Dear Self,

Here we are again. Another year has ended and you made it. You didn’t just make it, you excelled in it. You started 2016 laughing and you ended it laughing, and there’s nothing greater than that.
You may not have ended up where you intended, career wise. But I assure you, you are in a much better place. There have been ups and downs, moments when you found yourself asking what you were thinking going down this path, and if you would make it. Well, guess what, you’ve made it. In the process, you’ve learnt life lessons and survival skills, and these will keep you going.
Your family. You learnt to appreciate them more, because you don’t get to see them so much anymore. You lost two uncles; a biological one and an influential one in your life – under tragic circumstances. This has perhaps been the hardest and saddest part of the year. Your family mourned and you mourned with them as best as you could. But your uncles didn’t leave you empty handed, they left you with a reminder that family should come before everything else, because you never know when they’ll leave. They also brought clarity to a decision you’ve always struggled with. Now you know for certain, you want to have a family of your own.

Written in 2016.

Posting 7 years too late, but better late than never!

Midnight Trains, Midnight Skies, Midnight Dreams

Dear Sue, or do you prefer Ess, or Kyorku…?

I dreamt about you last night (Feb 6 2021, to be specific). In the dream, our secondary school results had been released, but I refused to go to school for mine. Instead, I told my friend Babsy to pick them up for me. I can’t remember why, I just did. Babsy returned to inform me that Mr Patrick, the integrated science teacher, was mad that I had refused to show up for my results and had instead sent someone for them. When I received this news from Babsy, I decided to visit campus myself for my results slip.

Upon my arrival to campus (which was mostly a patch of desert and nothing like OLA campus), there you stood. In the middle of the campus (which was actually no where), you just stood there. In a plain dress and with the saddest look on your face. You looked absent minded (or was it lost?). I stopped to ask you why you looked so forlorn. In this dream, again, I knew you were not alive. Still, I was about to remind you that that (not being alive) wasn’t enough reason not to pick up your results slip. As I opened my mouth to speak, I woke up from the dream.

I had trouble going back to sleep and I ended up sleeping in two extra hours in the morning — bad decision!: Threw my internal clock off and didn’t help my mood or productivity throughout the day. I spoke to Irene later in the morning and mentioned the dream to her, because the earlier part of the dream had been about her. For the rest of the day, I pretended to have forgotten about the dream. I’m getting pretty good at avoidance lately… Or so I like to believe.

But the night finally came and, as always, I was finally alone with my thoughts. I started to go over the dream again, memories of it getting thinner and thinner. I missed you so bad. And I realised my avoidance skills are not that slick after all.

I was experiencing mixed feelings; on the one hand, dreaming about you always makes me sad, so there’s that. But on the other hand, I was happy to have dreamt about you again because this was the first time in ages. As I was drafting this post, I decided to check when I started my letters to Sue series, and realised it’s been exactly a year since I last dreamt about you.

Of course, I think about you all the time. But you’ve never appeared in my dreams again since I started the letters to Sue series, until now. For a moment there I thought you were mad that I was sharing our intimate moments with the world, which was why you’d ceased to visit… Were you? … Another part of me thought that perhaps my last post had purged my conscience, and with it, you. Now I know that’s not the case.

So, welcome back. I really miss you and it’s good to have you back, even if only in my dreams.

What’s the deal with February though? Why do you choose to come in February? It’s not your birth month, because that’s the month that I think about you the most… And you know why. So, why February? Did we once share a special moment in the month of February?

Anyway, after brooding for much of the evening, I decided to Google your name, to see what you had shared with the world before leaving. I found your LinkedIn and wordpress pages. I visited your LinkedIn but there wasn’t much there. So I proceeded to your blog. It was painful and I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but I went ahead and did it anyway.

I only managed to get through three pieces of you before I was overcome with emotion and closed the page for the day. I read the intro to your blog, two poems, and your post about Fun. The Fun. post is my go-to one because it was the last substantive conversation I had with you on my Facebook wall before you left. I had posted the lyrics to one of their songs on my wall and you commented saying that you loved Fun., and that they were your new favourite band. You directed me to read your blogpost about Fun., which I did. Loved it, of course. You also used that as an opportunity to remind me about why I needed a blog.

Anyway, while reading your midnight train post for the umpteenth time, I realised it bore a striking similarity to a post I also wrote about music about three years ago.

I miss you, Sue. Regularly I wonder what you would have been up to by now. I also wonder what you would have had to say about the things I’ve accomplished so far, and importantly, about the drama in my life right now.

Back to music. I recently discovered Miley Cyrus’ Plastic Hearts Album and I think about you every time I listen to it. I’m pretty sure you would love it. Miley Cyrus isn’t (or hasn’t been, hitherto) among my top favourite artistes… But hey, you and I have always been music hoes, so… But yeah, she has two songs titled Midnight Sky and Edge of Midnight in the album — All that talk about midnight is probably what got me thinking about you.

Anyway, I decided to take a break from preparing for my class tomorrow to write you a letter while listening to Plastic Hearts on repeat. I’m glad I did, I feel my brain fog and tears clearing up.

Thanks for stopping by last night, Sue. And do visit again, sooner this time. Don’t be a stranger. After all, dreams are the only place we get to connect now. So, until then…

Love, Baadalet.

PS: I attended a talk on mourning and creativity on Friday, Feb 4 (And the realisation just dawned)… I’ll tell you about the talk in a different letter. Kisses!

Written: 7th February, 2021

The Past and the Future are the Only Happy Places

In a conversation with a friend recently, they said to me, “it feels as if I had so little back then, but I was so much happier”.

*Conversations paraphrased based on recollection.

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This reminded me of a conversation I’d had with my therapist a couple months back, where I told them, “We lived in the most wretched house, but I was so happy back then”.

The therapist followed with some probes: “Why do you think you were much happier then, even though as you’ve described, your living conditions were so tough?”

I had never really given that much thought. So, I did.

After close to 30 seconds of deep thought, I responded, “I think it’s because I had so much hope for the future. My siblings and I were very bright children. So, there was always a part of me that believed that if we only continued to work hard, we would be able to attain better lives for ourselves and for our parents”.

“Mm hmm… And how’s that different now?” My therapist asked again.
“Well, now we’re in the future… And most of the things I’d hoped that my siblings and I would do haven’t been accomplished”.

“I see. Do you think then, that part of your pain right now, is holding onto past expectations rather than current reality?” The therapist continued.

“Yes, absolutely”. I replied quietly.

“But do you also think that in some way, you’re only looking at half the picture of past vs present, in terms of unmet expectations? … Because, maybe the expectations you had for your siblings and family as a collective haven’t been realised. But do you think that you’ve been able to meet some of the expectations you had for yourself at least?”

Without a second thought, I responded “Yes, definitely! In fact, I have exceeded any expectations I had of myself during my childhood”.

“Tell me more” the therapist encouraged.

“Back then, I wanted to be a lawyer or a journalist. Later at some point, I wanted to be a criminologist or an academic. But, I’d always imagined and hoped I would go into one of those professions right there in Ghana. I never in a million years thought that I would receive a full scholarship to pursue grad studies in Canada. But here I am, completing my PhD in Canada and hopefully on my way to an academic job. So yes, I’ve certainly exceeded all expectations I had of myself”.

“Yes. Yes… that’s the part of the picture you’re missing. But that’s also the most important part. Because you can only control yourself and your actions. You cannot control the people and circumstances around you. So, it might be worthwhile to focus more on how far you’ve come and celebrate your achievements. Because as you can see for yourself, you’ve done really well by all accounts”.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling.

“But, you also need to be careful of fully trusting memories from the past. Oftentimes, these memories are packaged as all black or white, all happy or all terrible, but that’s never really the case”.
Concluded the therapist.

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And for the next few days, I kept reminding myself of the miracle that I was: coming from a tough and unpredictable family situation, with so few resources and a weak foundation to guarantee me future success: to now completing a PhD in a reputable institution in Canada.
Everything I’d dreamt and hoped for for myself had been multiplied 10-fold. There was merit in dreaming and being hopeful.

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But a few weeks later, all of these newly discovered insights and feelings of gratitude disappeared. I was back to my ‘woe is me’ attitude.
And the flashbacks continued: I lived in dilapidated houses most of my life (little wonder most of my dreams involve a house of some sort), but I was so happy. I had gone to bed hungry many nights during my undergraduate studies; and yet if I could freeze time at a period when I was the most happiest, it would definitely be the years 2008-2011.

Why?

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… to be continued, hopefully.

Rejection

I wasn’t a particularly good looking child. Good looking baby, maybe. But my adorable streak disappeared as I grew, and by age six, I was this skinny creature with protruding ears. Now that I think about it, I bore a striking resemblance to Gollum… Or let’s go with Smeagol, that’s less hurtful. I’m sure my parents thought I was cute, but they had birthed me, so, of course.

The first time that I realised I likely wasn’t good looking, was also the first time that I got rejected (or at least the first I remember) by a love interest. I was between ages 6-9? (Forgive my lack of accuracy, I’ve never been gifted with a good memory). I was in primary school at Methodist Experimental in Bolgatanga.

As I typed the word ‘experimental’, I suddenly found myself wondering if we were some kind of an educational experiment? Interesting that I’d never thought about the name until now. Anyway, I digress – back to rejection.

It was a sunny afternoon and we were either on break or our teacher hadn’t made it to class that day; so, everyone was running around screaming, playing and just having the time of their life. I was sitting alone in the corner playing with my new sore; I was known for having several sores as a kid. My mom had mentioned that I’d had a skin condition as a baby, which caused me to develop rashes and boils if my skin came into contact with rain water. But at ages 6-9, I think it was mainly because I often played rough games with my brothers, and usually ended up with cuts and bruises which subsequently got infected.

So, on this lovely day, I was amusing myself with my new baby, when I noticed that my love interest – let’s call him Tahiru – was playing with a group of girls. Of course, every girl wanted to play with him; he was the beau of the class. Each girl would slide up to him on a stool and he would push them forward using as much force as possible. The girls would giggle as they went sliding across the room, and then get back in line to be pushed again – a modified swing slide game, I guess?

Anyway, after observing them for some time, I decided it would be a dream come true to have my stool pushed by the love of my life. So I stopped playing with my sore and ran up to the little group. But even before I could position my stool in front of him, Tahiru shouted, “No!”, with a scowl. I glanced at him to be sure the no was directed at me… Of course it was. Tahiru kept scowling at me, so I advised myself and quietly moved my stool back to the corner; I had important sore business to take care of anyway.

But that ‘no’ from the beau had sent a dagger through my heart. And the fact that I’m writing about it 20-something years later is enough proof.

It didn’t help that only a short period earlier (or later, forgive the poor memory), the prettiest and most popular girl in the class (together with her group of friends) had refused to play see-saw with me too. She had sacked me with a wave of her hand even before my butt touched the seat of the see-saw.

I have reason to believe that Tahiru’s rejection birthed the philosopher in me. For, throughout the next few weeks, I kept pondering what was different about me, compared to the other girls, that made him refuse to play with me. Although, to be fair, Tahiru had probably noticed me in the corner minutes earlier fully engrossed with my sore, and had wanted nothing to do with that.

So, to recap, I wasn’t a pretty child and therefore had to begin processing rejections at a very early age – including from the love of my life, Tahiru.

But don’t feel too sorry for me; it wasn’t all gloom back then. I didn’t have the looks, but I had other things going for me. For one, I was the smartest (by standards that I acknowledge are flawed) kid in the class, so, Tahiru may not have liked me, but he at least respected me (I would hope).

Living Dead Pt IV (Ghosts of the Living)

Finally, I let go

And set off back for home

I wasn’t sure anymore

Where home was

Or how to get there

But I kept going

For, I knew I could build a new home

If the old one did not exist anymore

Halfways in

They reappeared

I barely recognised them

For, they were but ghastly representations

of how I remembered them

Yet, they assured me

It was them

And they hadn’t changed

Or they had changed

All I had to do

Was give the word

My specters

I couldn’t look them in the eye

They induced floods of tears

I couldn’t listen to them

They caused me anguish

I avoided whiffs of them

It was painful nostalgia

But they assured me they were alive

Pinched themselves and pinched me

Take us back home, it is us

But I could not

For I found a new home

And it had just one bed, for me

I had performed their funerals

And said my goodbyes

I had held on so long

I had finally let go

I could not go back

But here they were

Outside of their graves

They were alive

Or so they wanted me to believe

Let’s go home

Where we’ll live happily ever after

It had taken so long

For me to walk away from their graves

I was so close to ‘home’

Yet, here I was

Again

In the middle of no where

With my phantoms of the living

Living Dead Pt III (Burials of the Living)

Warning: This content might be disturbing. Please read at your own discretion

I sat with their corpses

I knew I had to bury them

Yet I could not let go

They were mine

They were all I had

Their funerals had brought friends and foe

They had wept and laughed

To show they cared

And to mock me

Thousands had come

To tell me I’d be fine

I almost believed them

Until the dusk came

And I was all alone

With my corpses

They were all I had: my corpses

I knew I had to let go

So I could move on

But I would have nothing

If I let them go

I was never one to be hopeful

Yet, now I clung to hope

That my corpses would live again

So I sat with my living corpses

Watched them grow different by the second

I need to let go

I need to cling on

They are all I have

The Gabon Tourist – Pt 1

The Gabon tourist, aka ‘love of my life’. Let’s call him… Noah.

It was some time in April 2010. Like every other time I have fallen in love, I knew it right from the start. We met on Facebook. Yup, Facebook. I had gone to visit my brother in his room at the University of Ghana (UG), Main Campus. While there, I decided to check my Facebook notifications using the newly installed free wifi created for learning purposes. Noah was online and out of curiousity (because he and my then-boyfriend shared the same name), I said hi to him. He responded and we got chatting. We chatted about everything and nothing, and I just couldn’t peel myself away from the computer. I ended up missing the last shuttle to my hostel. But who cared about that when I had just met the love of my life on Facebook – thanks to free wifi :).

I stayed on my computer with Noah until, finally, my older brother kicked me out of his room (very politely) and I told Noah I had to go. I could sense Noah’s disappointment. He asked for my phone number before I signed off and I happily gave it to him. I spent 2cedis ? I did not have to board a taxi back to my hostel (Evandy). But I wasn’t sorry. I thought about Noah for the rest of the night until I fell asleep.

Afterwards, I did not hear from Noah for days. We were both trying to play it cool. Also, I was trying to stay away from trouble, considering my last drama was barely over. But I was really missing Noah, a man whom I hardly knew. Over the next few days, every call that I got from a strange number, I prayed it was him. It wasn’t.

When I had almost given up, a call from a strange number came through one evening. I picked up hoping it was Noah but knowing it most likely wasn’t. It was him.

“So haven’t you missed me?” The voice on the other end asked.

“Who’s this”? I asked, barely able to hide my excitement.

“It’s me, Noah, but not [that] Noah” The person said.

I giggled and said, “Oh I see, well, you certainly don’t sound like my Noah”.

Now, remember the boyfriend? And remember I said I had barely resolved my last drama?

Well, in April 2010, my (steady) boyfriend at the time was also called Noah. We had been dating for almost a year. However, it was a long-distance relationship. So, the excess time and space – coupled with my love of flirting – had gotten me into a couple of relationships I hadn’t quite bargained for, over that one year period. Every time, I would struggle to get out of those relationships and within the blink of an eye, I was in another one. Almost like a fish that swims to the shore, realises it cannot breathe, swims back into the water, and then moments later, is back on the shore again.

I had mentioned to Noah during our first chat that I was seeing someone. But that didn’t deter him, and I was hoping it wouldn’t.

Anyway, back to our conversation.

“What do you mean I don’t sound like him? Does he sound better?” Noah asked.

“No, of course not. You just sound… different”. I replied.

But, yeah, old Noah definitely had a deeper and more alluring voice than new Noah.

“If you say so. My guys and I just finishing working at this site and I thought about you, so decided to call” Noah said.

“So what have you been up to?” He added.

I began babbling away. We spoke for over an hour. At some point Noah ran out of phone credit so I recharged and called him back, and we exhausted that talktime as well. Bear in mind, this was the year 2010. Call credit was super expensive and we were on different network providers. When the call ended the second time, it took everything in me to refrain from buying more credit to call Noah back.

It was quite disappointing but also a relief, when I didn’t hear back from Noah after 30 minutes. At that moment, I knew I was walking down a deep, dark hole that I would have trouble climbing out of. ‘But is the monkey care?’

I did not hear from Noah again for a while. I told myself it was for the best and I convinced myself contacting him would be a terrible idea. So I did not.

Soon, the semester came to an end and I had to return home to Sunyani (in a different region of the country). I left without hearing from, or reaching out to, Noah.

My New (Old) Roommate

Dear Diary,

I think I have a new roommate. Although, to be fair, I am probably the new roommate because my new (old) roommate was likely in the apartment before I moved in. My roommate is a ghost. A middle-aged, male ghost. So I have named him Mr Ghost Man. First name Man, last name Ghost.

I don’t know how long Mr Ghost has been living here, but with the authority and entitlement with which he walks around, he’s certainly been here a long time.

Funny though, I never knew about Mr Ghost’s existence until the Covid-19 pandemic began. I think he finally revealed himself to me after he realised I was spending so much time at home that it would be impossible for him to go about his activities as clandestinely as he previously did. So he revealed himself.

Rude! Not even a welcome or housewarming party when I first moved in. Only to appear one day. Strutting his stuff about the apartment with an air of arrogance and annoyance.

How did he reveal himself? I’ll tell you.

The dirty dishes, scattered apartment, unfolded laundry, disappearing food, my 12-hour sleep spells… A ghost is the only reasonable explanation I can think of for all these happenings.

But this war is about to go down. It might have been Mr Ghost’s territory for centuries, but this apartment is my turf now! And I am going to fight Mr Ghost to the death for it. Except Mr Ghost is already dead, so I might have to think up a different measure of victory.

… I’ll keep you posted.

I miss you, Sue

Dear Sue,

I dreamt about you again. It’s been over a week, but everything is still so vivid. I’ve been restless since the dream, maybe because I’ve been resisting the urge to write about you… as always. But I’d like to think that you want me to write about you, or else why do you keep coming to me? I also want to believe that you’ve forgiven me for not getting in touch on your birthday, or that you never took it to heart, to begin with.

There! I let out my confession. I will finally wear my shame in public. Hopefully, it brings me atonement and with it, a sense of relief. I don’t feel anything yet, but I hope it comes.

Anyway, back to my dream. I saw you again. This time you came to specifically tell me that you’ve missed me. I was sitting on a bench, really close to the edge, just the way my life has been feeling like lately. And then you were sitting on the other edge of the bench. You turned to look at me, and you smiled. Face filled with tiny pimples – exactly as I’ve always known you. Frozen in time. You smiled, teeth showing, and you said, “I miss you”. At that moment, I felt so much relief. I felt like I finally had permission to miss you. I smiled back painfully and said, I miss you too so much, Sue.

But here’s the thing. In the dream, I knew you were dead. And you knew you were not living. It did not feel like we were back to old times (when you were still alive), chatting away our cares. No, in that dream you had come from the place where no one ever returns from, to have a conversation with me. I wasn’t scared or anything, only filled with overwhelming joy and relief. You asked me what I’d been up to and I asked what you’d been up to. I was happy at that moment. Talking with you again, Sue, I was really happy.

I woke up. All of the shame and self-loathing came flooding back. Then I remembered, you had come to tell me that you miss me. I realised, I had the permission to miss you too. Our relationship did not end on a good note. There had been no final goodbyes. But maybe that’s because there wasn’t supposed to be one? Because you keep coming to me. How can a goodbye be final when we still have a relationship?

So, now, I have my letters to Sue column. And every time you come to me, I will give myself permission to write about you. Because we write to right our wrongs… You and me, it’s the only way we know how.

I miss you Sue!

With love,

Baadalet

Adieu, 2019

2019 is evidence that things get better. That it’s always darkest before the dawn, and that there’s always a reason to keep going, even when it seems impossible.
Biggest lesson learnt: Take that leap of faith, even if you’re not sure where you’ll land.
My year of blessings; it’s sad to see 2019 end.
But leap of faith… A toast to greater things to come in 2020!!