As a little girl I had a terrible crush on Michael Jackson and for some weird reason after that ‘The Man called Sloane’ on a TV series. I wanted to dance like the girl in ‘Fame’.

As I grew older I would bury myself in books and lose myself in the characters of the novels I read. 
My crushes fell aside, and my curiosity for the world outside mine grew.

I wanted to help the poor, visit orphanages, build schools so kids could go to school and read like me.

I wanted to be a Neurosurgeon and a Writer, treat the rich and charge heavy, and treat the poor for nothing. I wanted to change the world, end poverty and put every child in school.

Somewhere along the line, I bought into the myth of reality. I focused on going to school, settled for an ‘easier course’ and ‘The Man called Sloane’ was no more my groom of the future.

Years gone by I wonder really if my dreams were that outlandish. On whose terms had I sieved and reviewed them?

Which of them had I given a fair shot before discarding?

Even now in adulthood, some fancy notion overtakes me, travel to some exotic place where I know no one, drive a F1 car on a racetrack, learn a new language, adopt a school; and every time I shoot down one of my ideas, my dreams, a little part of me dies.

My wishful desires are mine to make true, no one can do that for me.

I know in my heart that the excuses I give are little lies I tell myself so that I do nothing.

And still a little part of me dies every time.

Nothing and no one is in my way but myself.

Perhaps if Michael were alive…

Your Soul Sister,
Wuraola

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