30
1.
It is Sunday, September the 24th, and 11:36 PM in Minneapolis when I begin to write this. In this place, I am still twenty-nine but in Nigeria, I am thirty. Thousands of miles across the Atlantic, I have become a man split into two time zones− one I carry on my wrist, in a watch that ticks and tocks, and the other, heavier, tucked safely in my heart, six hours of difference between them.
2.
It is a number I must have uttered thousands of times through all the multiple lives I have lived (in context and outside of context) − “thirty days have September, April, June, and November…”, “the atomic number of zinc is thirty”, “the upper limb contains thirty bones…”. The number had never meant more than something to be rehashed, retooled, and repurposed (whatever the case may be), but suddenly, it felt different, like something I needed to whisper just to be sure. I try to whisper, my lips come apart but the words feel strange. How does a number feel strange?
3.
I am staring at old photographs from ten, fifteen, or eighteen years ago. I look in a mirror and I see a different figure, my mind draws parallels between two images− the boy in the picture is more certain, mischievous, restless, and happier. The man in the mirror forces a smile and tries to keep it on but it soon disappears, his eyes betray him. How can he feel like a boy and a man at the same time?
4.
Journal Entry, 4th of May, 2023.
I have been thinking about the disappearance of things and people. First, their smells disappear, then the voices, and faces, and finally, their names. All the laughter we have shared now reside in the basement of memory, watching this ritual of disappearance. What becomes of us when this ritual is complete? Where do we go to remember?
I tell Moyo that there are nights I want to return to House 25 again, to a table filled with friends and running with laughter, liquor, and joy, pure joy. He says I need to let go of the past. I know I must deal with the hands the present has offered, but how do I let go of joy? Why are the friends of my 20s now scattered around the world? How do I let go of joy?
5.
I forgot where I was going with this.
On one hand, I want to write my unfiltered contemplations about the philosophy of existence and purpose, but I also want to write about strangers, friends, and family, and how my life is made beautiful by their complex interplay.
I am truly grateful for life, I am grateful for warm days, I am grateful for love (that continues to hold me and nurtures me back to life on dark days), and I am grateful for bright-colored flowers.
6.
I am well aware of benevolent gods and the palm kernels they have cracked for me.
May the odds remain in my favor.
Here is to thirty.
