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.
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.
Written by Blackprowriter.
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