I left home for boarding school when I was 12. Although I was the youngest kid in my class, there was no novelty in that for me. It was something I had become comfortable with after primary school. My parents made my brother and I skip some classes, seeing that we had the right prerequisites for secondary school. I passed my entrance exam at the age of 9 and left my classmates, but this is not the story I want to tell you today. 

I have always found myself in the company of people or friends that were older than I am. I have lied about my age several times, and only recently stopped doing that. You can't blame me, I grew up fast, and I learned to cook and take care of myself and other people at an early age. Although, of course, you could say the same for most kids like me who grew up in Nigeria. In my parents' house, play was not encouraged, you had to be serious and studious, prim and proper. This was followed by the many chants of how lucky we were. "Many of your mates are on the streets or at the market selling things," my mom would tell us. "I never knew my father and I had a hard life," my dad would follow. Our home was run like the NAVY seals. We were made to understand the sacrifices that were being made for us and told not to waste them. We were told not to play with the neighbor's kids, that our time was best spent studying and reading. This was before social media and home internet, so we didn't have many distractions. The birthday of other kids was also a delicate affair, we were reproached whenever we ate the snacks and sweets that were offered. The expected thing to do was to bring them home for my mom to pray over, bless, and purify. This was an effort to prevent us from being initiated into what they believed was the 'occult kingdom'. My parents and their friends had a bag of tales about kids who flew at night due to confectionery and pastries that were offered to them.

We did not have the games other kids talked about in school, save for the digital arcade games that came with the TV. Once, I bought the disk for a PC game, and it was seized by my dad. Our guaranteed window for entertainment was the period between when we came back from school and when our parents came back from work. That was our opportunity to watch cartoons and other things on our free-to-air cable TV. I remember watching Harry Potter on TV one day and my mom stormed into the sitting room to express her disgust about what we were watching and how evil it looked. She told us to change the channel or put off the TV, so as not to "corrupt our spirits". Even the books I read were monitored; we were discouraged from exploring certain books or authors. Looking back, I can confirm that I was an extremely bored child, and I would occasionally express how boring our home was. That boredom, coupled with my curiosity, fueled my quest for novelty.  I would read anything I could get my hands on: books, old magazines, and newspapers, love letters my parents exchanged in their youth, even old invoices, receipts, and documents. I was a devourer of information. At some point, my mom began to skillfully hide confidential documents, concerned that I might read things I wasn't meant to. As a child, I always felt like a mere observer of the world, never an active participant. Confined and left to observe people and things behind windows, balconies, and walls. I recall many days and nights standing close to the parapet wall that guarded the roof side of the two-storey apartment we lived in. I had an obsession with observing the neighborhood. We were advised not to leave the house, but I  yearned to see everything and everyone beyond our walls. From that vantage point, I had an unintimidating view of Zuma Rock, and I would go up there to watch the sunset in the evening. On idle days, I whiled away the hours trying to synchronize my heartbeat with the pulsing red light atop a radio mast near our apartment. My parents would come back home and tell each other about their adventures in the outside world. It felt like the world was a playground for adults, while we children were meant to sit and wait for our turn. Most days felt this way.

I only began to experience certain bouts of freedom when I went to boarding school. Although that was another prison in and of itself, with different rules and obligations. As I said earlier, I was 12 years old - young and timid. I was living with boys much older than me, and my classmates would mold a surprised face whenever I told them my age. Nigerian boarding schools offer a very different experience compared to the often exclusive and affluent notion commonly associated with boarding schools in Europe. For us, there was a strict way of life. Adherence to the schedule was mandatory; any deviation could result in severe consequences, including corporal punishment or even suspension. There was time for sports and play and that was during PE but believe me when I tell you that there were also punishments for not engaging in that. Every resource, including food, was scarce, so you had to be sharp and cunning. There were nights when I cried my hungry self to sleep because the food ran out before it reached my turn in line. The reward for patience and selflessness was misery.  It was in our third and final year that we started to push boundaries and discover what fun and freedom truly meant. Phones and MP3 players were contraband, so fun, in this context, was the freedom to deviate from the rigid schedules and the chance to gather in groups to share stories and jokes. Laughter filled our conversations as we drew from the reservoir of shared memories. Sharing jokes about our experiences was a source of joy in that cruel environment. We talked about our dreams, aspirations, and the future we hoped to create. Nicknames, often humorous and based on our personalities or appearances, became a part of our friendship. Mine was 'Bonga', derived from the thinness of dried Bonga fish, a nod to my slender frame.

To emphasize: third year was truly the best of times. I remember sneaking out of school late at night to buy fried fish and unwind with the other 'brave' boys after the mandatory night study session. But it wasn't all fun and games. There was a lot of work to be done. I recall countless nights spent studying near the hostel gate, relying on the moonlight or the occasional electric lamp, diligently preparing for my West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE) examination, which I thankfully passed on my first attempt.

I went to the university longing for even greater freedom and autonomy. Oba Awon promised this, but I knew there was so much more work to do now. As a freshman in 2016, I vividly recall the first-year parties, the DJs spinning 'Mama' by Kizz Daniel and 'Do like that' by Korede Bello on repeat. Our introduction to OAU was exhilarating; the music, the drama, the festivities - it was all so new and exciting. This was, of course, before the reality of coursework set in, before we saw our MTH 101 test results and realized that the road to graduation was paved with hot coals.

There is a line in OAUs anthem that says "For learning and culture, sports and struggle," and for me, learning and struggle were the order of the day. The chemistry, physics, and geology departments were housed in a building complex aptly named 'White House' due to its stark white paint. However, white house wasn't a place that gave you salvation, showed you mercy, or brought healing to your wounds. It was in fact, where the childhood dreams of many were killed. Each semester, we witnessed students transferring from the physical sciences to the humanities and social sciences, either to salvage their declining CGPAs or to seek a less demanding path to their bachelor's degree. Those of us who remained paid the price, each in our own way. For me, the cost was time.

There was rarely ever time. Most of my days and nights were spent in the chemistry department's library. When I see American college students enjoying their free time, I struggle to recall similar experiences from my university years. All that comes to mind are snapshots of times in the hostel (doing chores), chemistry labs, and the library. Hold on, maybe that was a lie. I remember some other times I spent in my friends' room, talking, laughing, listening to music, or seeing movies. Keep in mind, that a 'room' in this context was a large space typically shared by six or more boys. There was never a time in university or before when I had a closed or personal space. At the time, the idea of privacy was foreign to me. It was something I had either encountered in books or television. American movies, in particular, baffled me with their depictions of parents knocking before entering their children's rooms or children requesting alone time. 

I grew up sharing beds with my brothers. In boarding school, I slept on a 3x6 feet mattress until it was stolen and I had to sleep on a wooden plank padded by my blanket and bedsheet. I eventually stole someone else's mattress at the start of a new term. A tradition that was allowed as nothing is ever yours in boarding school. This trend of sleeping on a 3x6 mattress continued in university. This time, I had occasions of sharing this tiny mattress with other people. I tell you this to also show that I never learned how to take up space because there was none to fully claim.

Pardon me for that tangent. As I was saying, I remember some good times I spent with friends in their space, and, as you might suspect, this scarcely happened. The reason I went to friends to enjoy these simple pleasures was that I did not have a smartphone or a laptop at the time. It wasn't until my third year in university that my friend,  Ajuma, gifted me a smartphone. I'm deeply grateful for her kindness, and I often reflect on how that small act enabled me to eventually purchase a laptop. Without that laptop, I wouldn't have been able to complete my final-year research project, which in turn opened the door to collaboration with researchers at Cambridge in 2021. The sum of these research experiences ultimately led to my acceptance into the PhD program. It's funny how one tiny action can change the trajectory of everything. I often find myself asking: What if she never gifted me that phone? What if I never got the money to buy that laptop? 

I successfully defended that research project in February 2020 and returned home, feeling a mix of anticipation and trepidation, perhaps akin to a soldier on the eve of deployment. I was ready to grind and do something with my life. The pandemic came to shake us all, but I kept my focus and pace. I even stayed off social media until I launched Hinted Neuron. I often tell people that the pandemic was, surprisingly, one of the most productive periods of my life. There was so much time to focus on meaningful work without worrying about the logistics of day-to-day life. I read, learned, and created so much. Sometimes I look back and can't help but feel that I've grown lazy and less hungry.

I hit the road again in November 2020, after staying with my parents for nine months through the pandemic. That was the longest I'd stayed in their home for years. I felt myself become that bored and restricted child all over again. As the saying goes, you pay with your mental health for what you get in free rent. I squatted with a few friends until April of 2021 when I rented a studio apartment for the first time. Everything felt new, a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom all to myself.  It was in that apartment I did some of my best and hardest work. I remember my bed and how I barely slept in it.  That apartment was my perfect little sanctuary. At night I would turn on the RGB bulb and light a scented candle, while Tems played in the background. Some nights I had trouble sleeping, so I would invite my neighbor, Jerry, for long chats over coffee. Jerry and I would eventually become dear friends;  he helped me through the difficult process of applying for graduate school. He would also be there to assure me when I felt uncertain about myself and my prospects.

In July 2022, I found myself selling off furniture that had sat in my apartment for just over a year. It was time to leave my sanctuary for a future that promised plenty. But first, I once again took the road home. This time soaking up all the peculiarities of this journey that I had made many times over many years. From Ile-Ife to Abuja. The bustling markets of Ilesha, the tranquil city of Akure, the dusty town of Okene, the hospitality of Lokoja, the vibrant Gwagwalada, and finally, the awe-inspiring Airport Road leading to Kubwa. I spent a few precious days with my family, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, pride, and perhaps a hint of sadness they didn't verbalize. Everyone staring but not saying what was felt. Kelvin was leaving, not just for another state, but outside the country and the continent. The home I once knew had become a mere stopover on the way to my next location. I absorbed every detail, from the familiar rooms to the sight of Zuma rock from the parapet wall.

Today, I am here in the proclaimed land of the free, engaging in activities like brunch, beach trips, parties, games nights, and other adjacent things. In all of these, I feel as though my life has just begun. So much is still new to me. I'm aware that I'm only now experiencing things that others may take for granted. What fills me with wonder might elicit a nonchalant 'been there, done that' from some. Yet, amidst this newfound freedom, I grapple with guilt. It whispers that I'm indulging in leisure while others yearn for the opportunities I've been given. It reminds me of the days I had none. The days I hoped and longed for what I now enjoy. The days I lost sleep for fear of wasting my potential. This guilt holds me by the neck, pins my back on a wall, and makes me stare at its gory face. It doesn't seem as though this guilt molests the Americans in my Ph.D. program the same way it does me. Unlike me, they delight in the entertainment and pleasures like it's second nature. Of course, I know that the context of our lives our different, but I wish I didn't have to feel guilt for tiny things such have having dinner at a fancy restaurant. I wish my brain wouldn't remind me of all the ways that money would have been beneficial to my parents and siblings.

My guilt may linger, but it is slowly transforming into gratitude and a deep appreciation for the opportunities that await me. The freedom I craved as a child has become a reality, albeit with a new set of constraints. Lately, I've been plagued with questions that seek to inquire about my post-PhD plans. The truth is, I don't have all the answers yet, or any answers right now. There is so much uncertainty and I can't deny how much it haunts me. But there is surprisingly also some joy and beauty to it. The type that is akin to watching a thriller. As the days pass, I am learning not to fall into the dry and bottomless well of fear, endlessly pondering what the future holds. 

People my age have started talking about different things like life partners, marriage, kids, taking care of pets, and building a home. I listen and wonder if they had an epiphany and why, all of a sudden, they feel so strongly about these things. While it might be nice, I do not strongly desire these things. There is so much freedom I have gained in the past years, and the novelty hasn't worn off. The thought of anything that might curtail this newfound independence is daunting. I aspire to live a life unburdened by the expectations of others, though I'm not there yet, and honestly, I'm unsure if I ever will be. 

I am slowly stepping away from the parapet well and exerting myself in the world. I am also learning how to take up space. I now sleep on queen sized bed. Although I curl myself to a small cross-section of the bed, as though, trying to leave enough space for other imaginary bodies that share the bed with me. A couple of friends have teased me about this when I slept in their apartment, but I do not know how to break this habit. Some nights I artificially expand my body on the bed, trying to cover as much space as possible, a genuine effort at learning the art of claiming space.

Through all these phases and learning, I try to ground myself in matters and what has brought me this far. Hard work and meaningful relationships with people. All I have is today, and I will go out to do my best work, deeply enjoying it. The future may be uncertain, but I remind myself that I have fought before, and I will keep fighting. As Chuck Prince once said, "As long as the music is playing, you've got to get up and dance."

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