Welcome!! If you’re yet to subscribe, kindly do so with this button. Also, remember to leave a like and a comment.

Subscribe now

white lighthouse on green grass field near body of water during daytime — Photo by Daniel Seßler on Unsplash

Dear Bolu,

The past few weeks have been cruel and unkind to me. The few pleasures I seek from life have, one after the other and at times, in a single glorious rapture, disappeared from the realm of my reach. You know, those quiet escapes we hang on to that keep our world spinning. Those cheap thrills that slow the rot within. Those delicate liberties that keep us from ourselves. Whether it be skittles or cupcakes; gin or yoghurt; Friends or Jumong; Dororo or Bleach; Coldplay or Clairo; your grandma’s stew or your girl’s doodles; Twain or Atwood; F1 or basketball; your dad’s compliments or your man’s dry wit. Those things, whatever they may be. All of mine are nowhere to be found. This pruning and whittling away of my little freedoms has been painful to watch especially as I am both the viewer and the victim; the observer and the observed; the spectator and the spectacle.

One of such liberties I’m no longer allowed is football, or soccer if you speak the language of Uncle Sam’s children. It’s the off-season and there are no attractive live matches to watch or suited pundits to listen to as they tell me what I already know about the game through layers of makeup, green screens, and cockney accents. Initially, I thought it was a good thing. I thought this mandatory recess from the beautiful game would afford me time for more productive activities. But that hasn’t been the case, I’m afraid. I’ve instead found myself seeking cheap substitutes to football—highlights of past games, compilations, and the likes. I scour blogs for football news like a famished rat, hunt for clips of rumoured signings in action and stalk football handles for hot, cold and lukewarm takes. Anything, dear friend. Anything. I’ll take anything. Like the addict who’s too broke to afford his usual high-end poison, I’ve had to settle for an adulterated product. It’s not nearly as potent as I want but it just about suffices.

A while ago, as has become a habit, I wobbled into YouTube scanning each alley in search of a dealer to hook me up with anything that could placate my furious hunger. Imagine my joy when I came across what seemed to be the highlights of a match between Wales and Austria. It was a false dream, of course, but it turned out to be a beautiful one—so beautiful I couldn't take my eyes off it. There was a single chorus in a stadium full of many faces as Welsh supporters sang heartily to Yma o Hyd, a song about the survival of their language and culture. This hive of men and women in red and green, some with Ukrainian flags and others with fistful air punches, warmed my heart. It was my first encounter with the Welsh language and I thoroughly enjoyed it. In the end, I couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that when we finally get to hear trees communicate through their roots in the future, they’d speak in Welsh. It just feels and sounds so much like the language of the earth, and I think that’s the purest compliment one could pay a language.

Oh well.

There is something captivating about a swarm of people singing along to a song. Brothers-in-arms bellowing out lyrics from the depths of their guts. Thumping. Thudding. Waving. Swaying, as if drunk in the magic of the moment. It’s moving in the most exquisite of ways and I felt quite moved as I sat still in my chair, watching the video play over and over again. It happens ever so often that in such moments, the universe conspires to lodge matter in my eyes, thus condemning me to a face full of tears as I struggle to dislodge the trespasser. I am also forced to let out a few sniffles because I’m allergic to said matter. But when people see me in such settings, they think I’m mushy and soft. They don’t even lend an ear to my plausible defence before jumping to a silly conclusion. Ah, humans. But you’re not like them, right? Yes, exactly, I’m not mushy. The universe is just so cruel and well aware of my vulnerabilities.

Anyway, what’s better than watching such scenes? Being a part of it. I know that there is comfort and pleasure to be found in the solitude of our airpods, but there is also a wonderful experience to be had when we congregate for an event. If you’ve ever attended a good concert, or in fact, any ceremony you were wholly into and had to sing with the crowd, you may more easily find this relatable. You let go. You don’t hear yourself and you don’t care. Yours is just one of a million voices and you are glad to be just that one. The atmosphere is incredible. It’s got its own breath and soul and life. It’s special, because, perhaps, it taps into our primal need to be a part of something bigger than us—a group, community, tribe, anything. I don’t know. It’s just special. I call it the magic of congregation because, well, I’m so good at naming things. And if you’ve never experienced this magic before, I suggest you seek it out, dear friend.

Fin.

P.S.

I’ve come to find and acknowledge that there is no void in life. In who we are and what we do, there is never a void. If you stop a thing, another takes its place. If you kill a feeling, another rises in its stead. As with time, where there is no gap—only moments, never unmoments and instances, never uninstances—there is also no void in life. In situations where we don’t consciously fill a void, something else takes up that vacated space for better or worse. If we’re in control of our voids and the things that fill them, we’ll be better for it. Hear, hear!

Thanks for reading! I’m delighted you made it here. If you liked this issue of Dear Bolu, you could sign up here so that new letters get sent directly to your inbox.

Subscribe now

If you really liked it, do tell a friend about it.

Share

Also, remember to leave a like or a comment!

Leave a comment

Write you soon, merci!

- Wolemercy