I’m clapping for myself

I have been experiencing a brain block. Or a brain freeze. Or whatever the hell it’s called.

In layman terms, I have not been able to write.

For a while, in fact. And this is a disaster if writing is how you make a living.

If you’re Nigerian, you must know the pull-to-start generator all too well. As its name implies, the only way that dude is coming on is when you have pulled the start rope like a lifeline, and many times; once isn’t enough, unless it’s Damola’s generator (It’s the only one I know that doesn’t require a second pull ever.)

I was that pull-to-start generator for months.

Still delivering on work, but having to ‘ginger’ to start, or to finish. Money was another ginger. Money with a dash of deadlines from a werey client without home training. Even if you were dead, these things could wake you.

But generally, my enthusiasm to write unencouraged has dwindled since I became a movie producer. It hit an all-time low when I paused being a producer and became a full time writer. It was as though my brain was trying to tell me my head was not correct or something.

Okay, so brain block.

It has gotten even tougher since I moved into my place in Lagos about a month ago. And so I have consistently asked if I need to see a therapist again, if my getting closer to thirty is messing with my head, or if loneliness got this place before me and is upset that I am imposing.

All of that came to a halt this morning, when, like my usual self from three-four years ago, I woke up with a number of thoughts on topics to write about. As a matter of fact, this screenplay I have been putting off for ages suddenly became super appealing, and with it, the thought of my next pay cheque when I finally deliver it to the client who’s been rolling his eyes at me for my many excuses.

I hurriedly wrote one article and dumped it on Medium. My first on the platform. Boy, did it feel good to write again.

And then I saw my Medium following. One. Lol.

Only one person, who so happens to be family, would read. They’ll probably only get to see it if I buzzed them and sent a link and then a reminder every six hours because their lives are as busy as Idumota market on a Saturday.

“Ife, you will have absolutely no views. And definitely no claps.”

And at this thought, I decided to, as I can on other social media platforms, like my own post, AKA clap for myself.

But Medium is a mean SOB. That option doesn’t exist.

“Gerrarahia, you narcissistic wannabe!”

While the L stab had me wincing, tail between my legs, it also had me in stitches at how much I never get to clap for myself in real life.

So, I get it, I haven’t built my own company, or married the love of my life, or found the cure for cancer. But I have made some strides, I have woken up to relative comforts and pried myself from the rugged palms of brain blocks. I have written two articles in two hours, and begun a script and outlined plans for a new one and given myself some ‘ginger’, all by myself. I have kept in touch with family and my few remaining friends, and I have survived 2020, the year of Covid and astounding agony.

I deserve to clap for myself. I have earned the right to clap for myself.

Also, you know how, on a movie set, a clapper board clicks to introduce a take or scene? My best days are about to begin, and this clap is all the proof I need.

Choke on that, Medium, I’m a-clapping!