Issue #30: 2022 - Laughter, Tears & Goosebumps

That limbo period between Christmas and the start of a new year, the liminal period when we wait for the dawn of a new year, afforded me the opportunity to cogitate on the year I’ve had. I had gone frenetic travel-wise between August and early December, so I thought it wise to end the year on a slow and quiet note. I have had nothing but books, music, and a few friends for company.   

I knew that I’d like to write a year-in-review article, but I was at a loss for long moments about what to title it. I didn’t think much about it, but it stayed at the back of my mind. The perfect title came to me by sheer serendipity when a friend, aghast at learning that I am not a fervent lover of Fireboy DML’s music, tried to convince me to listen to the crooner’s first album.

“Ah, Allen, how can you say you don’t really like Fireboy’s music?” “I tried. I like many of his songs, but I struggle to listen to his albums.” “You should give Laughter, Tears & Goosebumps another listen. I think you’ll like it this time.”

And that was when it came to me. The album’s title succinctly describes the reactions elicited by the kaleidoscope of emotions I felt this year.

Goosebumps. Most of those I got from being blown away at beholding the picturesque landscapes of South Africa and Malta. I stood in front of imposing mountains and watched as the clouds descended on them and as the sun set timidly behind them; I walked beautiful lush valleys and sailed on vast seas and oceans. I felt ever so small in the universe’s grand scheme in those moments. I met people on these trips who, like me, have their own dreams, desires, and fears and carry around aching hearts. I was reminded that I am just a tiny drop in the world’s sea of faces. It was a humbling reminder.

But as beautiful as the world is, it also has its underbelly, the dark realities we try not to dwell on. And who is to blame us? Brooding over the harsh realities of this world, its cold, hard truths, and its unwavering natural laws that we must all submit to will only fill one with incapacitating trepidation. So to live, it becomes imperative to almost exist in a state of reverie, to bury those painful realities deep down in our mind, and to exist as if Nature’s laws don’t govern us. But Nature never fails to remind us that she is in charge and that we are all at her behest, however young or old we are, however weak or powerful, rich or poor. And death is Nature’s most renowned agent. Death, especially of those close to us, startles us and jolts us out of our reverie. Just under three weeks ago, I lost another childhood friend. He died suddenly at the age of 34. His death, painful as it still is, was another harsh reminder that I, too, will die someday, and who knows when I will draw my last breath? That thought gives me goosebumps.

Shortly after Tayo passed away last year, I tweeted this:

I was distraught and heartbroken, so sharing a tweet of such a tone isn’t surprising. I don’t agree with that tweet anymore. Life isn’t long stretches of sadness punctuated by occasional bursts of happiness. No. Life is like an irregular wave with small peaks and troughs sandwiched between intermittent soaring peaks and troughs. The high peaks are events like marriages, the birth of a child, and a deserved work promotion. Death is the lowest of troughs. These high peak and trough events don’t happen often. My position, now, is that to enjoy life, one must learn how to enjoy the minor peaks - the little pleasures of life, and learn how to manage the disappointments that come with minor troughs. 

In 2022, I am grateful that I didn’t lose my ability to enjoy life’s little pleasures. I felt great love and warmth from my family and friends. I didn’t always get it right with them, but these people were gracious. They held space for me, forgave me when I erred (which I am learning I am unfortunately good at), and loved me through the good and bad times. Life would be meaningless without friends, and I am truly grateful for these angels that keep adding colour to my life. Thank you.

I am also grateful for cycling. It saved me this year. I reckon I would have broken down if I hadn’t had my bicycle. Every time I sat on that saddle, became one with the bike and pedaled, I felt free, and it felt like the wind blew away all my pain and worries. This year, I cycled from London first to Oxford and then to Brighton. I chose to do the Brighton ride for charity, and I managed to raise close to £500. All told, I covered a distance of 994km on my bicycle. That is like driving from Lagos, Nigeria, to Abidjan, Ivory Coast! That is what I am most proud of this year. 

When I decided in January 2022 to start writing actively for this newsletter, I had no idea that I could write thirty articles. This is my 30th article of the year, and I am grateful to you, my reader, for supporting me. Thank you for being a big part of my 2022. We will do great things in 2023, God and Nature willing. Cheers!