There is something about Ondo that I am slow to admit: without it, I would not be the artist that I am. Or quite frankly, the person that I am today.
But we will focus on the artist.
The reason I have come to realize this so late is the very same reason Ondo was such a potent force on my psyche in the first place: I do not make sense there.
I have written about it somewhere in a yet unpublished essay that moving to Ondo as a teenager was a huge strain on me. I was never one to spend a lot of time, or any time really, outside of the grey-concrete firmness of Lagos. And there I was thrust into this sleepy, almost rural place.
Almost rural pace when I had been used to the electric rush-rush of Lagos.
And perhaps even more, for the first time in my life, I had to encounter people who did not share an appreciation for the abstract world of ideas, or at least, not on the same level or intensity that I always did.
There I was as a teenager, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that people thought wanting to understand poetry and philosophy was weird. Therefore, I was weird.
I had two options then: I could jettison that whole section of myself at an age where I had just begun to wonder about my identity, and my place in the world. Doing so would probably have been the easier thing to do, I might have made more friends. I might have worried less about you know, existential angst.
But it also felt like the impossible option: how could I have all of that beauty just starting to sing to and awaken my consciousness, and then bury it. Handful of sand by handful of sand till the light of day is blotted out from it entirely.
I chose no. And I think doing that put me at even more odds with the status quo. And with the reality of the sleepy world of Ondo town.
FOREST SCHOOL
If you didn't know, I went to medical school in Ondo, and I spent close to seven years there. Moved when I was seventeen and still very firm in my identity.
Firm in my identity because I had no reason to question it.
Ever.
That obviously changed. And the landscape of my inner world also began to shift and reflect the new world I was living in.
The road to my school, as you get closer to it, is lined on one side by houses, shops, the usual things. And on the other side by what I can only call a forest.
It is a mass of trees that stretches on for a few miles. But looking at it as a newcomer, it looks as though it goes on forever.
And that was how it felt like the time, like the journey to the finish line when I got my degree stretched on forever.
The journey to who I wanted to be was through a winding, confusing forest.
In that essay I wrote about my first few years in Ondo town, I used the forest that stretched out before my school as a metaphor for the very dense aloneness that I felt. And the cause of that aloneness was many things.
It was navigating life in a place where I suddenly did not have any of the friends that I used to have.
It was from being very homesick.
It was from being cut out of the warm belly of Lagos’ predictable noise, into a quiet, unnervingly still place that expected me to conform. To be okay with the strange, lurking forest singing in the distance.
There was no way for me to know what to expect in the future, or how I would navigate the many years ahead of me before I was done with my degree. And that was its own forest.
THE ART I CREATED, THAT CREATED ME.
There is a quote that I found floating around on twitter during that very disconcerting period.
It is by Nigerian writer, Teju Cole.
He said:
Writing as rioting. Writing as righting. On the best days, all three.”
And I used to think about that a lot. Art being a riot.
Well, maybe not as loud as that. But art can be a form of protest. In fact, in the Year of The Protests, 2020, art was used to protest.
But I am not talking about that now: using art to complain about the evils in the world. I am talking about using art to fight against the many voices that try to get one to conform. To be 'ordinary' and conform to a world that does not support truth.
These things sound so far to the left, and might appeal to only a few people. But I suspect that since you are here, dear reader, that you can agree. That you sense a part of yourself that nothing in this world can really satisfy. And it is your greatest burden, your greatest secret.
Your greatest hurt: you do not know what to do with that ache.
And then art comes along, it tells you that your secret is not so secret after all. And that even more: you are not alone in that burden that you bear. There are many others who have walked the earth with those same questions, and have succeeded in finding an answer.
And you will too.
Without Ondo, I doubt I would have sought the answer to the big questions of
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What does any of this whole business of being alive mean?
I might have gotten to the point those questions might cross my mind, but I doubt I would have needed the answer to that question of Who am I? without Ondo. The confusion just wouldn't be there.
If I had been in Lagos, surrounded by friends, by the streets that I know and love, I would not need to ask who I am because the answer reflected in my loved ones faces would have been enough.
Why am I here? On this earth? Well of course, it is to enjoy all of it. All of the gorgeous time spent with them.
The third question? Well, if you have answered the first two, the third begins to seem redundant.
But I walked Ondo’s streets alone. An unfamiliar forest lurking in the periphery of my vision. Always.
I needed to fight against that sinking feeling of loneliness that is so hard to bear. And I needed my fighting to mean something.
So I sat down, I wrote. I created art, a path out of that forest. And seeing my works just exist, just bear the truth and hope of my pain made me feel as though I had discovered a map.
A way out.
INTO THE WARM BELLY OF HOME
I have spent a year away from Ondo, and I am more than happy to let you know that the angst that I felt while living there, both teenage and existential, dissipated once I was back in Lagos.
Like I told my friend in the first few months back: I make sense here.
My quietness and reserved nature are not seen as symptoms of pride or that there is just something wrong. I’m treated with a lot more good faith, people either assume I am shy, or just walk up to me and find out what my deal is, instead of making assumptions.
That has been, to be honest, life changing. I do not need to hold so many defenses up.
I am happy for it.
On the issue of art, I think I have been growing ever since. Who knows, maybe if I had been in Ondo, with my old routine, my old angst, maybe I would have been more productive.
And also, maybe not.
I have done quite a lot in my time away and I love that.
And I have done it with a lot more ease. Less worry, and maybe less intensity: my art is still very important to me, but I would rather not need to be saved by it. I would rather just get to create, and to enjoy creating.
It is a Sunday evening as I finish typing this. And oddly, I am in Ondo. I came for a short 24 hour stay to get some things sorted out with my school, and I am amazed at how the town feels even slower than I left it.
A huge part of me can already not wait to leave.
And still I remember earlier today, sitting at one of my favorite restaurants in Ondo, watching the cars speed by outside the window.
I am amazed at the many roads, at the path I eventually found that led me to that quiet moment: victorious over all of it.
I enjoyed reading this. As someone who had her artistic side also flourish when I was in Ondo, I am grateful for that. Though, I think I would write a different essay if I had to write on that. Your words are very vulnerable and comforting.