I don't want to say that I got lost in the matrix because God is not one to make mistakes. Let's just say making me grow up in a lower middle class setting was a character development move. I've always known that I was destined for a soft life. There are lots of things about myself that are shaky, except for that. It is a firm verity, a constituent of my blood. I believe that the universe is working overtime to bring me to my destiny. Wealth acquired by my own hand with my own skill riding the waves of success on the surfboard of God's grace. I certainly wasn't brought here to spend all my years struggling or just merely surviving. In my lowest moments I entertain thoughts of myself living in a 5 roomed rented house with my husband and kids, a house whose rent is most of my salary. My husband and I working hard, doing our best but still barely getting by. I imagine myself not being able to afford those shoes that I want, having to save for months on end to get that dress from the high-end store and my husband shouting at me for wasting money when we haven't finished paying the installments for our children's fees at the government school that they go to. I imagine my kids begging me to buy them devices I can't afford and seeing the disappointment on their faces when I have to explain to them that we simply didn't have enough money. I see myself crying on my husband's chest asking why we are so poor and him wiping my tears and telling me that I should be grateful for what we have because many other people have less and that I should learn to be content. Or maybe he'd say that our time was coming, that things were looking up and that it was only a matter of time before we got a real bag, then all our dreams would come true. In both scenarios I imagine myself telling him to fuck off. In that moment I would have snapped. I'd free myself from his embrace and leave the room. I'd then retrieve my gun from its secure hiding place and the bottle of hard liquor I keep for stressful evenings like this one. Then I'd go and sit on the camp chair outside looking at the stars. I'd then proceed to put a bullet through my own brain, putting an end to the nightmare I was living.
Like the multitudes of people who do not receive gifts often, I used to believe that I didn’t care about them. That it was not a ‘big deal’ for me. That was until I received a book from my then boyfriend. It was unexpected and perfect. Proof that I lingered in his mind in a significant way. I loved it. To paraphrase Oliver Twist, ‘I would indeed love some more’ of this gift receiving. The joy I felt surprised me. It reinforced a thing that was proving itself to be true again and again in my life. That you can never truly understand something until it happens to you. That true appreciation comes from experience. I started to understand why the girls would go crazy over what seemed like trifles from lovers on Instagram stories. About a year after that, an estranged acquaintance also sent me a book with the sweetest message. I was in a bad way (she didn’t know this) and some force compelled her to show me love at that time. That gesture was the gust of oxygen I needed to emerge from the
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