“I’ve had enough” I scream as my voice echoes in the emptiness of the room. If the walls could speak, they will yell back at me like a woman will chide her naughty child. I sink to my knees, inspite of my efforts to maintain composure, hot tears start coming. I’m not an emotional person but now I have a good excuse to bawl my eyes out.
Have a good cry. I pacify myself.
I’m heart-broken. I wish I can end it all. “Your mother would have been a very caring Mother if death had forgotten her; she died when you were four” Father says to me with so much pain in his voice.
He tries to act manly with bottles on his chest every night. He drinks to forget his depression. I guess. I do not ask him why he drinks.
My 100 level results were released; I didn’t meet up with the crossing Grade Point of my faculty and I was offered two options by the school which were to either be moved to the faculty of education from the faculty of engineering or to face expulsion.
Home is where they catch you when you fall but mine is the opposite.
My Father crashed through the door of my room, pounced on me like a hungry Lion almost tearing my skin into pieces the night he found out my results.
“Why me??” I say shortly, staring at the wall. I do not have bad sores, I do not have children who all died or a business running down but my woes seem bigger than that of Job.
Let me lead you to die.
It’s God – I think – not God. It’s the Devil telling me this like a man will ask a woman for a dance.
Some instincts tells me it’s the devil. Because Sunday school teacher says to me “The devil’s side of things are always, bad, evil and ungodly”
I make a quick decision. Yes. I’ll rather go straight to Hell.
I stagger to my feet, slide the window open and…
The phone distracts me.
The sound of a Yoruba song is leaking out loudly. I ignore the call at first but it’s consistent. I step back and slink into a corner beside the window. It’s Morakinyo.
Morakinyo is the teens’ choir leader. I always admire his courage and his big smile. His smile is so enchanting. I knew in my heart that I would miss him.
My phone rings the 5th time. I’m sensing urgency. My stomach does this funny squiggle and I reach for my phone, scared.
Now it’s a text. It reads
“Bolu, how’re you. Let’s hang out tomorrow.
You’ve not been in church for a while now; I’ve missed you!
Till then, have it at the back of your mind that God will never give up on you.
He loves you more than anyone ever can.
Please pick my calls
Wanna hear your voice.”
My heart melts. I feel love. I sob and sob. My phone beeps again. It’s Morakinyo. I wipe my tears.
I hit the green button. I’m half listening… and bawling my eyes out. I eventually calm down. Next thing I’m pouring it out. I just skipped an assorted meal of death.
Friends, no matter how sweet it might look, the assorted meal of death is not yours to taste.
I bumped into a very interesting statistic yesterday that stated that about 350 million people worldwide are affected by depression. More interesting is the fact that we even love to walk this road alone. Sometimes we seem to have valid excuses like “no one will understand” or “I can’t trust people”. I wish I could tell you that the excuses are true, but no! They aren’t.
There are people who understand and you can trust with your life. There’s so much pressure everywhere especially on social media that can make you want to sink into depression but you know what? There’s still enough love to go round and rescue you from depression.
Find a community of love and draw strength other people.
Discuss your issues and say them till you find a solution.
You can’t be depressed and decide to be quiet about it.
Fight the urge to keep quiet and tell people. It will save the world a whole lot of havoc
Stay blessed, God loves you!
About the Writer
Boluwatife is a young creative generalist based in the city of Lagos. He has an incredible passion for excellence among the young people.
He currently serves as the President of Eden Unilorin: a group committed to helping people build vibrant lives. He’s active on twitter at @boluakindele