Life, it seems to me, is a fully paid vacation package from Where-We-Know-Not to a rather spectacular holiday destination called Planet Earth.
The curious thing is that nobody remembers booking the trip. Or paying for it.
No travel agent ever called to ask whether we preferred Business Class or Economy. No online form invited us to indicate our preferred century, nationality, family size, complexion, height, or whether we wished to begin life in a mansion overlooking the sea or in a village where goats exercise right of way.
Yet, one fine day, here we all are: stamped, processed and deposited at various terminals across the globe.
Some arrive in Lagos. Others in Lisbon. Yet others in London. Some are welcomed by orchestras; others by economic austerity. Some receive complimentary privileges with their package. Others discover the real meaning of privation and optional extras.
Such is the mysterious airline under whose management we all travel.
No two tickets are exactly alike.
Even identical twins, those masterful attempts at celestial photocopying, eventually discover that their boarding passes contain different codes, different permissions, different surprises and different inconveniences.
That, perhaps, is the first lesson of existence: comparison is a dangerous hobby because nobody is holding your ticket except you.
Life resembles a child visiting Disneyland for the first time.
The child does not spend the entire day weeping because another child has a Fast Pass for the roller coaster. Nor does he stand outside the Pirate Adventure Pavilion writing angry essays about inequality in the distribution of amusement opportunities.
He runs.
He marvels.
He points at ridiculous things with astonishing excitement.
Sometimes he approaches an attraction with great anticipation, presents his pass, and is politely rejected by a machine that possesses all the emotional warmth of a tax auditor.
Access denied.
No explanation.
No appeal.
No opportunity to accuse the machine of hating his village people.
The sensible child shrugs, wipes away a tear if necessary, and proceeds to the next wonder.
Adults, unfortunately, often require twenty years, three therapists, four motivational speakers and a podcast subscription before arriving at the same conclusion and disposition.
The truth is that much of life operates exactly this way.
We knock on certain doors.
Some open magnificently.
Others remain shut with the stubborn dignity of a British butler.
At every point, there exists an invisible scanner reading details on a ticket we neither designed, ordered nor fully understand.
The wise traveller learns to keep moving.
This does not mean surrendering ambition or refusing to dream. Far from it.
One should queue patiently for the rides one longs to experience, attempt the impossible attractions, and occasionally insist that common sense is overrated. But wisdom lies in understanding that effort is our department; admission policies belong elsewhere.
Every now and then, the management announces a lottery.
Visitors may exchange their existing tickets. But no one knows for sure what is on any ticket.
Some people embrace the gamble.
Others wisely decide that the ticket already in hand, though imperfect, has at least brought them this far without requiring emergency evacuation.
Both choices possess their own dignity.
There are, however, three thoroughly unproductive activities on this grand excursion.
The first is grumbling endlessly about one’s ticket.
To complain constantly about circumstances one never selected is rather like spending an entire Caribbean holiday writing letters about the colour of the airport carpet.
Or imagine a guest who spends hours at the front desk demanding to see the manager, and arguing over room upgrades while standing in one of the most astonishing destinations imaginable.
What a waste that would be.
The second sin on this vacation trip is envying other travellers.
The gentleman in First Class may appear to have won life’s lottery until one discovers that his seat reclines fully but his peace of mind does not.
Every ticket grants entrance somewhere and denies access elsewhere.
The third, and perhaps most foolish, is looking down on those whose tickets appear less glamorous than our own.
Nothing reveals a misunderstanding of life more completely than arrogance.
After all, none of us purchased our passage.
Pride, under such circumstances, resembles a passenger boasting about the quality of a complimentary meal on a flight he did not pay for.
The appropriate response to a fully funded vacation is not entitlement but astonishment.
What extraordinary luck to exist at all.
To witness sunsets.
To laugh until one’s ribs protest.
To love people who somehow tolerate our eccentricities.
To taste mangoes in season.
To hear music.
To argue passionately about football…
And one day, without prior notice, the holiday concludes.
No ticket contains a departure date.
No traveller receives advance warning sufficient to tidy up every unfinished business.
The announcement simply comes.
Boarding has commenced.
And so perhaps the most reasonable philosophy is this:
Travel lightly.
Explore widely.
Present your ticket wherever opportunity invites.
Enjoy acceptance with gratitude.
Accept rejection cheerfully.
Be kind to fellow tourists.
Do not waste precious hours staring bitterly at somebody else’s ticket.
Laugh often.
Marvel shamelessly.
Collect memories rather than grievances.
And remember, always, that this astonishing adventure called life is a fully paid vacation we neither ordered nor financed ourselves.
The least we can do is enjoy the scenery while it lasts.
**Victor Anazonwu is an author and writes from Lagos. Email: victor.elipses@gmail.com
