i. I got ill during the first week of introductory postings. The workload had changed from three courses to five and most of my days would now be spent in compulsory classes from 8 am to 4 pm if I'm lucky or even longer if I'm not. That day, the class was longer and that morning, I'd missed my mother more than usual. This was a sign.
Falling ill is akin to a horrible loss of control and it didn't always help that control was like a tight leash in my hands— I could be holding perfectly one minute and in the next, it's slipping because my hands are too sweaty. I say hi to my classmates as usual and settle into my seat grateful that I was wearing something comfortable that day.
Everything was louder and harsher, and I couldn't quite explain it. But I missed my mother. I truly did. The classes passed fast but at some point, they began to stall even though my notes were perfect and my lessons were interesting enough. My hands ran colder and I could no longer resist doing the repetitive movements that brought me calm in any distress. My hands passed over my dress as I whispered words I can no longer recall under my breath. It was like whispering the chill away.
In my head, I was barraged by so many thoughts, it became at some point a vortex so undecipherable, that it could only be termed as negative. I should leave, I thought, but that was so much work. It would entail getting up, getting my things, and diverting attention in the middle of class and I wasn't entirely sure I could even find the words. There was no one here to do that for me though— not my mum, not anyone.
I found the words to explain my condition and removed myself— all by myself— but there was something about walking back home, knowing my mother was miles away that made the steps a little longer and more lonely than alone.
**
Sometimes while I'm sitting— alone, in the middle of a conversation, watching something— I'm yanked to the past. Specifically to memories of early childhood: sitting on my father's shoulders, jumping just as my mum put me in new bottoms, speaking over the fence with a girl my age- both of us on separate balconies, talking so much, scurrying after my grandmother as she magicked out new story books to be read. Sometimes I remember things stationary, like the pile of monitors and CPUs on the balcony of another house, a perfect cream that I stared at for long periods.
One thing all these memories have in common is their perfection either in my participation or in my observation. I have always considered memory a vehicle— nostalgia a source of inspiration rather than an obsession with the past but recent questions have entered the mix. What do I seek when I look back? At what point is looking back too much and how can I tell if what I look back on is a biography and not a figment of imagination?
**
Change has always been a function of life. You're sometimes thrust into it and other times, asked to choose it. I understand the necessity of it in the case of selecting a course of study for instance (thrust into it) but one thing I've found particularly confounding is how people expect that I simply know for sure what I want about everything. How little space there is for any kind of dissent– whether perceived or real.
It's impossible to always know. There are too many choices in life. Too many variables. Sometimes I don't care yet. Other times I care too much. Maybe we put too much crux in the traditional goals of life. Sometimes young people don't have to know for sure every step they'll take on the path to living it.
And that's okay.
ii. Today, I came across this quote from Zeba Blay in my notebook: “These past few weeks I've been feeling very determined to compost old versions of myself, versions of myself I was afraid or frankly uninterested in being in the world. I've been writing stories. I've been writing poems, which I haven't done since I was a teenager. I've been thinking about how, if I truly want to see a transformed world, I must first transform myself, particularly my understanding of what is possible in this life, including revolution.”
Yahya related to me from Malik from Thawr ibn Zayd ad-Dili from Abdullah ibn Abbas that the Messenger of Allah, (ﷺ), once mentioned Ramadan and said, "Do not start the fast or break it until you see the new moon. If the new moon is obscured from you, then complete a full thirty days."– Muwatta Malik.
Allahuma Balighna Ramadan. Asssalam Alaykum Warahmatullah.
“At what point is looking back too much and how can I tell if what I look back on is a biography and not a figment of imagination?”
This statement stood out so much to me maybe because I relate to it. I loved reading this piece ❤️
Aminn.
Shafakillah sis. Loved your thoughts about nostalgia, weirdly it was a defining theme for me this month. The books I read, some of the writing exercises I did, watching Avatar the last airbender for the millionth time and all the memories it carried and like you, I started to wonder at one point if there was a point to it, this nostalgia or if it's something I may never figure out, something I keep getting pulled into regardless.