Jibola is a wizard with the words. I hadn’t read something from him for a long while before this so… you can imagine my delight when he indicated interest. Without further ado…
I’m staring down this mug of Sidamo and I can see how today is going to go for me. I am no diviner. But I seem to have a preternatural sense for the patterns in the ether. I’m bleary eyed, and can’t afford to sleep. I know I’m going to need to plumb from the endless depths of energy the Universe has just to get through today (of all days.)
Don’t yawn yet. Stay with me.
So I should take a sip of this coffee, but I can’t. Not today. Caffeine and my body (when tired) are Chris Brown and Rihanna. It never ends well. I’m having this mini debate with myself then my phone lights up (no vibe, no sound).
“Hi bruh. Sorry I forgot to give you a heads up earlier. You’re up on #30DaysOfHope today. Can I get ur entry before 10am?”
Wait, shit. Am I allowed to cuss here?
IDK. I’m in a reflective mood. I wonder at this situation and how it is a metaphor for my life. You see, I’d committed earlier in the year to doing it and totally forgot. It’s almost over and I haven’t written a word.
I put my coffee woes aside, and got right to it:
The lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places, yes I have a goodly heritage.
(Yes, you might be shocked that Lucifer himself lifts a quote from the bible, nut then, doesn’t that fit the stereotype? Remember Matthew 4:6)
If you’ve been listening to public opinion, you’d be perplexed as to why anvils and pianos aren’t falling unto me in sensitive places. I honestly don’t know, myself. I just know I’m undeserving and I’m grateful nonetheless. I also know I wont jinx it by likening myself to King David.
This year is good to me, and I see myself doing more.
Write more. I’m writing more. I’m not writing 100 drafts and chucking them in the dustbin. Every little thing I write, I’m getting right at the first try. And I’m not hoarding or limiting myself anymore. I’m sharing it.
Give more. Somehow, I let cynicism take the place of a generous giving heart. I’m taking that back. Much has been given to me in every area of my life and I am not ungrateful.
Be more reachable. SHOCKER, I know. I realize that being able to be reached on my own terms has its perks. But it also does harm in alienating the people I love. So I’m returning all my missed calls, replying all my messages and taking up invitations to hang-out.
Lord! What is happening? I just felt the air rush out of the room! Hah!
I’ll care more about what the grapevine says about me. I mean like who am I to just ignore the whispers of people lacking the balls to step up to me and say shit. KIDDING. Lord, I need sleep. See now, I’ve started typing rubbish.
I’ll just end it with this. I don’t know who you are. I promise you I’m not collecting an offering after this.
I just feel the need to share of the bread of hope that was shared with me in the darkest of times. Hold on. I’m not asking you to be strong. Just hold on (we’re goween home). I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.
Really though. Hold on. I won’t promise you light at the end of the tunnel or blue skies and puff-puff. What I can promise you is that holding on will be worth it. Look, don’t listen to me because I’m that guy everybody says is Toxic (I can’t help myself, I need sleep!). But never give up hope.
Hope is that last juice in your blackberry that carries you to the next place you can charge your phone. Hope is the last N200 in your pocket to make soup with. It is the last cup of garri the night before Sallah and your neighbors show up in the morning with a feast.
Hope is also an Igbo girl (and a Kogi girl, and a Calabar girl) but you get the idea.
Peas, love and agbalumo!
Jibola (the only non-counterfeit one, duh)