Coming up with a title for this diary was pretty easy. All I had to do was find a group that I completely identified with; one which resonated with my reality. Terming it broke wasn’t in any way unplanned, or an attempt to sound cool — because even all these ballers are calling themselves broke. It was more of representation than anything else. I am a member of the Broke community; at least I can’t buy a car when I want to, or fly myself to the Bahamas at will.
It wasn’t hard for me to conclude that I was broke. In fact it took just one evening while I was out with friends. I was at this Mart and I wanted to buy this very nice slides. Very beautiful slides. Like those ones footballers wear in the changing room. I checked the price tag. 8k. I smiled, and turned to my friends; “This slippers cost o. For just slides.” As we were all laughing at the ridiculousness of the price, this random guy comes up from behind us, admiring the slippers. He picks it up, sizes it and mumbles to himself, “This one is really cheap o,” in tush English. This random guy with the slippers goes to the counter, pays and leaves with my dream slippers.
I have not recovered from the shock till this day. It was at that mart I knew that nothing is too expensive, we are just too broke to afford it. Including those slides.
For my title, I was initially going to settle for beautiful. See, like it or not I do have beautiful features — save for my height that has refused to… you know. But I have a number of friends, and enemies alike who would be disconcerted with that title. Not that I give half-hoots about their reservations on that — okay, maybe I do — but I’ve grown too lazy in recent times to have certain conversations with certain individuals. Like that boy that keeps saying he wants to pick my brain like the grey thing is beans. Or that girl who gets angry when others call me fine boy. So I’d rather not do it at all than have to do it and reply to some stupid jokes. Or comments.
Having Ibadan in the title was completely necessary. Over the past two years as a student of the University of Ibadan, I have come to tell myself that I would rather be called an Ibadan boy than a Lagos Boy. This have happened — albeit unconsciously — due to my end-of-the-year visit to Ibadan which started years before I could tell right from left, and my decision to pick University of Ibadan and The Polytechnic, Ibadan in my JAMB exam. All of these efforts have in one way or the other molded me into identifying with this city, and not anywhere else.
Enough about my title. Having a public diary has always been a pleasure I’d like to enjoy; imagine having to tell almost 400 people how your day was, what your sexual preferences are, how you like your rice cooked, why you think girls in University of Ibadan are ugly and all those unimportant details of my life. For sure this will make every event in my life an important one — even a sneeze, because I will tell you that I sneezed and a lady fell pregnant. Also, it will create a purpose for me in the new year, having to write for a group of people, having to see them in my DM asking me when the next episode is going to be.
A diary is a friend of a sort: a silent friend. I remember the first time I made the conscious effort to keep one. It was during the time I met this girl Miriam (name changed) who I was madly in love with. We dated for a short while, and we never kissed. Our highest form of contact was a hug, or her hand on my cheek.
It happened that I wrote the dirtiest things I’d like to do with Miriam in my diary. These things were so dirty I took pity on Miriam. Urgh. On one faded Thursday evening, Miriam found her way to my diary, or my diary found his way to Miriam, whatever. Point is: there was a meeting and I wasn’t present to stop it. Miriam hated me of course after the meeting. How could I even talk to her when my diary said I wanted her drop her bomb on my Hiroshima?
I haven’t kept a diary since then. I know if I search my father’s house hard enough, I will find the diary buried somewhere.
But I’m too lazy to do that.
While writing this, I’m forced to think about all the horrible things that diary contained. I remember once writing about the people I’d love to kill, not before having sexual relations with them. I was 15, or 16 and I could have passed for a stupid horny teenager. Or not. Fear not however, not only do I think I can no longer write such things about people, I have grown considerably over the years and I would rather have these thoughts in my mind than write them for anyone to read.
So, here’s to another attempt at keeping a diary; a public one at that. Here’s to all the hearts this will break, and the friendships it will forge, the dry jokes, sad days and wonderful moments we will share together.
Till next week.
Happy New Year, babies.