Goke-Adenrele Adewemimo Iman-Who Tells My Story?

I have come to the realization that before I started living my current age, profession, and routine, I have lived several lives before. I have been a dutiful daughter, a naive lover, an unknown classmate and colleague, a supportive friend, an anxious jester, among many scenarios I cannot seem to think of at the moment. I know I am all these things because I lived it, and to other persons I’ve met, I am one of these things. If you asked them to tell my story, you will only have a version of me another teller have never, and will never meet.

Therefore, when the time comes to tell my story, I want to be the one with a notepad and a pen in hand- something about how traditional that sounds, soothes me-, sitting in a comfortable chair, with enough ventilation in a perfect weather. Because I know, I will not start my story from the moment I began to exist, or the time I graced the world with my presence. I cannot remember that version of me anyways. I will not talk about how melodious my cries had sounded after three years of living in a childless void, unlike my mother who might spend 10 chapters out of a 30 chapter book to describe the joy and fulfilment my existence brought her. Neither will I mention how I upped and decided to live with my father before I clocked 2, leaving my mother alone in our hometown while I lived the father’s daughter lifestyle until my mother could join us. I only remember snippets of that time.

I wouldn’t give a laptop to my almost-turned lovers, to write a page about me. If they do write one, and I am chanced to read it, I think I would scoff all the way through. If that chapter of theirs were truthful, I would be like ‘if I was half perfect like you claimed, why did we not ever take the next step?’ ‘What was with the game of pull and push?’ ‘What were those sporadic texts in between days/weeks?’ ‘Why did you not tell me what went wrong with us or better still, what did I do wrong?’. And if the chapter is nothing of the sort I remembered, I just know all I will have to say is ‘wow’.

My former classmates and colleagues will have just a ‘oh, her? I think she was pretty cool’, in an effort to be respectful to the blurry human girl in their memory, but of course, I do hope one of them is truthful and blunt enough to say, ‘no comment, didn’t really know her like that’. Anyways, I think with this short phrase of mine, I have been able to convince you why I will not want these set of people to tell my story (except for the people I did group projects with- surprisingly, I really do want to know what they have to say!)

My friends’ point of view (POV) is likely to be so inconsistent and heavily edited. Can’t fault them, I am warm, I am cold, I am good, bad, mad, and everything in between when it comes to them. I am as human as I can be when I am with them, and isn’t that what makes us human? They’ve seen the contented me, the angry me, sad, happy, joyful, dreamy, and even the jealous me- green as a Grinch with a polite distant smile. Very unladylike, but I think they’ve come to appreciate me as a person. Fine, this author may be a bit cocky but they are my friends and I think I know how I make them feel.

My teachers/educators are fifty-fifty on this issue. They are the true outsider lens, in my opinion. They have no reasons to spite me, love me, and I can’t be a blurry fig in all of their memories- unless they do not like me, of their own personal accord. However, the only reason I’ll be pushed to read or listen to a version of my story written by them will be out of pure, undiluted curiosity. Despite their over-arching view which I am not too sure about, I can vouch that they’ll say I am an interactive and averagely good student. Not an exceptionally brilliant one, according to their books, but I am like seventy-five percent sure they’ll say I am a free spirit- nothing is tying this free bird down.

I should note, if any of these people tell my story, there is little to no doubt that I do think it will be fun, intriguing, daring, emotional, logical, disappointing, overbearing, boring, horrific, pitying- depending on the ‘me’ they all met and had interactions and experiences with. However, I doubt their story will encapsulate the me I was, the me I am, and the me I will be. Don’t get me wrong, my story isn’t some motivational piece (yet), not that I wouldn’t want it to be, someday. But right now, there is the raw-unfiltered me, and the story I’ll like to tell myself.

When I finally pick the pen, to tell my story, I will possibly start it with how I felt like the world was ending when I realized that I will be graduating with a second-class lower. How I was low-key irritated with those who kept on saying ‘What were you doing in that school for four years that you couldn’t make a second-class upper or a first class?’ I mean, someone’s got to be average, for you to be exceptional.

I will tell of that birthday that nearly got ruined because of a roommate’s parent who decided her child couldn’t fight for herself or have a civil conversation with me like a normal adult. The tears were just a trigger away but it was salvaged by a pre-planned birthday surprise thrown by my friends. That pitch-dark night with scantily placed stars will always be remembered as one of the best birthdays I have had till date.

And is it my story if I don’t tell of the time I cheated to win a fist-fight? Or of the time I received a love letter, read half of it, ripped it, and swore I didn’t even open it when the guy tried to go back on his confession (what a save huh!)? Or of the time I kept an admirer’s gift and refused to acknowledge him? Or of the time I lectured my high school teachers for being irresponsible adults after they tagged me a terrorist? Or of the time my trousers ripped in school and I had to thug it home.

Who else will painfully describe the fear I felt while walking in the midst of boys whilst putting on a bravado face? Or justify the reasons for why I keep a little pocket knife in my bag? Or why I always decide to freely give my phone numbers to guys who ask, not because I am friendly or keen to making new acquaintances, but because I fear the possible retaliation or definite catcalls if I decide not to?

No one can delicately describe the minutes I laid on my back, being sworn into a secrecy I wasn’t happy about. Neither will another storyteller capture the anguish I felt when I was framed a thief who had stolen for her lover. Nor will they know how to put into words, the feels I felt when I met him or the pin drop silence in my heart, the moment I realized we weren’t made for each other. They cannot capitalize on the joys and sense of accomplishment I felt when I started winning.

It is not time to tell my story yet. I am only 22 years in and there are still many blank spaces left to fill. However, when that time comes, I hope I am the one, telling my story.

Goke-Adenrele Adewemimo Iman is a 22 year old Nigerian writer from Oyo State, Nigeria. She graduated from the Department of Performing Arts, University of Ilorin. She has worked in the broadcasting business as a TV presenter, associate producer and radio newscaster. She enjoys reading, watching movies and listening to music in her free time.

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