Stuck in the Mud

Good week to everyone. How’s everyone been? I hope much better than I have been, and still am. I have a writer’s block. I don’t know what to write let alone how to write whatever it is should I have an inkling of what I’m writing. I don’t easily admit my lapses, failures or weaknesses. It is not that I have a problem admitting them but that I hardly recognise them. You see, we, my siblings and I, were raised to be strong and not show any weakness whatsoever. It was so bad that I didn’t even know when I was angry until I erupted and wondered a little while afterwards where that came from. I haven’t cried since my dad passed on – for this I envy my mother and my sisters, and the tail of the family, Iyke – but I almost beat someone up in a road rage incident in London after he kept taunting me. This happened two days after I learnt of his death. It was months after the incident that I realised why I had erupted in a manner quite unlike myself. I think that it is partly for this reason that I decided, on the advice of Frieda and Nkem, to start my blog. There is something about the written word that gives a name and a face and a starkness to the murky and somehow inaccessible feelings that constantly swirl around me. When I write them out I exclaim and say, “Oh, so that’s what it is?”. And it all suddenly doesn’t seem so shameful or sissyish or some insurmountable problem anymore.

I have, for the past two weeks been running away from my laptop because of the fear of not knowing what to write on my blog or if I eventually put something down, will be a load of crap – and I am a proud man. So the option? Run! That is until Frieda came in and asked what was wrong with me. She is sometimes like a needle picking a splinter out of a wound. She blows gently at it while relentlessly and deftly prising the surrounding flesh until she gets to the offending splinter. I sometimes lash at her just to ward her off so I can keep those little demons where they belong – trapped. But, when I talk about it with her, I come away with a feeling of being closer to the human race. Enough of this sentiment. So I began to talk. I wasn’t happy with my life in general. Every time I went to work, and even after rehearsing at home, I would perform at a measly forty to fifty percent of what I envisaged – I usually score myself on my work and performances. Then I watched myself on Tinsel, the drama series I do for Mnet, for the first time last week and got so depressed with my performance and now I was too miserable to write anything. She calmly said, “Then write about it!” “Write about what? Are you mad?” I retorted. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me and you’re telling me to show people my vulnerable side!” “Yes” she said. “People want to know everything about you good or bad, plus it will help you sort out your thoughts and feelings. Just make sure I read what you’ve written before you post it because I know you. When you dive, you dive in head first; you don’t bother testing the waters.” “Well,” I replied. “Haven’t you heard that saying a boy who is sent by his father to burgle a house always kicks the front door down?”

So here I am, with nothing to write for this week and shamefacedly admitting it. Oh, did I also add that I have a dripping nose to add to my woes as well. I know it’s short notice but is there a way I can get rid of this nasal twang to my voice in two hours before I go on set this afternoon? I think I’ll post it on facebook for an even quicker solution. Have a great week everyone. Apologies for the depressing nature of my post.