Growing Up Is Embarrassing—Because You Realise How Young You’ve Been

An esssay by ENOS JR NSAMBA

I wish that I could takemy current self back to before my father passed away, so that I could be older, wiser, and more present around him. I wasted so much time being a child in his presence. 

Is Anxiety Lying or Lied To?

We moved constantly when I was younger. I have lived in 8 different houses, 2 different towns and 2 different provinces. I have also been to 5 different schools. So I always had a chance to fail at being received, and I always took it.

When my family and I moved to Monze, I was six years old, and the only language I could speak was English. I was also fairly tall for my age, and darker than most. Monze is a predominantly Tonga-speaking town. I remember in second grade, when we knocked off, a white man walked past the school gate. So many of the kids from my school went to cheer him on. I remember being one of the kids. We cheered him on for simply being white.

*

My first school in Monze was Monze Basic, a government school founded in 1956. I will never forget how, once I started going there, I became prey for insecure predators. My peers would call me names because I was much darker than other dark people. They would call me names because I could not speak the language, and I suspect this is what made me reluctant to ever learn it. Would learning it make me accepted or make me a copycat? Even to this day, now that I am in Lusaka, I try to speak a much more common Chinyanja, and people still make fun of it. They say it just doesn't sound right, even when I say the easy words that everyone knows. I can greet someone with Muli Bwanji, and even as they respond to say Bwino Muli Bwanji , I can already tell from the expression on their faces that the next question they will ask is whether or not I am from here. As if there is something that a Local would have come out of them when they say Muli Bwanji that just does not come out of me.

*

By the time I got to secondary school, my trust in most people was spent. I still trusted that people had good intentions. But I didn’t trust that people wanted to talk with me. Or even to me. I was not shy, I was just internally miseducated. And in a way, I still am. I hate when people say that I am an introvert. I know I am not an introvert, I'm just always in danger. Before I gained this awareness that I currently have, I used to say to myself that I sucked at first impressions. That it was simply this way. 

I convinced myself that if someone managed to get close to me despite this supposed flaw, then they must have really seen me for who I was. I made my own difficulty into a test of their authenticity.

But I think it gets to a point with making yourself small where you become small even to yourself.

I did not grow up in an environment where one could identify with their mental limitations and be accepted. Well, not entirely at least. Not for everything. 

I was thirteen years old when I went to boarding school. It was a school in Chisamba district, very far from home. From the moment I started there, it was clear to me that if approaching a girl sent you to fight or flight, you were what is known as a “kembo” (A coward, fearful). And in a way, it worked to push you into doing things. Everything I have done despite my anxiety, I have done because of mental pep talks that include the phrase “don’t be a kembo” somewhere in them. You’d think if you simply said “don’t be a kembo” enough, your anxiety would eventually relent, and you’d just get used to doing things as normal. But no! I haven’t gotten used to it. I mean, my conscious mind has. My conscious mind knows it’s nothing dangerous. But with my body, it’s as if I am still fighting a war that has already ended. It’s as if I am an army veteran who came back home and failed to get over what they saw. 

*

I was quite good at schoolwork. Some would even say that I was smart. But in 8th Grade, there was this remark that really got under my skin. People would say, and maybe sometimes as a joke, that I was only smart on paper. I think if I saw myself from the outside at that time, I would say it too. I was so unserious. My school uniform would be dirty by Tuesday, even if most of us did our laundry only on Sundays. I had this non-leather belt that really became two separate belts that were kept together by the faux leather belt skin that was still attached to both separated belts. I would wear it with an almost nonchalant sense of pride. 

Looking back, I think that unseriousness was more than just carelessness—it was a mask. I was unconsciously clumsy and “dumb” socially because I was hiding how anxious I really was. So anxious, and so unaware, for so long. I believed that if I allowed myself to be aware of that anxiety, people would see me as weak. And for a long time, I cared about whether I was perceived as weak or strong. Now, I simply don’t.

I only want to be strong for my hopes and dreams. And for the people that I love. I never want to stop reaching for more. If I were not a yearner, I would have resigned to the fact that I am simply not very well equipped for this human thing. That way, my little can become my much. But if utmost experience is a ten, I can never accept a six. Not even a nine. Perhaps this is my doom. I too, have such noble but suicidal dreams of rescuing the person that I think I ought to be.

Coming of Age is my Pastime

You know what I fear? That I will always be too young. That I will always be behind the person that I need to be at any given time. 

In September 2018, I went to further my studies in Malaysia. And I remember the person I was when I did. I was the son of Enos, and I loved God. I can say with growing confidence today that the love I had for both my earthly and my heavenly father also went a long way in adding to my miseducation and corrupting my intuition. Most of the things they told me I adhered to. Both were right then in ways that neither would be today. Especially my heavenly father. I carried this person, who had two fathers of equal relevance with me to Malaysia. And for the first 2 years, I was the most miserable I had been up until then. All I ever did was attend class, look for a church that I never went to, frequent the gym and take the free bus to IOI City Mall.

I remember vividly one moment when the people I called my friends decided to go out as a group. Everyone was dressing up in the rush of getting ready. I sat there, watching them share their perfumes and try on each other’s best clothes. I was quiet, like furniture. Or a ghost. Too afraid of disobeying my fathers to experience anything. This was in 2019. When they left, I came back to my room, and I sang karaoke from the YouTube channel Sing King Karaoke for 3 hours. I happen to be gifted with a singing voice, so it wasn’t so bad. But it was with a lot of shame that I lived this way.

 I remember during my period of deep fantasy before I went to Malaysia, I would spend time studying Kuala Lumpur and all the cool things I could get into and become. I primed myself so much to be doing big city things. I also remember, when I was in Malaysia, that once the infatuation with humid air and new cuisine had worn off, I realised how stupid it was of me to have travelled 8000 kilometres just for a gym membership, a different diet and faster internet. I was so miserable. And I thought it must have been the country I was in causing this misery. (Because I myself have always been this fun, super social guy, right? Mxxm, so stupid.) It’s true that everywhere you go, you take yourself. 

I had some friends, also from Zambia, and we lived somewhat relatable lives. Even if they had a lot more lively moments around our relatable parts. These friends also happened to be graduating 2 years earlier than I. And so when they did, I was pushed to a level of impossible discomfort. You could say in a way I was forced to find myself. 

Some of the best moments of my life I spent in Malaysia. But it was only after the first two years of misery. I spent the other 2 and a half years I was there playing catch-up to the person that was waiting inside of me to be discovered. It was very fulfilling. I made a few lasting memories. I am now fully caught up to the person I “should have been” in Malaysia but was not. Yet that realisation feels irrelevant now. And if I am to be nothing but honest, I don’t quite know who I need to be right now. 

I say to myself that right now, I am the most dead I will ever be while I am alive. I hardly ever leave the house. And being a freelancer does me no favours—no office, no colleagues, no structure demanding I show up as anyone but this.

I try sometimes to go and work at a cafe, but I dread it. I need community so much that I hate being in public places where almost everyone is a stranger. In my head, I feel as though I should have known everyone by now. In a way, I am living as a failure to myself. If I do leave the house, which is honestly more often than my complaints warrant, I am most certainly overdressed for what I am going out to do. I hate this about me. I tell myself I do not believe this is who I am, but this is who I am. I am not who I have been. I can never be. I am only who I am. And who I am right now is grossly insufficient.

There are Friends I Have that I Don’t Tell “I Love You”

Perhaps the funniest thing is that I don’t feel grossly insufficient because I am inadequate as a human, even if sometimes this can be true. I just feel as though life started with everyone placed on a Hunger Games-style field and given a chance to equip themselves with all of the right tools before setting out into the jungle. Instead of doing so as everyone else did, I focused on protecting myself from the resulting stampede. 

I go out for functions, and I see groups of friends so close and unbearably in love. And I feel envy. 

I feel that I want that for myself. As I have gotten older, it has become much harder for me to stay around people when I cannot say to them that I love them. Or when I cannot feel that I can love them. I need to see the potential for deep connection early, or I can’t stay. And it isn’t anything personal. In fact, it’s only personal because it’s only about me.

I think expression has become of utmost importance to my existence, and as a result, I struggle to be around people I do not feel safe expressing myself with, even if I have known them for years. My need for emotional honesty has become non-negotiable. 

Sometimes I think about friendships that I had, but which I now believe I should not have had. And I try to interrogate myself about why I maintained them and what that even meant. Have I been someone who keeps people around for my convenience? Have I?

I hate to admit that I have been. But I think I have. 

I think in the past, I have been a lover who has lied to keep myself attractive. I think I have been a lover who has complicated love. But I know now that this is only poison. If you’re working towards any type of love, you probably want to arrive at a place of loving honesty and trust. And it starts with not lying.

You must not lie to yourself about what you want. You must not lie to yourself about who you’re fond of and who you’re not. You need to be stripped down and honest. 

It is embarrassing to know that you have been dishonest, isn’t it? I think the only thing that I want a human being to be able to do for me is to entertain me. And I hope that I am able to entertain them an equal amount. I do not want to be strategic. I do not want to be intentional about building connections that will bring me favour. I only want to be intentional about connecting. I do not want to know what you can do for me. I only hope you can tell me an interesting story. Or make me laugh. Cry. Hell, even bored. But make me feel is all I ask. This is how I plan to pay back my shame.

Will My Mother Ever Know The Real Me?

I never thought about getting closer to my mother before my father died. I always just assumed that I was adequately close to her. I did not tell her much about my interests, my hobbies, or my shortcomings. I only ever called my mother to communicate pseudo-feelings or to demand living sustenance. 

I think most things my mother knows about me, she has inferred. These days, she thinks that I really love popcorn because there was a period where I ate popcorn religiously for weeks.

Little did she know it was just a nasty combination of the munchies, being broke, and popcorn availability (no, seriously, my mom buys a lot of popcorn).

It is tragic, I know. But you know what’s even more tragic? For a long time, I never saw anything wrong with this. For a long time, I would describe my relationship with my mother as wonderful. And for what I meant back then, it still is. 

She has done so much for me—from sustenance, to development (well, not emotionally, maybe just the stunting) and even material support. Yes, I am forever grateful to her. 

She still seeks to advise me as she did back then. It is the value I see in the advice that has maybe diminished a tad. Most of my frustrations are about what I wish my mother was to me. I want to have life in a way it has not been given to me. My mother is and will continue to be a wonderful woman. You can always see that she means well, even in her malice. Plus, I am deeply sympathetic to her own life story. 

I think most parents from back in the day have been conditioned to believe they know what’s right for their children. And maybe this is true, but the issue is that I will always be my mother’s child. I reckon my mother still holds her dead mother's judgment of the world as superior to hers. I fear because my mother will always think she knows what’s right for me, she will never be able to know what I think is right for me. Every time I stray away from what she perceives as right for me, I will be perceived as lost and indisciplined—never curious about my own path.

I hated that I was a child when my father was still alive, and I hate that I will always be a child to my mother. 

A New Old Feeling

I am still terrible at speaking with strangers. I can never trust that I am not 10 seconds away from making their ears bleed. But I have been trying to talk with them anyway.

I can tell that I am getting better. Not at feeling like I am about to implode, but at understanding that it is not true. I will probably always feel the discomfort. I hate how serious talking with anyone can feel for me. And I know it’s because I don’t do it enough. 

I am so attentive to who I am in all the little moments that I go out and present myself to other people. As a result, I read into all the little moments other people give to me. I can tell that other people don’t. I can tell that other people are seasoned, and their social skills to me seem like innate talent. 

Most people only care that you are crippled if you cannot walk, or if you are missing a hand. 

When you are crippled by anxiety, a lot will think you are just childish. I am so tired of being perceived as a child.

*

There’s a path set ahead of me that only becomes true when I live it. It leads to my death. There’s only three beings I can factually see. Me in the past, me right now, and me, inevitably dead. 

And I guess it’s my responsibility to fill this uncertain gap of time between the only me that matters (me right now) and my inevitably dead body. I know now that it is not anxiety that I need to be fighting. In fact, I do not need to be fighting anything. My anxiety is just a very loyal guard dog that attacks even my closest of friends.

There is nothing wrong with shame. Or with feeling like your guts will eat themselves up if you speak with somebody that you have never once spoken to before. If you do not get these feelings, what tells you that you’re human?

Shame is a great sign to me.

I read once that it is not shame we feel when we fail to be human as we expect, just a hurt ego. Shame arrives after growth, and not failure. 

So hopefully tomorrow, this will be embarrassing.