THE STORIES WE EMBODY

The pre-eminence about being a writer asides from individual storytelling is the ability to tell collective stories, singular stories till they become mantras, and to borrow the stories of others that we encounter.

Today, I want to share the story of a woman I met in a restroom in a city I visited recently over the last couple of weeks. As she sat there collecting payment in coins before access was given to the restroom, she spoke French to me. Of course, I understood nothing until she spoke in English saying “close the door.”

Until that moment I never paid her much mind. When I had my attention turned to her, I realized the dignity with which she carried herself almost as though she believed she was doing important work. Please do not misunderstand me, my point is not that there is no dignity to be found in what she was doing but rather that she embodied dignity and in turn elevated her position.

The aura I got from her was almost akin to elitism she may as well have been in a dainty English coffee shop waiting for her friend to join her for their weekly lunch. I was impressed.

I share the story of a young woman who have had to spend an entire summer looking out of hospital window wondering where she wants to spend her next summer and probably if she’d ever get to.

I share the story of a young lady who got married to her first boyfriend. I shine light on individuals who have gone through so many disappointments in relationships and are now resigned to singlehood.

I share the stories of young men who have lost their manhood because they never even had a representation of fatherhood and actually literally, lost their manhood. I share the story of empaths who keep empathizing with their abusers because they believe they are a “work in progress” even as they dry their eyes from the “shege” (this word cannot be translated in English, ask a Nigerian) they have been experiencing.

I shine the spotlight on lonely souls walking through foreign cities staring into the eyes of strangers, with no family to boast about but making families of friends. I shine the spotlight on individuals betrayed by friends and thrust into the cold hands of strangers by the warm assurance of friendship.

I share the stories of mothers who have been separated from their families in search of greener pastures. I share the stories of girls and boys orphaned too soon that they have to make their way alone and through grit in a dark world. I share the stories of young girls suffering under the fingering ministrations of hunting predators, and young boys test-running the hidden places of older women who offered them false promises of sweet delicacies.

I share the stories of individuals who watched as the first slaves were flogged, and “worked.” The first task masters how they must have relished or despised their work. I shine the spotlight on individuals who wake up every day defending a country that promises them nothing in return.

I share the stories of individuals who started a regular day but ended up holding the hands of strangers under rubble. Individuals who went to school but never got to finish because they became refugees. Women promised better lives but were lured into journeys too far gone to back away from.

I share the story of individuals who had to rebuild cities where atrocious acts were performed against humanity by humans. The individuals who expect to die but somehow wake up each day to push through yet another day they do not want to experience.

I share the stories of optimists who wake up each day hanging on to the hope of yet a better tomorrow. I share the story of an old man in a remote village with no more friends to boast of but eagerly waiting for the reunion on the other side.

The story of separated lovers hanging on to the memories that bring bittersweet feelings. I share the story of an overworked entrepreneur too strained to appreciate the money rolling in. I shine light on the new criminal recruit who is going to be holding his first gun tonight or in the nearest future hoping he has no cause to use it.

I share the stories of women who do not like motherhood but are forced to put on the loving face of enjoyment as such sacrilege is unheard of. I share the stories of women who want to be mothers but cannot from choice or otherwise.

I share the story of tired people who cannot rest their way to strength because the weariness has sipped into their souls. I share the story of people who wake up just for greatness.

I share the story of 9-5 workers that really do not want to commute daily to work. Tech bros who feel like they may lose their jobs soon. I share the story of the first person who had the corona virus.

I share the story of a man who hugged his brother’s killer in court. Stories of families who found laughter again after grief.

Stories of partners who embraced each other after an affair. Stories of individuals who found faith.

This is a never ending story as it is woven in all of us, in the very embers of our existence.

For some, the stories they bear have become identities. To another category, it has become a secret haven they are imprisoned by.

It is important the stories we tell. Not just the ones we say out loud but also, the ones we tell ourselves repeatedly in our minds.

It is all a part of the definitions.