What’s it called when you always feel like jumping?

A year in jumping.

Olumo Rock, 2016. But that’s not why we’re here.

Thought is an incredible thing.

Zaynab Quadri said a few weeks before, “keep a journal Fu’ad. It will help with your focus problem.”

A thought starts like a fire, and like fire, a thought has a love for itself, and so it grows, and grows, and next thing you know, you have an inferno. This is what I think is called obsession.

One moment, you’re accepting your fate, knowing you can no longer travel to Yankari for December as you planned, because the office won’t let you disappear as planned. Next moment, you’re telling yourself, “fuck it I’ll take the whole country.”

I Entered 2017 With One Plan.

Travel around the entire country, every single state, find as many stories as possible, and tell it. Tell it to everyone. Tell it to yourself.

“Awesome! What’s the plan?”

Plan One: tell your boss that you might need to disappear for 8 weeks, come back, and still have a job. lol.

Plan Two: fuck it, and worry about a job when you get back.

Plan Three: “Maybe you should speak to your editor about it”.

Plan Three

“Fuck it. We can do this”

That’s Osagie, my Editor-in-Chief. And it’s January. We plan, and plan, and plan, and plan. Because now, it’s no longer just about me, it’s about the entire team at Pulse.

July 2.

I hit the road with Chris. He’s my colleague, and a videographer.

Half the time, I was bullying him.

Our first stop is Ogun State. But we’re moving again, and hitting Ore, Ondo, Idanre, Benin.

I’m in!

That’s what Jesuloba said, when I told him about the road trip (5 minutes after meeting him) at Fati Abubakar’s exhibition sometime in February. In Benin, he joins us, and sticks with the wagon, till the very end.

We don’t stop, we reach Warri, Asaba, Onitsha, Ogbunike, Owerri, Yenegoa, Port Harcourt, Aba, Umuahia, Uyo, Eket.

Calabar, Abakaliki, Afikpo, Enugu, Nsukka, Makurdi, Jalingo, Gembu. In Gembu, my mind is blown a way.

I’m in a jacket because it the middle of the morning, and I’m freezing. Gembu is almost always below 20 degrees.

We head for Yola, Mubi. Here, I see firsthand, what it’s like to live in a country at war with terror.

We head to Maiduguri, then Biu, then get into trouble with the Nigerian Army and the SSS. They take us to Damaturu, and hold us for a few days, but they can’t stop, because next, we reach Gombe, then Yankari.

Susan joins us, and now there’s four of us. And Susan just breathes a new spirit into the road for us, and lights it with a new glow.

Dutse, Kano, Daura, Birnin Kudu, Gusau, Kebbi, Yauri, Kainji, Minna, and Abuja. Here, Susan leaves us, 8 states and two weeks later, not because she can’t finish, but because some important calls need to be answered.

We don’t stop, we keep going. Then we head to Lafia, Akwanga, and Jos, where we all-but freeze, beside our broken down cab, in 13 degrees rain, at midnight.

We head to Kaduna after, then Zaria, then Lokoja, Kabba.

“Where are you jumping to?”

That’s what our bodies said, when we reached Illorin, and a fever came, and we had to take turns to sit under a shower, and throw up, and lie in hospital beds. Two days. Two days and we’re back up, and we head to Ikogosi, and Ilesa, Ile-Ife, Ibadan, Abeokuta.

Every single state.

Lagos.

We reached Lagos by evening. And this photo best describes my mood at the time.

80 days later. 10,000 kilometres covered, according to my map. 700 thousand steps walked according to the Gear S3.

And I swear, it truly is a great feeling setting out to do something, and actually doing it. Especially when you’ve tried other things and failed, because you just couldn’t follow through.

And I realise that I couldn’t have done it without friends who said it was possible even before I finished telling them. To colleagues who spent the extra time making sure we weren’t out in the cold. To strangers we found everywhere, who re-affirmed my faith in humanity.

Thank you, to those who loved me, and helped me, whether I see you again, or will never see you again. I’m forever grateful, and I can’t ever forget.

“Have we started the fire?”

My blood hasn’t settled. I doubt it can. Now, I can’t stop thinking about the road. It’s why when I overheard someone talking about a wedding in Mubi, Adamawa State, 1,500km away. And I was ready to go right away.

I can’t stop thinking about Timbuktu, and Bamako, and Abidjan, and all of West Africa. And everyday, I’m thinking of where I want to be, I’m thinking of the Merci beacoups to be said.

2018 is here.

There’s this story I’ve been telling a lot in the past few weeks. And I found the perfect illustration.

Gracias, Mogwai™

The story starts midair, because jumping is never a matter of if, only when. When you hit the water, everyone watches, and when they wait and your body doesn’t come back up because you’ve drowned, they say “oh, what an idiot.”

But when you come back up, and then see you thump your fists, they say “wow, that’s awesome!”

Sometimes, the logical choice is not always the right one.

2018 is going to be about jumping more. About taking risks — sometimes calculated — where we make this up as we go. Where we don’t know whether it’s a tragedy or a success story till it’s over.

Bend your knees, all the way down, put your arms by your sides.

Now, with all your might, jump.

The goal is to make it look like it’s nothing. That’s the finesse.

P.S:

I had a very interesting conversation with Ayomide Tayo about the whole experience, but I wrote a lot of stories from the road here.