Epis0de 90

I like my apartment and my familiar spaces. It’s not that I’m not open to being somewhere new, or that I’m not adventurous, but more that I’m a man of routine. I enjoy knowing where things are, especially if I’m the one who put them there in the first place. I listen to the same music whenever I’m writing an Epis0de (Shoutout to the incredible Yanni). And I’d most definitely still be using Old Spice deodorant if Tinubunomics didn’t move it firmly out of my price range. Routine is familiar. Familiar is good. So when someone like me suddenly starts experiencing wanderlust more and more often, it’s very unusual. I’m not talking about the urge to move away from Nigeria. That isn’t special; every Nigerian is born with that dormant desire that awakens and transforms into an urgent need to write the IELTS test when they’ve seen enough shege. Besides, if I did relocate to another country, I’d just start another set of routines there. This is something different, like my spirit has suddenly developed this strong itch to be somewhere else.

Not permanently, like one of those “home is wherever I lay my hat” people. First, that just sounds stressful. Second, the logistics of making a hat big enough for my head would only add to that stress. What I’m talking about is an increasingly frequent desire to temporarily vanish into an unfamiliar place and interrupt my routine a little. I don’t know if it’s a mid-life crisis but if it is, it’s way too early and way too expensive-

Actually, you know what? Hold on.

Speaking of interrupting, I think I know what’s going on.

Lately I’ve been feeling life piling up on top of me. Expectations. Obligations. Bills. Billing (NOT the same as bills). Family stuff. Relationship stuff. Work stuff. All the mandatory emotional maintenance required when one lives long enough to accumulate people and problems. Annoyingly, none of these problems announce themselves when they arrive. They’re just always there, until one day you realize that you’ve been subconsciously holding your breath and tensing your shoulders for more than six consecutive months. So sometimes when I catch myself fantasizing about disappearing into some quiet foreign city for a week, it’s not about the destination itself. Even though a peaceful stroll through the Swiss countryside sounds absolutely fucking amazing. Seriously, why couldn’t I pick a less expensive mid-life crisis craving?

Really, I think I just want silence, the kind that comes from being temporarily removed from your own life. No obligations or familiarity, or people casually reaching into your mental space just because they can and they know you’re available. DEFINITELY NOT an Eat, Pray, Love (2010) experience (Sorry, Julia Roberts). Just me, existing anonymously somewhere nobody needs anything from me. Just last week I posted something on X along the same line of thought as this Epis0de, and a friend who I follow reached out to say that she had just returned from her own getaway. She took a flight to a different European country from the one she currently lives in, spent a week in a local pub/guest house in the woods, and came back home feeling happy and refreshed. Honestly, good for her. There's a small comfort in knowing that your particular issue isn't unique, and that it can be solved. And good for the Schengen Area, too. It’s such a valid selling point for moving to Europe.

Of course, running away doesn’t solve anything. At least, not if you’re gonna come back eventually. But there’s nothing wrong in wanting to take a break from your own life once in a while, especially if you’re big on routines. Because that’s how you become efficient at surviving while ignoring or even being unaware of the growing pile of anxiety and fatigue in the corner of your mind. So yes, a break is good. A vacation is even better.

Or it would be I could afford one.

Na wa.