A Real Problem Kid.

  Tomorrow, January 25, 2024, will mark a year since I was served my biggest humiliating experience. I had promised to take it to the grave, but after several panic attacks, I decided to share it here on this faceless forum, where at least my dignity and pride won't be tainted. Anything for my self-healing and self-forgiveness. Tomorrow, brethren would make it 365 days since a 23-year-old Di-Okpara Mmadu (firstborn son) was disgracefully bounced out of a wedding party by some Obalende-Floyd-Mayweather in the presence of over 689 people, excluding women and children. Tomorrow, people of God will mark one oscillation of the sun since I stopped worshiping at Winners Chapel Morroco Road branch, where the praise session always ends with this song, "Everything Nah Double Double." I decided to work the talk instead; double the hustle instead". Even though evidence of the "Doubled Hustle" might not really be glaring now, at least the eye-doubling hunger that mad

  Coming out of another interview yesterday, the 6th of the week, and probably the 42nd one in less than one month of being in Lagos, was the downcast, frustrated, tired, and hungry me, as usual, feeling like a failure. Again, after laying all my mighty grammar and vocabulary at the feet of an interviewer, I heard the usual slogan, "We will get back to you," which should be my second most hated statement, closely behind the first, "Nigeria shall be great.".   Just like every Nigerian, except the deluded ones, knows that the chances of Nigeria getting anything close to gre... are 0.00876%, so I always handed over everything to the hands of the "God of Chosen" whenever I left any of those interview grounds. Yesterday, brethren, was one of those days, probably the worst day. The interview session today was blockbusting, and the questions I was asked were hell-fire standard. Of course, I provided answers to those questions to the very best of my knowledge,

  So I decided to leave home and come down to Lagos, just 3 months after my NYSC passing out parade, and after the living conditions at home were becoming too unfavorable, unresideable, and too stressful.   The "This boy, go and hustle" type of look my mom was already giving me and the "May God remove this kind of reproach" cough my mom was giving me already indicated that I was entitled to less than 32 "Mummy, thank you" in that house. The "And this is useless, elder brother, we were placing the hope of an iPhone on" gaze by my younger ones and the "We can't keep shouldering your responsibility" type of fatherly advice my dad was steadily dropping was already giving me a clue of how impossible it would be to live in that house until I found my foot. It is as impossible as residing within the borders of Israel and Gaza without digesting one or two missiles or riffles. Even though no one was yet to outrightly tell me (of course,