True talk #4: Flirting with the quiet

A soft entry into the new year

I drew this in 2017, to represent going through a silent season.

On the threshold of something new, I often reach for silence. This is how I’ve always been, approaching fresh chapters in contemplation. In the hours before a birthday, before the cake, and calls, and wishes, there is a deliberate slowness, with hand on cheek in thought, or hands clasped in prayer. These verses from a poem I wrote on my 22^nd birthday capture that (also, the fact I wrote a poem on my birthday):

I smile through the flashes and red velvet,
Blowing out sticks that carry grand wishes,
Praying they can bear the weight.

It feels like such an out-of-body time,
Moving from the silence of eleven fifty nine.

So, I start the new year the same way. By negotiating with sound, trying to turn down the volume on my thoughts, my life. By running to the quiet.

On December 31^st 2022, a year and two weeks ago, I was in a kayak in Lagos. I got into this tiny orange and yellow thing, and I rowed out into the water, where I stayed for an hour. It was a miracle, in such a loud city, to hear nothing but the sloshing of the water against fastened boats, or the slight movement of metal fixings against the pier. Even the instructor watched from a distance, standing at the shore. At one point, I just let myself float, bobbing gently over the waves, looking at the outline of the birds flying overhead, noting how light they were from this angle — two easy arches, like the drawings I made in school. There, in that small space, in that pocket of silence, I thought about what had passed, and what was to come. It was jarring to step out, and be sent, hours later, into the volume: the fireworks, the dancing, the messages, once midnight came (“moving from the silence of eleven fifty nine”).

The new year is loud, not only because of the celebrations, but also because of the expectations we have of it.  In my published story, “Tough Love”, set on New Year’s Day, Lolade thinks about the “pressure we put on a flip of the calendar; the weight of hope this transition brings, like time will suddenly be better to us, just because we heralded it with a countdown.” She is wary of New Year’s resolutions, but I am not. I like to take stock of where I am; what I want; where I am going. In the space I carve out for reflection, I become aware of the weight, the size of my dreams. Of how near or far I am from holding them. And perhaps this is why I reach for silence. I approach my dreams with reverence. I am demure and deferential, showing respect to them, to their status in the world I am trying to create.

In the last couple of years, I have formulated my thinking in the same way, answering certain questions about the year that has gone, and the year that is to come, summarising my experiences, my hopes, in a few sentences*. And if I had to use only one word to describe 2023, I would say that it was LOUD.

It was the loudest year I’ve had so far, in every sense. It was my first full year living in Paris, and ironically, I was out of France at least once a month. I travelled to 10 countries (some several times), including six new ones. I was published twice. I created this space for my words. I had many moments with my loved ones. I made new friends. I saw a lot of art. I was constantly inspired. In fact, I was over-stimulated, as an introvert who was doing and seeing things at a much faster rate than I could process. Also, it was loud in the literal sense, for the many concerts I attended (including Jay Z, Fatoumata Diawara, Usher, and almost every Nigerian artist that performed in Paris!) The year was loud in not-so-great ways as well. My thoughts were loud, and so was my struggle to hold on to faith in God and in myself. I was also confronted with the depths of my craving for validation for the first time, as I navigated many new relationships in a new city, exploring potential platonic and romantic connections. Additionally, I felt the need to prove the value and fullness of my experiences on Instagram, to be loud on there too.  

In this new year so far, I have been afraid to turn the volume back up. I have tried to extend the threshold, the transition between the old year and this one, by hibernating as much as I can (with a few necessary exceptions). I feel as though I’m holding 2024 at bay for the moment, getting myself ready for it, hoping that it will offer me beauty. Also, I am still processing all that happened last year. A couple of days ago, I stumbled upon this very apt quote from a book by E.L. Konigsburg: “But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything with them. It’s hollow.” In the quiet, I can hear myself, make sense of all I have experienced, transcribe it into words. I wrote this a few years ago:

Yes, I got so used to moving, 
Trudging on with all my might, 
That I forgot to sit still, 
Just sit still and write. 

This year, I want to save my volume for where it matters — for my words. Like this, like here. I want to filter out the noise.

When the silent person speaks, everyone listens.

Prompt:

How do you approach new chapters? How do you negotiate with sound in your own life? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.

*In recent times, I’ve used YearCompass for my end of year reflection exercise.