A Progression of Curiosities
“Our whole lives are just progressions of curiosity, on various levels and scales; asking questions of ourselves, of others, of the universe of God.”
My alarm rings at 6:30 AM but I do not put it off till 6:33. For three minutes, I just lie down on my bed, looking up at the ceiling; seeing white and thinking of nothing in particular. When I get up to kill it, I am wearing a t-shirt, shorts and yellow minion socks. I walk to the wardrobe and get my sneakers. You see, dressing up for my morning exercise is really stressful, so I do it the night before.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and unlock my phone. On the way to the Bible app, I make a quick stop at WhatsApp; scrolling through a shitload of group chat and broadcast messages to check if any of the people I consider important texted me while I slept. I reply some; there is Ayo, my friend, Daniel, my ex-roommate and banter partner, and Tito, my girlfriend. For a couple of minutes, I laugh at the messages on the Watermelon Fries; a group chat with fourteen of the most insane boys on the planet. Patches of memory flash through my mind and it occurs to me how badly I miss our shenanigans and general misbehaviour. I make a mental note to get to the other messages at a later time, although a part of me knows that I never will. I try, I really do but I never remember anything. These days, my memory is like David De Gea in 2018; it just cannot seem to save anything. Recently, I have begun to make notes and write things down so I remember, but it is even harder to remember to check the notes. I sigh and console myself with the knowledge that life is a continuous learning process so I’ll get there, eventually.
I read some scripture and say a prayer. During the course of the lockdown, I have gotten closer to God. I still have doubts and questions, you know? Like, Why is there so much suffering? Why does goodness go unrewarded? Why are “bad” people still unpunished? I am only half enthusiastic about that last question though; I know that I have been bad. But despite these questions, something in my chest will not let go, there is a voice in my head that insists on his existence and I am committed to trying my best to understand and follow him. My uncle knocks on my door; a sign that he is ready for our walk. I drop the phone on the bed, put off the lights and step out for the first time since I entered the room last night.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
“Good morning Oluchukwu, how are you? Are you happy?”
“Yes, I am.”
It strikes me hard; the fact that this is the first time in months I have said I am happy and meant it. I lean against the wall while he ties his shoelaces and mull over it. A smile creeps over my face and I allow myself to enjoy it. I am happy, after all. But my happiness, as good as it is, is not the reason for this essay. The question — are you happy — is.
Till now, I have never sat down to think about the importance of questions and dialogue to our lives. To be fair, pre-lockdown me was doing a lot of moving and not a lot of thinking. The constant hustle and bustle of school and relationships and life, generally did not allow for pauses. Dave Chappelle once said that black men usually cannot afford to think about things and while I definitely was not who he had in mind, I can understand the sentiment. Nobody has time to discuss the nature and importance of questions and dialogue in life when there are classes and group assignments and meetings for those group assignments.
Our lives are ruled by questions (and the answers); Are you hungry? What class are you in? What do you want to be when you grow up? What’s your favourite football club? Where do you work? Will you marry me? How are you? Are you happy? Are you coping?
We walk down the stairs; uncle first, nephew not far behind. We put off security lights, open curtains and step out. The sky is a light blue and grey blanket over the estate. The weather is cool on the skin and for a couple of seconds, I stand on my toes and stretch, and then we move on to the gate. Our “exercise” has become an important part of the isolation experience. It is one way to get out of the house, it is also important to keep the body from falling prey to lethargy.
There are lots of joggers on the road; all shapes and sizes and hairdos and outfits. There is one thing in common though; a determination to work their bodies. Two gentlemen trot past us; “Alabasidi”, the song by Odumeje aka the Lion, the Liquid Metal, the Indaboski, and the War [among others]; a pastor and now popular meme, is blasting from their speaker at full volume. I bob my head to the tune, appreciating the band for their beautiful melody. For what must be the thousandth time, I tell myself that after the pandemic is over, I will take a bus to Anambra State just to attend his church services and dance to music from the band. “Okay, let’s go” says Uncle. We turn left from the gate and start walking slowly.
Questions, primarily, are asked for the purpose of learning. Socrates believed that “the disciplined practice of thoughtful questioning enables the scholar/student to examine ideas and be able to determine the validity of those ideas”. Put simply, Socrates assumed total ignorance of topics and asked his students questions in order to find out what they truly thought and at the same time, push their thinking further. Without a teacher to “guide” their answers, the students were free to create and reconstruct theories and thought processes.
Sometimes, we ask questions to prove a point, to joke or to be mean. Sometimes, it is all three. An example: “Hey, Sade. Has your husband stopped cheating on you yet?” But most times, we are just plain curious. And when you really think about it, our whole lives are just progressions of curiosity, on various levels and scales; asking questions of ourselves, of others, of the universe of God.
There is a Catholic monastery down the road and as we approach it, a lady in front of us stops and makes the sign of the cross before she continues her jogging. We smile and continue our game. On some days we jog, most times we walk, but we always talk.
Today, we are playing a questions game. I ask five questions, he asks five. We never get to five each; there are too many distractions on the road. Our questions differ, simply because our interests differ.
He is the uncle; older and seasoned in the ways of life. He has been through a lot, he has seen a lot and has come out of this with a lot of experience and wisdom. He is interested in the future;
Where do you see yourself in five years? I tell him I do not want to practice law and that I am interested in writing. He says it is okay and suggests courses I should take. As long as you are happy, he says.
What do you think about life? I tell him I think it is difficult, but that it is possible to be successful and fulfilled with planning and with God.
In the future, what will you remember when you think about the lockdown? The cooking, I say. Living alone, we have been forced to learn how to cook. Soup, stew, moi-moi, akara. My jollof rice game has gotten better, if I do say so myself.
What kind of girls do you like? I laugh. Short, I say. He laughs.
What else? A little flesh, I say. Something to hold. We laugh again as we get to the end of the road. We cross to the other side in order to face the traffic. Your turn.
I am the nephew; young, and even though I have had my troubles, they seem to be unimportant in the moment, as does the future. My mind is on the past;
How did you meet your wife, uncle? A long story about NYSC and friends and cousins of friends.
How was it growing up Igbo in Kano? It was good. Apparently, Papa (which is what everyone calls my grandfather) was well respected and loved and able to take care of his kids, all eleven of them. My father, a pastor now, was also a bit of a rascal.
How was it during the civil war? A pause. A sigh. A story; escaping Kano disguised as muslims, relatives butchered like animals while attending church services, eating lizards for protein, Mama’s famous “Win The War” soup: a mishmash of any edible vegetable she could find, no meat or fish. Just water. Kwashiorkor, children on the backs of elder siblings. Running. All the girls never went back to school; they all got married after; some of them, a bit ironically, to Nigerian army generals. The funny thing is that even after all these, we still did not get the short end of the straw. Others had it worse.
After this, it is a bit tense. Here we are; two people from two different times, only connected by the lottery of birth and blood. In that moment, we are surrounded by the weight of history; a history he experienced, a history that affects me still, decades after. We are quiet for a bit. Then I ask the next question;
Do you like snails? The answer is yes.
We are back at the gate; the security man salutes my uncle and I nod; accepting something not meant for me. I bend to adjust my socks, the minions looking at me with smiles created by threads of fabric. I look at my watch, preempting the question I know is coming. How many minutes did we spend walking today?
There is a question on your mind too: What on earth is the point of all this?
I have no idea, to be honest. I started this essay partly because I just wanted to write, partly because I was curious to find out how much I could go on without a particular message in mind. Finally I wrote this because a friend asked how I was coping. This is my answer; I am coping with questions and the answers to them. And sometimes, the answers, like this one, do not make sense, and our curiosities are not satisfied, and we might be a little confused than before. But confusion is just space for more questions, and by extension, space for more life.
