Y’all, I am booked, busy and brutally exhausted.

I have two jobs (because, yes, being a PhD student is a job), about three hobbies and seven dreams I am cultivating on the side. In fact, I’m not the only one. Almost every single African diasporan I know is booked and busy – only they can speak to and for their fatigues. Almost every single one of us is making the most, or trying to, of their time away from home.

We don’t fail. When we struggle, we survive and thrive. We persevere. We are making our way towards being the “first” in our fields, industries or passions.

We don’t just perform excellence. We are excellent.

Or at least so the story goes.

Is it any wonder that I am exhausted? Now this makes a fair amount of sense. Living the enriching, productive, fulfilling, and did I mention productive, life that I was sent here to live, takes effort. Being, as the saying goes, your ancestors’ wildest dreams, is hard work. And yet, these dreams, as they have been relayed to me, do not mention rest. Maybe that’s why And when I rest – or perhaps more accurately if I do – it is joyless. Rest is functional, not purposeful. Rest is an indulgence, one I feel I can’t afford.

I hope I’m the only one, but I don’t think I am.

I highlighted my diasporic existence at the beginning of the article, not just because it’s relevant context for my kind of humour, but because being an African living in the UK it played an integral part in shaping my outlook on rest, relaxation and hyper-productivity.

It’s not lost on me that the ways I am being productive, and the ways I have decided to perform “excellence” play into the myth of the “good immigrant.” For the unaware – the “good immigrant” is the idea some migrants and refugees are “good” if they work harder in or assimilate harder within the language, culture and customs of their host country. A “good migrant” never complains, always follows every law, is seen but never heard and is eternally and uncritically grateful for being let through the gates. A “good immigrant” means being a model citizen of two nations; but never too successful (lest you become a 'job thief'), never too struggling (lest you become a 'drain on resources’ and an ‘embarrassment’ to your home country), and certainly never critical of the country that barely tolerates you. And let it be noted, that not every immigrant has to be a “good immigrant.” Only the UV-protected and deeply melanated are blessed to play this role of a, literal, lifetime.

Yes, I know there is no such thing as a “good immigrant.” I know that for some, the very act of migration by certain people – read members of the “cocoa coalition” – will always be bad. So it shouldn’t matter how I act, and I should be free to do with my opportunity as I please. But herein lies the trouble – the opportunity. There is a privilege associated with not being home. And to have been able to leave safely. I’m not sure how much of this privilege is constructed or real. “Constructed” in the sense that the visa application process is so gruelling that just getting an appointment—let alone approval—feels like an unholy miracle you must repent for. Also, “constructed” in how Government are tightening immigration requirements, and placing greater restrictions on what rights immigrants can exercise in their new home. Yet also “real” in the sense that you’re more likely to have a higher quality of life, depending on where and why you go. Moreover, the very real possibility of, at least, higher earnings is often enough to tip the scale because the spoils of your labour are often divided to help the rest of your community. Because this is, yet, another way to be excellent in the diaspora.

So, the question I’ve been asking myself, is how do I let go of being excellent without completely giving up? How do I allow myself to fall, when the consequences for stumbling change from day to day? On the question about remittances; how do we balance our commitments to ourselves and the lives we are trying to build with the promises we made to our families and the lives we left behind?

I don’t know. It would be easy enough for me to advise taking a break or finding your community, but that does nothing to change the fact that we live in a society that has been trained to see our presence as draining. Yes, touching grass helps us manage how draining it can be to be seen all the time. And yes, my weekly dance class allows me to create spaces where I can be. But I will always return to that society.

So, I really don’t know. Talking about it helped though. Giving myself grace about how nonsensical, yet very real, all of this is helping.