₦airaland Forum

Part III – Between Tiredness and Truth

Maybe I think too much. But how can one live in a country like this and not think deeply? How can you watch people die from poverty, negligence, and wickedness and still say life is wonderful? I am not Dark. I am honest. Life, as I see it, is both blessing and burden. It gives and it takes. It smiles and it strikes. Some days, you wake up grateful; other days, you wake up empty. Maybe that is what it means to be alive, to exist between gratitude and grief.

Yet, despite everything, I do not hate life. I only want it to Paradise. I wish people were more conscious. I wish we stopped doing things simply because others do them. I wish we stopped calling weakness faith and responsibility rebellion.

I write because silence feels like slow death. Writing is the an honest way to breathe. It allows me to speak without being interrupted by noise. To think without being dismissed as cynical. To feel without needing permission. When I write, I am not trying to impress. I am trying to understand.

Maybe that is what gives meaning to life, the constant reaching for understanding. To keep searching, to keep asking, even when no answer comes. Maybe life is not about finding peace but about learning to stand in the storm without losing yourself.

People say, “Everything happens for a reason.” Maybe the reason is to wake up. Maybe life keeps breaking us so we can stop pretending. So we can start seeing what we have ignored.

Still, there are moments when I look at the sky at night and something soft stirs in me. Maybe that is what people call hope. Not a loud hope, but a quiet one, the kind that whispers that meaning still exists somewhere, even if it is small, even if it hides. Maybe that is what keeps many alive. For me, it is not certainty, but curiosity.

In the end, I think life is not a promise; it is a question. One that asks, how deeply can you love? How bravely can you live? How honestly can you see?

Part II – The Weight of Society

The world speaks of faith, but it has lost its honesty. I look around and see people who mention God the most but trust Him the least. They say God will provide, but they never leave home without guards. They say He will protect, but they live behind fences taller than their dreams. They tell you to have faith, but you can see in their eyes that they are afraid of their own sermons.

It makes me wonder when we stopped thinking for ourselves. When did we surrender reason to those who profit from our confusion? The pulpits echo promises that sound good but deliver nothing. We were taught that faith means silence, that obedience is holiness. But what if faith was meant to make us conscious, not controlled? What if belief was supposed to awaken us, not blind us?

I think of how our ancestors lived before the missionaries came. Before the slavers arrived with mirrors, guns, and holy books. We were not perfect, but we had a rhythm, a sense of balance with the earth. Then came the strangers, telling us our ways were evil, that our gods were demons. We believed them, because they came with power, and because they carried death for those who refused. So we abandoned ourselves. We gave up our voice.

Now we pray to a God who never spoke to us directly. We wait for words from men who build empires from our hopes. We raise our children to inherit confusion. We tell them to dream but not to question, to believe but not to think. And in doing so, we breed another generation of silence.

It frightens me. The thought of bringing a child into this cycle of confusion and calling it purpose. To see them grow, only for the same broken system to devour them. To imagine their laughter fading into the noise of this chaos. It feels like betrayal.

People say life is beautiful. Maybe it is, but beauty does not equal meaning. Beauty fades. What endures is responsibility. To make life better than we found it. To fix what is broken, even if we did not break it. That is what I wish we taught our children, not just how to pray, but how to build.

I remember 2020. The EndSARS protest. The young people who stood up. The courage, the music, the unity. They demanded change and were met with bullets. The same system that was supposed to protect them silenced them. I often wonder what would have happened if parents had led that protest. If fathers and mothers had taken the frontlines. Maybe the story would have ended differently. Maybe this country would have remembered what responsibility means.

But most parents stayed home. Some prayed, others advised silence. Yet, silence was what brought us here. We pray for safety from dangers we create. We cry for mercy from the consequences of our neglect. We call it faith, but it is fear dressed as piety.

Part I – The Quiet Doubt

Perhaps I am melancholic. Not pessimistic, no. Just not entirely optimistic either. I make my guesses from what stands before me, not from what tomorrow promises. Around me, people are getting married. Some younger than I am, some my age, some who once asked me for advice now post their weddings online. Yet, marriage never crosses my mind. It worries some people who know me, maybe because they think I am afraid of commitment, or because they assume I cannot afford it. But I know it is deeper than that.

I think sometimes the problem is not that I do not believe in marriage, but that I no longer believe in what people think marriage is supposed to be. I have seen it become a performance more than a partnership. A checklist item more than a covenant. I have seen people marry for the wrong reasons, pressure, fear of loneliness, age, tradition. They do not ask themselves why; they simply do it because everyone else is doing it.

Maybe I have built a wall, not against love, but against illusion. The illusion that marriage or children automatically bring meaning, safety, or fulfillment. I have seen marriages crumble under the weight of pretense, and I have seen children grow lost in homes that were supposed to keep them safe. The world is not gentle, and the promises people build around love are not always strong enough to hold when life begins to shake.

Sometimes I imagine myself as a father. I think of bringing a child into a world that cannot guarantee that child’s safety, peace, or even the right to simply live freely. How do you love someone enough to bring them here, only for the world to try to break them? Is that love, or is it a selfish hope to replicate yourself? I do not know.

Maybe I am a nihilist. Maybe I am just tired. Because when I look at life, I ask myself, what is so amazing about it? Is it the pursuit of wealth so you can eat what you want until sickness says you cannot? Is it the endless striving that ends in decay? Or is it the act of pretending to be happy simply because everyone else is pretending too?

Sometimes I think life is a beautiful trick. A play that everyone joins without knowing the script. We wake, chase, eat, laugh, fear, and pretend we are moving forward. But are we? Or are we simply circling the same emptiness?

If I ever have children, I must guarantee their safety, not hope for it. I cannot bring them into a world where chance decides who survives. Maybe that makes me controlling, maybe it makes me human. Because I know what it means to live unprotected, to face life without a shield. So I tell myself, I will not repeat that cycle. I will not surrender my offspring to fate.

Fortune favors the bold, and history favors the writer. That is why I write. Not because I have the answers, but because while most people imagine they are talking to God, and I am just talking to myself.