Today, I am frustrated.

There's a sad sort of complacency that has crept in these past few days. I'd like to ignore it and say it's just the result of finding a routine, or to blame it on the fact that I'm finally feeling comfortable here in Abuja. But although there is a chair in my living room that has been contoured to fit my bum and my slouchy back, and although I have a weekend routine of laundry and lesson plans, and although getting ready for bed is so familiar I did it in the dark last night (even a loss of power does little faze me these days), there is still this foreign ache in my heart, this feeling that something is amiss.

I feel the ache most when I bristle at my flatmate, when my students bicker, when I check out from the sermon in church, when I grow frustrated with colleagues. I ache when I talk to my best friend on the phone and the delay frustrates me more than the fact that I miss doing life side-by-side with her. I ache when my heart is so full with love for this place and simultaneously emptied by the despair of everyone I left behind.

I think the ache is just me. As in, I think the ache is my Eve nature surfacing again. I have two faces, two Maggies I pull out and put on. Sometimes the switch is so imperceptible I surprise myself. Some days I can ascertain which Maggie will reign based on the number of times I hit the snooze button. That frustrates me - do I honestly lack so much self-control that I can resign myself to being an impatient woman the moment my feet hit the tile floor? It's like self-fulfilling prophecy: I am tired, therefore today's going to be a long, bad day...therefore I'm going to deal with today being a long, bad day by putting on my angry Maggie face in protest.

I read this week that the word essay comes from the French word essai, which translates to an attempt, or a try. The essay itself used to be a collection of thoughts with no apparent conclusion. It was just an attempt at some cogitation and conclusion, and didn't require the latter. It has since morphed into a higher art form, in which the author has an objective and establishes the main points with solid supporting evidence (two words: lit. teacher.), but today, this blog post falls under the category of essai.

Just questions. No answers. Not today.