GRATITUDE, F*CKTITUDE.

It’s been ages since I wrote. Three months, maybe four.
Most times, I make up my mind usually on my way back from work to write a story but I get home, bathe, lay on my bed and my thoughts steal me away.
“Why haven’t you been writing?”
“How far your blog nau?”
These questions, often thrown at me by my own self, have never been answered. Even as I type now, I am trying to answer the questions in my head but all I have come up with sound like excuses.
“I have been busy with work”
“I have had issues with my former relationship”
“I haven’t seen a good writing prompt”
“My bed is not comfortable”
“I don’t have a good working space”
“I am having writer’s block”
“My sister has been too busy to edit my stories”
Excuses, excuses, excuses.

At some point, I began to even wonder if I was a good writer. Most times I even wondered if I could even describe myself as a writer. Maybe I just got lucky with over 100 inconsistent posts that fetched me over 20,000 views in two years. In a world, where people don’t read.
“In a world where people don’t read…” this was also one of my excuses. Even when evidence stared back at me through my stats.
I’d very much like to sound inspirational, deep and wise but f*ck it.
After alot had happened with me for the most of last year, I unconsciously started reducing the threshold of my worries.
“Does it really matter?”
“Would this be an issue after I die?”
“Should I really be worried?”
These were the questions that helped be sieve my worries.
These were the questions that kept me sane because you see, in the real sense, we are all mad.
I’m most probably not making any sense because most of my thoughts and convictions are distorted and simpler.
You can say, that right now, I really cannot come and kill myself.
You must be thinking: “oh she’s a mess and she’s depressed”
Maybe I am.
But if I am, so are you — messed up, in the real sense of it.
It is at this juncture that I’d like to let you know that this is, in some twisted sense, a gratitude post.
I am grateful to myself for growing some f*cking balls.
Yes, f*cking balls. Of course you know I don’t mean literally even though sometimes, I wish I actually had them.
It takes guts to stare at your own reflection and recognise.
I did, and I recognised what I was staring at and I gave it a name: FREE
This doesn’t even mean that my shackles are off.
This means that I see the shackles now and I am trying to take them off.

My name is Ifeoma Chiamaka Nduka
I am an Architect
First born child of my father
Sister to four
Friend to a few
I don’t have my shit together
But I am taking my happiness for myself.