Most well-meaning people are just liars.
Most often- I have come to see, understand and believe- however, that lies are told with good intentions.
Well, that is, not ill-intentions anyway.
Most often- when people lie- they really just mean to protect you, shield you from the truth. Bitterness. And so they bring tidings that result in fake happiness.
I remember when I moved to Lagos first; actually, no, just before moving; perhaps on the very same day I broke the news to my family and friends that I was moving, that both family and friends, especially my closest and bestest friends, joyfully exclaimed, “Oh Em Gee, Pinks, give it a month and you’ll start dating; another three and you’ll be engaged.”
I calmed them down and laughed with them, “Come on; let’s be realistic here.. six months!” And we laughed and jumped and cried together.
Tears of joy.
Yes, surely, there had to be so much more to my move “back home” than merely work? So much more to my existence, the “true me”. Ancestry, a daughter of the soil. So much more to my growing and evolving and wondering and wandering. Perhaps, just like the Alchemist, I had to travel far and near just to find out that the one by whim I would be found was always right there; right here.
As I am preparing for my move back home- having spent almost 20 months in Lagos- I have had to face the fact that love was not going to find me here.. Well, at least most probably not.
And this made me wonder, ponder. Pause. Think.
Why does this “single issue” keep coming up? Am I actually really worried/bothered about it; or do I only pretend to be for the sake of “normality”? Why do people keep throwing it in my face? My need for a husband? My need to have some stability, settle down and “stop being so free”. Stop being me? Why do people worry about my state of happiness, my level of contentment, because I refuse to stay in one place and settle. In order to be found (out)?
A couple of days ago..
A somewhat distant friend of mine commented, “Hmmm.. I’m not really sure you have what it takes to actually get married, be with a man, be a wife, you know, a traditional one. Like your sister. She is so nice. Although she didn’t grow up in Nigeria, she really does know how to take care of her man.” My response, “Yes, I agree, totally. She is wonderful. But no, I don’t. I mean, I don’t know what you mean. Traditional in what sense? Cook and clean for my man? I cook and clean for myself. I’m sure ‘whoever he is’ does it too. When the time is right, we’ll simply start doing it together. No biggie.” “No” he replied, “that’s not what I mean. Like, just be a normal traditional wife.” “Well, I really don’t know what that means, but either way, I don’t think it sounds too alluring anyway.”
I walked away super-irritated to say the least. Naturally, at this point, the “friendship” was put on hold. What exactly was this guy trying to say?
Either way, it made me think.
My reaction, that is; his statement less (it was obviously full of diarrhoea).
Could this perhaps be the reason I was still single? My preference for peace and sanity. My almost frightening need to avoid stupidity?
Even if it meant singularity.
I’ve been told that I need to stop being so picky.
“Tolerance” some call it.
I tolerate people, perhaps more than I should; much more than you could.
I guess what I simply cannot tolerate is someone telling me he knows a better way of being me. And so, single I shall be.
Until someone else’s comma and mine become compatible enough to form a stop.
A full one.
Until then, this single life of mine will do just fine.