Who Are You?

A friend of mine, who had joined the infamous moved back club but had to relinquish her membership because she got an irresistible job offer, was in Lagos recently for the Christmas holidays. I love her because she is an exaggerated version of me, melodramatic is an understatement. She told me about how London made her suicidal (melodramatic), and she just wanted to jump under the tube, everything about a world that we all once loved did her head in. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel, or shall I say at the end of the jubilee line. She talked about how she felt that she was living a REAL life in London, she was no longer conformed to living up to peoples expectations and perceptions of her the way she had to in Lagos. She could just be her, have her shortcomings and speak about them as opposed to do everything possible to hide them from everyone, she could admit to being a novice at her profession and in need of experience as opposed to "forming expert" to get any experience here.

True to form this got me thinking. Who are we? Are people really the persona that they are living up to in public, or is there something more to them, what are they hiding about themselves that they really needn't. I say this often, and the truth is I knicked it from my dad, he says it to me all the time: "perception is real, but perception isn't always reality". This rings so true in Lagos. People create a persona for themselves, a character, an image, intricate personality traits, a career, a lifestyle they want you to associate them with, a sense of confidence, a certain way of speaking, their bespoke humour....

The city is full of, for lack of a better word, wanna-be's, living out something they perceive to be better than what they are, making that perception the reality that others know them as. There are the people that think they are Lagos' answer to Chuck Bass and Serena Van der Woodson; those with larger than life personalities - when they walk into a room it is guaranteed to be swelling with laughter till the moment they step out; the cold as ice ladies who are more independent than the 4th of July armed with a stank attitude to mask the fact that all they really want is a man to be perpetually at their side; the chicks that cement over their deep insecurities about the way they look with NW45, blobs of glue and 3 inch lashes, 24 inch Mongolian tresses, nicely finished off with a red sole; those whose phonetics pass Queen Lizzies own to mask the fact that they only did their masters abroad, all previous education was in Nassarawa, the guys that go around with their heads in the air drenched in and high off their cologne induced entitlement, knowing fully well that before they sprayed it they felt pangs of loneliness, a feeling of unaccomplishment and failure; there are those that give Paris Hilton's social circle a run for their money - all their friends are the sons and daughters of Nigerias business moguls, they don't know what qualified them to be among but they are gonna walk the walk and talk the talk and nobody will ever know that their father is not the chairman of a big telecom company, or MD of a multinational oil and gas subsidiary, nor is he the owner of any money minting jetty; then finally (cause I could go on here) there are the career women and (chair)men who with prowes akin to that of Picaso paint jaw dropping images of their jobs and their particular position such that you would value the work of art more than you would Steve Jobs and Apple or even Coca-Cola. Lagos is a city pouring over with master actors and actresses, who unfortunately won't be walking away with any oscars, but perhaps if they're lucky a good conversation and a bunch of envious people, who will in turn master their own rendition of the performance to compete.

Perhaps it is my special gift, or the other film critics haven't blown their covers yet, but I can see far beyond the stellar performances into the real person, what they're hiding, the pain that drives the actor to give a great show, and it is far better than any charade. We are deeply afraid of our vulnerabilities, but it is really those vulnerabilities that make us BEAUTIFUL, they add character. It's the crack in the porcelain doll, the depth of character in it's soul that you see in it's eyes, the mistakes, regrets, memories, and shortcomings that can make it real and alive. The finely moulded masks are but clay, and even if nobody else knows it is a mask, you always will. Before the mask becomes your face carefully take it off, place it on your dresser table, discover WHO YOU REALLY ARE, and LOVE yourself enough to be yourself.

xoxo.