How could anything bad ever happen to you?

a disillusionment with life and irrational expectations

taken while I was serving my country; before things went downhill

Last December, on my birthday, an old university roommate posted a tribute to me on her WhatsApp status. It stated some things she admired about me: how I was a crafts girlie, a reader, a writer, had a 500-day streak on Duolingo and how I was ‘in my bag with internships’. All of this was backed by a collage of pictures I had posted on my Locket app supporting this: me making t-shirt yarn, reading a Khalid Hosseini book, attending plenary sessions at the National Assembly, and of a customised shirt showcasing I was taking part in a European Union sponsored internship. Essentially, a curated grid.

Beyond the pictures I shared, this is what was happening: I was making t-shirt yarn because I had used up all my yarn and had no money to buy more; I was rereading A Thousand Splendid Suns because I needed a piece of media that was heartbreaking enough to distract me from my problems and that I could use as an excuse to cry; I was considering quitting Duolingo (which I did); and although I got the internship, which I considered one of the good things that happened to me in 2023, I was battling imposter syndrome throughout its duration along with long-forgotten insecurities that blithely sauntered to the surface of my mind like old friends coming for a cordial visit.

Seeing her post reminded me of how easy it is to display only the ‘good’ parts of your life, especially on social media. It reminded me of how I do it in real life too, with the people closest to me. I tend not to tell my friends, and sometimes my family, when I’m struggling with something. I usually keep it to myself until it’s solved. Then I’d tell them in passing like a joke or a church testimony where I rush through the bad parts, avoiding speaking on it deeply, and focus on the resolution or a distraction.

‘Last week, I was so sad; I cried myself to sleep every night. But I’m good now, though! I solved the problem and look at this cute wallpaper I got. How are you?’

celebrating my streak before I abandoned it some weeks later & Duo began sending threats

I’ve been contemplating why I do this and trying to understand the reason I feel the need to put on a performance of looking put together in front of people, both close and distant.

Then I remembered the role a subconscious—yet core—belief I held since I was around ten years old played in this. It’s a delusion, really. Because nothing dramatically bad had happened to me or my close family when I was younger, I made myself believe bad things wouldn’t happen to me in the way they did to others. In retrospect, I realise these things happened. I just never processed or accepted them.

As I grew, I convinced myself I was special in a way that meant things would fall into place for me and work out even when they weren’t working for others. It didn’t help that for the longest time, my life revolved around school. And academics is an area I have always excelled at right from nursery school through to university. So much so that I believed life would go on like that, even after school—with me in an interminable state of excellence.

In one of my favourite songs, Hunger, by Florence + The Machine, there’s a line that goes: ‘how could anything bad ever happen to you?’ I felt this way. Regardless of occasional intrusive thoughts about the worst possible scenario coming to fruition, it never happened so many times that I thought it never would. I believed I’d occasionally go through unpleasant things, but they wouldn’t be that bad or last long.

So after I completed my national service—which went great. I worked at an adequate company that paid well compared to the majority—and things went downhill in so many ways; I was a bit confused. When a worst-case scenario happened that made the entirety of 2023 mostly hell for me, I waited for when it’d finally stop. For when God would burst through the clouds and say, ‘Sike! You really thought I’d let you go through all that?’ caress my cheek and take the problem away. But none of that happened. And things got progressively worse.

Then the questions started rolling in. Enquiries about my employment status, prayers and wishes for a good job, as if that was my main problem. I was more focused on surviving and trying to distract myself from reality. I was waking up each morning dreading having to plod through another day. I was avoiding my friends and not telling anyone what was wrong. I was living through the worst time of my life as far as I could remember. Things had never been that horrible all at once. It was then that I was stripped of the illusion that bad things didn’t happen to me. They always have, but seemed to get worse and less ignorable as I got older.

Aside from that realisation, I discovered one of life’s duties is to continuously show you how much you still have to learn. I thought I had understood and accepted this lesson of bad things happening. In the first few months of the year, I went through more uncomfortable things that helped me gain a new perspective and acceptance. But when I faced another ‘bad thing’ I was unaccustomed to (rejection in my writing), I faltered.

My family and friends always told me I was an amazing writer and that I had potential. Even if I doubted their sincerity, assuming they were biased because of their connection to me, when I started publishing my work on Medium in 2019, during my second year of university, more people told me I was good. Specifically, older Black women I met on Medium who didn’t know me and who I admired. Then the Medium team curated and recommended almost all the pieces I wrote. When I entered an essay competition a year later, I came in third place and won a considerable sum of money that meant something to 18-year-old me, but would be almost useless now because: inflation. I also hastily entered a short story writing competition where I emerged in the top 12 out of 1,200 entries. And I wasn’t even working at my maximum capacity.

t-shirt yarn I made because I was broke

So when I was done with school and my national service and had more time and energy to fuel into writing, I assumed things would go smoothly. That after three tries at most, with just a little sprinkle of obstacles, it’d all fall into place. At the end of last year, I entered five short story writing competitions and was convinced I’d win at least one. Or be in the top 3. I wasn’t.

Earlier this year, as I applied for a fiction writing fellowship I got rejected from three years ago, I was sure of the outcome. Aside from the fact that I was a ‘good writer’ and I was me (possessing the luck I convinced myself I was born with), in the time since I last applied, I had written short stories and gotten them published, I had created a Medium publication turned literary group, I had this newsletter, and I was overall a better and improved writer. I hurriedly sent in my application a month before the deadline, awaiting the announcement date and wishing I could press fast forward on life’s remote control. I thought this fellowship would save me from the wall I had hit in fiction writing. I thought it was going to be a crucial point in my writing journey I’d fondly look back on in years to come.

When the announcement day came, I refreshed my email at least five times that morning, wishing they had told us a specific time to expect a response. I checked my email so many times that every time I refreshed it, I felt some energy drain as I saw the page load and show nothing. So I said I wouldn’t check it until 6 pm—giving them enough time to reply—and if I saw nothing, I’d leave it at that. Maybe they were having technical difficulties. At 6 pm, I saw nothing.

The next morning, I checked my email and when I read the word ‘unfortunately’, my heart broke. But my nephew was in the room with me and I didn’t want to have an awkward conversation with him about why I was crying. I told my mum, my siblings, and my friends about it. They reassured me that better was on its way. So I held on to that even as I let the tears fall and allowed myself feel the full extent of my sadness and disappointment.

Then someone sent me another writing fellowship facilitated by two well-known Nigerian authors and I said this is it! I didn’t get that one because this was waiting for me around the corner. In my mind, I retold the story of how I didn’t get a job I interviewed for just before I got accepted for the internship, which was a thousand times better than that job could ever be. I told myself history was repeating itself, that this might be mine. ‘Might’ because I took a lesson from the last rejection and realised I shouldn’t hold on too strongly to desired outcomes. That my writing wasn’t defined by my acceptance or rejection into these fellowships.

As the days passed and I got no update in my mail, I held on to hope, making excuses for the organisers. Four days before the fellowship was supposed to begin, I googled one of the authors and found a social media account. They posted the list of successful applicants, apologising for being unable to send out replies to everyone. My eyes skimmed the list multiple times. I saw names that looked like mine, the same surname even, but not mine.

Not holding on too strongly lessened the blow of this rejection. But it was still there. Again, my family and friends told me: it didn’t define my writing, those people weren’t a good fit for me, I’m still a great writer and shouldn’t doubt myself, better would come. And it was nice to hear their attempts to make me feel better. I handled this rejection with more grace than the last.

Though, ultimately, I was still sad. And I’m so disappointed and dispirited that things haven’t worked out the way I wanted them to. Sometimes I wallow in these feelings. But a part of me is glad I’m experiencing the rejections and uneasy emotions in unavoidable ways. Because they’re inevitable and even if they don’t show up now, I’ll meet them eventually on the journey of life. There’s no way to evade them as humans and I feel at ease thinking that I’m learning to be better equipped to handle them now rather than later. 

I’m accepting that life will not look at me and refuse to dish out the bad parts because it’s ✨me✨. That doesn’t make sense. How could I ever have been so entitled? I’m not more human or less human than the next person. And being human means having both the good and bad parts. There’s no way to fight it. I’ve tried.

I’ve been struggling a lot. Admitting that is not something I thought I’d ever do to the people in my life or even in my writing (both personal and public). I always avoided focusing on my problems and liked to show that I had things in order. But I don’t. I’m struggling. I get sad and disheartened a lot. I’ve cried in the past few months more than I did throughout my four years in uni. I’m tired. Life is so difficult and I don’t have this adulthood thing figured out.

There are so many answers I don’t have. And down the line, life will show me more things I have to learn. But right now, I’m learning to live through all of that and not believe that it’s the end of the world. I’m learning to acknowledge these uncomfortable feelings, thoughts, and problems instead of keeping them at a distance and hoping they disappear. I’m learning life is messy and I don’t need to put on a facade of order or control for anyone’s benefit, not even myself. I’m learning to share my sorrows and discomfort with those close to me. And most of all, I’m learning about the freedom that exists in accepting that I’m not okay.

I’ll leave you with a song that perfectly and passionately captures how I feel:

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That’s it for today. Thank you for being here :) I’d love to hear from you so talk to me in the comments or by replying directly to this email <3