Introducing: Jerusha Sammy
There’s nothing scarier than expectations.
The ones you place on yourself is on a mild scale, the ones others place on you is like a grim reaper ready to stab your face with a huge garden fork each time you fall short of expectations.
Expectations don’t just measure your achievements, they measure your inadequacies too. One crazy thing about expectations is that each time you fall short, at that time your stack inadequacies, laxity, indifference glares right into your eyes like watching a shark horror flick in a pool and a mischievous person swims underneath with a rumble that makes you feel like you just sunk your feet into a shark’s expectant jaw.
Expectation has anatomy too. It has an emaciated frame like that rickety, old looking 2002 calendar Mama still hangs in the parlor, the one she got from Aunty Peju’s wedding. It looks sick and skinny to its marrows you think you have outrun it like players in Subway Surf who outrun the obesed train keeper whose weight is unable to carry him only for you to fall and he is right behind you. That’s expectations for you.
At the slightest hint of “below expectations” it has a way of appearing right behind you, handing over your flaws to you in an exhumed platter of earthen vessels.
All you have to do is run…, and keep running…
Author: Sammy Jerusha