Hope in a wine bottle
In my room sits a bottle of champagne, Veuve Cliquot, to be exact. One of my aunts gifted me with the fancy, expensive wine about three years ago when I got a new job. Assistant account executive at a PR firm didn’t warrant Veuve freaking Cliquot, I thought to myself. And for all I knew, the job might suck. I decided to keep the bottle and wait for an occasion worth popping the cork. An exciting travel opportunity, renting a new swanky place, depositing a down payment on a new house, publishing a short story, winning an award and a dream job are among several things I deemed worthy of opening that bottle.
The PR job, by the way, did not turn out to be worthy of the Veuve Cliquot. Halfway through that job I got a part-time gig as a writer for a leading Zambian magazine. Although this was something I had wanted for a while I didn’t celebrate with the bubbly. The writing position was only part-time and it didn’t offer enough money for me to leave my full-time job so I didn’t celebrate as much as I could’ve. I’m rigid like that.
I left the PR job after a year and soon after, was notified that I’d been selected for a government job. (I’ve kept up the part-time writing gig to this day.) The government position wasn’t in the ministry I had applied for, nor was it in Lusaka, where I preferred to live and work. However, I figured I may as well take the job and I waited for the official letter of appointment. Meanwhile, I went to Ghana on holiday, my first visit. The letter never came and through luck I ended up staying in Accra throughout most of 2016 and 2017. My situation was always a little precarious. A perfect house-sitting opportunity allowed me to live rent-free in a gorgeous home, in a prime area but that wasn’t going to last forever. My first Accra job was a volunteer, i.e., unpaid position and the second job paid very little (less than half of what my previous job paid but low salaries, as compared to Zambia, seemed to be the norm in Ghana).
Still, I enjoyed Ghana immensely, much more than Zambia. I had more new and exciting experiences in Ghana than I did in years and years spent in Zambia. Also, I’m a humanist and a feminist and it’s not at all easy finding kindred spirits and friends who share the same worldviews as me in Zambia, which is deeply religious (hypocritically so at times) and conservative. While Ghana is also highly religious and conservative, I found Accra to be less suffocating than Lusaka because there’s some room for alternative living. I joined an active humanist organisation and a feminist collective and this was so good for me emotionally and mentally. The people in these groups became my good friends and I’m so grateful to have met them. I believe a long-term or permanent (a girl can dream) move to Accra would be worth opening that Veuve Cliquot.
Reconnecting with an old school mate he bemoaned how difficult adulting is. For some reason, he thought it would be easy. I never imagined it would be easy but damn, I wasn’t prepared for certain realities (I know I’m not the only one). I have the feeling that there’s gotta be more to life and I’m certainly not where I thought Id be at this age (again, I know I’m not the only one). I’m pushing 30 and as with the opening of the Veuve Cliquot, I’ve put off birthday celebrations for the past few years. “I’ll celebrate next year, hopefully then I’ll be in a better, more accomplished position.” My birthday is close and once again I won’t be doing anything special (apart from birthday yoga sequence I got off YouTube). There’s that rigidity again.
Recently, my aunt spotted the yellow Veuve Cliquot box in my room and complained that I still hadn’t opened the gift she got me. It could go off and lose its bubbles. This hadn’t occurred to me. The bottle is still in its box and is shielded from direct sunlight so I thought all was good, but maybe she had a point, it’s been three years after all. But either way, I don’t plan on keeping it another year, or three. I’ve had moments when I was overcome with a desire for change. Sometimes it’s out of boredom (and/or brokeness). Other times it’s more dramatic, like the time I nearly drowned off the coast of the Ghana when I attended the Asa Baako music festival. I felt the need not to just have an internal conversation about making a change and finally popping that bottle but also to put it out into “the universe.” If it turns out the wine is off and has lost its bubbles, I sure as hell am going to enoy it. The taste won’t sour whatever accomplishment (or accomplishments) I’ll be celebrating.
