Work for me has focused on materials, particularly ferrous ones, and how they perform in a variety of oil and gas environments, on two continents; Africa of my birth and Europe where I have spent the last few years. My journey began in December of 2003 with being hired straight out of University in 2003 as a trainee engineer through progressing via a number of roles in various aspects of the corrosion and materials discipline and eventually leaving in October of 2008, thanks to a mixture of burn out and the opportunity to return to the university for graduate studies. Since graduating in July of 2009, I’ve gotten back into the Corrosion & Materials field first with a service provider and latterly with an oil & gas production company where I am Corrosion & Materials Technical Authority.
Looking back, the early years were some of the best, being hired at one of the biggest oil and gas companies as part of a cohort of four others helped engender a sense of being special with resources available to develop us. 2008, was one of the most pressure filled years, culminating in my leaving to grad school, a few months out and then a return to industry in 2010.
The future is one that is a bit of a toss up at the moment. I feel like to truly reach the heights I wish to reach – in which I am a broad based technical specialist able to contribute across design, operations and decommissioning – I need time in a design house or consultancy. That is likely to take a pay cut for some time to get into that slightly different field. There is also the question of my increasing interest in data science, analytics and machine learning and the real opportunities I see to migrate those critical skill sets into the oil and as domain. Perhaps the sweet spot would be to combine Corrosion Science and Analytics into a service (CorrSci Analytics?) I can sell as a consultant in future?
Maybe it is the shock of the delayed cognition of turning 39 – perilously close to the age of eternal foolishness – or the weariness of dealing on and off with death and grieving that births this feeling hovering over me that I can’t quite place. It is not entirely inscrutable: the little I understand of it suggests part of it is a heightened sense of my own fragility, the deaths – ranging from old classmates of mine to friends of my father’s – underscoring the fleeting nature of life and with it the sense of time speeding by. The other part that rears its head from the haze is the feeling of drifting, one day blurring into the next which is barely distinguishable from the one that follows it with the only discernible purpose being fighting whatever fire glows brightest both at work and in my personal life.
One of the most visible symptoms of this lingering disquiet has been a withdrawal from all but the most inescapable of contacts – work, family and the friends I have had the longest. I’ll be the first to admit I have never been the most outgoing of persons, but even by my standards the past year has been a new low for engagement across the board, from the spiritual to the mundane and then some more. Part of this reluctance to engage has to do, I suspect, with this feeling of drifting; the ones I might otherwise come across being reminders of the past and where I once was. There is also the small matter of the sense of feeling like I am at a crossroads of sorts, looking towards the next decade of my life and wondering if corrosion will continue to be a part of it, if tweaks are required to how I currently practice it, or if a wholesale change to something different is required to enable me reach the heights I feel like I need to. All of this makes taking time out to reflect for the next month a good place to start this rebooting from.
All told, one of the clearest lessons I have learned from the year of being 38 is that drifting is dangerous, particularly when it is a slow gradual descent in which the evolving present seems just familiar enough that no alarm bells ring, until at the end one finds oneself – to quote the lost son – in a far country. Once firmly ensconced there, returning can feel impossible, the distance between there and home feeling like a chasm so great that it cannot be bridged. More than I would like, I fear many times over the past year, I have tottered on the edge of that chasm sometimes beginning to slip and at others just managing to avoid taking the last step that would take me over the edge. It is a dark, dangerous and isolated place, one I am keen to step back from and begin the long trek home. Here’s to rebooting, and beginning again, yet again.
The greatest enemy of hunger for God is not poison but apple pie. It is not the banquet of the wicked that dulls our appetite for heaven, but endless nibbling at the table of the world. It is not the X-rated video, but the prime-time dribble of triviality we drink in every night. For all the ill that Satan can do, when God describes what keeps us from the banquet table of his love, it is a piece of land, a yoke of oxen, and a wife (Luke 4:18–20).
The view that meets my eye on day 1 of 10 in Paphos, Cyprus. Truly looking forward to chilling and bonding with S, and catching my breath after what has been two weeks lived on the very edge of sanity (A Nigerian Wedding will do that to you).
I trace the beginnings of my faith journey to Easter of 1992, the enduring image of the day being standing alongside forty or so other people at the front of the bare, minimally decorated assembly hall of the College of Education Ekiadolor. I was there because I had been dragged there by my family; there being an Easter conference put on by the student Christian movement my parents spent a lot of their spare time supporting. Besides my irritation at being taken along — and thus losing the few days of freedom free from parental supervision — responding to the altar call along with the others whilst sobbing profusely is the only thing I remember from the events of the weekend. That would not be the last time I would respond to an altar call — or pray a similar prayer for that matter — but the sense of relief, joy and confidence about the future which followed that day is why I come back to that place as the definitive start of my spiritual journey, never mind the fact that it lasted for all of three weeks before the reality of life brought me down to earth. That personal connection was the final piece of the jigsaw that created a church bubble for me.
Growing up, church life was pervasive, bleeding into every other space I did life in. For all the distinctiveness of the other spaces — home and school — the burden of my recognisable surname meant that in the small town where I lived, certain assumptions were made about my character and behaviour. Life in the bubble had its own versions of things outside the bubble — its own popular music, TV shows, super star speakers and youth group events. Then there was the sense of certainty about what was right or wrong and what the expectations of behaviour were. That pervasiveness only increased after my father took the plunge and plopped for his collar. The ordination in 1993 strengthened the sense of insulation, focusing the involvement in a number of para church organisations into a single one, a properly pentecostal church. Where prior to that church was the University Chapel, stylistically aligned with the Anglican Communion complete with the use of the book of common prayer, church was now loud hand clapping, dancing, speaking in tongues, laying on of hands and all the other trappings of Pentecostalism.
In my experience, self reinforcing certitude is a notoriously difficult thing to preserve, especially once the barriers that protect it from outside scrutiny are removed. Going away to University did that for me, being the first time I would leave the cover of home for distant lands 80 miles away. Of the various things which chipped away at this bubble, the freedom of distance from home made the most difference, allowing me re-invent my associations with connections outside the bubble. That coupled with the multiplied numbers of people that I met on a daily basis created an overload of influences, ones which were decidedly more worldly wise and cosmopolitan than I had been exposed to previously. Wider questions about biblical hermeneutics — particularly Genesis in the light of the geological record — soon piled on the misery, blowing wide the door to drift and doubt. The only exposure to a non young-earth based theology I had up till then was in the margin notes of my father’s Dake Bible, notes which considered an alternative interpretation of the ‘days’ of Genesis as epochs or ages and hence less discordant with archaeology. Elsewhere a young earth, a historical Adam and Eve and the Fall were put forward as essential building blocks of the worldview I espoused. The seemingly significant disconnect between that and scientific reality left me questioning everything, further loosening what inhibitions remained. Since then five years in the South East of Nigeria — working in a town where a combination of oil money, single men, expats and a pool of attractive, educated single men fuelled a libertarian culture — and nine years in my corner of Scotland, as far removed from my bubble days as could be have done little to ease the sense of drift that I now carry. All of this notwithstanding, I have never fully managed to become untethered, church and faith somehow managing to remain embedded in my routines.
Most days I feel a deep kinship with the younger son in the parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15, his hightailing it to a far country somewhat akin to how my faith journey evolved in the University years, once I was out of my church bubble. Whilst the emotional response that followed Easter of 1992 suggests a real change happened, my continuing struggle with the simple stuff — a regular practice of prayer and bible study, engaging a discipline of fasting and evangelism amongst others — often leaves me in a state of cognitive dissonance. Smarter theologians such as John Piper make a distinction between justification and sanctification; justification being a more or less instantaneous accounting of righteousness with sanctification being a more gradual growth. Implicit in that — in my layman’s view — is that a propensity for cognitive dissonance exists in all faith journeys, driven by the distance between what one knows to be right and what one does, between being justified and growing into a ‘sufficient’ degree of righteousness, as Paul’s example in Romans 7:13–24 suggests. The consensus, as I understand it, is that a measure of discipline, work and effort are required to bridge this gap, God both working in one and through one. That I largely accept, what is less certain is how much of the push to grow and improve is due to a real change as opposed to the remnants of the church bubble I grew up in, much in the same way a Muslim or Jew, by dint of culture abstains from non-Halal or non-kosher meat.
Me, Benin City and an intense desire for fried chicken was how I ended up here; walking along Airport Road looking for a Chicken Republic. Having spotted it from the window of the speeding cab ferrying me from Ring Road to the neither-here-nor-there hotel I planned on sleeping over at on Ihama Road, I grossly underestimated the distance. That only became apparent once my cravings had gotten the better of me and I was back on the road, in the sweltering heat, plodding along whilst wondering what had gotten into my head.
The joys of peppered chicken, fried rice and an uber chilled coke? Well worth the road taken, if I say so myself.
A damp squib of a day is perhaps as good as any to wrap up January, given how off script the weather has been. It used to be that loads of snow and travel disruptions were par for the course for this time of the year; neither happened. Even the threat of thunder snow – cold air from Canada invading our own Northern skies – failed to materialise, a few inches of snow and gale force winds being the worst of the lot.
Work, like the weather, has been out of character too. Far from easing into work following an extended break for year end, it has felt like a schedule from hell; meetings, reviews and more meetings being the bane of my life. As week after week has hurtled past, I find myself hoping for 4.30pm on a Friday, leaving and then bingeing on Elementary over the weekend, before suddenly realising it is Sunday night, with a return to work looming.
At the beginning of the year, I was sure that developing a daily consistent practice of writing would be one of the focus areas for the year. So pumped at the prospect of that was I that I bought a URL, set up a publication on medium, and updated my social media profiles to reflect this. As the days have dragged on, what has become obvious is that more thought and planning was required than I had applied. My cringe-worthy musings on there very quickly became more the fevered thrashings of a wondering wanderer than the coherent, collected thoughts of the thinker I persist on believing I am.
The point of all of this- if there is a point – is tactfully beating a retreat from those grandiose plans, back to this place of certainty and reality to begin yet again. To aid my recovery, I have decided to use WordPress Blogging University’s Finding Everyday Inspiration course as a prompt which brings me to the question for today, Why I write.
When I have considered this question in the past, most recently here, I have honed in on the cathartic reasons for writing – the memories and the clarity of thought that comes from relentless massaging whatever is on my mind. Reading through George Orwell’s thoughts on the subject – recommended reading for this prompt – brought a new one to the fore in my mind; sheer egoism.
I suppose everyone who writes publicly as opposed to in a private journal is motivated to some extent by this; which would explain why we crave comments and feedback. For the one or two who still pass through these parts, indulge my curiosity… Why do you write?