This is Embarrassing
Home feels different
It is reaching me that I have red flags. Not the funny kind you joke about with romantic partners. Am I truly selfish? Blind to my indifference? Is this really who I am? Have I looked out for myself to the point of being unable to truly see what’s in front of me? Sometimes I act out of character, acting like someone I think I am rather than who I really am. Why did I transgress against myself? Why do I feel so terrible now? Is this even the story I want to write to you today? Maybe not. I am still processing.
Too much time has passed since I last wrote to you. Too many things have happened.
Partly it is burnout. But partly it is something else. When I haven’t done something I truly enjoy for so long, trying to start again feels a little like fraud. Writing to you feels fraudulent. I feel embarrassed.
Do you still want to hear from me? Did you miss me? Insecurity seeps out.
Would I still want to hear from me if I were in your shoes?
Hi, how are you doing?
How has life been? Do you feel right within yourself? Have you gotten a hug recently? A kiss, maybe? Some love? I hope so.
I’ve been in Lagos for nine hot days. The heat here was not warm like a hug, the way I had imagined it since buying my ticket back in February. It slapped me, a reminder that I was living a fantasy. I arrived so excited, picturing what to do, where to go, who to meet; but I’ve mostly spent my time sleeping at home.
I am tired. There is always so much to be done. How did I drive myself here? Some days I just want to exist at the barest minimum. I don’t want to work and work and work. I want to frolic, design clothes once a year, for fun, film videos occasionally, for fun. I’ve managed to turn my passions into work. Some days that is wonderful. Days like this, it tastes like salt in my mouth.
I am burnt out. And yet, maybe it is a privilege to feel this way doing the things I love. Generations of women before me never had these chances. When people ask me what I am thankful for, what I am grateful for, I say freedom. Partly, this is what I mean.
Home feels different
Too many things have shocked me since I came home. At the top of the list: a pencil now costs 100 naira. I used to buy one for 5 naira. It’s been so long since I last bought a pencil that the difference hit me sharply. Of course, for it to be 100 naira now, it must have passed through 10, 20, 50 naira along the way. A razor blade is also 100 naira.
Last night, while trying to order groceries on Chowdeck, I saw a tiny bag of Maltesers for 2200 naira. Absurd, yet I realized it is a privileged problem, to grumble about the price of Maltesers and still buy it.
When I moved to Canada, I used to convert everything to naira and be in shock. Now, back in Lagos, I reverse-convert. 2200 naira is still shocking, but that is just about 2 dollars. It won’t kill me. Yet, when the orange juice that once cost 500 naira now costs 1500, my system still jolts.
Another difference is the respect I receive in certain scenarios: the kneeling, the “ma,” the obeisance, all because people assume I must have money. Coming back after traveling abroad, you feel different, and everyone can tell. There is a perception that because I have more money, I am deserving of respect.
It worries me. Mostly, it is older people showing this deference. As a Yoruba woman with an age gap, I know I should be the one showing respect, calling them “ma” or “sir.” Instead, I have to perform: “Ah, I am not ma o. Please don’t call me ma.”
From a Nigerian perspective, I get it, but it still bothers me. Why is wealth such a defining factor in how we carry ourselves? Why can’t we just be who we are? Have rich people historically treated the less fortunate with such horror that this became learned behavior? Perhaps.
This is what lingers in my mind this morning, before I brush my teeth, before I force myself out of this funk, before I remind myself to film, to work, to do so much that still needs doing.
I always say I never really write unless I am feeling a little gloomy, which is part of why I haven’t written to you in a while. I’ve been well mentally. I hope you’ve been well too. I’m sending you a ton of love.
I’m on holiday from my 9–5. Maybe I’ll write more now that I have some mental space. If you see me around Lagos, come give me a big ass hug. Come say hello!
Much love,
Hamda