I am in Hell

and all the devils are with me.

It’s safe to say there is no need for introductions, but it never hurts to say, “Hello, once again.”

Recently, I was thinking about which genre I would consider my life story thus far, then I remembered a chapter from George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. A colleague he met at work randomly told him that even though he considers their job backbreaking, he still would not take a risk of trying to find a new job because he knows what it’s like to be hungry. Then he went on a short rant about his days of unemployment, including a five-day stretch where he went without eating.

All he did was sleep, stare at the picture of Sainte Eloise by the wall, stare at the ceiling, and watch how bugs were destroying the ceiling day after day. He was too weak to do anything else, and he had already paid rent weeks in advance. He lived in a rundown quarter named after the most famous prostitute who eventually made it out of there. By the third day, he could feel life sapping out of him. And by the fifth day, he was expecting death to knock on his door. He got on his knees and prayed to the picture of Sainte Eloise, asking her to send him some money if she exists, enough to buy wine and bread, and if she does send him some money, he would burn a candle in her honor at the church (mind you, he was an atheist).

Minutes later, a neighbor stopped over to check on him. She was worried by his horrible appearance, and even more so when she discovered he hadn't eaten in five days. She looked around his nearly empty room for anything she could sell to help him obtain food. She discovered an oil bidon, a type of container for storing liquids. Apparently, if you empty the contents of the container and return it to the store where you got it, you will receive half of your money. The lady dashed back to the shop with the container in hand, and she returned minutes later with a fresh loaf of bread and wine. Our hungry protagonist devoured it in minutes.

After his dinner, he said he needed some cigarettes, but he had previously promised Saint Eloise he would burn some candles at the church for her because saints enjoy that sort of thing, and she had given him money for food and wine. The lady glanced at him, puzzled, and inquired, "Which Saint Eloise?"

He pointed to the picture on the wall, and the lady burst out laughing for two minutes straight. After regaining her composure, the lady told him that it was not Saint Eloise, but the famous prostitute their quarters were named after. He started laughing when he realized he did not owe Saint Eloise anything, and there was no need to buy her a candle. At the end, he got his packets of cigarettes.

I found this story extremely funny, but all I could manage was a wry smile. On one hand, I was reading on my phone, on the other, I was fanning myself with a makeshift fan because NEPA has decided to be unfortunate.

Then I concluded that my life is just one tragicomedy.

For the better part of a month, I am not sure I have had light for a combined 24 hours. Before you start saying things along the lines of buying fuel and putting on a generator, I would say right now, I am barely surviving, and I only have enough to survive barely.

Over the last five years, this has been the hottest weather I have experienced. If you are religious, you are probably familiar with the concept of hell, and hell itself cannot describe my sleeping schedule over the past few weeks.

It’s too hot to sleep. It’s too hot to relax. It’s too hot to stay awake. My state of being over the past month has been one huge cyclical limbo of hot air. I find myself awake at odd hours trying to retrace my steps and find out how I ended up in this country. I used to think this country was preparation for hell. In my opinion, this country is hell itself, and all the devils are here. The entire concept of APC, and the reality of Tinubu’s presidency, has been a constant and never relenting attack on my well-being. There are a lot of things to complain about, and the art of complaining itself has become particularly disgusting to me.

I have not had a good sleep in almost a month. And because the gods of sleep have partially forsaken me, I have picked up a new hobby—staring at the stars. Almost every day, at about 2 AM to 4 AM, I am outside staring at the stars. This has made me realize how scarce the stars are in my sky. Where did they all go?

On the flipside, being awake when everyone else is asleep is a recipe for turning your mind into an avalanche of onrushing thoughts that consider your mind fair game. There is nothing I do not think about in the dead of the night. Start a bank without money? Fake my death and move continents? Start an assassination guild? Build an army of women soldiers? I probably need more charisma for that one. But on this day, I was outside at my usual time, and I was thinking about one particular rejection letter I got.

If you have been job hunting as much as I have, nothing tends to surprise you anymore. Anyway, I received a rejection letter addressed to someone else. It felt like getting fucked, then another person’s name is being whispered in your ear. At least, if you are going to fuck me, have the decency to fuck me properly. Then my mind drifted to Ayra Stark and her list. And for various reasons, I have a long list of companies I will forever have a lifelong beef with. Useless, the whole lot of them.

For a long time, when things do not go your way, there is a high chance you get existential or maybe philosophical, and others might even get religious. And in respect to the holy month of Ramadan and Lent, I realized there might be some miscommunication between God and me. I pray, and he pretends not to hear. And if he does hear, he never answers.

In case God reads Substack, I have to say:

I am not one of your strongest soldiers; stop giving me your toughest battles.

It’s currently 3 AM, it’s hot as hell, and the universe said I am currently undeserving of some shut-eye. I am dressed in some joggers, a not-so-light shirt, and Gucci socks(a relic of when I was financially stable). You might be wondering why I am dressed this way, considering how hot it is. Well, this is where tradeoffs come in. In addition to the heat, some insecticide-proof mosquitoes with origins that can be traced back to God’s ten plagues on Egypt.

I am already in hell. I can stand the heat. What I would not have is some almost-carnivorous insects turning my body into a feast. Besides, I was at the pharmacy recently. I saw the prices of drugs, and let me tell you, I cannot afford to fall sick right now.

Lastly, it would have been my friend’s birthday today. Man, I miss you. Wherever you are, I hope you are resting peacefully.

This is where I say goodbye. See y’all sometime in April.

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If you are feeling generous, feel free to buy me a coffee

Song of the Week -

Current Read - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms by George R. R. Martin.

I have a random question. If the world were to end in ten minutes, what song would you play?

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Nezo.

Nigerian by birth,

Indian by hemp,

Canadian by loud.

Signed - Nezo, St. Patron of women with vowels in their names, especially the ones with 0-2 boyfriends.