I used to think I was dull; in fact, I convinced myself I was dull, and I still am.
You know how you can tell you’re messing up when something doesn't go right?
I can't say I had a rough life. However, I can boldly say I just didn’t take things seriously, or I thought I knew enough to carry me through at the time.
My instincts kept telling me I would pass the rest of the classes just like the JSS3 exams.
Ss1 was the flexible level, and I danced and lived life until the results came out. I was so tensed (I still carry the tension from that day) I managed to open my result, but all I could see was ‘you have repeated Ss1'. Lmao
With the kind of parents I have, I knew my life would just end, and for the first time ever, I considered suicide, but I didn't go through with it.
A friend of mine followed me to the school toilet, where I cried my eyes out. I headed back to the hostel to think about my life.
I refused to go home, even though I was sure my parents would worry that I wasn’t home yet.
At night, I’d wake up and pray to God that the result was fake, that I was dreaming, or something, but nothing changed.
Daybreak I decided to go home, and I promise you, you don’t want to know how it ended.
The break was over, and I had to go back to school and face the juniors I was wicked to. I knew life was about to become a shithole for me, but I was ready to face it all.
Classes began about a week after the resumption, and I hated it. My permanent seat was near the exit door, and I never paid attention to the teacher. I knew I wanted to do better at school, but I couldn't focus. During break time, I would sit and cry. Sometimes my friends, who were now a class ahead of me, came to see me. However, as time passed, they stopped coming, which I completely understood was due to their busy schedule, so I didn't hold it against anyone.
I eventually decided to channel all my emotions into something reasonable. I took out one of my school notebooks and started jotting down my feelings. With time, those feelings became actual words I could read. My literature teacher back then was so nice. He noticed I was always composing poems, so one day he called me into his office and told me to always bring them to him. I’d take them to him, and he’d make corrections and hand them back to me. It was comforting to know someone paid attention to me. I wrote so much that at the end of the term, that notebook was filled up, and I didn’t even notice it. Somehow, I misplaced that book, but I passed my first term as a second-timer in that class. I was so proud of myself. I stopped writing after losing that notebook, but some of those words stuck with me for years. Fast forward to years after school, when I decided to start composing again, and surprisingly, I was still as proficient or even better. I developed so much passion for writing that if I ever felt the tiniest bit uncomfortable in a situation, I’d turn to writing.
Whenever I feel something, I write it down. I help people express themselves with words they don’t think they have to. I walk in people's shoes and understand their emotions. That’s how I sometimes write, and I know I’m not where I want to be yet, but I am headed in that direction.
My teacher worked so hard to ensure I had the right words to say. I am eternally thankful to him for teaching me that if I wanted to stand out from the rest of the writers, it was imperative to follow my own pattern rather than follow ABAB or whatever standard exists. Today, he is gone. He can’t see me achieve the greatness I prayed for and worked for, but I know he is proud.
Most of my family members don’t even know I write or love it. However, I hope they understand me as much as I understand myself. Something seagull-like led to this wonderful brain of mine today. Even though some days I still doubt my intelligence, one day I'll accept it.
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