It’s July 2009, and I am reading an email from my father – a well written letter about him disowning me. He writes, “I no longer consider you my son, and you should not refer to me as your father.” I have not spoken to him since. This comes 12 years after my biological father had slipped into the afterlife 9 days to my 9th birthday. Two weeks after I was disowned, I failed my second academic year. My world officially ended. I didn't die. It was too early. A year later, I failed the second academic year… again. July of that year should have seen me with a first degree in Economics. Nearly my entire year group had thrown their hats off in joy. The testimonies at church were numerous. "God must hate me, or have a twisted sense of humor." I thought. If everyone was laughing, funny didn’t even come close to describing it. I had thrown my life in service, putting needs of other first. Friends shook my hand with gratitude as they ambled on. Two years later, the odds had favored me and pushed me to my final year. It’s July, 2012 and I have become more paranoid, and suicidal. I had failed again by 0.9 in Math- Algebra to be precise. Not that it ever added anything to my life. But I lost it again. During this entire time, I had one thing going well for me; teaching and writing. The conclusion was either July hated me, or I was being puppeteer-ed by some god who was bent on crucifying me one way or the other. My Pastor one fateful Sunday afternoon, looks at me and says,“God knows why, and once there is life, all hope is not lost.” He thought there was encouragement in his words. No. Far from it. His words simmered my anger like a boiling pot. Words could not possibly describe what was coursing through my mind at the time. I had thrown in the towel, disavowed my oath to God, and told Him I was done. That failure hurt me so much, I was ready to call my entire existence into the unknown. I wrote a suicide note, left it on my bed, and at 12 midnight I ascended the stairs to the rooftop patio to jump to my death. I recalled everything; failed relationships, academics, family, and all the other things that were not straight in my life. It hurt. I hurt badly, and it was time to call it. This was the second time I had failed at dying myself. I had hit rock bottom. Flat on my ass. The following morning, I kept reminding God of how he had failed me. Ironically, my housemate who had graduated, just kept playing a french song, "Je suis dans la joie". Really? I felt like he was celebrating my loss.
My experience reminds me everyday of God's love. His endless love for me. Priceless, profound, ultimate.
