10 Days to 30 Years (Day 1)

I wake up late, by 8 a.m., as I have done in recent weeks.

It is a cycle of depression; I press my phone, stare at the screen, go on Facebook, hate myself for the addiction, check my mail, go to the spam folder hoping to see a message there saying I got the job (no such luck), I learn a little French from an App, watch a movie on my phone, chat with a friend, and by the time I do all these, repeating them two or three times, it is past 3 a.m. I grudgingly go to sleep, wondering where the time is running to, then I wake up late feeling like there is sand under my eyelids, and stare at the ceiling as I take in the sounds of the Lagos State commute system, with the conductors shouting at the top of their lungs.

This morning, I talk to myself, telling myself that it is too early for anyone to be shouting, too early. I also tell myself to stop being an enemy of progress as it’s no one’s fault if I’m not a morning person. The men were only doing their jobs, and since it involved them shouting, let them shout.

I mumble something close to a prayer, “Daddy, thank you for another day. Help me please you today.” I say this as I get off the bed and frowned at the rotating metal which calls itself a ceiling fan but was useless as far as I am concerned. It rotates alright, but the effect of its rotation cannot be felt.

“It is a new week,” something whispers in my ear.

Oh no! That makes my birthday ten days away, my thirtieth birthday; the big Three-O. I am not really looking forward to turning thirty, though I am looking forward to and want to grow old.

I have no steady income source, I have no serious relationship, and I still live with my mother. I wish the birthday could hold off for a while and give me time to get to a point where I am proud of my achievements.

I go to the kitchen and warm the food. I take mine and go back to my hole which serves as my room until my sister returned from school for holiday… then it became hers.

I pick up my phone and check for messages, likes or comments.

The whole world freezes to a millisecond before a mentally slap myself back to consciousness; there is a WhatsApp message from the love of my life, he added me to a group and hopes I am fine with it. I ignore him and check the group. It could help me get closer to God, so I shrug at it, let’s see how it goes.

I didn’t use to believe in the phrase ‘love of my life’ until I saw a seasonal movie (Hart of Dixie), everyone there had loves of their lives, but they didn’t all end up with their loves; a strange and disturbingly annoying something.

I go back to the message from the love of my life, his number is no longer saved on my phone but only amnesia can erase it from my memory.

“I added you to a group, hope you don’t mind,” the message says.

Simple and straight to the point, but the voices start.

“If he really has a girlfriend, why won’t he just leave you alone? I think he is still interested in you.”
The other voice beats me to a reply. “No, he is not! You both have always enjoyed spiritual things. He is just trying to be a friend.”

“Yes, so he can…”

I delete the message and end the discussion. I don’t have time for this.

Pixabay

It’s been five years for Chris’ sake! One would think I would have gotten over him by now, but what can I say, he is the love of my life.

I put on my laptop, I should write something, anything. I can’t call myself a writer if I have not written anything for over a week.

Instead of clicking on the word processor, my hand goes to Zuma. Well, at least I am doing something. I play Zuma for about an hour, then I take my bath. I go back to my phone, all the while reminding myself how useless and unproductive I feel.

“You have zero naira in your account,” I say. “You need to write if you really want money!”

“No, that is not true. I have thirty-five naira in my account, and I will survive,” I reply.

“Hello human being,” a friend’s chat comes up, interrupting my discussion with myself. How rude of him!

“Hello,” I reply and we chat for a while, where I tell him how depressed I am. He suggests I change my routine.

“I will try,” I say, knowing I will do nothing of such. It was too much work.

I don’t know how, but before I know it, it’s evening. I get out of my hole to boil rice for dinner. After dinner, I go back to my hole, to stare at my laptop again.

I go deeper into depression when it occurs to me that PHCN has been kind with their release of power. It was not so steady, but far better than usual, and so I have no excuse for not writing.

I am wondering where I could run to in order to avoid myself when I remember that I am supposed to have received a credit alert. I needed the antidepressant.

“Should I send my account details?” I ask via WhatsApp, going straight to the point.

“Yes please,” an almost immediate reply comes.

I send the details, just as swiftly.

Feeling strangely proud of myself, I learn French and watch videos online.

I chat a little with my friend again, and we share ghost stories until he has to go to bed, as he has work the next day. I say my goodbyes and go back to staring at my computer screen for a while before I switch it off and go back to my phone.

By the time I look off the screen to the time on my phone, I see that it is past 3 a.m.

Oh no! I was supposed to go to bed by 10 p.m.!

Yeah right!

I tell myself it is time to sleep, and I remember to pray so I don’t see strange things from the ghost stories I heard.

I sleep off devising ways to make three thousand naira last for about two months, by then I should be out of depression.

The three thousand naira I was still expecting.

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Written by me, previously published here