Depression

 

They say, “A fool at forty is a fool forever.” I stepped into my quadragenarian era less than twenty-four hours ago. Clocking forty makes you conscious that your youth is beginning to search for an escape. No one earnestly wants to grow old; we search for ways to enhance beauty, shape our figures, and constantly maintain poise.

My name is Tamara. I clocked forty today.

I had everyone come over. I invited friends from the diaspora—home and abroad—for my iconic birthday celebration. I had my friends plan the biggest surprise party, and I paid for everything: the glamour, the decorations, the caterers, and even the very expensive gifts they presented to me.

“Happy Ruby Jubilee!” they echoed in my ears.

I received all kinds of kisses on my cheeks; from treacherous ones to earnest ones. I could tell not everyone there liked me, but I maintained my most beautiful curve: my smile.

We had fun. We danced, we sang, we played games. I had love letters of friendship read aloud in my hearing. I cried as I heard how I had impacted people in both little ways and humongous dealings.

I was happy; until I heard side talks from two girls I had never seen in my life and hope to never see again.

I was about to cut my cake while everyone counted:

“J…!” “E…!” “S…!”

These two ladies drank my Chapman and were seriously minding my business.

“Hmmm. Can you imagine she’s not married?”

“Yeah, I’m quite surprised. And she’s clocking forty today.”

“I don’t understand… with a skin like milk and all these many cars. This woman is rich, mehn.”

“My sister, if it’s to carry one mechanic that would come and be oiling her…”

They noticed me looking at them and stopped abruptly. The countdown had ended; they were the reason everyone was waiting for me to cut my cake.

I cut the cake, and everyone applauded. Even with my eyes on them, they continued:

“They said she has a very bad character. And she had parole in Italy during her prime.”

“Who is they?” the other asked.

“Mhhm… it’s not from my mouth you’d hear that our presidents look like monkeys.”

I excused myself and went to the restroom. I stared at myself in the mirror and affirmed:

“Today is my day. I won’t let anyone make me cry. They are here in my honor—eating my food, drinking my beverages, breathing the air from my AC. I won’t give them any power over my emotions.”

I walked out confidently. I was gracious enough not to ask security to walk them out.

I took selfies with everyone. While the party was still ongoing, I was already trending on social media because some high-profile influencers had shared our merriment on their platforms.

The party ended. I sent seventy-five percent of my guests on their way. I lodged part of the remaining twenty-five percent (whom my duplex couldn’t accommodate) in a nearby hotel.

My house was a mess. The cleaners were at it. It was just me, by myself, in my bedroom. I wiped off my makeup and crashed into bed.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’ll wash my face in the morning and shower. It was a long day.”

My white pillowcase got stained by the residue of foundation trapped between my pores.

This is how I slept most times. It’s one of the many prices you pay for success as a woman—tired nights where you can’t give your skin the care and attention it deserves.

The words of those two ladies began to play squash in my auditory senses.

That was really mean… but I’m used to it.

I grew up in the home of a polygamous politician. My mother was a policed housewife, a fair maiden whose sole duty was to reproduce. Whether he (my father,) loved her or not, I cannot say. My mother’s husband was stoic.

He often talked her down, calling her an uneducated nonentity. Among all his wives, she was the most loyal. In my father’s absence, the other wives would bribe security and bring different men into his house. Back then, there was no technology to monitor their shenanigans. In terms of juju (dark magic,) they were more equipped than him—they knew exactly what they were signing up for.

My mother was the only wife who never committed adultery. She was mocked for it.

I told myself at a young age: I would be successful. I would have my own—including the finest things of life—and I would never be a liability to any man.

My father inspired me greatly, and I wanted to be like him: a politician. I studied hard and bagged a degree in Political Science. I never had a boyfriend on campus because I had a goal, and as my mother would locally say, “marry your book.”

I attained meaningful success early. At thirty-two, I was close to being the first female self-made billionaire in my family. The requirements of my achievements kept me on my toes. I didn’t have time for myself or my loved ones. I was hell-bent on my father’s approval—to show him that a “nonentity” could give birth to a powerhouse.

This affected my love life, but I got what I wanted.

As he coughed his last cough on his deathbed, my hand was the last he clasped as he said:

“Dr. Bintu Tamara Muhammad, I see myself in you. I thank God I married your mother. I am so proud of you and your mother. Thank you for adding meaning to our family name. Let the fire in me continue to burn in you. Mashallah.”

My father was the only family member who never asked me, “Tamara, when are you getting married?”

I was thirty-four when he passed on. At thirty-five, I started going on official dates—arranged by my big aunties. It felt organized, scripted. Yet I could see the trembling fingers as my dates picked up their cutlery and wine glasses. The stiffness of their spines never escaped my notice—anxiety, intimidation.

Those I met on my own saw me only as a politician’s daughter and were after my money. What people don’t understand is that the wealth of a dignified man does not necessarily flow to his family. I spend my own money. And I now understand why my father didn’t grant all my requests back then—money earned through hard work is managed with discretion, no matter how abundant it seems.

Others assumed I would never be a submissive housewife because I was self-made. Submission was never my problem. I was raised with love and obedience. What I desire is a leader—a man who can lead me and remind me that I am a woman; one who allows me to be feminine around him. A man who commands respect humbly, who is confident regardless of his wages, and who trusts that I would look up to him without resentment or disdain.

The two relationships I ventured into didn’t last. Communication could not be sustained. I realized I was intellectually more mature than most men I met. They lacked patience, prudence, understanding, and loyalty.

My father was a man of integrity. In Northern Nigeria, we uphold values and modesty. Yet exposure to the world revealed indecency and deceit. I am still open to love when it knocks, but I do not mind staying this way for the rest of my life.

Marriage is not the prize. Self-worth, purpose, and fulfillment are. It is not a law. People should be allowed to choose without scrutiny. I am fulfilled. I impact humanity through my charity organization.

I am whole. I am enough. I am independent of the opinions of others.

People err out of small-mindedness, and people forgive when their hearts manage a property with a pool of understanding.

I am grateful. Though my father was a very busy man, he impacted me deeply and made me an inestimable ruby to my family and society. He wasn’t perfect—but he was real, kind, and true.

With that, I turned off my bedside lamp and went to sleep. Though I paid for the entire event and couldn’t boast of loyal friends, I could boldly say I entertained everyone—and we all had a great time together, like "One Big Happy Family."

ORATOR:

Depression is a form of energy, a negative one. If you don’t give it a medium, it cannot flow into you.

Evil and unclean spirits are negative energies with consciousness. Spirits of fear carry fear. Spirits of lust carry lust.

If you are well guarded, these energies won’t have access to you—through the people you interact with, the words you hear, and especially the music you listen to. There is a difference between hearing sound and listening to it.

Depression enters through vibration. One becomes the custodian of that energy, which then finds expression through thoughts: hopelessness, anxiety, restlessness, panic, pessimism, withdrawal, confusion, sorrow, and loss of appetite.

The emotions of a singer transfer to the listener. Everything in existence has a code; every living thing carries frequency.

How Do You Deal With Depression?

Strengthen your mind—what you believe, how you think, and how you see yourself.

Sigmund Freud proposed the tripartite nature of personality:

The Id – seeks pleasure and instant gratification (the flesh).

The Ego – the decision-maker (the soul, the battlefield).

The Superego – guided by morals and restraint (the spirit).

So: Id vs. Superego = Ego

When depressive thoughts rise from the Id, the Superego must intervene—using self-worth, values, and purpose—to guide the Ego.

In simple terms: train your mind. Do not allow negative emotions to dominate you. Replace destructive thoughts with healthier ones.

Formula:

ID ÷ TSe = Ego

Where wisdom produces emotional balance.

Train your mind—and you will master your emotions.

NEXT PAGE...