Dear Diary,
There are few things more dangerous than having too much time to think before attending a family gathering, particularly a Nigerian family gathering.
Particularly one involving relatives who have known you since childhood and therefore feel permanently entitled to personal opinions about your life.
For reasons I still do not fully understand, I agreed to attend my uncle’s eightieth birthday celebration. The celebration itself is taking place on Saturday, which means I needed to travel to Ikorodu today, Thursday.
My uncle, Chief Suleiman Ibrahim, is turning eighty. He is my late father’s elder brother, a respected man and successful man. A man whose life has produced enough children, grandchildren, in-laws and extended relatives to populate a small local government area.
Whenever the family gathers, people arrive from everywhere, Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt, Kaduna, London, Canada, and everywhere.
Every Nigerian family contains cousins that materialize internationally during celebrations, it is one of our cultural mysteries.
As the date approached, I found myself thinking less about the birthday and more about everything attached to it.
The expectations.
The conversations.
The comparisons.
The observations disguised as concern.
The concern disguised as criticism.
The criticism disguised as prayer points.
Family gatherings are rarely simple, especially in my family, and most especially for women.
My father only married one wife, my mother, and together they had two daughters. My older sister, Jemima, and me. This fact alone has generated decades of commentary.
My mother has spent most of her adult life politely enduring advice she never requested, suggestions she never needed, and criticisms she certainly did not deserve.
People worried she had not produced a son.
People worried she only had two children.
People worried she allowed her daughters too much freedom.
People worried about everything.
Nigerians are exceptionally gifted at worrying on behalf of others.
Jemima eventually married, which should have resolved at least some of the concerns, instead it created new ones. She now has three daughters.
Three beautiful girls.
Three intelligent girls.
Three energetic girls.
And somehow that is still not enough, because many people have decided that what she actually needs is a son. The logic remains unclear. What is clear is that the pressure continues.
The suggestions continue.
The expectations continue.
And increasingly, so do the sacrifices.
The difficult part is that I understand why she listens. When enough people repeat an idea, it begins to sound reasonable, even when it isn’t, especially when it isn’t.
Unfortunately, Jemima and I have not handled these conversations particularly well. By which I mean we have argued repeatedly and spectacularly.
The arguments usually begin with concern.
Mine.
And end with frustration.
Everyone’s.
I have questioned whether having more children is wise given the realities she already faces.
I have questioned why so much responsibility automatically becomes hers.
I have questioned why society continuously asks women to sacrifice more.
These questions have not been universally appreciated.
The final disagreement happened two years ago. She asked if I would consider taking one of the girls for a while.
Helping.
Supporting.
Lightening the load.
I refused.
Not because I didn’t love my nieces.
I do.
Fiercely.
But because I knew what would happen.
Temporary help would become permanent responsibility.
And permanent responsibility would become expectation.
And expectation would become obligation.
I had spent too much of my life carrying things that did not belong to me, I was no longer willing to volunteer. The conversation ended badly and we have never fully recovered.
This means I am now traveling to a family gathering where all of these unresolved emotions will be present.
Wonderful.
Naturally, I responded to this challenge by becoming obsessed with clothing. For nearly two hours, I stood in front of my wardrobe conducting strategic analysis.
The wrong outfit would invite comments.
The right outfit would also invite comments.
Too formal?
Comments.
Too casual?
Comments.
Too expensive?
Comments.
Too simple?
Comments.
At some point I briefly considered calling Adaora then stopped myself. She had enough on her plate, friendship should provide support, and not become another responsibility.
Eventually I settled on something elegant but understated.
The sort of outfit that says: “I am successful.”
Without saying: “Please begin discussing my salary.”
A delicate balance.
Then came my second mistake, the first was agreeing to attend. The second was deciding to use public transportation. The market trip had gone well, too well. The success had then created confidence.
Confidence sometimes creates poor decisions. Instead of booking a rider, I convinced myself that travelling from Chevron to Ikorodu using public transport would be an enriching experience.
Technically, this was true, and it was also a terrible idea. The journey began reasonably enough, then Lagos remembered itself.
The first bus was delayed.
The second was overcrowded.
The third broke down.
The fourth appeared determined to test everyone’s relationship with patience.
At one point I became convinced we had entered a traffic situation so severe that future historians would study it.
Hours passed.
Actual hours.
Entire life chapters occurred around me.
Passengers entered.
Passengers exited.
Friendships formed.
Arguments developed.
Children slept.
People ate.
Business transactions were conducted.
The traffic remained.
Meanwhile I sat there attempting to practice mindfulness.
Observe.
Don’t react.
Observe.
Don’t react.
Observe…
A motorcycle nearly removed the side mirror close to me.
React.
No.
Observe…
The bus stopped again.
Observe…
The conductor demanded exact change while somehow owing everybody else money.
Observe…
The heat became aggressive.
Observe…
A passenger began playing videos without headphones.
Observe…
By the third hour, mindfulness and survival were engaged in direct competition, neither was winning. Yet something interesting happened.
For all its frustrations, the journey forced me into the present moment.
I could not rush it.
Could not optimize it.
Could not control it.
All I could do was experience it, a lesson I disliked immediately, and which probably means I needed it.
By the time I finally arrived in Ikorodu, I felt as though I had completed a pilgrimage.
My back hurt.
My feet hurt.
My patience had resigned.
My soul required refreshments.
The sight of my mother’s house nearly brought tears to my eyes, I walked inside carrying my bags and what remained of my dignity. The familiar smells of home greeted me immediately. For a moment, everything felt easier.
Then Jemima arrived. My nieces ran into the room first, excited, energetic, and happy to see me. A part of me softened instantly, another part calculated how much energy children possess and became concerned.
Jemima followed behind them. We exchanged greetings, politely and carefully. The way people greet each other when affection exists but comfort does not.
The evening passed reasonably well, until exhaustion caught up with me.
“I think I’m going to sleep.”
A simple statement.
An innocent statement.
Or so I believed.
Jemima looked at me, then at her daughters, and then back at me.
“You just arrived.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“The girls have been waiting to spend time with you.”
Something inside me tightened, not because of what she said, but because of everything underneath it.
The history.
The guilt.
The expectations.
The unresolved disappointment.
Normally, this is where mindfulness would enter.
Normally, this is where observation would create space.
Normally…
Unfortunately, I had spent most of the day crossing Lagos. My emotional resources were depleted, my patience had reached capacity, and my mindfulness practice was apparently still under construction.
So I reacted immediately, sharply, and defensively.
The old way.
“I’m tired, Jemima.”
The room went quiet. The words that followed did not improve matters. By the time I reached the spare room, I already knew.
I had failed.
I sat on the edge of the bed alone, listening to the sounds of family moving through the house, and for the first time since beginning this mindfulness experiment, I understood something important.
Knowing what to do and actually doing it are two completely different things, especially when old wounds are involved.
Tomorrow would bring preparations, Saturday would bring the celebration, and somewhere inside that gathering waited every unresolved conversation I had spent years avoiding.
The thought was exhausting, and strangely enough… I was still glad I came.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
I have discovered that mindfulness is significantly easier when nobody from your family is involved. This feels like an important research finding.