I don’t think I’m tired of this blog yet but it’s getting harder and harder to put my thoughts out here and even on social media if I’m being completely honest. I don’t know why this is, why I want to keep my thoughts to myself for the most part, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to regain the freedom to share my thoughts as I did in 2016 especially. I’m going to ramble a little on this post, I’m abandoning order.
If you stopped me on the street and asked what my favourite song by Michael Jackson is, I’d most likely tell you it’s Billy Jean or Human Nature or Smooth Criminal or Rock with You. Any of those answers would be wrong because my favourite song by the King of Pop is one that I do not remember unless I’m listening to it.
There are songs I do not like to listen to while I’m walking on the road because it’s very hard to resist the temptation to start dancing on the spot and at the top of that list is the 1987 hit song by Michael Jackson which he titled his seventh studio album after. Yes, the smash hit titled BAD.
Quincy Jones is to my mind, the greatest music producer ever. He’s responsible for a chunk of the songs that strike my soul with a ferocity that never fail to scare me but with BAD, he created a song that takes me away. All of me.
Why am I talking about BAD today? Well, it caused an incident today that I’m slightly embarrassed by. Because the weather is pretty pleasant these days, I decided not to clock in for my 10k steps walk in the morning, I chose to go in the afternoon instead. So I set up a new playlist of songs to listen to and grabbed my headphones on my way out.
Just as I got home and began climbing the stairs, BAD came up on my playlist and this grown woman stopped on the stairs and began to dance. The sound of female giggling penetrated the haze that enfolded me and I looked up to see my neighbour trying hard to control her laughter. It took all my courage to smile and bound past her as if she hadn’t just seen me bursting awkward moves on the stairs.
After I got back, I continued reading a book that’s part of a recommended reading list for a very special project that I can’t wait to unveil here. In one of the essays in the book, the character talked about finding a cache of letters and I remembered the letters my father kept in a file in the bottom layer of his bookshelf in my village in Mbaise.
The letters were written by my mother to her boyfriend at the time, very long letters that made me understand that I didn’t start writing letters at four (to my grandfathers, my grandmothers and my grandfather’s hen) by accident, that putting events that should have been mundane and transforming them into beautiful prose for the benefit of a loved one was something that was in my blood before I was born.
My father’s letters to my mother are not available, she isn’t as meticulous as he is in keeping memories on paper. My father has paper memories that are older than him.
Maybe because I am still obsessed with the film Hamilton which was based on information gathered from letters written by the real characters in real life, and because I am a little distressed at our world where letter-writing has become an art which is comatose. I decided I would start writing letters to my future husband and at least I’d have something for my children to find one day, just like I did.
I already set up the email I’d send the letters to and even sent the first letter to the future Mr. Adaeze, when I realised that I didn’t need to do all that to give my children a window into knowing their mother as a person even before she became their mother. I already have this blog which I have poured out my thoughts on since 2014.
They’ll get to see my journey as a person and a writer and most of the struggles that have dotted my life since 2014. I didn’t need to write letters to a person I do not yet know, for my children to see those parts of me.
I thoroughly enjoyed writing the letter though and I already have ideas for future installments of the letter. I’ll keep writing them and maybe one day, they’ll form the basis for a book (fiction) after Mr. Adaeze shows up.
As I write this post, my youngest brother is in the room and he’s singing along to the songs blaring from my tablet’s speakers. It’s a pleasant feeling knowing he enjoys the songs I like. I really hope that I marry a man who likes the kind of music I do and with matching intensity.