Lucky ones

“And if you’re still breathing, you are the lucky ones, cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs”- Daughter, youth .

Folake was a lucky one, you had always wondered how she could have it all – wealthy parents, mum a major textile importer and dad a big wig. She had a boyfriend that was buying her things you could only dream about. She was a good friend, the two of you had been in a bubble together, and she even begged you to attend the same school with her.
You are protective of her; beauty, heart, brain, friendship. Everything used to come with your approval, after scrutiny from you both. Her parents let her do everything she wanted, yours didn’t even allow your friends visit. You had been at her place countless times and always wanted to offer yourself to be adopted by her parents like in movies you watched growing up, poor children got adopted by rich people they really loved.
You are brilliant, book smart, not so pretty. Your siblings are brilliant too, that is a family thing. Folake used to beat herself at night for not being half as brilliant as you; you had 5 As in your O’level results while she had 5 credits. Life wasn’t fair, she was dark, skinny and people thought she was on the verge of breaking into pieces but there you were with your amazing round butt and firm big boobs. Men looked at you, they wanted you but you say you can’t stand an unintelligent man.
She could fish in your sea of crumbs if you allowed her to, not minding that she had a boyfriend. She wanted what you had just as bad as you wanted what she had. This was the way life worked but none of you had it figured it out, what was worse? Is this the life that is so much better than death? The one where you’re in an endless struggle to have?

If you’re still bleeding you are the lucky ones, most of our feelings they are dead and they are gone”- Daughter, youth

They say depression is the fastest rising cause of suicide, which also happens to be the fastest rising cause of death in the world. So, every time you’re scrolling through your phone, you see people talking about how they’re willing to help or listen to depressed people. Your friends tweet it too and they go as far as telling people to check up on their friends or pay attention to details but they don’t know how hard you’re crying for them to notice you, you’re not suicidal because of religion. Many people tell you how much they want to be like you in strength but you want to tell them to stop, that suffering is what you’re doing and it is not cute. For every time someone tells you of how they want to take on loss, grief or suffering like you, you want to tell them how painful it really is, how you had searched relentlessly for a release but you’re just numb and dead inside, that no matter how deep you had cut into yourself, you just couldn’t find blood and the knowledge of it hurt too.
You have cousins, friends, uncles and a whole lot of other people who seem to think that you had life figured out. They all come to you for advice wearing the same robe of despair in different sizes asking questions nobody has answers to. They always ask you those ones, “what am I doing with my life?” “Am I going to amount to anything in life?” “Will I ever be happy?” It never stopped, sometimes it felt like you wore a badge telling people to dump their despair on you and take your reassurance with them. To them, you have all direction in the world and you weren’t going to make them feel otherwise (you couldn’t even).

And if you’re in love, then you are the lucky one cause most of us are bitter over someone” - Daughter, youth.

Every one of us have people that we are bitter about for different reasons; friends turned foes, closet haters, haters that have come out as haters, the group we are usually most bitter about are lovers, the ones that went wrong and even the ones that didn’t happen at all. A name has come up in your head now, you used to be lovers exploring insane levels of pleasures in each other’s bodies. That is the back story, but right now everybody knows you fell apart even if you won’t say what happened because of shame. The kind of shame that is not borne of the fact that for a long time you had maintained an image of innocence that would be overthrown or overridden but of the truth that you truly loved someone for the first or second time in your lifetime and they hurt you. Admitting that you were hurt was shameful to you the same way a pedophile father should feel for raping his own daughter. It was a dirty shame, you’d rather not delve into it. He found remorseless pleasure in another woman, for a while. You were a girl though, trying so hard at this woman thing that you didn’t know anything about.

Have you ever seen a flower wither into nothing? They say God is in details but bitterness can eat its way through anything- Key Ballah, Skin&Sun.

So it eats up your remorse first, as you navigate through the hearts and pants of many, breaking everything you come in contact with. People start to look up to your ways, telling you how they’ve made it into some sort of fetish you are to them a vixen and a goddess, they even tell you that you are a lucky woman for discovering your powers; the one in your body and the preciseness of your mind when dealing with the menfolk. As your remorse shrivels up like an untended flower, your self-care threatens to follow as you begin to unlock new ways to self-destruct, you’re still a heroine to the people at least they assure you of it. Slowly and gently this bitterness eats you up completely, you a flower that was difficult to grow, you that sprouted painfully by mistake out of concrete into the garden’s most looked at plant have now withered into unexpected nothingness. It is the lucky ones like you that cause the rest of us, the unlucky ones to stand still for hours on end, holding what is left of our breaths, wondering how hard it is required for us to look before we could see the signs of this thing that doesn’t have a pattern with which it overwhelms the mind.