The Meditations

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

— James Baldwin

My therapist says I should write about the last two years, she says it’ll make me feel better.

I don’t know.

I think I’ve been wanting to talk to you about all these things somehow, share them with you, but you’re so young now–at least in my eyes, and you were so young when it happened. I feel responsible somehow. For this, for all of this.

But I’ll tell you, though. About those two years, and maybe you can make something of it.

Maybe it can help.

I used to get in fights in school, when I was around your age, maybe even younger. Did I ever tell you that? I was always so angry, which I know now, was just hurt.

But I just didn’t know how to say it.

Never knew how to put the words together.

…Hey, what’s up?

…

What?

How many?

My Hands

It’s only right I start here, I think, the single thing I’ve been obsessed with for half my life. The fire that I kept safe, that grew too wild, that nearly burnt me.

I get the question a lot, “how did you start all this?” Whether it’s the writing or the art, I answer it with a story of how things were, of how I was as a child, and how I needed an outlet, a safe place to really feel like myself, you know?
But that’s a half truth, and, as we know, those are really just half lies.

The reason I started all this, past needing a safe haven, was to be accepted. Even just by myself.

I fell in love with the process, the words, the paint, the marble, because that was the only time I could see a true reflection of myself, and see what I was made of.

It all started with that: a need to feel loved. A need to feel accepted. That’s all this has been: a path to find my way back home.

That need to be loved is what drove me to work nights that didn’t physically make sense, to learn things that would have taken me years more. Once I had a taste, I followed it, courted it and one day, when I felt I had accomplished all that there was to accomplish, I forgot all about it.

I didn’t want to see myself again. I didn’t want to acknowledge what I’d become.

Yes, I had made money and fans and awards and whatever it is, but I was, honestly, and truly, so empty.

Maybe it’s why when the problems inevitably came, a small part of me, a very small part, felt grateful. Finally, I could step out of the hedonistic fog I was trapped in. I could finally fight again, with my life now on the line.

I’m many things, careless isn’t one of them–or so I thought. I plan, then plan for the plan, then plan for the plan for the plan for the plan. I try to cover all bases, all eventualities. Especially with money, because I’m so anxious about it. But all of that planning was based on ego, fed by too many wins.

And while I was laughing myself to the bank at how great at planning and spending I was, every single structure I had set up–on shaky foundation–began to crack, and crumble, right before my eyes.

I was over invested in building two different companies at the same time, still traveling, still keeping my lifestyle, while the cost of working and living and keeping everybody paid increased. Pride covered my eyes to all this, and I shrugged. I had deals and commissions coming in, I thought to myself. When they came, I’d be alright, I said.

It was no biggie.

My friend who worked with me at the time, Chinedu, tried to iron into my head what feels like a lifetime ago that you should never plan with money you didn’t have yet.

I, again, too proud to learn, didn’t listen.

The lesson definitely came into play when all those deals and commissions and discussions fell through and now I was left high and dry, at zero, with bills and people to pay.

A whole recession had hit the world that year and I hadn’t seen the signs– no one would be buying art in that kind of economy. I was the person people looked to for answers and advice and there I was.

Lost.

Idiot. I kept saying to myself, how could I have let that happen? I had become too reckless, too self absorbed, to witness that I was making a rookie mistake.

It was death by a thousand cuts, and I’d been bleeding for a while.

…

Hitting zero is an interesting feeling. I kept thinking that the world would end or at least somehow achieve hive mind knowledge that I, Anthony Azekwoh, was not what I just was. I had attached all my worth to what I was making and now that it was gone, I felt like nothing. Of course, I blamed everyone else for what was truly my fault. The pressure, the pain, the sting of losing was just so much. Who could I talk to? Who could I share this with? How the hell did things get this bad?

My girlfriend was there, through all this, but I felt ashamed to even face her. All the love she gave me was a horrible reminder that I just didn’t feel worthy of that love. I was her boyfriend in her eyes, but a failure in mine.

This was my very worst fear turn manifest. My life felt like it had turned upside down. All I could hear were my father’s words in anger years ago, saying it would never last, that I would never last. Here I was, in that same reality.

I had fucked every single thing up in my life. Myself, my team and I was utterly useless.

I was in Lagos when I called her and told her it was over.

Oh my God, are you sure? Where are they? We need…oh my God. We need to call the hospital.

Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.

You’ll be okay.

Let’s go.

My Head

I avoided it for a while, the feelings for the past two years. So much pain, and loss and…ether. It was like I was in limb–, moving, feeling, trying to get a foothold, but nothing stuck. It felt like that for a while.

I think I’d been depressed for a bit, boggered down by all the fights, too scared to even admit it to myself. I couldn’t cry, not properly. There were things to do, meetings to have, salaries to pay, a life to live. There simply wasn’t time for feelings.

For memories.

And the very thought didn’t make sense: I was making a comfortable living, I’d made peace with my father, my mother, my siblings, my friends…

Of course, even as I type this, I realise that it’d been hard to face myself.

And make peace.

Look, I really fucked up a lot of the time. I did and said things I’m not proud of and I saw a version of myself that scared me.

But that’s only half the story, I guess.

I also rose to the occasion when it mattered. Gathered myself back up when it counted. Fought the good fight when I could, even in the times when it maybe would’ve been smarter to just shut the fuck up.

They call this rollercoaster, life. They tell me that this is the deal:
A couple decades, if you’re lucky, of love, and loss, and peace and turmoil. It’s a deal none of us really asked for.

But one we all have to accept.

I think it was very hard to accept the past two years.

That my friends are really dead.

That I really was in the hospital that night, my heart in the bed, and all I could do was try not to cry as it felt like I was about to lose it all.

I haven’t been able to face these realities and now, as I cry, as I write, the memories flood over me.

I missed these.

I really did.

Hey, how’re you doing? They say you’re going to be fine.

Just rest…

My Home

It’s a weird feeling, when the storm is over, the war is done, and there’s no battle left to fight, apart from the one with yourself.

I think that’s where I am, where I’ve been, the past couple months, and years…

Waiting.

Waiting till I gathered the strength to face myself again, after so long.

I got it all wrong the first time around.

I thought that if I were somehow able to prove to the world, to myself, that I could do all these incredible things, that I would be happy somehow, be at peace.

It doesn’t work that way, and that’s why I’m writing this to you, so you can see that I had challenges too, that there were times that I fell. And it matters that you know. That I’m not invincible, and that this was not easy.

But, know that I got back up again. And that matters too, maybe even more.

Because I’m sure as hell not invincible, and this is not easy.

But I’m still here, still writing, still painting, still sculpting, still fighting, the only way I know how.

I’ve struggled to say these words to you, to put the words together, to tell you that I’m so sorry for everything, and I’m sorry I left you the way I did.

As silly as it sounds, it feels like I lost you that night, even though you’re still here. It feels like I lost the part of you that was innocent, untouched by this fucked earth.

But I’m getting it wrong again, aren’t I?

You were always going to grow older, and see things, and feel things, some of them not great.

Well, fair enough. I’ll do my best, then, to prepare you, and tell you things I wish I knew.

There’s a question I get the most in interviews, “What advice would you give younger artists?”
I never know what to say, I always feel like I’m 13, figuring these things out myself.

Some words are coming to me now, though. Some lessons.

The first is simple:
STAY OUT OF YOUR FUCKING WAY
No, really. You are your own worst enemy most times, and you have to really get out of that cycle to get to real growth.

Keep good friends around you, and in work surround yourself with people better than you, who challenge you, who push you. Don’t let your ego stop you from pushing past what you could accomplish.

Work hard, really hard, but don’t forget that Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.

Stole that from Stephen King.

Old advice, but still true.

And above all, just know, in case you ever doubted, that I love you, so so much. And I’m proud of you.

My days have been different lately.

My therapist, man, tells me to write about the past couple years. She says it’ll make me feel better.

And I think she’s right.

Hey, it’s okay, okay? These things…they happen. We’ll get through it together. Day by day, we’ll keep fighting. It’s hard, but you can do it. I know you can.

Promise me, okay?

That we’ll keep fighting.

Okay?

Always.

Credits:
I did a lot of stuff these years, good stuff, great stuff, but absolutely none of it would have been done without the people in my corner that helped me when I needed it, people like my parents, Pearl, Bash, Eche, Kola, Tofunmi, Chinedu, Kiitan, Fego, Tobi, Munachi, Samuel, Tomiwa, Omimi, Philip, Lourdes, Arinze, Niyi, Duks, Duro, Gabby, Kehinde Kachi, Emmanuella, and, of course, O, along with all my friends, collectors, supporters and teams who I worked with that made this possible. Self-made is an adjective that I’ve never felt comfortable using, for who am I without all the people beside me who’ve followed me on this journey step by step.