Friday, 4 April 2014
I have been
negligent. Incredibly so. I am sorry. Please forgive. Done? Phew,
thanks. So it has been a few couple of months. What has happened since
then? I got a job – and almost as quickly un-got the job – in HIV/AIDS for
African and Black Caribbean women who had been newly diagnosed with the virus.
What happened was that the looming visa expiration date meant I couldn’t
flourish in this job as much as I had planned to. Overstaying my welcome,
of course, was utterly out of the question. But, it’s all good though. I learnt
what I could within the awfully short duration, and carried my kaya back to
Nigeria.
So, my boy and I have been home for a little over two months. It was
punishingly hot the first two months. It’s either I am acclimatizing or the
rains are finally doing their job. I’m not going to forget those scourging days
though. Ah! If you know much I pitied folks closer to the Sahara. Then again,
Arabs have no wahala. Dem sabi use dem oil money well. Their streets are
probably air-conditioned. Lagos, on the other hand, is so humid it makes you
want to kill yourself. When you know factor in the lack of steady electricity
from PHCN, it is tough to keep having a will to live. I didn’t cook the first
three weeks. I just couldn’t stand the heat from the poor ventilated kitchen –
hmm, don’t get me started about how poorly our houses here are built.
Anyway, enough of my whining. Oh, sad news though. Una remember all
those my gragra I been dey do to get a PhD admission? Well, none of am worked.
Rejections, rejections, rejections – the motherfucking bane of my life. I am okay
now. I took time to mourn (lol) and now I am duly wearing my big girl pants, ready
to face the world. The unsuccessful PhD applications presented an issue for me
– my family. Where do I seek employment? Being in development and public
health, Abuja or Northern Nigeria was the place to be. Truly, when I was coming
back to Nigeria, I was all set to relocate to Abuja. I was like, I will a job
ASAP (hehehehehehe. Well, one can dream) and I will leave bomboy with him papa
in Lagos. That was the deal – the blueprint. MM no fight me. He don tire. You
can’t chain a woman to yourself, after all. Within a month of our homecoming, I
began rethinking the thing. My kid is still very young, at an impressionable
stage in life. I have a lot of job to do in moulding him into the man he’d become,
and these early years count so much. Could I really leave him behinda? Perhaps
only see him two weekends a month? I could live with seeing my husband
infrequently – he is a big boy, he can take care of himself. But my kid, well
that na another story.
I remember having a conversation with a friend where I told him that
while I might struggle with sacrificing for my husband, with my son it is different.
I drop things for him at a heartbeat. Not like I live my life for him oh, or
have he dictates my every step. But, say with MM for instance, I don’t fret
about things like “another woman will take over my home,” or “mister man will
look outside.” For me, it’s like I married an adult. He has the thinking
faculties intact; he is very capable of deliberating for himself what is right.
If chooking around is his idea of what would exponentially increase his quality
of life, eh what else can I say? I no go hol’ am for leg saying, “lailai, you
can’t try it!” If you ask me, I would say that I am more inclined to shift
ground, so he can get the maximum opportunity to exercise himself without
having the need to explain jack to me. But my child, well I owe him. I feel a stronger
sense of responsibility towards him. For one thing, the boy is at an age where
he really really needs me. Above all, even if I fail at everything else, I
don’t want to fail at being a mother.
This brings me to a topic that I care very deeply about. Last year, if
you guys would remember, I blogged about seeking the services of both a
psychologist and a psychiatrist. At the time I told her about making the
appointment, my mom was flabbergasted. She couldn’t understand why I would want
to do such a thing as that. She said, “ikwuwala ara?” Translation, are you
going insane now? I wasn’t. Sure, the dissertation presented one of the most
challenging times for me (oh, by the way, I scored a distinction!!! Original
& primary research at that too! Very proud of myself). I had a near mental
breakdown. I have blogged about my depression episodes, so you kind of have an
idea that I did have a longstanding issue before now. Also, living with my
mother wasn’t a walk in the park. It was emotionally torturous for me at times,
but I shan’t be blogging about that!
During the sessions with the shrinks, I talked about my childhood. I
talked about my issues with my mother (precisely how she appears to strive on
making me feel inadequate and how I was tired to trying to please her, because
I never could). I talked about my dad, our lack of relationship, and the
conscientious decision I had taken to keep him at arm’s length because I felt
wounded by him again and again. I talked about how it was always at the back of
my head that I wouldn’t amount to much in life, because it seemed my parents
had decided that for me. Like they had looked into my future and seen it, and
it was just what it was. And how my entire life seems to be about proving them
wrong, yet believing that they really are right. And how tiring it all was.
The professionals thought my depression episodes were my body’s way to
shutting down. Of recouping all the energy I was burning constantly being
anxious that I was racing again a fate that had been signed, sealed and delivered
a long time ago. I didn’t believe them at first. I wanted a name for what was
wrong with me. Bipolar disorder? Anxiety disorder? Whatever, just give it a
name! So I could go onto the internet, google and google and google, make it
another project, conquer it. But they wouldn’t do it. The best I got was
‘unexplained depression’. But the worst part of the consultations was their
diagnoses. They said I was making myself depressive. And even when I wasn’t
depressed, I would expect it. That it was comforting to me to have the
episodes, because then I could tick it off and wait for the next one. It had
angered me, but today, I believe they were quite right.
I haven’t had any episode since the last consultation. I am not saying I
haven’t felt down. Those PhD rejections hit me really hard, particularly
because it was followed immediately by a rejection for a job interview. But the
difference is, there was a departure from my usual way of interpreting it as
“You see! Deep down, you always knew all these were a futile effort at any rate,
didn’t you?” instead, I spent many days reminding myself that I am a resilient
person. I get knocked down, I mourn, and then I get up again and keep going.
Some day I shall get that career success that appears out of reach right now.
That seems so far off, and me way down the ladder competing with people that
already have one leg in, or who have had better opportunities, or are smarter. I
know sha that some day I shall remember this phase the same way I remember the
time when I earned N25,000 as a monthly salary.
Bottom line, I am gaining a healthier perspective about my life. I am
putting my son at the forefront of it, because I felt my parents quite damaged
me. I keep reminding myself that that I didn’t have much of a family life
growing up doesn’t mean I can’t aspire to have one, and hold onto it now that by
some miracle I have it. I am very grateful for MM. He understands I am not
exactly a whole person. That I bear deep scars that flame up at times, and that
it clouds my vision. Presently, I am working on marketing myself as a public
health and development consultant now. I am going to have to put in some work,
get out of my shell, network and all. See how much crumbs I can get while I try
to dent the ground I walk on.
Ciao!
P.S: If you are into public
health or international development, join me on my other twitter account
@MsUzoaru
