"Sing till it makes you smile. Don't be that fake shiny light."
"Fucking bastard, why did you touch my phone?!" a voice bellowed behind me. Not again.
I couldn't think in peace. I grabbed my headphones and put them on, drowning the noise with music. Then someone yanked me by the collar.
"Go take out the trash," said a middle-aged woman. My stepmom. She'd been with us for ten years. She won over Dad, but never me—or my siblings.
"What are you always writing in that book sef?" she asked.
I snatched the book from her reach and stuffed it into my pocket. Before I could leave, my brother walked into my tiny bedroom.
He was five years older, three times taller, and somehow ten times dumber than me—but I never held it against him.
"Bro, you no wan eat?" he asked in pidgin, standing there in nothing but his underwear, hairy legs on display. Someone really needed to buy him clothes.
I told him I'd eat after throwing the trash. I grabbed the bags, dashed downstairs, and dumped them outside.
Hi. My name's Chinonso Nathan Okorie—but no one calls me that anymore. I prefer Jamal. The reasons will come later.
Ever since I turned seventeen (which I still am), I wanted to label myself something. This is my journal, not a diary. No K-pop crushes, no teachers to rant about. I'm done with secondary school. That's why I picked this journal. My mom always mocked diaries, and besides—I'm not a girl. Why would I call it that?
So, where was I?
Oh yeah. Lunch. No pidgin this time—I prefer English. After eating, I went back to my room. What was I doing again? Ah, rhyming. It had become a habit. I loved literature—that's one big reason I chose art over science. I'd spend long hours writing poems. But I wasn't feeling it. I grabbed my headphones, put on music, and stared at the ceiling. This story is already boring, I thought.
Alright. Let's rewind. My life—from the beginning.
I don't remember much before age five, though there's a video of me at three saying my name and age perfectly. That's something to be proud of.
Ages five through seven: Nothing special, except excelling in Nigeria's degrading education system. Meanwhile, Mom grew sicker by the day.
Ages eight through ten: Still doing well, almost won a scholarship. But I lost someone very important—Mom. RIP. The first years after her death weren't easy. Who has it easy after losing their mom? Dad was in a dark place too. His solution? Remarry. For himself—and for us.
Dad was the eighth of ten kids. My grandfather had four wives—typical Igbo man. Dad's siblings? Four sisters, five brothers: Aunt Chioma, Aunt Olanna, Uncle Chibuike, Uncle Chidiebube, Uncle Chidiebere, then Dad, Aunt Ogochukwu, Uncle Silas, and finally Uncle Ugochukwu. That's who I greet every Christmas, along with their spouses and kids. Merry Christmas to me.
Ages eleven through fifteen: Boarding school. That's where I learned to survive, thrive, and stand firm. The environment was harsh, but I adapted. I made lifelong friendships—and relationships (which, if you think about it, are not the same thing). No enemies, though. No villains—yet.
Ages sixteen to seventeen: The defining years. I changed schools, met new people, and most importantly—her. Like every love story (though this isn't one), there was a girl. She captivated me. We were on and off, finally breaking up near my final year. I still felt something for her, but feelings fade. You don't fight for something that's already dead.
Still, she inspires my writing. My poetry is full of her ghost.
Beyond love, my biggest influences come from music and sports. Excluding Po from Kung Fu Panda, I'd say Kendrick Lamar, Kylian Mbappé, 2Pac, Lionel Messi, Juice WRLD, Eminem, Cristiano Ronaldo, Novak Djokovic, and Steph Curry shaped me in some way. I spend hours watching their plays—on the court, on the field, or through their art. Kendrick and Juice especially—they feel like fragments of my soul belong to them.
I must have dozed off, because when I woke up, my headphones were on the table, phone charging. I went to the living room for a drink. Everyone was glued to their screens—phones, TV. This family barely talks.
My brother? He disappears mid-conversation or insults you.
My stepmom? She either drowns you in chatter or half-listens while scrolling Facebook.
My sisters? One's a gossip, one's a kid who talks about cartoons, and the baby just screams.
Dad? A ghost. The only time we talk is about football.
I do have an older sister, Ozioma—though I call her Daniella. She lives abroad. We don't talk much. After Dad remarried without telling us, she left for Europe with her boyfriend. We spoke once that December—five years ago. Since then, nothing.
Back in my room, I stared at the stars. That's life since finishing secondary school. But not for long—I had just been accepted into a prestigious state university to study Law. I smiled at the future—until the peace broke.
"Nonso, come out and eat dinner!" my sister shouted.
I hissed, got up, and left my room.
We had yam and egg sauce, a typical Nigerian meal. After doing almost nothing the whole day, I was exhausted. I prayed briefly and went to bed.
That night, I had a strange dream. My Aunt Chioma had just bought me clothes and supplies for school. When I got home, everyone was crying, saying I was dead—but I was standing right there. Dad wouldn't joke about that, and my stepmom was crying her eyes out. They all looked insane. Fucking insane.
Then I woke up—sweaty, coughing, a lump in my throat. I wiped my shirt across my face and turned the ceiling fan higher. I dozed off again.
The next morning, I still felt weak. I thought about telling my stepmom but kept quiet. Instead, I prayed: Let Your will be done.
That's when things began to change.
Restless nights. Stranger dreams. Sharp head pains—quick but intense, at least five times a day.
But honestly? I didn't care. School was a week away, and that was all I could think about.