I've got a short memory,I don't remember things, like the names of estates and avenues I've driven down multiple times, like the stories behind the Halloween holidays or the sermon I get from my Preacher in church and my Uncle. At a wedding for my dearest aunt, I do not remember the names of Cousins I played with as a child. For a minute I do not remember the name of my Best friend's late mom; in her veranda I stand blankly, my head spinning, suddenly unsure even of the ground upon which stand. Who am I and why am I here? I cannot recall how we became friends.
Most of the time, I’m unbothered by my mind’s quiet rebellion against things it deems pointless. But every now and then, an unsettling weight drifts in like I’m out of sync with a world that’s somehow cracked the code of survival, mastered life on the grid... except me. My memory, fickle and unwilling to hold on to anything useful, leaves me stranded helpless, unsure of who or what to turn to.
A friend once told me the mind is just a doorway, that the spirit is the larger, truer force. But knowing the fragile limits of my own mind, I can’t help but question that. Doubt fills the spaces where belief should live.
I remember airports especially that odd one with the strange, spiraling stairs and the quirky Art Deco waiting lounge in New York. I remember the church I used to attend, the way the women’s choir would fill the air with their rich, echoing rendition of “Amazing Grace.” I remember how, somehow, I felt more at ease in my classmate’s house than I ever did in either of the places I now refer to, with a nostalgia they might not deserve, as home.
Growing up, I never felt held in I never felt the boundaries of a room or the gentle enclosure of a place meant to keep me safe. The sense of an extended womb, of warmth and closeness, was foreign to me. My parents didn’t cling tightly or hover; they released me into the world, giving only what was necessary food, water, the basics and expected me to grow from there. I was left mostly to myself, to figure things out alone, to map my place in a world I barely understood. I remember constantly leaving and returning, drifting in and out that rhythm, that motion, became the closest thing I ever had to home.
On my first birthday, my mother once told me, I was given a red velvet cake. My dad made his usual trip to Ethel’s the one place where he was always the only Black customer and came back with tofu and soft burritos. My mom dressed me in a yellow singlet and matching shorts, settled me into my little wooden chair, and spoon-fed me while Dad swayed across the room to his favorite old-school jazz, lost in the rhythm.
Sometimes, I think maybe you should ask about the day you were born. I mean really ask, down to the smallest, most delicate detail. What did the sky look like? Who smiled first? Did your parents cry, or laugh, or go quiet? What season opened the door for you? And your job, in all of this, is just to listen, listen closely and let your imagination fill in the rest. Let it build the beginning of your story.
I was born on January 1st, 1984 barely a day after the military coup of December 31st, 1983, in my father’s homeland, Nigeria. The country was shifting beneath everyone’s feet, but in that small hospital room, something entirely different was unfolding.
Dad swears I came into the world with my eyes wide open, hands stretched forward as if I had already seen something and was reaching back for it. He insists I smiled the moment our eyes met, a flicker of recognition sparking between us like lightning tearing through a quiet sky. “It means something,” he said softly, cradling me in awe. “Someday, it’ll make sense.”
Mom, half-exhausted and fully unimpressed, rolled her eyes and muttered, “There he goes again,” dismissing his words with that familiar look equal parts love and exasperation. That was just her way skeptical, grounded, never one to chase signs or symbols. Classic Mom.
A nurse eventually entered the room, holding my birth certificate like it was an official decree. Everything looked standard at first glance until the section that read Race. Two words were typed there: Nigerian and American. But scribbled delicately in the margin, in the smallest, most careful handwriting, was a single word: Correct.
It was as if even the paperwork knew my existence would never quite fit inside the lines.
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