“THE THING WITHIN THE HOLY BOOK” | FICTION

This was the worst dinner party ever.
Okay, it was more of a “send-forth” party, my mum organised everything. It was an adult version of a Nigerian party.She was proud of me – both my parents were. But I feel they were more thankful than proud. That’s what any parents should feel for any child who graduates from this hellhole without dangling on a ceiling.
Calm down, I’m not trying to ruin your mood.
I am at this party and you are in my head; listening to me tell you a story from someone with no filters.
Lord knows I have a story to tell. I’m not sure how gratifying it will be or whether it will hold a bit of an inspiration.
I don’t know, I don’t care.
I am not trying to be a role model to kids or to Nigerians like me or to young women in the world. I think there are just enough of those role models in the world. I’m not sure I am fit to be called one.
I am just me – a freaking hot mess.
Well, not enough of a hot mess if I got my parents, uncles and aunties eating Jollof rice and drinking Baron in clear wine glasses, talking about my second-class upper degree, our country’s economy. They are also giving me advice on how to handle my next phase as a Nigerian graduate – NYSC
My dad even brought out his black and white photographs of his time in Jos as a youth corper. When being a Nigerian was cool and he was government baby – eating breakfast for free and taking plane rides with less than #100.
Ugh…
I will smile through this dinner party because I know they all mean well. They love me, these weird loveable old people I call family. But really, I’m just not looking forward to leaving for camp and wearing those faux khaki uniform. But I am excited about something – something deeper that holds more meaning.
I still have not realized what the deeper meaning is though, perhaps when I’m done eating this jollof rice or when I finally finish packing my luggage. Then, I can tell you why leaving the shadows of my deadbeat university town reminds me of symbolism.
Or why moving to Lagos with absolutely nothing but a row of cool sneakers, a laptop and a speaker, a pen, my 15k followers on twitter and a wrap of weed stashed in the middle of the holy book (no one will search in there) mum gave me as a birthday gift reminds me of a metaphor.
I don’t have my name praised as a Nobel prize winner, neither am I a brilliant scholar or whatever. I just know I am leaving a life behind and starting a new one ahead.
.
Finally, the sun went down and all who were left in the house was my dad, my mum and I. We were sitting in the den at first before I left to finish packing my stuff.
I ran my hands through a souvenir – the last gift I received from my lover before leaving that hellhole as a graduate.
I chuckled because I still could not believe I survived seven years as an undergrad. That’s a wild story but I should leave it all behind, right?

Why do I feel like it is a story you would want to hear?
Mum’s voice echoed through the walls; she wanted me to come speak with my grandma. Grandma wants to pray for me before leaving.
I told her I was coming.
“Bring your Bible along… the one I bought for you. Dahun!” Mum yelled.

Oops…

Written by Blackprowriter.

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blackprowriter

If you came from suzanwrites, Welcome! Susanah Ajiboye was born and raised in Osogbo, Osun state. It took her years to finally discover her full potential as a writer. Now, she knows she understand you can use words and visuals to tell powerful stories that can make a differences. And that is what she is doing, one post at a time.

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