1.
January 2024, for me, was a search, and I never envisioned it would start like this—cramped up in the back seat of a small speeding Corolla somewhere in Kogi State, Nigeria. I am sandwiched between very chatty passengers, holding a handkerchief to my nose. The afternoon is coloured by the dry bite of the harmattan dust; it swirls in the air at the slightest provocation. From the corner of my eye, I catch the lady sitting beside me, a smallish, light-skinned woman, casting side-eye glances at the WhatsApp conversation frozen on my phone screen, and I wonder if she, too, can see through my insecurities.
Me: Who is Chinonso Nzeh?
Meta AI: Chinonso Nzeh is a Nigerian writer and editor who has published works in various magazines and reviews. He serves as a prose reader at Beaver Magazine and an editorial assistant at Black Boy Review. His work often explores themes of identity, culture, love, and family, offering a unique perspective on the human experience.
Me: So, who is Hero Jason Uchebenu?
Meta AI: I am sorry, but I could not find any information on a person named Hero Jason Uchebenu. It is possible that this person is a private individual and not a public figure, or they may not have a significant online presence. If you could provide more context or details about who Hero Jason Uchebenu is, I may be able to help you better.
I shift uncomfortably in the compact space available in the car, dimming the brightness of my phone screen to shield her eyes from feeding deep into my territory. The car slows down to manoeuvre through a pothole. I busy myself briefly with the swarm of street hawkers immediately flocking around it, shoving their varying wares through the window and into our faces.
“Madam, see groundnuts!”
“Pure water, cold mineral here!”
“Oga, buy plantain chips. You no go buy?”
The car speeds off again.
2.
On the first day of January 2024, a few days before this trip, I phoned friends dispersed all over the planet to say, “Season’s greetings! I wish you a happy and prosperous new year.” Amid the celebratory vibrancy—a house jammed with distant relatives, boisterous music saturating every crevice of the living room, a kitchen bustling with activity—my thoughts hung briefly on that word, measuring its weight on my tongue.
Prosperous.
That is a big word. There had not been a direct intent to imagine an alternate reality where the word was my birth name, where I wore it on my skin until I became the word itself—it just sprouted out of the blue, and I, on the first day of the year, was busy with a longing.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been.
Now, in this small, speeding Corolla, plying the undulating roads of Kogi State, heading to Abuja, and then to Niger State, where I am observing my one-year National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) program, the word manages to find its way here. I feel it brushing against my face with its tender force, engulfing me with its vastness, reminding me, too, that I am just a speck of dust in its wide world of possibilities. By the time this car finally comes to a stop, it will be at a crossroad, a place I never imagined was only a matter of time, and I’d have to cross one myself.
Crossroad is just a fancy name I have given to being young, a recent graduate with no rigid purpose in life. Purpose, conversely, is a mirror that reflects the uniqueness of our aspirations and goals, yet, in today’s world, it is often streamlined to the singular act of material success. And in truth, as a newly turned twenty-four-year-old, it is all I need: a prosperous new year. Before now, the concept of a crossroads stayed in my head as a vague abstraction, a distant thing too far away to bump into on a casual evening stroll. But, smote by a realization, I had to confront the truth sooner than expected. I am there now, at the crossroads, strategically placed under its whim, plagued with and conscious of a violent kind of uncertainty:
—Which way do I follow?
—Am I even on the right path?
—Will this road, if I take it, lead me to the best version of myself?
i borrow my name from the mouths of people
who speak it like a miracle.
i run a hand through it,
search for the song in the vowels
and the vowels that make it sound like song.
they say this name is prophecy,
and i wonder why it has chosen
not to reveal itself to me.
3.
Earlier this morning, before I embarked on this journey away from home, my mother summoned me into her room, just before the sun kissed the sky. I found her sitting on the bed, with hands clasped between her thighs and eyes staring into nothing. The curtains were drawn shut; the soft light filtering through them brought a quiet gentleness to the room as she said—
“My husband,” and gestured for me to sit beside her.
“Ma? Good morning, Ma.”
“You see, I have done my part. This is it now,” she said, her voice laced with seriousness. “I wish I had the power to open doors for you, but I don’t, and I pray as you go, God be with you.”
I nodded, “I know, Mummy. Amen.”
“Please, find a church there and be serious with it. Make good friends and meaningful connections; you never know where help will come from.”
“And, as you go,” she continued, placing a hand on my knee, “remember that as the first son, your brother looks up to you. Be diligent in your ways and set a good example.” She paused. I waited for her next words, which she seemed to be calculating.
Silence.
She stood. My eyes followed her as she walked the short distance to her dresser. I noticed, for the first time since I entered the room, a slop on her shoulders as if they had taken on a burden overnight. She opened a drawer in her dresser, lowered herself to reach for something.
“Kneel down,” she said, walking back to me. She scooped a generous amount of her anointing oil on my forehead, and I shuddered at the sleekness at which it rolled down my face. My mother poured a rain of prayers and blessings on me, and I wondered how long it had taken her to orchestrate those words, to count them out her teeth like they didn’t hold so much water.
I wonder, now, sitting in this car, if she understood the toll they could take on me, if, with the large of my palms, I can contain the weight of her words or if it will spill over onto my lap like a glass of white wine. My legs are heavy with burden. This car doesn’t seem to be speeding enough. The world is moving on without me, and I’m breathlessly racing to catch up. I am toying with the idea of bursting out the car to race with my two tired legs; maybe, just maybe, they’ll have both the grace and the grit to speed me into a miracle.
4.
On a still Tuesday evening, I casually mentioned to Ifedayo on WhatsApp, “I don’t know if this writing thing is for me anymore.”
His response was immediate. “Why?” I imagined his face scrunched into a frown typing that message. We’ve had this conversation before; he had advised me against quitting.
“Writing is hard, guy. I don’t know anymore. So many rejections.”
He probed, “Tell me, how do you feel when you’re writing?”
“If there’s a word for it, it would be freedom. I feel free and safe,” I admitted to him. Then, quietly to myself, I admitted gratitude for people such as Ifedayo to lean on on sullen days.
Ifedayo replied, “You have your answer right there.”
Then, moments later, he followed it up with, “When you’re on the right path, trust me, you will know. You have peace—inner peace. Your body stops fighting itself; it opens up gently to you and you go to bed with a smirk on your face, looking forward to another day.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I know. It’s just that on some days, it gets really tiring.”
“Don’t become a slave to writing or question your ability to create ever again. It is YOUR gift. Use it. Give it time. Everything takes time.”
“Lol. Omo. Yes, boss. We’ll see. Thank you so much for this,” I texted back. “So, what book are you currently reading?”
“The Way of the Superior Man, and you? Still reading The Mountain Is You?” he asked.
“No. I’m reading Ikigai now.”
“But you’ve read Ikigai before nau.”
“Yes. Sometimes, a second time is the charm, yunno. I love Ikigai so much. It’s my favorite book. The book too sweet abeg,” I replied with a smirk emoji attached.
“Don’t be dumb. If you have to read it a second time, then you got nothing from it the first time,” Ifedayo said.
“Lmao. Fuck off. Leave me and my Ikigai alone, you fool.”
Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life is a book by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles that explores the concept of ikigai and its role in achieving a purposeful life. And it surprised me that Ifedayo, with his keen discernment, didn’t see through my lies. I claimed to be rereading because it was my favourite book, but in truth, I reread it in hopes of stumbling upon a gush of knowledge that could, in a single gulp, quench my urgent thirst for meaning. Maybe I missed it the first time I read it. Maybe if I reread it, this time slower and more calculatedly, I’d be startled by a force that tossed me into the far end of greatness, a spark that ignited transformation, an epochal revelation, or, better yet, a purpose.
5.
My old classmate Tony, whom I consistently outperformed in secondary school, posted a WhatsApp story on a Sunday afternoon: “I cannot be friends with someone with no purpose.”
That message struck an open wound.
Tony’s transformation from my seatmate in class—a very narrow boy who I constantly bickered with, who, even with a series of examination malpractices, never stood a chance against me—to a successful artist with a huge online following, a musclehead, and a celebrated tattooist—landed a big blow to my self-esteem whenever I forced my mind to think about it. Everything that he has, everything he has grown to become, is a nagging reminder of all the things I am not, a confirmation of the person I failed to be. His prosperous life shines a focus on my own life, and I become too aware, too conscious of, my inadequacies. I refuse to sugarcoat it—yes, I compare myself to people. Do your worst.
Me: Who is Joseph Abah Onoja?
Meta AI: Joseph Abah Onoja is a writer for Afapinen, where he has written articles such as “Sade—Sublime and Ageless: A Selection of 10 Best Listens.” He is an Idoma-Igbo writer from Eko.
Me: So, who is Hero Jason Uchebenu?
Meta AI: I did not find any specific information about a person named Hero Jason Uchebenu. Please provide more context or details about who Hero Jason Uchebenu is and what they are known for. That way, I can better assist you by providing more accurate information. If you’re looking for information on a specific topic or subject, I’d be happy to help!
Me: He is a writer, too. Check well. Hero Jason Uchebenu.
Meta AI: I have searched my databases. I am not familiar with a specific individual named Hero Jason Uchebenu. However, I can provide information about Jason, a figure in Greek mythology and the leader of the Argonauts. He is known for his quest for the Golden Fleece and his association with the sorceress Medea. Let me know if you would like more information about Jason from Greek mythology.
Me: You’re so stupid.
say, what’s a church without a worship?
a poem without a word?
a body without a name?
6.
I have never known how to hold a dream in my mouth until it spiralled into full bloom. The specific dream to become a writer is the first that has, shockingly, transcended seasons, that has managed to slither past very tempting odds (even though the dream is withering now). Before they grew a backbone, my dreams were suffocated under the weight of my innate pessimism; still, optimism always had a clever way of startling me back to my feet. The new-year resolutions carefully inscribed in my journal are a testament to that. They are so enormous, almost unrealistic, that it scares even me who wrote them.
i. Learn and master poetry.
ii. Give enough time to creative and fiction writing.
iii. Read every day, at least three hours per day.
iv. Write more. Write every day. At least describe your thoughts. (Please.)
v. Learn something new every day.
vi. Incorporate stoicism into your daily habit. Test run it.
viii. Make your first million this year. (Lmao.)
A voice whispered ‘not good enough’ to me every time I picked up a blank page to write. It also questioned whether I genuinely possessed the creative magic that came so naturally to other writers. Meanwhile, as I sit in this speeding Corolla, my new-year resolutions drown out that voice. They seduce me into a dreamy thought: People who write books do not have two heads, do they? And look, you’re even more beautiful than them. I wonder why the last part is necessary, why my mind feels the need to nurse me out of the same hole it dug for me.
Physically, I am in transit through the slums of Kogi State, Nigeria, but in my mind, I stage a sweet bubble of imagination, and I am a different story: I worked diligently with my mother’s words, stuck to my new year resolutions, became a successful writer, and now I am in the City of Light, Paris, to discuss a new book deal. I am wearing a stylish grey faux fur coat, a pair of silver earrings, black boots, and a captivating perfume. My bald head stays in close competition with the sun.
Physically, I am in Kogi State, Nigeria, but the sea of my thoughts constructs, for me, a parallel reality: A new acquaintance asks me, “So tell me more about yourself.”
I clear my throat in sizeable confidence and say these words without having to rehearse or measure them, “Oh, I wear many hats, but, above all, I am a writer. I have a book launch in the coming week. Would you love to stop by?”
Physically, I am in transit, but at the far end of my imagination, a different world sets into motion: A content creator stops me randomly on a bubbly street in Nigeria, darts a mic to my face and asks, “Quick question. This won’t take long. Where do you see yourself in the next five years?”
I chuckle silently at the cliché, raise my shoulders and say, “Five years is a really long time to be certain about anything, but I know I will definitely be out there working and changing the world through writing and philanthropy.”
still,
say a prayer.
there is but one way to conceive a dream.
it demands faith, radical as it may be
to sit with it,
to hold it in your mouth
until it spirals into full bloom.
there is a story in waiting,
a loneliness in planting,
how the brink of your sanity flirts religiously with the idea
of surrender.
you’ll think of your seeds,
wonder if they too are pregnant with a promise.
you’ll cry to the soil; the quiet it leaves at the soles of your feet.
you’ll speak to the rain,
ask it when it is going to bathe you in a miracle.
for your mind is a mind that digs itself a hole,
on most of the days it spends awake,
and your breath is, as you’ve known it to be,
riddled with doubt.
but still,
say a prayer;
there is a story in waiting,
a beginning in planting.
The pursuit for purpose is lonely. As cliché as ‘the ball is in your court’ might sound, it remains to be an unerring truth. You are the only one who can decide what strings to pull to make the music work. And it is so easy, so tempting, to get lost in a fog of your own thoughts, where all your eyes permit you to see are the wins of others—wins large enough to fill up a whole room and those small enough to fit into the cracks of your fingers, too. You see everybody else’s win, it seems, but your own.
7.
“Madam, why you dey look my phone?” I ask the smallish, light-skinned lady sitting beside me.
“Sorry,” she replies, turning her head away quickly.
I exhale deeply and tuck my phone into my breast pocket. I stare blankly out the windshield—the road ahead stretches infinitely, both literally and metaphorically. The dust from the harmattan continues to taint the air with a reddish-brown, which makes everything look hazy, almost surreal.
“Where are you headed?” I ask tentatively after a few minutes of silence.
“Abuja,” she responds, her voice flat, betraying no emotion.
“Ah, same here. Are you going for NYSC?” I inquire, my tone more conversational now.
“No. I live in Abuja.”
“Oh,” I nod, understanding that only people on this journey can fully, really understand it—the uncertainty, the fear, the hope.
As the car speeds along, the conversations around me wither into a hum. I think about my sweet mother, her words, her prayers. I think about Ifedayo’s friendship. I think about my brother—his juvenile idolization of me. There’s a resolve building within me, slowly but surely. Every morning is indeed a new beginning, a second chance to bend myself into any shape I want to be; my spine won’t break; it is made of water.
Despite the doubts, despite the unknowns, a part of me is refusing to give up. It clings onto the fragile thread of possibility for a future where my dreams, audacious as they are, and towering as they might be, are not mere dreams but reality.
Because every great story starts with a step into the unknown, perhaps this cramped Corolla trailing the dusty roads of Kogi State is my first step. And maybe, just maybe, it will have both the grace and the grit to speed me into a miracle.
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