Twenty Five.

Happy birthday to me.

This isn't a regular newsletter. In fact, in regular circumstances I shouldn't be sending it out because of how personal it is. But I decided to air all my dirty linen on this site, so that's what I'll do. 

Over the last year, as I matured to twenty five, I had a lot of reflections on the direction of my life and what it means to be me, to live like me, and to reason like me. This newsletter is the result of those reflections.

I Used To Be Impressive

As a child I used to be impressive. There was nothing I couldn't do. I was never the best student, but I was good enough that I knew — for sure —that desire was the reason I wasn't. I remember one Open Day, my English teacher held up an essay I'd written on a random school day and showed my mum. This your boy is a very advanced and mature writer, I was so shocked. I had to show the teachers because we thought he cheated. How does he do it? We thank God oh, my mother said. I just know he reads a lot. Yes, that's the reason, she said. But he is so forgetful. I used to wonder how he passes.

I no longer read a lot. Not because I don't want to. I want to, but these days I have more important responsibilities. After all, I'm twenty five years old. And when you're twenty five, you have to get serious. It's a serious age after all.

One of my teachers in my secondary school, Abesan (a public school), gave us an assignment to write for or against democracy. I wrote against it, and wrote that the Nigerian people under democracy have been reduced to screaming chickens in a cage. At least under military they wouldn't be disturbing everyone else with their noise even if they are still in that cage. She brought the essay to class and held it up against the light, who wrote this? {REDACTED}? I don't agree with you, but this is really good. This is really good. This is what I always say, even if I won't agree with what you write, make it good. Later that day, she asked me to write an essay for her academic pamphlet. It was the first thing I wrote that was ever printed. Another day, another teacher saw it fit to enter me into a writing competition. I didn't win.

Can You Imagine Josie Happy?

Today I feel sad. By the time you read this, I might have moved into my house. But I struggle to imagine being happy. I don't want to leave my mother. When you go to Uni, it's not quite the same. You know you're coming back after a semester — for breaks — after you graduate. But when you move out as an adult, you move out. You're untethered from your home. They don't even feed you anymore, so you don't have to even call them for anything. I fear absent that I'll have no need to speak to my parents.

It's good to provide for your family and feed them fat. But what happens when your children no longer need providing for? You're now a pensioner. You've resigned from your job as a provider. But you didn't want to resign — you were sacked by the age twenty five. You wanted to have a family, and now you only have the heirlooms of a memory of one. You're no longer invited to the office. What do you do then?

But we thank Tinubu. As a twenty five year old, I have to also send money back home. I told you it's a serious age. Pensioners need their gratuity too.

“And the way you dey talk about shina I dey reason say you don lineup ten baddies… so you got zero bitches bro? Make nobi say nah me go open your house with babe”

I have never had much success with women. I think most people my age and gender can relate. I've always found a way to tell myself that excuse. It's not your fault you can't maintain a relationship for more than a week! You just don't know enough women interested in you! It's not your fault.

But at twenty five you realize that it's a lie. There are many women. Too many. At twenty five you're spoilt for choice. At 25 you’ve fumbled countless chances for healthy and happy relationships. But still your brain doesn't desire it. You wonder if something is wrong with you. Maybe there is. I will find out at Shiloh 2036.

At twenty five you're supposed to be past entry level jobs. But I'm still stuck in one. However, it's not so bad! I can always clock out of this haphazard life and start earning 250k as a graduate trainee at a bank. Unfortunately, that option is only open till April 2026 when I'll be 27. I asked a friend who's currently undergoing that program what to expect. He says it's not all bad and if you meet your targets you could become a bank manager in ten years! What! Amazing. I suppose it's true in the same way that if I don't fall sick I can live forever. But I'll fall sick, won't I?

I have a friend who drank an entire bottle of Gordons, ALONE, in one week. That cannot be healthy, right? I think that is rather unhealthy. But at least he does not have a weed addiction — which, I have found, many people have. This is despite my circle being quite small and reliably decent.

Today, I work several jobs and do what I can to get ahead in this short life. If that's a career, then I already have about five years experience in it. But I surely can't put 5 years — Jama Jama on my CV, can I? Even though it says more about me and my abilities than my 2.1 from my very respectable university. Twenty five is a serious age, and it's when you understand things like this.

All my friends would leave the country if they could. I have a friend who did last year. One day we were on the street talking about Chelsea and their many woes, and the next day he was wearing a winter jacket three times bigger than him (and he's a big boy!). I have a friend, who was studying medicine at my university, who is in Canada, who once posted that he would conceivably buy a BMW today but he doesn't want to destroy his credit. Today, I hope I will be able to save enough money to pay my rent without resorting to a strict Garri diet.

Older people who have the misfortune of listening to my many complaints about life keep telling me I'm still young. Ah, perhaps. But I feel some slight when twenty year olds talk to me anyhow. They should have some respect.

Beautiful Big Titty Butt Naked Women Don’t Just Fall Out The Sky You Know

When I was younger, I had many single friends. And it wasn't an issue. Today, most of my friends or people in my age group have lives that revolve almost entirely around their serious partner or revolves around their search for one. Mine doesn't. It makes me feel a bit out of place. These days I only speak about it because people are speaking about it. 

The most unfortunate thing about this newsletter, I'd say, is that too many people I know read it. My life has been quite exciting on the relationship front (yet, I have none) for the past few months, but I cannot write about it lest I annoy certain people with my candid observations. You might say, well, why would the truth be annoying? 

Have you met women? No. 

Anyway, I think I won't lose too much if I indeed spoke about two situations where I think I might have been the bad person. Do not be deceived, reader, the person on the other side has been the evil incarnate most times, but it does no one any good if I only rant about how I've been a victim. It is somewhat gallant to talk about when I've been the awful fellow as well. 

Do you know how many women are straight up delusional and have absolutely zero conception of how the real world works? Talk to a woman and see!

To be honest, I don't think there's much to say. In fact, this may seem cowardly, but I don't think I was the bad person as much as the circumstances in themselves were bad. The first person lived around 131 kilometres away from me. We spoke for a while, and might have even dated, but I suddenly realized that I really don't want to get into a long distance relationship. Unfortunately, by the time I had this realisation, we'd already spoken for a while. I think the worst thing I did was not telling her and not confronting the issue at all. Wow, I think writing it here is even worse. Hopefully, very few people read this, given as I've lined up two other letters to bury this missive beneath. 

The second person was more of the same, and even more short lived. This one was bad because I think she really did like me. But not only was distance a factor in my mind, I was also horribly busy and extremely inconsistent despite knowing the depth of her affection. 

Why are women like this? A friend added me to a reunion group of old secondary school classmates. We were asked to send our pictures, and someone — who I knew to be married with two children— sent hers and it was basically a video of her shaking her ass to the camera with her face barely visible. I am certain she is not looking to cheat on her husband with men on that dusty group chat — it is just genetics speaking; for women must advertise their sexual attributes whenever and however they can. That is why even the 46 year old married with kids area grandma may tell her tailor; please let the blouse show my cleavage.

I must also announce, I think, my long standing crush for a thirty five year old I follow on Instagram. I have to describe her to you. Her eyes are like those of a child; bright, opening, direct, questioning, happy, brave. Her stature small, demure. She radiates innocence — such innocence that I think myself odd for liking her at all! But despite radiating such nunish innocence, she's stupefying hot. The pictures she posts are complete works of art, revealing everything and nothing at the same time. She lives in Ibadan, that damned city. Her handle is Dupe_Kuku.

“Oya te ota mole, left right, I want to live my best life. Oya te ota e mole, left right, left right, left right.”

I've found, much to my dismay, that the secret to getting women is lying. Well, there are loads of prerequisites — for example, it helps if you're not totally retarded and have some attractive quality — like height, a strong jawline, and a fat bank account. But in the grand scheme of things, the better the lies you're able to tell, and the stronger your ability to sell them, the easier it is for you. Many very respectable people like to pretend that this isn’t true, and some may even shame you and argue that this is alfa mail/Andrew Tate thinking — but any womanizer worth his salt will tell you it is obviously true. 

Concerning my Single Life 

Interesting story I once heard. It was Akure, and I was in a room where some guy was for some reason talking about how he got his babe. He said before he met her, he’d asked over eight women to date him. And they had all said no. Eight rejections? EIGHT? 

Again I’m reminded that we aren’t psychologically the same. I can understand eight companies rejecting your application to join them. Very good excuses abound; perhaps they don’t know you enough, perhaps your CV wasn’t good enough, perhaps they don’t know what they are doing, perhaps it was just some clerical error. Besides, even if they rejected you based on who are you, it really doesn’t matter. You’re not your work history. You could be a total awful and stupid employee and still think yourself a great and honest person. You’re not your work. You’re you. And of course people love you! Why wouldn’t they! You are a good person. 

“If you are earning eight hundred thousand per month, why the hell are you even talking to someone without a job? Personally, I don’t even date students again. Seriously, you should not either.”

My Lesbian friend

But when a romantic interest rejects you, they aren’t rejecting some separate versions of you; they aren’t rejecting your work history or your work skills; they aren’t making some clerical error; they are looking at you, in your entirety, with your heart bare and your sinews bloody, and saying no; I will not date this beast!

I’ve been proven wrong in this matter, I’m delighted to announce. Because that guy has been with the same woman since then, and last I heard they’ve been together for half a decade. Incredible! I cannot remember who I was five years ago. Again, I’m reminded that we aren’t psychologically the same.

“I went through seven stages of grief because you did not reply my messages. But it is not your fault, it is mine”

In recent months I’ve become even more terrified of commitment.

An Old Flame 

About ten years ago I met the most perfect woman in the world. She was the the white to my black, the gloves for my cold and miserable fingers, the tight-fitting socks you wear on a Monday morning, the perfect shoes you wear to church, the gambling addiction you never knew you wanted, but you needed all the same. But then she went abroad a year later, and I haven’t spoken to her since then despite my many desperate and often pathetic efforts to. I recently saw her handle on Twitter. Joined, February twenty twenty four. 

Five years ago, I might have texted her immediately. Four years ago I would have. Three years ago, I might have hesitated but I would have done it all the same. Two years ago, I would have put it off for a week. A year ago, I would have put it off for months. 

The heart is a really funny thing. I really did think I would never find anyone like her ever again ( I haven’t — but does it matter?). For an entire year, I thought about her everyday. At a point it seemed I would be old and grey and still regretting my misfortune. But today, I can stare at her picture and shrug, and wonder if it really was all that. Today she’s even prettier than she ever was. But I don’t think I’ve ever cared less. What a tragedy.

Is there a worse calamity that can befall a man? Is there a worse tragedy than falling out of love? 

Kini Ona Abayo?

Another relationship anecdote. I was speaking to some Jesus baby, I think two or three years ago, and she told me that speaks to her boyfriend about two hours of each day. Two hours! Really? Two whole hours? What could they even be talking about? I can't even watch a movie for two hours straight! And movies cost a lot of money to make. 

But that wasn't all. She says sometimes after seeing him, she goes home, and then calls him and they speak for two hours again. That was crazy to me. However, that's probably because I often make a list of things to talk about before I call someone. My worst embarrassment would be to call a woman and have to resort to asking her if she's eaten because I have no more questions to ask. Perhaps I am just boring, but considering how many people love my nonsensical brain farts, that's unlikely. 

I think that's how I'll know I've found a person I like, given that I no longer have crippling crushes. A person I can hang out with, and be perfectly content to come home and speak to for two hours without hanging up. Maybe that's how I'll know. 

“You be baby for shina now… me I don retire”

On Friendships 

My lack of friends bothers me endlessly. I have friends, yes, but maybe two or three or four or five or six — but surely not ten. But of all ten, how many would I earnestly pick up the phone to speak to? I don't want to believe this is because of a natural inability to do that. I will delude myself into thinking it's because I don't yet have the right people to want to do it with. 

When I was in University, I watched my roommate speak for hours endlessly to friends. I have never felt an urge to do that, and even today the mere thought of doing it gives me some psychological anguish. 

Since we moved to my father's house, my mother has been to three churches; and each time we leave a church, she leaves her friends behind. I didn't ask her why, but one day she said this; there are some friends that are merely friends of circumstances. People that you are friends with because you see them everyday without fail. I have many of such friends; in XXXX, in University, in my former area. I don't have permanent friends. It bothers me endlessly. Maybe it's just my mother's loner genes. But even my mum has had friends for over twenty years; I've not had for more than 6.

In one of my newsletters, someone wrote something this insane; “if you don't take women up and down the heights of emotions, they will do it themselves for you or leave you”. I am speaking to a girl now, and I'm not taking her down the heights of emotion, when I know that I can. Is it because I don't like her enough to want to keep her, or because I don't think the affection of any woman is worth the corruption of my soul, or because I don't think my own advice is worth taking? A lesson there for men.

I've only kept contact with one person from secondary school, and I fear that in five years it will be the same with Uni and XXXXX. It bothers me endlessly. Yet, it's like a slow moving crash that I can do nothing to stop. I want to make more friends, but I fear that I have no use for them. I like the idea of having a full house, of having many friends to talk to, of having people I'm intimate with — but the practicalities of such an endeavour is so emotionally tasking that I will always find a reason to put it off. I guess this is just what I am. 

A woman I spoke to this year told me that she had a group of friends she had scheduled group calls with. Apparently a bunch of them moved abroad and she's the only one in Nigeria. And since they live thousands of miles apart, they use regular video calls to keep track of their lives. I would never do something like that, and it bothers me endlessly. 

In the next few years, many of my present friends will move abroad, and I expect that's the last of them I'll see in this life.

Wouldn't it bother you? 

In the same groupchat, some fellow sends his pictures about five times. In one of them, he is flashing dollars in an apartment without light and he has a face cap turned to the side. After sending one of his pictures, he tags it and writes; if you know this boy, DM. He is, in fact, the boy. Why was he doing that? I wonder if any women DM’d him, and I wonder how such a doomed conversation would go. Why did he do that? Did he not realize how cringey it was? Or does he lack the social sense to know what is cringe or not? Or was it that his urge to show off for some willing womenling in need of some boy-holding-dollars-penis was greater than his common sense? C’mon, you can make that decision yourself!

We Have A Party To Plan

I want to organize a party for my birthday, but when I sat down with my friend to plan it. I did not have up to ten serious friends I missed enough to want to talk to and invite. To be honest, that is probably because my closest friends — bones of my bones — do not live in Lagos. But that does not make the realization less bleak.

So there is no girl you like that you can invite?

No, not really.

Anyway, we are now at Oniru (after leaving Landmark because it was horribly boring!). The music is extremely loud, and like five guys have tried to sell me Canadian loud. At the beach, my boss texts me and asks what I want for my birthday. What could I possibly ask for? I didn't want to request for straight cash like some cash-obsessed-tiny-hatter. So I ask for a Roving Heights book coupon instead. It is a metaphor for my life.

It Is Not All Bad

But it's not all bad. We bless God. I control my own room and parlour, and can feed myself and send money back home. I also — dare I say it — can even have designs on purchasing a vehicle! A motor car! My job is unstable, but it's there. There are many things that could have gone wrong in my life, and indeed they have, but not all of them have gone wrong. Again, we bless God. It's a serious year, twenty five. And I'm now a serious person. We will see how it goes.