Drum roll 🥁🥁
We have our first guest post today💃🏾💃🏾💃🏾. Yup, we do! I’m very excited to open up the guest author part of my blog, and we’re kicking things off with Fiyinfoluwa 👏🏾. Today’s post is on how to be twenty.
This, like most things in my adult life, comes without a road map, tea break and most importantly, my express permission. On the contrary, I am-for lack of a better word-thrust head first into a toilet bowl, armed with nothing but my own wit and my regrettably rusty penmanship. While I enjoy the occasional escapade themed on recklessness and potential bodily harm, they just usually aren’t a decade long or worse, missing a user-friendly manual.
Self-depreciating humor aside, do I now upon the tenets of my recently obtained maturity, have need to bathe more often than bi-weekly or, Godforbid, pull my nappy mane into a decent plait? I mean, do I now, at the say-so of the MC, join the crowd of single, marriage-happy twenty-something year olds all too eager to spar at the throw of the bouquet? The farther down the list, the more fragile and desperate the ingenuity of my questioning.
Again, I do not have a road map but what I do have is a virtual shelf full of twenty or so self-help books-one for each year I have lived-some touting, in movie vernacular, to help “Discover Yourself” and others more generous with originality promise “A journey through the wilds”- yet another detour to self-discovery and it’s exhilarating particulars; but surely there must be more to adulting than breathing exercises and pick-me-up speeches? More to the point, how much of the said adulting can fit neatly into a print-worthy self-help book devoid of colourful expletives, dead ends and their intervening madness?
Admittedly, self-help is arguably the most underrated genre on the book-shelf but I haven’t any inclination to live out my days through the pages of some thin spined self-discovery book or the other; there, afterall, isn’t a how-to book on jumping yaba bound buses or haggling pepper for dummies.
So maybe I had it wrong; maybe there isn’t a road-map to begin with, maybe it’s alright I’d still chew my meat loudly and pick my nose when I think no one is looking;Even better that I periodically cry when Mechanical Engineering proves more daunting than I signed up for. Perhaps, it’s alright to drive against the traffic and crash into the figurative equivalent of a heavy-hand warden and tiresome paperwork. maybe just maybe, I don’t have it all figured out-and even then, maybe that would be alright too.