A wanderer’s monologue
Sundays are really cool days. The sun shines a little less brighter and everything feels a little bit better. It’s almost as though if you try hard enough, everything will be fine. That you’ll forget that tomorrow you’ll wake up again and not be home. That tonight when the nightmares plague your sleep and you call for mummy, no one will be there to soothe you. No one will tell you it’s okay. Because you’re alone.
Alone.
For a long time after I left home in April last year, I wrote a lot about home. About the feelings of nostalgia that permeate the evening air as I walk home from work. About how the smell of Egusi soup and goat meat reminds me of my mother's food. Reminds me of what I might never get again—and even if I do, it'll take a long time to happen.
A wise woman once told me to write it all out. "It hurts you, Rachael. I know that much. So, write it out. Let all your pain be transformed into words on paper." So I wrote a 300-page book about missing home and leaving home and knowing that you'll forever be a wanderer with no constant place to call home.
And when I felt I had written out every shred of memories that sliced through me on days I can't get out of bed, I deleted the document. I didn't want to read it again, and I certainly didn't want anyone reading it ever. It was so pure. Too raw. And as many people who have read my writings say: it was too honest. I didn't want to give anyone that power over me.
Today is Sunday and I'm on my way from Abuja to Uyo to see someone who has come to mean a lot to me over a short period. Over the weeks and days leading to leaving Abuja, I thought a lot about it. While I worked on dissertations and articles for the organizations I work for with Westlife playing in the background, I asked myself if it was worth it. Is going all the way to see someone you've not met before and who has come to mean a lot to you safe?
Think about the society we live in. Isn't that a great risk? But I realized that if I left Abuja after more than a year, I was going to be leaving because I want to tentatively check out the world again. Abuja has been like a safe bubble for me. Yes, I work and pay my bills (as any sane adult should). And yes, I live alone. But it was still a bubble. It had grown to be my comfort zone and I needed to step out of it.
"Great things are outside of your comfort zone."
Psychotherapy calls what I'm doing now "Exposure therapy." A process where you expose yourself to things, people and places that will trigger you so you have the opportunity to use the coping mechanisms therapy has taught you over the years.
Today, I am doing this. I am challenging myself. It might not mean a lot to you, but it does mean a lot to me. That I can do this. That I can be normal. That the birds always singing in my bloodstream cannot stop me from living life to its fullest. And more than that, being able to write this piece after months of recycling old pieces on Medium and focusing on work is a relief.
Thank you for sticking with me to the end. I don't know what the moral lesson here is, but I trust you to find it out.
Cheers!
