Dear Me. Happy Birthday.
The 8th of November is a public holiday. I, the queen of the day, have decreed it. I want pomp and fair in the streets. I want everyone to shout my name. And I want books, instead of flowers, laid at my doorstep in honour of my existence.
I love birthdays. Can you tell? Birthdays are special. They are the day we celebrate our mothers and the pain they went through giving birth to us. It’s the day we celebrate surviving a whole year on this planet. It’s the day we celebrate living.
Of course, we could celebrate living any other day. I mean, any day I’m above ground is a cause for celebration. But there’s something significant about celebrating life on the first day you drew your first breath on earth.
Birthdays are also the day to celebrate the people that gave you life. In a world that’s become increasingly selfish, looking to the people that have raised you and brought you to where you are now is something we ought to do.
This 8th November, I celebrate the people that have had a hand in bringing me to this place. I am exceedingly grateful to them for seeing value in me. My mothers. My father.
This particular birthday is bittersweet. I celebrate it, yes, but it’s also the second birthday without my father. My father always made these days special. I remember a treasure hunt one year. And another year that saw him get me a birthday card that called me his best friend. I miss him something fierce. I comfort myself with the thought that he’s celebrating me with angels, my sister and my biological mother.
Today is also the lunar eclipse. There’s something special significant in that. I don’t know what it is yet. But hey! I’m here. I’m alive. It’s my birthday. Send books. Or mobile money.
Happy birthday to me.