My mental health in recent times has been nothing less than a fluctuating, unstable mess. See, to best understand or cope with most parts of my life, I’ve grown used to seeking out metaphors and similes to help describe them because a part of me believes that if I can find a suitable, less imposing comparison, I am one step away from dealing with the matter at hand.
In this case, the metaphor I chose is one that has danced around my mind for quite some time, serving as a source of inspiration to numerous literary pursuits I have embarked on: My life is a boiling pot of extremes. I’ll tell you of the origin. I grew up in Jos, Plateau state, Nigeria. A beautiful city and the capital of the state. As a child, you go through life, feeding on only bite sized pieces of the human experience, never really catching a full glimpse of the frightening totality and I think that influenced the way I viewed the city.
So, as a child I knew this place as one thing only—home. Nothing more to it than the one place the people I felt safe with were. But time passed, moments came by and went by and for lack of a better, clearer way to say this, I simply grew up. I spent quite a chunk of my life on the outskirts of Abuja in a small but rapidly growing community in Nasarawa state teetering between belonging within the Nation’s capital and simply accepting its place on the map( If anyone asks, I’m saying Abuja).
Seven plus years later, I returned to Jos and the Jos of my childhood dismantled itself in my mind, piece by piece. Right then, the realization hit me— Jos is a boiling pot of extremes. The weather is almost always extremely cold or the sun is out to scorch the skin off your bones, the people are almost always too nice and welcoming or hostile and harsh… I could go on.
And so that metaphor was born! It presented an excuse for anything I had to deal with and in some way became an inside joke (between me, myself and I).
What better way is there to deal with the extremes than to fully immerse oneself in the pages of a well written book? I’d like to think in some way that the pieces of literature we read and consume conspire with fate to find us when we need their solace the most. And so, Notes On Grief by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie found me.
The usual expectation of a book that one escapes into would be something light hearted and easy on the mind and you might argue that the nature of the book which is a deeply personal essay exploring and reflecting on the author’s personal experience of losing her father, James Nwoye Adichie, in the middle of the COVID 19 pandemic.
I cannot pretend to understand or fully and truly relate to Chimamanda’s experiences with grief and the loss of a loved one but above everything else, one thing truly stood out to me—the vulnerability and rawness with which she approached the retelling of her experience.
And here I was, an anxiety ridden, depressed individual unsure how to truly approach the subject of embracing vulnerability. I truly sought companionship as evident in my multiple attempts at fitting into a friend group but what Notes On Grief as I would later realize offered, is a safe companionship. A reassurance of some sort in the form of the author’s unfiltered vulnerability.
I read the book multiple times, simply sitting in the silence of her grief driven reflection, enjoying the joys of open, in-depth connection without proper human interaction and conversation which at the time proved to be a burden I was grossly unequipped to handle.
Outside of the boiling pot of extremes I existed within, the pages of someone else’s grief and vulnerability provided a comfort of some sort; I was not alone, it felt like an exchange, like a conversation without the pressures of putting on a brave face. Notes on Grief felt like a hand held out, in search of one to hold and it found me.
Vulnerability in its true nature is a scarce commodity that evades us as humans despite our evidently interdependent nature. We exist within a society so gravely afraid of presenting ourselves as we truly are—creatures of emotion and intensity. It has taken a very conscious, intentional effort to as much as possible find the courage to share and build relationships where openness is encouraged.
The gift of literature and its consistent attempts at reflecting and refracting the intricacies of human nature has continued to prove useful again and again. In my humble opinion, I view literature and the arts as the human attempt at true identity and expression. I do not pretend to have sorted through the issues that plague my mind, or that I do not occasionally get plagued by anxiety but I can say one thing for sure, the boiling pot of extremes is a lot easier to face when we allow ourselves to be as we were made to be, open and vulnerable.
The necessity of conversations about our psychological, mental and emotional struggles which are an unavoidable part of our nature as social beings can at no point be overstated. We need to speak, and speak so unashamedly that if anything, we create solace for those in need of it.
We need to speak and be spoken to, because whether it occurs to you or not, we are not alone in our experiences, in the things we feel and those we do not, we are not alone even when all we have are the words of another written on the pages of a book. There is always hope to be found in our shared experiences. Your experiences matter in ways you cannot imagine.
Victor Ojimaojo Sule is a student, writer, and podcaster with a passion for storytelling and social justice. Studying Theatre and Film Studies at the University of Jos, he’s interested in exploring how art can spark meaningful conversations. Through his writing and podcasting, Victor aims to share perspectives and inspire thoughtful discussions. In his free time, he enjoys watching movies, reading, and listening to music.
Full Name: Victor Ojimaojo Sule
Instagram: @thechief_1123
X (formerly Twitter): @the_wildone3
Location: Jos, Plateau State
Victor came in fourth place for his submission to Aida’s Whimsical Reading Party: The Literary Lifeline.
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