Shyness. Nervousness. Fear.

 

Shyness. Nervousness. Fear. These three are one and have done me good and bad. They create a feeling of anxiety or worry– the kind that messes with me in many ways. Anxiety messes with my head so that I can’t think straight or make a right decision. This anxiety is the reason I could not decide for a very long time whether to write an essay to capture its wonders or to write a poem to express it to the end of its borders.

The stiffness of my legs as I make for the podium or the stage as if to warn me against it. The way I am so conscious of myself and pray that I do not trip eventually. The way my legs struggle so hard to keep me standing or the way I cannot seem to feel they are there. The way my fingers effortfully clutch the microphone and sustain it in firm grip. The way my voice refuses to come out clearly and I have to shout to be heard. The way I run out of breath easily. The way the lights that centre me blind me and I become afraid of moving. The way my heart thumps and I can literally hear it. Oh, the way my breathing, which becomes difficult and irritatingly loud, is picked by the microphone and everyone can hear it. The way my saliva turns dry and sticky and rushes out every time I speak or sing and the way the people right in front of me have to spend their time getting rid of each flying saliva. The way my palms are wet and I shiver and feel cold. The way my cheeks cannot broaden for long. The way I commit grammatical blunders so effortlessly and my frequent frantic searches for the right words while they seem to mock and elude me. The way I forget the lines I already memorized and let down the ones who believe in me. The way I become unusually and unnecessarily restless. The way I loathe introductions. The way I cannot stand beautiful and intelligent ladies– I get threatened and become fearful. I know I’m shy. So when people remark that I am confident– sometimes, over-confident– I either stare in disbelief or laugh their ignorance off.

This shyness, this nervousness, this fear is the reason I am a poet. I find poetry a hiding place because, through it, I can express my innermost feelings without ‘expressing’ them (or, as Yorubas would put it, without saying it with the whole of my mouth). In poetry, I conceal my feelings through the employment of different poetic/literary devices and the choice of my words. At the same time, I relieve myself of the dangers of bottling my feelings up.

This shyness, this nervousness, this fear is the reason I have allowed the people and relationships that could have helped me pass by. It’s the reason I have refrained from complimenting handsome or beautiful people, people who have blessed me one way or the other and people who inspire me and mean a lot to me. This shyness is the reason I don’t share the gospel with people. It’s the reason I don’t tell people what God tells me about them. It’s the reason I seem unable to approach some people for a selfie. This fear is the reason I have lost many times and shamed myself publicly. This nervousness is the reason I look above my shoulders every time, not sure what calamity will befall me next. I know by experience that fear does more harm than good– in fact, it does so much harm that you seriously doubt it can do any good.

This shyness, this nervousness, this fear is the reason I did not make and have not made certain mistakes. For instance, this shyness has inhibited me from asking a girl out or committing some sexual sins. So even though I fantasize about how my romance life can/should be, I let it remain a fantasy. This fear has saved me from flouting some rules, the consequences of which would have scattered my life. This nervousness has, in fact, kept me from meeting or getting introduced to certain people who could have ruined my life. This shyness, this nervousness, this fear is the reason I want to overcome my shyness, my nervousness and fear. So I continue to speak and sing in public despite constant setbacks because I want to– I need to– get better and be free of fear. I keep confessing God’s word against fear and I keep praying against it. These three are the reason I’m not just a poet but also an essayist that intends to let his feelings all out clearly. These three are necessary, I have discovered, for my sanity.

So I tell myself again and again that my deepest fear is not that I’m inadequate but that I’m powerful beyond measure and so, I have strong tendencies to be corrupted beyond repair.