IBK’s JOURNAL (Entry 25)

June 15

When I started this journal, I was at a place where I was figuring out how to be a gay man in this homophobic country, and writing was a way of unraveling the mess that were my thoughts and rearranging them till they made sense. I didn’t mind baring as much as I dared to show; people’s input was invaluable because I believed in fresh perspectives and I felt someone else out there might feel the way I was feeling and maybe they wouldn’t feel alone and could learn too.

Then time went on. And I started to feel different about this journal. It started to be about being interesting. Unfortunately not everyone lives glamorous lives. It didn’t help that I felt I was being repetitive: mum troubles, relationships, exes, hating my course, exes…  And I didn’t like the way writing the journal made me feel. So I stopped.

I was hoping the journal would die a quiet death, but Pinky, being the story whore that he is, reminded me not-so-gently about it. And I tried to ignore. But a voice in the back of my head kept on saying, “Why not?”

So here I am, once again, attempting to write. Forgive me if I ramble.

There was a time I fancied myself a writer. Not so much anymore. Lol. Writing to me is a skillful art. It’s making music with words you read in paper. And for you to be a good writer, your words must evoke feeling. Writing isn’t just trotting out words. It’s developing a mood, an atmosphere in the brain. And that skill has eluded me for quite some time now.

When I try to write, all I get is a feeling of despair and uselessness. So after the fourth or fifth line, I stop, and then go about feeling depressed for a bit. But so far so good, one thing that hasn’t failed me (yet) is singing. I might not be able to belt out incredible keys like some people, but I am happy with the way my voice is – the texture, the ease and the feeling of the vibrations escaping my throat. It feels like my voice.

Then there’s my drawing. Selling art in Nigeria is. Not. Easy! Phew. It’s no surprise, but damn! Couple that with impostor syndrome – which I seem to have only for my drawing/painting skills – and you’ve got someone who is willing to sell work for ridiculously cheap prices, because, how dare he put such a huge profit margin on work he spent just a little over 6 hours to complete? In fact, I’ve stopped pushing to sell my art works. Instead I’m diverting them to T-shirts. Not everyone has the need to hang art on their walls, but surely everyone has to wear clothes. We will see how it goes.

I finished school. Ya boy is a doctor now! Whoop, whoop! Lol. Most of my mates were glad they had accomplished a goal. Me, I was glad it was all over. No more late night studying or tests or evil lecturers. But the problem was I would have to go home.

School had always been an excuse to stay away from home and be with my people. I have no friends in the place where I grew up. My childhood friends have settled nicely into that framework society has set up for the cis-het person, but I’m someone who isn’t interested in settling into that framework. So whenever I’m home, I just feel constantly out of place.

Then couple that with the fact that a few days after my induction, my mum was inviting me for a deliverance session at Mountain of Fire. Like, WTF! I told her no. I didn’t need deliverance and if at any point I felt like I needed one, she’d be the first to know. I think I handled that well.

So to avoid going home, I decided to look for work. To be honest, the work could be unpaid for all I cared and I’d be fine with it. Luckily my dad knew someone and I got a job as a “consultant” for farmers in a town close to the Benin border.

It’s boring out here. MTN network sucks and floats in and out of the two neighbour country’s signals. But it’s an hour away from my boyfriend, which is a nice comfort, and it’s two hours away from Lagos and four hours away from home.

The people I work with are your average Nigerian – full of misogyny and with no idea that the world is larger than the swimming pool of their minds. I mean, a woman was saying women couldn’t be presidents because they are too emotional. That she doesn’t even think there are any women presidents in the world.

But they are still pleasant in their own way. The woman I mentioned tells wonderful stories; the account manager is loud as fuck (he’s Yoruba; yes I know it’s stereotypical. Bite me), but he offers me food when he cooks at home; and I have a fellow vet doctor who is smarter more experienced than me. There’s usually no light but in the nights when I go out to buy bread with egg and suya, I can see the stars and familiar constellations and it’s nice (as long as I don’t get my foot in puddles from looking up).

I think this is all I’ve got for now. I don’t know how frequent this will be but it was actually kind of nice writing like this again. Till next time.

Written by IBK