THE MURDER OF SELF
Franklin A.N.@anfranklin784877
22 hours ago
Some days there are different versions of self that lie scattered in front of you.
Just only you can see that sort of morbidity taking place. It's like the joker laughs hysterically at you, but just in another world where you alone are the main actor,no one else is a main character.
Apocalyptic in such ways that zombies or gouls of different you's just walk around wobbly and tired,your almost ghoulish eyes peering forth that you smile that weak smile and everything is alright when everyone guesses.
There's a day to complain and whine, there's another day that filled with tiredness and the unwillingness to let anyone into your chaos.
A person begins to enjoy the benigness of solitude, you yearn more to be a solitaire.
August has been melancholic, it's been omenius but also sweet.
August also is quiet. The kind of echo quiet that you just dabble with A,B and C's.
You begin to find a profound meaning in words and they resonate clearly to you.
A cup of hot chocolate drink, a cup of warm soyabean drink, pap and custards alongside cereals are most soothing to me on August days.
By afternoon, A plate of something extremely spicy is what pleases me and by evening a yearning to go to a new place, a new environment, a new life, a new everything.
I was given "Dream count" on women's day by 'chiamaka', and the very first character turned out to be 'chiamaka'.
Finding the 'Chidera' character in the book made me smile.
From a tour in Europe from America, with Chiamaka' and her dramatic and spiralling love life ,down to eastern Nigeria,with her Elite class Igbo parents and an up to the northern parts of Nigeria with omelogor, and inquisitive relatives to the far Guinea with Nassifatou and her daughter with a family with a funny history, a history of pain and what poverty and oppression of the female child looks like, Kadiotou in some versions of the book but the same character.
I could feel these women by every single word describing the situation and time.
I was lost in my mind walking around with these women and watching their lives unfold in dramatic ways.
It's more like a ravaging what I did to 390 pages of a book in two days because life was never sweeter than in between sentences and words and how beautifully laced they were to describe life.
How relatable it is to the lives of African women and yet again in August I take a bow and I see that these women somewhat fictional are me in some senses.
Sometimes in sheer foolishness, sometimes in defiance, sometimes in daring confidence, sometimes in cowering in tiredness, sometimes in the yearning for love, sometimes in the avoidance of the weight of affection.
But at this point in time, I'm living in Zikora's chaotic world,just before she had Chidera, in the places where she avoids judgment.
I'm chiamaka' in searching for both purpose and peace but maybe not dabbling with love,but I yearn the freedom she has that came with a lot of money.
I'm also daring in my heart like Nassifatou because I want better and I want to have better,and because stereotypes annoy me so much about where a woman should stay.
I also wish that all the stress should be skipped and be a control master like Zikora, where you can bend life with money but then life bends you like it does the African woman because the stereotypes speak louder than your strength.
But also,I'm back to a listlessness and a longing for something I can't name while I look at the boring skies and walk a tired street in my neighborhood wondering why August is such a sad month.
August is where I fight with myself and murder different versions of myself that should no longer exist but hover around me like ghouls refusing to die.
August should be for me "The murder of self"
