Okay, I have a confession to make. I’m a fraud. At least I feel like one, now that my secret has been exposed to a world that I managed to keep separate from the very core of my fundamental existence.
Nobody in my family including my beloved parents — know how to get to Medium, neither are they aware of how much this platform has altered my life.
If you’re reading this, I hope that means I’ve granted you permission to unfold the layers of my life that aren’t so tightly clasped because how else can I truly encompass the dream of being a writer.
The journey to become the best of what I’ve got to offer started more than a decade ago — and through the painful rejections and the exhaustive search for the place where I belong — I always believed that I would end up exactly where I am now.
When you’re ready to rumble and all you need is space and the freedom to hijack whatever is around you — there is a spiritual odyssey that begins and continues on the basis that you keep your end of the bargain.
I did exactly that even at the expense of distancing myself from loved ones who can’t comprehend how I can blog about a one-night stand without any consideration for how that could irrevocably ruin a spotless legacy.
I ran away, far away especially when the scandalous heat of the Miami sun chilled the winter of my discontent — as I battled the embarrassment of being public flogged by my own words. I got carried away with the freedom of expression and the high that overwhelms when you tell a really good story that happens to be true.
However, I respected my heritage with the acknowledgment of why being the only daughter of Nigerian parents carries a certain amount of responsibility — that can’t accommodate the careless and casual assumption that anything goes — when your keyboard begs for mercy.
Medium came to me. I responded with a rebel yell! Off I went into the welcoming bosom of wonderland and I just never left. The joy of roaming around under the tutelage of choreographed thoughts and the power to unleash them without the threat of disciplinary action— suited me just fine.
The formula demands secrecy and separation as I operate using my real name and the risk induces a high each time I publish another jarring evidence of mental disarray, which delights and fulfills accordingly.
When I became Noteworthy, the honor wasn’t lost on me, as the accumulation of time and effort that was spent crafting how to make something I love so much — love me back — finally paid off.
The process itself was gratifying and when the finished product hit the web — I was besotted with the gloriousness of recognition — even though I couldn’t help but wish that the camera lenses had been kinder to my vulnerable frame.
That turned out to be the least of my worries as I began receiving text messages from my two younger brothers that verified my worst nightmare.
My prized possession was being ripped from my grasp, and I was no longer comfortably planted in the driver’s seat. Apparently, I was poised to skip around the globe — as my brothers confirmed that I was “trending” in Nigeria due to the mechanics of an ultra-popular outlet that had picked up the signal.
A Nigerian writer with a tendency to express hard truths — including her “hatred for White people” — has made the Diaspora proud with her Noteworthy achievement.
Beads of sweat arranged my brow and forehead as I heard my voice wafting through the rush of central air chiming the vents. I lifted up and stalked my parents as my mom held the phone and allowed WhatsApp to do what it does best — deliver the message.
It was over quickly and I stood in defiance as I allowed the ritual of my outing to naturally envelop us. I restrained the anger rising in me as I quietly pondered how I would survive the aftermath.
I kept Medium to myself in order to save myself so I could be myself. There was no other way. I couldn’t share the best thing in my life with the folks in my life if I wanted to have a bloody chance of living my life.
They asked questions and I answered with the assistance of an in-built defense mechanism that guarantees your sustainability after the unimaginable occurs.
I needed the doors to remain shut and any possible intrusion thwarted. No entry allowed. No vacancies at the Inn that houses the stuff that aren’t transferable to the familial branches that were no longer supposed to entangle me.
I managed to escape mental hostage by relying on the expectation that my brothers would watch the video and ignore the links. In regards to my parents — they were briefly reminded that I’m actually pretty good at what I do — but they are thankfully not digitally literate enough to find their way to my precious abode.
The Nigerian website that featured the video with a heading that remarkably translated into something other than what it implies — still hosts the debate about whether or not I have the right to write about “hating White people” — rages on.
As for me — I’m over the shock of being temporarily displaced and as scary as it was — I’m grateful that I got to experience the purity of caring about something so much that you can’t bare to lose it.
So it turns out that being Noteworthy requires your ability to note why you deserve the spotlight as you decide whether you’re worthy enough to those that matter the most.
I will keep writing to figure that out as long as Medium allows me to and I won’t quit even after I finally feel — worthy.