I hope; like nothing happened

I was young when I discovered nostalgia – maybe 5 or 6 or thereabouts. It is around then that the hymen to my eyes was shed; around then that I discovered we were supposed to cross a bridge into a new year; around then that I discovered that the new year should not find one tucked away in bed.

I was hardly 7 when I sat down in a church building and awaited a new year. My memory is vague, but let’s assume it was 2002. That night, the adults prayed. They sang their voices hoarse, screamed things that reeked with pretense, thanked God for yet another year. We, the children played outside most of the time. Our hands were webbed with fat; the last day of the year is another opportunity for everyone to eat meat and for the children to forget to wash their hands.

I cannot tell when I first tasted waragi. Maybe I was still feeding from my mother’s breasts. But ever since I started staying awake to await the dawn of a new year, I made sure to be high on ridiculous genres of waragi. Ngu Yowana. Tadeo. Leading. Coffee Spirit.

When I outlived my childhood, I started to attend overnight prayers. At Martyrs Cathedral. At Independence Park. At Bukarango. I made resolutions. Forgot about them and left them there before God. To a new me. To new beginnings. To greater heights.

They never came. They always don’t.

At the turn of this century, I did not get high. Did not attend prayers. I went straight to bed and closed my eyes and switched off my phone. No resolutions. No new beginnings. No excitement. I woke up and it was 2020.

I slipped into a new year like nothing happened.

I hope I achieve things I haven’t planned to. I hope the new beginnings are real. I hope I rediscover myself and do not disappoint those that believe in me. I hope the #MugOfPorridge gets a life.