The Diary That Outlasts Me: Why My Diary Is So Dear To Me
Sinach
Published Date:
Apr 2, 2025
Last Updated:
As I sit here, pen in hand, reflecting on a life carved out of ink and experience, I realize that the greatest asset I’ll leave behind for my children isn’t a vault of gold, a sprawling estate, or even the weight of liabilities they might inherit. No, it’s something far more enduring, far more human: my journal. These weathered pages, stained with coffee rings and the occasional tear, hold a treasury of lessons, triumphs, and failures—a living testament to a life wrestled with and won, day by day. It’s not just a record; it’s a roadmap, a legacy richer than any luxury I could bequeath.
I was eight years old when I first clutched a diary, a simple thing with a flimsy lock and a key I’d lose within a week. Even then, I sensed its power. I’d grown up hearing the Bible read aloud—stories of Moses, David, Paul—and it struck me that what we call scripture is, at its core, a collection of divinely inspired diaries and journals. Great men, flawed and faithful, spilling their lives onto parchment so that generations could learn, stumble, and rise again. That realization planted a seed: my words, too, could matter. They could guide someone, someday. So I wrote, and I never stopped.
In these pages, I’ve named names—friends who lifted me, enemies who sharpened me. I’ve laid bare the alliances and betrayals, not out of spite, but with purpose. Just as the children of Israel chronicled their exodus, their wars, their covenants for we, the descendants of Abraham, to glean wisdom from, I’ve documented my own journey for my kids. Here’s Mallam Khaleed—my political godfather, who taught me loyalty over a bottle at the corner bar; there’s Vanessa, whose double-cross showed me trust is a blade that cuts both ways. These aren’t just stories—they’re warnings, signposts, a cast of characters my children can study to navigate their own battles. The past isn’t a ghost to be buried; it’s a teacher, and I’ve made damn sure its lessons won’t fade with me.
There were years, though, when the ink ran dry—or worse, when I lost it altogether. In 2014, I fell hard into the grip of addiction, a substance that turned my mind to fog and my hands to strangers. I’d misplace my diaries weekly, tossing them in some haze of apathy, only to wake up hollow, sobbing like a kid who’d lost his best friend. I’d drag myself to the store, buy another one, and start again. Those tears weren’t just for the leather-bound books I’d abandoned; they were for the memories I was throwing away, the pieces of myself I was letting slip through the cracks. It was the diaries—or the absence of them—that finally broke me open enough to quit. They reminded me who I was, who I could still be.
That’s the thing about memories kept in books: they’re not just nostalgia. They’re a compass. We figure out where we stand today by glancing back at yesterday—every choice, every scar—and we chart tomorrow by what we do right now. My journals aren’t perfect; they’re raw, messy, real. But that’s their strength. They’ll show my kids how I stumbled through love, wrestled with doubt, and clawed my way to redemption. They’ll see that the future isn’t some blind leap—it’s a path you pave with the bricks of the past and the sweat of the present.
So here’s my advice, hard-earned and freely given: get a diary today. Scratch out your days, your dreams, your demons. It doesn’t have to be poetry—just truth. Because one day, someone you love might need it more than you know. For me, it’s my kids. For you, it could be anyone. But trust me on this: those pages will outlast your bank account, your house, your name. They’ll carry your voice when you’re gone, whispering wisdom to a world that’ll still need it.
About the Author
Sinach
A les Avocat, living with the It Begins With Me Mantra and determined to dot all i's and cross all t's for a better Nigeria.
