The short passage at the end of this post has been stuck in the notes section of my Iphone for a little over 5 years now. Why? I was waiting to capture the right image that would best flow with the words, while not taking away from the real muse, the words. I don’t typically go into detail about the stories surrounding my wordings, my unrefined voice; but, wells have such a profound and deep connection to my soul that I would be doing an injustice by not starting here. Though I had seen a good number of wells since this was penned down, the right situation for capture just took it’s good time presenting itself. In such situations, I’ve learnt to savor the wait, consider it part of my action plan, and surrender to the universe’s rythmn.

The girl’s hostel had a well. Well, when I started going to school there, it was more of a waste disposal “hole”. It made no sense, but girls would sit by that well, gossiping, doing laundry, just being, and would find the need to throw waste into a deep dark hole. Of course I was also guilty. I remember throwing in a biscuit wrapper. It felt harmless at the time, but little did I know the universe was preparing a lesson; you will always return to repair that which you have destroyed.

 

”The drought, as I’m sure we all know, always comes; the necessity
in measure of action, is determined by its rage”   SON

 

And so, a literal drought came, and we had no water. It may sound a little unbelievable now (or not if you understand the way a country like Nigeria functions), since this was the kind of thing that happened in the news or in the movies. But here it was, happening in a compound housing children whose parents were mostly middle income earners and could most likely afford trailer loads of “pure water” (water packed in sachets, pureness undetermined) daily. My thinking in those days was that “money” controlled things like thirst, even hunger; but when it really comes down to it, poverty has no effect on a stream that flows. Realistically (in support of my secondary school aged mind), humans have made it so.

Going to a boarding military school was my choice, at first. It was mostly about proving a point that I could do anything. In the present (now the past) I completely hated living the experience. But years later, every time I sit on my bed, unpacking those experiences, it dawns on me how lucky I had been. Lucky to truly experience an unadulterated environment, one in which people were not afraid to expose their true savage, an effect I was not immune to.

So a drought came, and a female came to our rescue. Yes other females helped, but Amara (this is a very common name, so wondering if this data can pass as de-identified, hehe) undoubtedly did 80-90% of the work. It was her strength that forged the others who assisted; her spark carried the circuit. She started with a bucket that had a long rope tied to it’s handle. She continuously dipped the bucket in the well, fetching filth after filth, till it was all gone. There were objects too big or weirdly shaped to fit the bucket. She’d climb into the well and remove them with her physical momentum. I still have a clear picture of her emerging from that deep hole, one labelled as heroine in the catalog of my mind (and no, her hair was not dripping in water ,and there was no dramatic flip. It was actually a lot more intense). Something was ruined, but now this infinite feminine energy had made it pure. My astonishment was one overshadowed, as the gaps in my mind wondered what this man-made dark hole could have been if it had not been made by man, but left in its natural form. And since that day, every time I saw a well, I’d try to imagine its joy, its life before it was “made”

I once held laughs and love and saw the sun
Now I am a well, dark and deep
Holding tears that never run dry
Hoping the next person who comes with a pale
Does not forget to fetch some pain as well.

Did you know a tree that’s dead inside (sometimes termed “zombie trees” these trees are dead, but still look alive on the outside) is more likely to fall? I only know this because I did some digging after meeting an individual who got smacked by the tree in her backyard. There was a storm, and she heard a noise which she came out to inspect (horror movies and now life have taught me to stay away from loud/scary sounds!!!). During this inspection, the said tree fell on her, giving her a mild concussion and some bruises. She was lucky she wasn’t hurt more than that. But hear this, the chances of being struck by lightning are higher than the chances of getting struck by a falling tree; go figure.

It’s always intriguing, this vast interconnectedness of our world and the things inhabiting it, how other living things are more or less just like us. So from now, I will not forget to pray for fullness and stability of soul when my intention is to stand strong.

Without proper skill it may be a hassle to get her going

But once lit, her passion is undeniable

And her light… consuming

Accused of being wild, yet her confines remain uncrossed unless a path is forged

You see, she is not too different from you and I

Though able to soar, her flight is not unguided

And though able to hold her breath, she will die without oxygen

She is chained to her dreams, but wise enough to know that death will always be

the competition

Attached to the desire for warmth, for togetherness, yet attuned to the undeniable

clarity of solitude

She is aware of her volatility and carries somewhat of a precautious flare in her step

Knowing that the kind of damage she causes is usually permanent

Even the ashes and dust left behind eventually journey away in the wind

In her full potential, she shines

But she is practical and understands the blinding glare far too well

So sometimes, most times, unless alone, the thermostat is set to “tolerable”

In this role, she had mastered the slow simmer

In this role, she knew love.

You’ve shot the love out of me
and as it drains through this bullet hole
I can’t help but feel like all you’ve done is caused an out pouring.
Now all I can give is love,
even when I desperately want to give hate.
All I can do is laugh,
even when I am reminded the truth of our aloofness.
I thought it would be just blood and pain through this bullet wound,
Oh, how wrong I was…

“Power changes everything till it is difficult to say who are the heroes and who the villains.”
Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle, #3)

Growing up in Nigeria, a good percentage of children ended up going to boarding school so it was nothing atypical. Yes, I cried every time I had to go back for a new term, only time I didn’t cry was on my way back to prom and graduation. But still, nothing atypical. The system adapted in the secondary school I attended was very close to the military system (double bang for your buck). Technically, a private school owned by the airforce, who at the time owned (still own) other secondary  schools in the country. Most were termed “comprehensive” and the rest were “military”. Even though the curriculum for “comprehensive” students differed from the military route, a lot of military traditions were adapted. Both were run by the military with majority of its staff military. That being said, the practice of “seniority” and “respect” was a big part of the system.

As long as an Individual belonged to one or more school year(s) ahead of yours, you owed that person “respect” and they were no compromises. In most schools, people within 2-3 years of your school year were not allowed to flex much muscle, but here, an individual years younger, who’s in one class year ahead, could beckon for a “junior” to go find fossil evidence of the existence of dinosaurs, and they’d go searching with their hoe and rubber boots, while praying to the gods they either found proof or something physically dis enabled them from doing so. I didn’t have the worst experiences, but, to be in such an environment meant that everyone had a story. Scenarios where humans acted like villains in comic books, except, real blood is wet.

My younger self found  the idea of nose bleeds terrifying. The face just seemed like a delicate place and the idea of anything bleeding from there rightfully seemed like an emergency. I’ve had 2 nose  bleeds in my life, both in the same year, but widely spaced apart, both happening on school soil.

The 1st time, a book was being thrown across the room and my face was in the way. Even though the impact was hard enough I was sure something was broken or bruised, I was still in shock when I discovered drops of blood on the bright blue fabric of my friend’s uniform whom I was standing over. The thrower meant to pass the book to another student who happened to be standing even farther than I was, at least 10 feet more, so the manner in which the projection of that book and the wrist fling was calculated, and thought capable of making that shot, is part of my general perplexion with the human race.

The 2nd time was while I was “kunckling”. A popular punishment which consisted of holding both palms together while criss crossing each finger between the webs to the opposite hand, like making a big fist with both hands. You’d then attain a “press up” position, then just proceed to remain in a plank like position. This punishment can be dished in 2 different variations: Just remaining in a plank position OR doing actual press ups while in this position. Fun right? A senior 3 classes ahead of me had found my audacity to report another senior 2 classes ahead for unjust treatment appalling, and in these kind of situations, you’d have to be reminded your place in the hierarchy. Thinking back I probably should have handled the situation differently, in terms of thinking the supposed “higher authority” I reported the incident to would take the necessary actions. The programming to not fight back because it’s usually useless begins. I don’t know how long I was there, my brain was too busy interpreting pain to keep track.  All I remember is that by the time red wet dots started to mount the cement floor, there was no energy for alarm, I was actually relived. I knew she’d be more bothered by the mess, there’d be no way she’d risk having stains all over her floor. I’d been saved, by my own blood.

A love never questioned
like the scent that lingers
when the bearer has left
I feel it even now you’re far
To have been in this presence
the cup over pouring
bottle never running dry
Has to a large extent
despite the background static
Placed unimaginable beauty in my life.
It may be true that the bottle is now empty
But the cup sits
Savoring every bit of its fullness
Never forgetting the beautiful surrender of drowning.

We recently had a little ant problem in the kitchen. If  I was any sort of animal raiding a home the kitchen would definitely be the top destination so I get it. But humans, like most other animals, are territorial. I don’t blame humans, it’s not as easy as mapping out a plot of land and urinating on all corners. The human way requires money, and money requires work, long long years of it. Now I can’t help but wonder how much better off we’d be, if marking our homes only required putting bladders at ease.

I digress. So to tackle our ant problem, some sugar was mixed in liquid ant killer and set on the counters. The words “Ant Killer” were also inscribed on small pieces of paper to mark the spot where the puddles had been left. After a few minutes there were long cues of ants at different stations. Words staring them cold, none the less eagerly waiting to gobble their last meal. As I watched I wondered how many times I might have stepped past unfamiliar warning signs. Even scarier, how many times the trap appeared sweet.

I was honored to receive a mini lecture on all things female anatomy from a brilliant OB/GYN Oncologist with numerous papers and even a textbook chapter to his name. During this lecture we of course veered to breast cancer and touched on the genetic aspect.

For those of you who haven’t heard about the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene, these genes are involved in making a tumor suppressor protein and repairing DNA. Tumor suppressor proteins stop cells from growing and dividing too fast (and cancer is as a result of a single cell excessively dividing and growing). Mutations in these genes are associated with multiple/ early onset breast and ovarian cancer. For this reason, females with a strong family history of breast cancer will usually get tested for mutations on these genes. If present a good number opt for prophylactic mastectomies and oophorectomies.

It’s technically impossible for someone with no gene mutations that would let their cells excessively divide/grow to have cancer. Our bodies are living representations of our genetic makeup. They’re people who cannot contract HIV because they have specific gene mutations. An individual who eats healthy and exercises can die from a heart attack at 35 years just because they’re genes decide they won’t break down the bad cholesterol. Basically your genes set you up for disaster or in some cases for success.

It carries some level of gloom for me, thinking that our lives are already figured out before we are born. Our genes have decided what we will be vulnerable to and what we will stand against. It has done all the bidding for us but here we are thinking we have strings to pull. Again it’s interesting to view the fact that what works for person A may not (should not)work for person B. But even in that sense, what’s the balancing point for the people on the disadvantaged side. If an individual does all the supposed right things and still gets cancer or heart disease (which happens often enough), what could have been done differently? Is our perspective of right just skewed? Or maybe, I have no say over what each journey should resemble.