Happiness Like Ice

On god and love and ice skating.

I lost god many years ago. He was a big awe inspiring thing, a “manly person of war" who wanted me to stand steadfast, unmovable, unshakable. I loved him. And I wanted desperately to please him. The image of god in my head was always a stoic figure on a throne, shoulders arched, nary a smile on his face. And no eyes. Just light beaming from his face and a strong jawline. I do not ever remember seeing his feet. Not in my head. Not in my dreams. I do not remember ever being able to visualise his arms. And now that I think of it, I like arms.

The god my family and religious community sold to me did not show up when I needed him. When I cried and did not know why I was crying, for years. When I needed it to stop. When I did know why I was crying and needed it to stop. When I cried because my father was crying. And with each passing year the weight piled on. The weight of failure. The weight of guilt. Of the light from gods face turning red with anger, a blazing fire. Because of my shaky feet. Because of my doubts. Because of my sinful desires.

I sought stability through the things I could count on. Poetry. Literature. Wine. That first cigarette early in the morning, nicotine sluicing over me giving me that tentative lift, a glimpse of wings that I would chase all day with each new cigarette.

With losing god came losing fear. Some of it at least. I am still terrified of flying and terrified of horses. With horses however, some of that fear abated once I learnt an important fact about stallions: a stallion ejaculates in only six to eight pelvic thrusts from penetration (a fact made worse when you realise they don’t really do foreplay— poor mares). So now when I walk past a stallion, I think: all that power, all that size, and you can only manage eight pelvic thrusts before you capitulate, and become a trembling semen canon. And then I am not so afraid anymore, because even at my worst, I was able to manage more than eight thrusts.

When I was still losing god — that frightful period of uncertainty when the thought of doing something as dangerous as choosing eternal death over an idyllic paradise paralysed me — I took no risks. There was still the possibility of going back, of finding him again, of resuming a life of loyalty to his word and especially to his earthly representatives and organisation. There was still the possibility of finding him again before the devil would shoot me in the head or worse, torture me with pain and suffering for all the times I spoke against him when I had god by my side. I travelled as little as possible, especially within Nigeria where fatal accidents are just a normal part of road travel. The most dangerous things I did were smoking cigarettes and having sex. Looking back, writing columns mocking politicians was also dangerous, but I began at a time when it didn’t matter what you wrote because they never read anything.

I always had poor balance.  I stumbled and fell so often, I was sure I had dyspraxia. So I avoided anything that required balance. Bicycles. Motorcycles (except when I wasn’t the one driving). Roller skates (not that I had access to this in the poor neighbourhood I grew up in, in Kaduna, Nigeria).

My fear was a balloon and my father was an industrial air pump. He forbade anything even remotely dangerous: swimming, riding bicycles, taking risks of any kind. The voice in my head telling me not to try something that could hurt me competed with my fathers voice in my head telling me in no uncertain terms about the likelihood of death. I was never allowed to own a bicycle.

In 2017, I got my first bicycle in Berlin. I got off to a shaky, wobbly start but with lots of practice, I felt confident enough to cycle on main roads and even out of the city. Two years after, I upped the stakes by purchasing roller blades. After a couple of spectacular falls, I packed them up. I resumed again at the start of the pandemic, practicing on the wide tarmacked area in the courtyard of my apartment complex. It helped that there wasn’t a large audience to watch me slam into walls and fall like a toddler with poor motor skills. Nothing prepares you for the infinite number of ways your body can contort when you fall off roller blades as a beginner. You fall, and the first thing you do is look around before checking for injuries, because some adult falls are so embarrassing, no other human being should be allowed to watch. You take that shit to the grave.

Once I was able to go back and forth without wondering if my health insurance covered self inflicted injuries, I ventured out into the wild streets of Berlin. Park am Gleisdreieck, a park with both tarmac and smooth concrete, became my new haunt. I would watch Youtube videos and then try out new ways of remaining upright as I rolled past amused passersby. I got better, more confident. I moved faster, for longer periods before my feet would begin to hurt.

Winter came, and then I decided I was ready for the ice. The first time I tried it I was shocked how transferable the skills were. But there was something about the ice, something about how well my body took to it, something about gliding as opposed to rolling that enthralled me. Like John the Baptist preparing the way for Jesus, roller blading had prepared the way for what became my real love. Since learning how to ice skate, I have never used my roller blades.

On the ice, I found god again. It was 2pm on a Sunday afternoon, the first time it manifested itself to me. The sun reflected off the ice, making it seem even whiter than usual. I was one of the first to get onto the rink and there were hardly any grooves on the ice made by other skaters. It felt slippery at first, as I was not used to freshly smoothened ice. I put on my headphones listening to classical music by Olivia Belli. My body slowly warmed up, and I stopped thinking about the cold. I stopped thinking about anything. As I glided over the ice, I felt lighter and lighter. My worries began to fade, worries about falling, worries about the choices I was making in my life, about the book that my publisher was not responding to, about stagnation in my career, about stagnation in love, about money, about gaining weight, about the family I had been unsuccessful at creating, about all of the goals I had not yet achieved. The light from the face of this god was not blinding, and this god had arms, solid arms that could catch me; it had a face, a tender, forgiving face. It had no gender and was not interested in war or enemies or worship. It just said, glide, let go and glide. And if you must fall, laugh at yourself, get your fingers out of the way, and rise. Then glide some more. I felt tears gather in my eyes and with the back of my hand gloves I attempted, too late to dab. Even Olivia Belli became a distant sound in the background and I thought: this right here is how peace sounds.

I got off the ice and walked on air until I got home. In the shower, words slipped from my lips and I heard myself say: I like it here. And then I interrogated myself. What exactly do you like? I thought of this for many minutes and I said to myself: life. I love life. I love this life right here.  I still wish I felt this as a teenager. Or in my 20s. Or in my 30s. But it is never too late to love life. This one random miracle that culminated in us being here at this time in this way, even as the planet seems to burn around us. To see god on the ice even though everything challenges this. To feel love in your heart even as you feel the weight on your shoulders. To feel peace in your soul even as you see and hear turbulence all around you. To feel joy in your spirit even though your body suffers often from pain and illness. (Yes, I wasted a lot of water doing all of this thinking in the shower. I never said I was perfect.)

This love of life, it isn’t an uncritical love. I know how awful life can be. I know how strange. I know how violent. But I know that there is space for love. And I can hold it tight in the palm of my hand where no one can take it from me.

And god, this god, is not jealous. It does not demand exclusive worship. It does not demand worship at all. It lets me doubt. It lets me question. It talks and lets me talk back. Or just lets me silently glide through the air on ice.

I love this life. I love this god.

I hope you find something to love this holiday season and beyond.