In China, there is a custom that has been passed down for ages. It is called the Zhuazhou where during the one-year celebration of a baby, different items, each symbolizing a career path are placed in front of it and the baby is allowed to pick an item. Any item picked by the baby will determine one’s future inclinations or personality traits. This tradition serves as a blueprint for the child’s education, shaping them towards a predetermined future.
The first time I clocked a year around the sun, my parents couldn’t celebrate me, not by choice but by a situation that had them recuperating from a ghastly accident that witnesses assumed would be impossible to survive. So, there wasn’t an array of articles for me to pick from; no book to determine if I would be a scholar, or pen to be a writer, or ruler which meant I would be a Judge, or stethoscope which signified a doctor or nurse. Or in quintessential Nigerian style, a cake, food and drinks, and relatives and neighbours dancing to old-school music in commemoration of my entrance to the world.
Zombies Amongst Us – A Creative Nonfiction by Herman Owuor – Kenya
But, hanging on the wall of our living room is a framed picture of me, frowning, in a red shirt with a Mickey mouse embroidery on the breast pocket. And beside it, are similar pictures of my siblings, with that same shirt, wearing unique facial expressions that fueled our banter as we grew older. My parents made sure to capture these pictures on our first birthdays.
The first two decades of my life have come and gone on a whim, and somehow, I still feel this crippling stagnancy.
Simply put, lagging.
One languorous evening, sitting on my aunt’s balcony, my little cousin nudged me to catch a glimpse of the moon moving, his voice brimming with glee like he had discovered a hidden secret of the heavenly bodies. I indulged him and, looking up, saw the illuminated crescent and the clouds drifting past it.
I don’t blame him for thinking that way. At his age, I also believed the moon followed me wherever I went. But still, I told my cousin that the moon wasn’t moving. I tell him that the moon is stationary from our view, but I don’t explain the reason why. I don’t really know the answer.
I am the moon.
Moving in motion that appears so stationary when you look from afar, I am the moon. So stationary, it is perturbing.
I express my concern to my friend, K, about finding my voice, myself, my purpose, about how most people around me have found something worthwhile doing, developing their passion and craft, while I just sit and stare idly. I tell her about my friend who has published works everywhere, about one who is now a successful food vendor and another who has his startup. I even joke about those who have now become successful fraudsters. I remind her about herself and how much progress she has made, and she tells me, “Your journey is different. Don’t compare yourself to others.”
But how do I tell K that deep down, I haven’t really figured things out? That I don’t really even have a destination in mind yet. Isn’t setting a clear goal the beginning of a journey?
Smiles, Replicas of it and Whatnot – A Creative Nonfiction by Mamello Stephen Rotheli, Lesotho
I want her to know that there is a heaviness in my chest each time this sudden realization dawns on me, anytime I hear that word “purpose,” roll from a lip, that I am far from grasping mine. And that each time I think I have found it, it slips through my fingers like water. Even when I tried meditation, rummaged through my innermost thoughts, and fixed countless meetings with my creator in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, to hear his voice, to act as my navigator.
I still fix these meetings, to alleviate the heaviness, because with it comes tension as an unsolicited souvenir. It is this same tension I felt years ago sitting in the Guidance and Counselling office of my secondary school.
She was in charge of assigning students to their various departments; arts, science or commercial. I had dreaded this day, where I had to make this decision which would change the trajectory of my life. A decision that, for years up until I sat in her office, I had not been able to make. I had expected her to ask questions, probe me, and counsel me through my conundrum. I had envisioned therapy.
But instead, she asked which class I’d be interested in joining. Instinctively, I chose to be in science class, because I had just read Ben Carson’s book a day before and that answer was the only way of easing the tension that clawed at me.
When the tech boom hit the country, there was pressure to pursue, but tech never quite appealed to me. I found it uninspiring in a way that didn’t spark my imagination or enthusiasm. I believe my apathy towards tech stemmed from forcibly learning programming languages in secondary school. I found it so dull, and the excessive use of letters and symbols came with a potential for migraine. It was also why I disliked mathematics.
This year, I resolved to get outside my comfort zone. Perhaps, my familiar territory had become a rut and needed a change. So, tired of wallowing in idleness and fruitless introspection, I decided to try a variety of things. And like Jack of all trades, I didn’t excel in any. They didn’t resonate with me. They could not stop the heaviness too, because I felt dissatisfaction gnawing at me, and with it came a wave of despondency.
A friend offers me a different perspective. He reminds me that this journey is a process and not a race, and that simply acknowledging the need for a purpose, is the beginning of pursuit of purpose itself, irrespective of the time it takes.
Please Don’t ask me to Smile More – A Creative Nonfiction by Winnie Wekesa, Kenya
I latch onto his words of encouragement which I tap from each time the tension builds up. I remind myself that there is still time to figure things out. There is no rush, only soothing motivation.
The weariness still lingers from this self-defining expedition that has become staid. When it becomes overwhelming, I can feel myself tethering on the threshold of despair, as doubt whispers its negativity. Yet, I am not allowed to give up. My spirit doesn’t allow it, so it is a constant tussle; self-doubt and despair against perseverance. Two against one.
But I must persevere, because if I identify with the moon, then I must also remember that though seemingly motionless, this celestial body moves at its own pace. So, I take this as a cue, to continue moving.
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Chigozie Anyanwu is an aspiring pharmacist in training at the University of Benin. He uses writing as a means to dissect the world’s complexities. When not drowning in textbooks, Chigozie escapes to his blog for some self-therapy and conversation.
