Life in Motion: The middle middle-age guide to sleeping on couches, raging in houses and longing

 Hello! Hi!… I'm sorry. I'm well aware that I just started this piece of word vomit the same way that unbelievably awful MC started your son's first birthday party. You know? The one that made you question your decision to spend thousands and thousands (maybe millions if you're a "bigs girls or bigs boys") for a boy who won’t remember; for a boy on the verge of the terrible twos and threes. Do not misunderstand me, they are terrible indeed. I'm not sure that they are terrible because they're actually that bad. I think they're terrible because of the sheer shock of it. You really didn't know that the little fellow you created lovingly (or maybe not that lovingly) was capable of flinging himself to the ground with all the savagery of a truly bereft widow; you certainly didn't realise that he was so loud. You might have thought that he was loud when he kept you awake for nights on end but you're wrong. You don't realise how loud he is until he starts screaming completely unprovoked and you feel the stares and whispers caressing the nape of your neck; the ones that make you feel like you're quite literally the worst parent in the history of the world. That's the moment you realise that your son has the pipes of an army general.

It should come as no surprise to you that this post isn't about children and how they should be raised. I would however recommend a firm hand and a strict disposition in all matters regarding mini humans. The spirit of mischief lives quite shallowly within them; it stirs at first opportunity. This post is about the  course on creativity I signed up for a few weeks ago. 

It, like most serious things started with an email. The email itself wasn't serious for it was sent by Mena. That's not to say that Mena isn't serious because that would be false. It's just that even emails with the heaviest material are written with touches lighter than a feather when they're between friends. And Mena and I are friends. We are unlikely friends. I will never reveal how it is that we became friends for my description of it would be odd. I'm generally terrible at "cute meet" friendship stories. The last time I tried to, it didn't go very well.

It was a typical warm evening at the Three Arms Hotel in Lagos when Manu asked me how it was that Adegbogbo/Adefineskirt became friends.

And that isn't a pseudonym. I generally tend to say Ade, then add any two syllables that strike my fancy. After a while it became clear that gbogbo and fineskirt were my syllables of choice. 

I said, "Well we both liked the same girl (you remember Frog don't you?). He was successful and I wasn't. While trying to figure out why she had rejected my advances and accepted his, we became possessed by a spirit of camaraderie." 

I was later informed that that explanation was rubbish, for no man should willingly admit defeat at the hands of another; even when he does, the admittance of defeat should be immediately followed by a declaration of hatred. But, as I Afam am not normal, it would be illogical to expect me to make friends in any manner that can be thought of as normal. 

Mena asked me if I would consider signing up for an online creativity course run by Stanford. While checking out the course I was overcome with such stupendous excitement that I had no choice but to sign up for it then and there. I informed Mena of my decision and she did the same. My first assignment was to design an autobiographical book cover and write a 300 word bio. This is what I came up with. 

I could tell you when it was and how it was that I was born, but I doubt that this would be an interesting enterprise for I was born the same way everyone else was born; on the same day as a multitude of others. It would be far more interesting for me to tell you of my formation; that is how it is that I am me, and not another.

I am 23. 23 is a good age. It is the middle of my middle age and the perfect time to go through a mid-mid life crisis. I am Nigerian, but I’m no longer sure what this means. I am black, but I’m not black the way many others are black; my blackness is unique because my experience of being black is singular. It irks me a little that life will never slow long enough for me to stop and admire the view.

True to the title, give me a couch and I’ll likely sleep on it, leave me alone in a house and I will fight with it, and I long. I long for new experiences, new faces, and new places. I long to transcend.

Happy Days,

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