There Might Not Be Light At The End Of The Tunnel

There Might Not Be Light At The End Of The Tunnel So Carry Your Own Candle

I just realized something: I do not have close proximity to any rich people. The closest I get is their social media, but even then the gap between our social circles does not need a 4k camera to be seen. No, actually it’s been there before. It just became more glaring now. Rich folks only help those in almost the same social class as them. If not only the same social class. They help those that will impact and add value to their own lives. And I say this with no malicious intent (well maybe a little). I find the reality of this so cruel, so demoralizing.

This realization descends upon me a new brand of depression filled with hopelessness. The future for me is bleak. There might not be light at the end of the tunnel.

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Privilege is an important aspect of human life. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sending out emails every weekday riddled with “trust this email finds you well” and “looking forward to a favorable response”.  It will only be a matter of “go there, tell them from me” Scratch that even. Just the mention of your name, doors will burst open. Who determines these things anyway?

My reality has turned me into a liar. I hope Allah forgives me for being dishonest whenever I’m asked “Raheemat, what are your dreams?” I want to travel the world and study things that I happen to fancy at the time. But as I send yet another email that hopes to find someone well, the chances that I might toil forever hits me. Chances as high as the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro, even Everest.

Sunday morning, I’m writing a story with an insufferable female lead and a male lead whose head I’ll condemn to a stake if he was real. I’m always ashamed to write these stories, but what am I to do?

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If my family doesn’t work, we’ll go hungry. If we fall sick, we will go hungry. For every school fee paid, an account is completely cleared. I watched a tour of Shade Okoya’s closet. My entire family house can fit ten times into that closet.

I know the life I deserve. No, not deserve. I know the life I WANT. It’s not the in your face celebrity lifestyle I scroll through on Instagram. I’m talking about the ones that only find their way to your feed when lifestyle blogs get a glimpse of them. I’m talking about understated wealth and elegance. The one with the designer items placed at an angle that’s so aloof. (You see it, you know what I mean). World tours, Ivy leagues and laborious meals at restaurants. This one doesn’t beg for your attention.

Call me greedy for wanting these things. Accuse me of wanting a life that I didn’t work for. But if you have the life that I have, if you’ve ever watched your parents sell out the little they own just to put you and your siblings through school. Perhaps, you won’t accuse me of greed. If you have watched your parents shed away their dignity running errands for people, then you’ll understand. If for the unaffordability of basic things you’ve collapsed into yourself among your peers, you won’t accuse me the way you do. If you don’t, then get a move on.

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Kindness is in layers. You’ll only have access to a certain level of kindness if you know certain people. I find it hypocritical that those who experience this refrain from calling it what it is, connections. Let’s tell ourselves the truth, if you weren’t who you were or have that purchasing power, you know that kindness won’t even come your way. I hope that deep in their hearts they know what this means.

They say good things come to those who wait. Life has become a waiting room for most. They pray, hope and wait till they are old and withered. And even on their deathbeds, some still stubbornly believe that a miracle worker will turn their lives around.

Even though nothing ever changes, they believe strongly in the reward of heaven. Surely you can’t lose on Earth and miss out on heaven, can you?

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Hangul is a language that fascinates me. Unmyeong (destiny) is a word I have heard a lot in K-dramas. As with other cultures, Koreans believe that unmyeong is predetermined and outside of human control. You can’t change it, you have to resign to your destiny irrespective of how bad you might despise it. But I tell you the concept of destiny is a sham. A concept to justify class differences.

Unmyeong is a cruel idea. Most people toil day in day out, earning just enough for their basic needs. If you’ve ever held your breath while pointing at the cheapest looking item in the stall with calloused hands, then you’ll agree with me that unmyeong is a cruel idea. The affordability of basic needs has even eluded some. While some are genuinely lamenting over the price of a congo of garri, others have spillovers for generations whose names they haven’t even figured out yet.

“Will we be poor forever?” “Will there ever be a time when we will live a comfortable life?”. I text my brother these questions. He doesn’t reply, instead he sends a sticker. But I’m aware of all he doesn’t say. I know the fears he dreads. They are what keep me awake at night.

When my mother laments about the deplorable state of things and life, I groan and tell her that all these lamentations got us nowhere. I don’t want the fears of eternal penury that inhabits my mind to be voiced out.

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Ignorance is bliss and today is the day I have agreed the most with the phrase. Maybe if I didn’t know these things, I wouldn’t seek them out. Maybe I’ll be more accepting of unmyeong and hope I get a life 0-1 heaven.

I run through many ways of how I can change my destiny. Marrying into a rich family, selling my kidney, doing rituals. Check. In the university, I studied a course that they said you can work anywhere with. One thought that nags me is if I should have studied something more lucrative. Law, Medicine, Accounting, Journalism, anything but “you can work anywhere”. I think of time travel. Perhaps if there was a time machine I’d go back and rewrite my parents destiny. Perhaps if they had taken that job, done that thing, had less children. Perhaps, perhaps. There are way too many perhaps in this life.

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I can write a hundred and one essays bemoaning the state of my life and cloak myself in a blanket of self-pity, but I have realized that for my life to change I should not leave anything to the shaky hands of faith. I’m going out there to take what belongs to Caesar and more, Caesar be damned.

When I count my blessings this past earth’s rotation around the sun, I count the women in my life twice. I count three times and even four. One of Troy Onyango’s books is titled “For What Are Butterflies Without Wings”. I am a butterfly just blooming in a garden of endless possibilities. And these women have given a little butterfly like me wings. I daresay with these new wings, I will fly close to the sun and maybe I won’t get burned like Icarus.