introspection is important, not only before a new year or a birthday. It’s like taking stock of your life, who you are, the things you have achieved. It helps you identify and learn from mistakes you’ve made. It’s a bit like pausing to listen to something — the noise or the quiet within yourself.
A method to the madness?
There are a ton of ways to introspect. I found this useful even though I didn’t use any structured method. I spoke to myself and listened. I considered all my troubles and worries on one hand and all my joys and achievements on the other hand. Nothing was too big or too small to go on my list. It’ll shock you how much you’ll learn about yourself when you do this.
A summary of one of the important things I learned:
Fun fact: After I stopped Obsessive Pandemic Cooking (OPC), I started monitoring my weight and what I ate. What I learned from both experiences is that the human mind desperately wants to be in control at all times — especially at a time like this.
A paragraph from something I’m working on:
This story asks a question on carrying trauma of the past with us. I think that a lot of women carry generational trauma without even knowing. Living in a society that is constantly plagued with sexual violence and being victims/survivors ourselves means that we carry our own trauma and that of 10 or more women.
My mother's mother lived with my family up until the day she died in March 2012. Mama — the only name we ever called her, to which she'd respond ‘Omo’ — was an unbearably tall woman with charcoal dark skin, white hair and long, crooked fingernails. Every morning, she prayed, facing the sun, a pink and blue scarf wrapped around tufts of wooly hair. Mama was a bathroom singer. With no place to go, she spent her days walking around the house with a song in each step: ‘Ki ni ayo re nigba ti Jésu pe e?’ Her voice asked with intensity — more than a song, an investigation into the state of affairs of listeners: a microwave, the omorogun she used to turn eba, invisible allies and then the grandchildren that snickered behind her. When she died in 2012 from a heart that had begun to fail months before, I made a list of all the ways in which life might have stolen the small pockets of joy of her final years. Did she die of a broken heart? Unsure of her skin and so trusting tubes of creams my mother's cousins bought her to make dark patches on her face lighter, smoother? The burden of a husband ‘gone-too-soon’ as tributes and obituaries proclaimed, fingers pointing to her, eyes as question marks, lips saying watery things that slipped through the cracks until they sat on her laps. And then that son that died long before my mother was born — her failures as a mother: failing to keep one child alive, failing to have more children after, failing to have a son, getting replaced trying and failing, etc. An endless list of the things that can break a woman's heart. Then there’s the Mama of my mother’s stories: who sold coconut candy, had a great taste in fabric and loved her sisters so. Even before I knew, I knew she was tired, that her slumped shoulders and weak knees came from years of being sat on, prodded with a stick, the weight on her back, the tears in my eyes: I inherited that tiredness
Covid Birthday?
I’m very big on birthdays, so Covid-19 happening and stopping my big birthday bash hurts. I haven’t had a big birthday party since I was 10 and I’ve been looking forward to this one since then. Insh’Allah, I’ll still have that party. For now though, I’ll be spending my day giving back to the ‘society’, with family and finally being completely selfish. Deets next week. If you’re wondering what to get me, see my wishlist. I really, really, really want a camera. And if you can, just say a prayer or wish me good things.
Ope’s Reads
First, listen to this. S/O to Fu’ad for sharing it with me. KSA for the win. Whiteness cannot save us. When I discovered my fiancé had 5 fiancées. Wiun. On the competitive nature of happiness and the importance of allowing yourself feel the other human emotions you’re supposed to feel. On finding healing (or trying to) after a miscarriage. How does a body respond to generational expressions of racial power? The people who have been sick with Coronavirus for more than 60 days. Did JK Rowling betray the world she created? Find out. And artificial intelligence that shouldn’t exist? Read here.
Stay safe! x
(Disclaimer on any errors: my ‘editor’ is too busy to read through.)
I don't think my 15 year old is currently proud of me😭😭