On Contradictions - by Oluwatobi Kolawole

The struggle to get out of bed proved easier than it had been in previous days. My throat felt rested at last, as though the night had finally granted it mercy after hours of noisy labor. It struck me how freely one breathes while unconscious. I cannot yet place the cause or the reason, but I am certain there are answers waiting for questions I have not learned how to ask. The stretch was satisfying. The soft cracks from my shoulders and back sounded like joints finding their way home again. Still, my ears had not known silence all night. The generator hummed without remorse, steady and unforgiving. The journey to the bathroom was brief, but the sight of the digital clock inching toward 7:00 a.m. made my heart sink. Crowded bus stops during rush hour unsettle me. In Lagos, rush hour begins at 7:30 a.m., whether you are ready or not. Stepping outside confirmed that shorter nights had arrived. Winter solstice, my Geography teacher once called it. My house always felt warmer than the air beyond its walls. Indoors, I complain that Lagos is too hot. Outdoors, I smile and announce, against better judgment, that perhaps cold has finally visited the city after all. I wondered if cross ventilation was to blame for the warmth trapped inside my house. Maybe leaving the windows open all the time would help. I held on to the thought as I boarded the bus to work. I could not find a handkerchief that morning. With the generator off, the search felt futile. When I finally stepped out and the air met my face, I realized I no longer needed it. The ghetto truth of public transport revealed itself once again. The spring beneath my seat was broken, or missing entirely. I sank the moment I tried to sit. My thoughts scattered as adjusting my weight became the only task that mattered. I already looked sporty in sneakers and jeans. I did not want to be caught slipping on such a cool morning. I found a position and hoped my stop would come sooner. Someone once said the best way to express emotion is through pugilism, that it might be better than holding a pen. I disagree. It is not about the release, but what lingers afterward. Punches carry weight in the moment, but bodies heal. Bruises fade, decorum returns, and boundaries can still be learned. With my friends living far from where I stay, I lean into writing as an outlet. As appealing as that sounds, it troubles me that people complain about my texting style. I do not know what to do about it. I ask them to try emails, but they forget I ever said that. Phone conversations are no better than texts. So please, emails. I would reply with an unrestrained need for detail. Or better still, visit me, or invite me over. I write to gather the scattered dots of my contradictions in one place. To show myself how paradoxical I become while chasing the idea that self-knowledge is found by looking inward. It feels necessary to admit that this notion, often presented as wisdom, has become an easily sold farce. People rarely notice how the things they say about themselves begin to contradict one another over time. A friend once described herself as a people person. Yet my friendship with her survives on layers of careful understanding, and many would rather be elsewhere than in her presence. It remains a blind spot for her. Another friend claimed he was endlessly considerate, always inclined toward reconciliation in any conflict. Any conflict at all. Until he discovered that the woman he was seeing was involved with three other people and sleeping with them. I had never seen hatred take shape so vividly. Psychological thresholds are not discussed nearly enough. We are living contradictions, and we exhaust ourselves fighting what we cannot defeat. We point fingers with ease until it happens to us. Then we reach for buzzwords. Context. Situational awareness. Personal disposition. It is just who I am. And that is okay. Honesty, even more than virtue, is what makes us human. The war cannot be won. What we need is an acceptance that permits our insanity. Not stubbornness that hides inadequacy under the pretense of discipline or intelligence. I watched a mother and her son board the same bus today. The boy was to get off earlier at his school. When they reached his stop, she prayed over him, her hands rubbing his back, her words layered with tenderness. I smiled as I watched her eyes follow him until he disappeared from view and the bus moved on. I wondered if that sweetness alone was enough to assume she would be a kind colleague at work. Or a diligent businesswoman. My thoughts drifted to the mothers of others who had made my workdays unbearable, whose presence turned simple tasks into trials. I could not draw conclusions about a stranger I did not know. Still, for all the introspection that allows me to smile through pain, I recognize how deeply I embody contradictions. That awareness humbles me, especially when I catch myself being judgmental or selfish. When the day ends, I see myself without a mask, willing to be anything but a lie. I confess my flaws openly so no one mistakes me for proof that an ideal world is possible. I tell it. I show it. It lives in my expositions, the fear and disappointment that cloud my reasoning even on good days. I know I am not as rational as I should be, so I lay everything out. My deeds. The good. The bad. The ugly. I am at rest knowing they describe me, even if only on the surface. It is said that humanity once found identity in the worship of a deity, until secularism softened conviction into something spread thin. What surprises me is how pain exposes us more clearly than anything else. When the dots finally align, I see myself as someone who can adjust in a broken bus seat, who understands the ache of acute introspection, and who knows, above all, that identity cannot be found in any of these things, even though they define us to an extent.

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