Oh how much I desire in this life. Desires that consume my waking thoughts. The desire to be wholly seen and deeply known. My body is at its most fertile and my breasts swell and I desire to be held, it’s almost unbearable. I lie in bed, tossing and turning, flicking through the channels of my life reminiscent of dstv channels illuminating from the screens of Lagos parlours. I think about my goals, figs and stuff. I wonder if I’m on the right path. If I’m doing enough, do I need to quit my job and travel to Australia for 5 months ? Should I have locked into a 7 year exit plan in investment banking or consulting that would widely differ from the corporate creative adjacent struggle ?

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I seethe. I think of how everyone posits your 20s as this decade for making mistakes, learning, growth and such. I know that, of course I know that. Reels flood my timeline of people sharing their advice for navigating early adulthood. Videos of shiny eyed, bright toned women and the occasional man appear and sometimes I wonder what’s AI, and what’s not and if I could even tell the difference. They don’t mention the people society put on pedestals, looked at in unattainable awe because they believe they’re the product of luck or that they’re simply exceptional (they are, by their drive alone). They never think it’s because of unique dedication and hardwork, dreams left to multiply without borders, the product of a person full of desires, living embodiments of what happens when they’re acted upon and nurtured. I see the pioneering African women becoming superstars before their 24th birthdays, announcements of Broadway transfers and West End Debuts, Tony and Olivier awards at 22. Publishing deals, brand launches, banking promotions and NY office transfers, career milestones by my contemporaries. Dave made it glaringly clear on ‘My 27th Birthday’, he ‘survived all these errors because he barely made any.’ There’s an intentionality that sets these individuals apart. 

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It's my twenty third year, and I desire so much in life, oh don’t I have a lust for life! It’s crazy and complex and emotional and wonderful and sometimes I wish I wasn't doing it but yes I’m having too much fun. Lena Dunham wrote Girls at 23 ?! Ayra Starr has an album called ‘19 and dangerous' and ‘The year I turned 21’ ?! How vast my dreams are, so detailed. They’re always peripheral, never too far from my thoughts. The idea of never having them realised ? Yes, that’s the desire that hurts the most.

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There are countless theories of desire that have risen from Western canon. Plato asserted a life lived according to one's desires, was a flawed one that prevents us living virtuously. The etymology of the word ‘desire’ derives from the Latin word de-sidera, which means ‘lack of stars.’ It shows the symbiotic dichotomy that exists between the body and its real impulses for sensual pleasure and, on the other hand, the aspiration of consciousness towards something missing or distant. It shows a state of lack, but also one of constantly trying to become. Capitalism primes you to desire material possessions, cheap dopamine that will keep you a functioning and willing cog in the machine. If anything, it has bred a landscape for desire to be synonymous with pleasure. A culture of excess. The more stuck into the perpetual desire to consume we become, the more we veer from the desires that matter most, that of our heart, both in relation to human connection and most importantly, our innermost dreams. 

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Minna Salami highlights the work and observations of women who have lived in solitude, away from men and their desires, and as a result have been the authors of their own desire. Those that have existed, in a sense, in a room of one's own. I found this interesting as someone who enjoys solitude, and who struggled for so long to articulate what exactly made it so satisfactory, besides the delight of getting to be alone. It’s been in my solitude that I’ve identified those desires that are destructive and wondered if they were ever mine at all. This, of course, transcends me. The whole world is set up to satisfy the desires of men. The proof is in the history they’ve documented so well. Even men want nothing more than to satisfy the desire of men! We live in a society so male-centered that solitude, as a woman, must be part of the answer ?

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Thankfully, there have been more nuanced discussions around desire. Feminist thought articulates the political dimensions of desire, as patriarchal society asks women to forgo their desires anyways. We live in the collateral damage of men’s desire left unregulated. Even sexually, women's desires are only accepted if it’s in response to male desire, in all other instances it’s vilified. Female desires are often suppressed and largely unknown given what we know about men. I think of all the female artists that had to create and publish under male names, the women who wanted to make art but didn’t have the privilege due to geography and financial limitations, their proximity to whiteness, those that still do. I think of the women who desired to learn, study for ten years if they wished and get PhDs! I believe one of the most radical things I can do as a black woman is give in to my desires. As Audre Lorde puts it, ‘our visions begin with our desires.’

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In 2023, I had the desire to learn the electric guitar. Back then, I thought it was out of the blue. I hadn’t played guitar since I was a child, I played for no more than a year. I was part of this guitar club called ‘Guitar for cool kids’, it was run by a young woman with skin the shade of milky coffee, who wore her hair in dirty blonde waist length braids. She seemed so much older at the time but was probably 23. She would sit us round in a circle, hand out sweets and show one or two chords. I remember never learning anything there, and wondered why I ended up in that club. I acted on that desire because it felt right, and a lot of factors that were shaping me, and inadvertently my artistic identity, led to that point. These things usually start with proximity. In 2024, I had the desire to dance. My passion for dance meant I was suddenly listening to an array of new genres and tracks, which deepened that passion for music. I injured my knee and wallowed, then had the desire to go out and dance. That was the beginning of a deeper understanding of the sacrilegious relationship between the DJ and the dancefloor. It doesn’t end there, I could go on and on, but the point is to show you how I only figured out what else I desired, through not only interrogating and acknowledging my innate interests, but acting on them. 

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The desire to achieve it all now is so overbearing I become paralysed by nothingness. I end up stagnant, because I’m hyperfocused on an end goal that is still so far in sight, ignoring the journey. Like a kid eager to ride a bike without training wheels, I neglect the present for musings of a future that will not come to pass, if I don’t focus on the now. My creative self has been neglected in such a total and devastating way. It’s still a part of myself I'm figuring out and I have my desires to thank for that. These desires are one’s I would derive deep fulfilment in, even if the other facets of my desires are never fully realised. 

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At the start of the year, there was a man I was completely enthralled by. Desire as longing ? This one, I’m familiar with. I desired him in such a physical way, and so deeply. It was a desire that consumed me, as my desires for men have done in the past. I was attracted to him, but coupled with his dance talent ? Obsessed. I admired his style, the way he moved, the way he felt music and moved intentionally. I’d been taking his classes for a few months, replicating his grooves while ignoring the voice in my head asking why I was learning hip hop from a white man. The obsessive tilt my soul is akin to is one of the most heinous things about my attraction to men. There’s rarely anything worthwhile sustaining it, a curated facade fueled by my desires and watered by my imagination until I’ve conjured up the perfect outcome in which this man becomes the perfect candidate for me, one that rests entirely in my favour. I cringe at some of the diary entries I’ve tentatively read back on from uni, when a specific boy would consume my thoughts. Nothing sexual ever happened between us, yet he was the one I desired most for years. The last time I saw him, I realised I didn’t desire him at all. This is one of my most dangerous desires, the one towards other people. It has the capacity to throw me off kilts, impact my mood, stop me from working towards the desires that fuel my ambitions. It has the capacity to completely derail me. 

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Recently my desires have been focused on a girl. Or more accurately, I’ve been trying to understand what it means to desire a girl. I thought about it with passivity for a while, as though the question belonged to some future version of myself who would magically arrive at a befitting answer. There was a moment after four hours of dance training. We’re with two friends on a street corner,  debriefing before the conversation breaks off and I’m just speaking to her. It's raining and it’s probably February and we’re huddled under a tiny covering. We’re looking at each other and she’s blushing and I'm smiling and I’m thinking how beautiful she is. On the train back with my friend that introduced us, he says  ‘I think they’re into you.’ 'I'm into them,’ I responded. A few weeks later, I asked her out. We’ve since gone out three times. What was different is I didn't let it fester into an all consuming desire that would impact my ability to do anything else, I didn’t conjure her from fragments. I came to realise that the issue wasn’t solely who and what I desired, but what I did with it.  (A few months have passed since I wrote this piece, and it has further deepened my understanding of desire. I have an even more nuanced view)

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*****

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I've always said that writers and publishing types believe themselves to be the main characters in whatever literary novel they deem their lives to be. They are the main characters, I probably am. I read Simple Passions by Annie Ernaux earlier this year and instantly loved it. I loved how clearly she highlighted what she aimed to do. She was simply recalling an account of the way this man she had an affair with, consumed her life. At the time, Ernaux felt she was living out her passion in the manner of a novel. However as she sat down to recount it, she wasn’t sure if she was recounting it as a testimony, a statement, or critical commentary. What she does make clear is she had no intention to search for the root of her passion in her early history or explain her passion. She only wished to describe it. It reads as the perfect essay, the type I loved to write in university, where I’d set out my personal epistemology from the start.

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I don’t know what the future holds nor how many passions will consume my life. I don’t know the things I’ll do, or the storylines I'll embrace. Ernaux comes to a realisation that her lover was just like other men. I wonder if she had the realisation that liking men, at times, feels like a humiliation ritual. She writes about the lack of shame she felt recounting these events, because of the time that separated her from writing it and when it will be seen by others - which may never come. She had the desire to be seen and not seen at the same time. She shared that story because time separated her from that version of herself. I sometimes wonder what I make of myself sharing personal anecdotes with so little time between them. I wonder the extent of what I’ll end up sharing in my lifetime, in the name of art. The things I’ll end up doing. How complex of a picture I’ll be willing to paint of myself, how much of myself I’ll end up giving up for others. 

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Ernaux writes about passion in a way I can’t 100% understand, and frankly can’t relate to at this stage in my life, in the way it consumed every faucet of her being. I’m old enough to have a more nuanced view on affairs, the part I’m yet to understand is having a passion for a man so overpowering, that ‘from September last year, I did nothing else but wait for that man.’ A man has never evoked that much passion in me, but let me not pretend it’s not possible. I don’t understand it but I certainly do. Ernaux's writing oozes self awareness. As autofiction writers tend to do, they overjustify their rationale for everything. Ernaux embraces a thankfulness for her affair, even amidst all the chaos and disruption it brought to her life. Character flaws and ghastly traits she saw in others that felt so far removed, were shocking when she began to see them in herself. It brought her closer to the world. Some would say that’s the whole point right ? That’s why artists embrace a multitude of realities, we crave the whole spectre of the human experience. We want to be the villains and the victims, the judge and the offender. We want to be in the thick of it all yet miles above it, all knowing, all experiencing, all encompassing.

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I recognised something in Ernaux’s obsession, even though it differed from the way it’d manifested in my life. I found some of my conclusions mirrored hers. As a child, Ernaux thought luxury was found in fur coats and seaside vacations, later on she thought it was living the life of an intellectual. Now, being the time of her writing ‘Simple Passions’, she felt that it was also being able to live out a passion for a man or a woman. I think I believe all these things. To me, luxury is found in my noise cancelling headphones and ipad, the Gucci bag my aunty gave me from her storage a few years ago. It’d be quick trips, exercising the perks of living in a European city. A week on the beach in Croatia reading Colombe Schneck and drinking blueberry cider. A trip to Amsterdam to celebrate a friend's birthday, or a few days in Paris running around during fashion week in 39 degree weather. I see it as embracing the intellectual side of my life. Not a forced existence, but an authentic realignment. Mornings spent reading and writing with a cup of matcha or peppermint tea. Conversations with brilliant colleagues about books and theatre, culture and politics. Long facetime calls with my friends about our dreams, reflections on how far we’ve come, everything yet to come. I certainly believe it’s living out your passions for a man or a woman. Because how often are we really passionate about others ? How often do we desire people and experiences so completely ? 

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Why is wanting so much is seen as garish ? We celebrate discipline but demonise longing. What’s the point of living a disciplined life if there isn’t an unwavering desire driving you, making the discipline worth it ? Is that too hedonistic a take ? Yes, some desire can be destructive, but they can also be beautiful, and so often the galvaniser needed to achieve unparalleled success, in addition to personal fulfilment. I’m aware not everyone has big desires, some have no desires at all. Your desires don’t have to be big. They can simply be ‘to be’, surf and chill, buy a farm, start a band. Those of us with grandiose dreams sometimes forget that not everyone is the same. Ultimately, our desires are for ourselves. I find it exciting exploring my desires in this new state of being, one that I’m always transcending, but still rooted in an identity that is mine, dreams and goals that are mine and just as important to me as anything else. It’s our responsibility to implement personal checks and balances, sift between the enriching and destructive, get to know them for ourselves and decide how to navigate them. Even so, one of the best things you can do is give into them. 

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With love,

Teawah