A Memoir About The Things Happening Now

May 26 - June 3,

The frustrating thing about living through history is that it is difficult to fully live in it, to control it, to pursue it, to put a bookmark in the history textbook so that one might reflect, understand, theorize, and predict. No, that doesn't happen, not in times like these, times I never thought I would live to see. The names, George Floyd, Ahmad, Breonna, Uwa, Tina, they swirl in my mind, pricking my heart, demanding my attention.

Is it necessary for me to even write. Something deep down within me tells me it is. That's why I picked up a pen; that's why I am writing right now. Yet, I do not know what to say. What do I say? What do I focus on? I remember how at the beginning of this year, I told myself I would reflect at the end, with the assumption that it would be uneventful, an easily forgettable continuation of my college career as I moved into my junior year. Yet, it has been eventful, too eventful. So much has happened and keeps on happening; sensational events keep on sucker punching me that I have not had the chance to breathe. Those were his last words actually, George Floyd's, that he couldn't breathe.

I have cried approximately twice in the past week, a bad time to be black, Nigerian, and a woman, all at the same time. Although, it seems, as the world continues to show us, it's always a bad time to be those groups of people. I'm sorry I can't seem to focus on one line of thought. But that's just a reflection of where my mind is at right now, or more precisely where it's not.

However, in an attempt to get back on track, in addition to crying, I have also restrained myself from crying on every other occasion. I have abused my mental health by consuming absurd amounts of social media in order to assuage my need to stay up to date with the news. I have argued with my friends. I have told them I love them. I have video-called my family in Nigeria in order to feel some sort of anchor on my life, which, at this time more than ever, feels weightless, irrelevant, unreal... I have started conversations I never thought I would start with people I never thought I would have them with. I have done a photo shoot. I have done a lot of things except really sit down to come to terms with what I'm truly feeling. I have also prayed, although I must be honest when I say God feels quite far away at the moment.

Something I saw someone do on Instagram was create a bullet list of their emotions. It started off slow, but they eventually got there, to the crux of the matter, to the core of their pain...I will attempt to do that:

1. I became accustomed, quite early on in my childhood, with the fact that my country and the wider world did not care about me, and would actually go out of their way to provide my life's journey with seemingly insurmountable barriers. I have, therefore, always believed that I would need to struggle in everything in order to succeed.

2. I have never thought my voice mattered to anyone but myself. I never, and am still yet to realize that there are certain institutions put in place in order for my voice to be heard, such as governments and its constituents. Such institutions always represented to me my bondage and limitations.

3. Tragic events, such as George Floyd's death, the rape and death of Uwa, the murder of Tina, and many more, continually illuminate the sad history of my lineage; a history I am infinitely curious about, but still so frightened to know.

4. Sometimes, I wonder if I am damaged, if every black person all over the world is damaged. What does it do to us to see ourselves being dehumanized, disregarded, oppressed, and brushed aside by everyone, including ourselves.

5. Sometimes, I lose hope. But sometimes, I have too much of it.

6. I am hungry to do something. I guess that's why I write even though I know no-one is reading. But I want to do more. I want to do some revolutionary, reconstruction, permanent, change... stuff. I don't...

7. I don't want to raise children in the world I grew up. I know the world can never be perfect, but it would be nice to not have to raise my children with the mentality that life would always be a battle for them, solely because of their race and nationality. It would be nice to not have to restrict their freedom for their survival. It would be nice to not have to send them away to another man's country for 'opportunity' at the expense of their identity. It would also be nice that when I do send them over, I don't have to pray that they do not experience racism and even if they do, that it's not the type that costs them their life. It would all be very nice.

8. I want to be the change that I believe in. I have dreams about it. It's just that's it's really hard to connect my dreams to reality.

9. I want my life to mean something so that other black people; other black, Nigerian people; other black, African people; other black, African women and girls' lives can mean something too. My life should mean something; my life should matter. And it does. It matters because black lives matters, regardless of the reality that tells us otherwise.

10. I believe I will stop here for now, not because I really reached my crux, but because I have no more words right now. I need some rest, and I need time to distance myself from this week in order that I think clearly. However, this was a start. And that's okay because these are not conversations I can finish in only ten bullet points. These are conversations I have been having my entire life and will continue to do so for a long time coming it seems. They represent integral parts of my identity, albeit, the parts that tire me the most.