HELP! I AM TIRED OF KILLING CHICKENS

“Again, that hard truth of life keeps staring at me in the face. You will never have everything you want at the same time. Something will always be out of reach. You can only hope it would not be the stuff that really matters.”

- Àlàké Akòwékowúrà🍒

Name: Bó̩ládalẹ́ Tèmítọ́pẹ́ Maryam

Status: Confused bad bish

Occupation: Chicken Killer🤡💀

Today, the biggest task on my to-do list is to put four of my father’s chickens to death. It is becoming too expensive to maintain them. There is an unemployed graduate in the house. The pot of stew was washed last night. The stage is set for chicken murder. I approach this task with the lethargy of a broke bad bitch. This is not the life after school I dreamed of. In my ideal post-graduation life, I have taken a small one-room apartment. It is sparsely furnished, the aesthetic is young, struggling Nigerian, and the theme is minimalist, and it is mine.

As I slaughter bird after bird, defeathering them in hot water and emptying their chests of their undigested breakfast, I cannot help but dream of a day when the things I want the most are finally mine to have and keep. A time when I can do things that matter to me and have fun the way I choose. But all that seems far away. Right now, my biggest dream is a to-do list that is not a long list of places to apply to for a chance to offer cheap labour in exchange for learning things all my years of education did not teach me.

I am not used to waking up without some urgent, pressing task to attend to. While some people will find this lack of activity alluring and welcome, for me, it is stifling. Yet, I have been told by my unpaid therapist that I must enjoy this moment. I recognise the logic in what they advise, but my mind cannot make that much-needed switch as fast as I would like. I realise I must enjoy this moment where nothing is happening, and I try, but I just can’t do it. I want to complain about having too much to do; I want to say that I cannot read because I am pressed for time, and then make posts about books being my favourite form of escape. But if I have nothing to do, how can I claim to escape? How can I justify this sleep that I am sleeping again? How can I justify a second helping of rice when I have done nothing but sit around after the first round?

I love being able to sit on the toilet again, finally thrashing the potty I bought to survive my days in the school hostels. I love being able to lie horizontally on my bed because it is wide enough; I enjoy being surrounded by the colourful books I have gathered over the years. But this newfound love of my environment comes at a cost. One that I am not sure I can pay any longer. Because I am a hopeless romantic (of things, not men🌚), I have found parts of my new reality to fixate on and romanticise. I still take pictures on my morning run even though I have left the picturesque campus paths behind. Now, my aesthetic is giving goats, sheep, and dirty gutters. Yet, I find beauty in it.

What I cannot romanticise, however, is the lack of freedom or, do I say, lack of choices. I wish I had the option of disgracing myself. Not that I would, but I would like to know, for a fact, that my values are indeed what I think they are. I would like to test the extent of my personal inhibitions and piety to see if I am truly as disciplined as I like to think. I would like to know if I had access to certain things and a certain lifestyle, would I act appropriately in a way that I would be proud of, or are my morals born of deprivation?

If I lived far away, without a seven p.m. curfew and a scolding parent, would I go home every night with all my senses intact? If I could wake up when I pleased and go to bed when I wanted without worrying about not waking up early enough to make breakfast for my folks, would I sleep well or become a self-styled insomniac with no sense of time? If I could talk on the phone for endless hours without worrying about my father walking in to shut me up in front of my suitors, would I have the courage to end conversations with men I like, given my natural loquaciousness, and abundance of opinions no one else except a man gunning for sex would care to listen to?

Unfortunately, these are questions I cannot answer now. I do not have money for rent nor a credible excuse to beg for it. Broke and unemployed —not exactly the best combinations for self-examination. However, I must admit that this freedom I deeply crave is mine for the taking. It is I who needs to set those boundaries. It is I who needs to pay a carpenter to fix my damn lock. It is I who must refuse to be a closeted equal rights advocate in my home. It is I who needs to stop listening to Agidigbo FM if I want to continue looking at things logically.

Why is your radio so damn loud, though, Mum? I get it. It’s your house, but still, can Oriyomi Hamzat stop shouting?

I realise that boundaries come with a little bit of growth and a little bit of rebellion. All I have now is rebellion. When the poor and powerless rebel, they have committed treason and will die for it. When the rich rebel, their rebellion becomes law. I cannot be unemployed and rebellious. I know this. Yet I am spent as to what to do next. I am tired of sending unanswered emails. I am tired of explaining over and over again that I actually care about what happens in healthcare. I am tired of proving my worth when no one would even take the chance. What, then, was the point of all the hard work and extracurriculars? Did it matter eventually? Did it make a difference? And for how long before I am too “old” for the opportunities I desire?

Again, that hard truth of life keeps staring at me in the face. You will never have everything you want at the same time. Something will always be out of reach. You can only hope it would not be the stuff that really matters. There was a time when I craved some quiet and wished for time to stop so I could catch my breath. Now I have time on my hands, I have no idea what to do with it. The timing of this time I have really sucks btw.

Well, I have to go now. Dinner must be made. I wonder which of my father’s chickens will die tonight.

Apa lánà, apa lónì, láiṣe abbattoir

Yours in meaningless rants,

Àlàké Akòwékowúrà🍒