Yikes.

Sometimes, you have to think about stuff more than once.

Anyway, trust other people’s dream life at your own risk.

Still on dreams…

A couple of people have shared certain dreams they’ve had about me, with me.

Some of those dreams are very profound (can’t wait for these to come to pass). On the other hand, there have been some that are just very…eerie.

True life story.

At the beginning of 2024, someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long time (we’re not close) sent me an almost 13-minute voice note on WhatsApp. In it, they launched into a vivid description of a terrifying dream they had about me. I listened on 1x, and nearly jumped out of my skin. Yeah, it was that crazy. And they were quite the storyteller, too, so you can imagine the dark terrains they took my mind through.

Hold that thought.

By the way…

The few times I’ve had weird dreams about people, I don’t share all the details with them unless it’s necessary. Even with that, I filter. Well, my brain helps, too because I sometimes don’t even remember those dreams 100%. I just pray—unless the Lord gives specific instructions about it such as, “Tell them to be careful with xyz or to pray against such and such.”

But oh well, I guess that person who shared that dream had a different “operating system.” I don’t know.

As I sensed the fear lurking after listening to their voice note, I had two choices: to either allow the fear to cripple me or allow my faith in God’s word to encourage me.

I allowed my mind to consciously remember a specific word that I had received prior. The word became my anchor, and I kept declaring it until the fear began to lose its grip.

However, over time, I’ve found that I seem to recall bad dreams people have had about me, even more than the good ones. Heck, sometimes even over God’s promises.

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One day, I thought to myself, “Why is that?”

Why do I find it easier to remember frightening dream over God’s certain promises concerning me?

I think it’s because fear has a thing for demanding attention. It floods our minds with all the what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. God’s promises, on the other hand, invite us to trust Him. But unless by conscious effort and the renewal of one’s mind, it sometimes might not the loudest voice in your head.

Either way, I believe the promises of God in His word should trump every (bad) dream.

Dreams, whether shared by others or experienced by ourselves, are not the final word. Good or bad, they’re indicators. Think about Joseph in the Bible. His dreams were an indicator to the future ahead of him, but it was God’s faithfulness that brought that future to pass.

Yes, God may be trying to reveal something to you (or someone) through a dream but do you know who else will try to copy the same order to bring fear into your life? The enemy.

While it’s natural to feel unsettled by the things we don’t understand, we’re called to filter everything through the lens of God’s word.

In essence, what could God be saying to you through this piece?

Refuse to allow frightening dreams linger in your mind. Instead, remind yourself of what God has said in His Word. Let His promises be louder than your fears. And for the good dreams, hold onto those with faith and expectation, while ultimately trusting God for the fulfillment.

Said all that to say: Let God’s word have the final say.

Amen?

Blessings. 🤍

P.S - I am hardly a fan of telling anyone to dream of me. Even though I still hope to be someone’s dream girl, someday. 🌚

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

The voice was deep, coy, and too confident for its own good. It pulled Wonuola out of the mindless scroll she’d sunk into on Pinterest while she slowly moved her body to the rhythm of Aṣa’s Mayana playing softly in the background.

She tilted her head, eyebrows lifting slowly. “Excuse me?”

It was the man a few seats across from her. Debonair-type aura, clean-shaven, mocha skin tone sitting smooth and even under the restaurant’s low gold light, like he’d never once had a bad skin day. He wore all white: a fitted shirt with the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the forearm like he’d dressed with just enough effort to look like he hadn’t tried.

She had felt his gaze on her one too many times, ever since she’d sashayed into the restaurant like she owned the floor beneath it. Always been the head-turner, it was barely new territory for her.

“One girl…”

“I heard you the first time.” Her tone was dry, deliberately unimpressed.

He gave a slow, got-it nod. “And?”

“That’s a line from a song. Bold of you to try it out loud in public, honestly.”

“Yikes,” he said, squinting in mock shame. “I guess I should feel mortified right now, but...hey, stranger.”

Stranger.

She spared him another glance. “Is this something you do often?”

“Which part?”

“The part where you walk up to random women at high end restaurants and try to hit on them with corny lines from old songs?”

His laughter came hearty and throaty, full of life in a way that made two nearby tables glance over. And that was when she caught a proper look at his face, her insides knotting, quietly, in acknowledgment of what she found there.

“Thank you very much for that question,” he remarked, gesturing towards the empty seat in front of her. “I could tell you all about that if you let me keep you company.”

She took a slow sip of her wine. “I’m expecting someone.”

“Does someone have an identity?”

“My husband.”

“He’s not going to mind, is he?”

Is this one high on synthetic audacity? she wondered, the thought slipping in before she could stop it.

“Trust me,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “You don’t want to wait to find out.”

The man’s face did a little something she couldn’t immediately decipher.

“How about the part about him keeping a gorgeous woman such as yourself waiting too long?”

Her breath caught. She looked away, a bit too quickly, like the honesty might unravel her. “I wouldn’t concern myself with that if I were you.”

He didn’t flinch, not once. Rather, he leaned in all too charmingly. “What if I desire to be concerned?”

“Then I wouldn’t expect anything less from an obvious, nosy stranger.”

The pun was intended; he had a fairly big nose. In a weird way, it added to his appeal—his strong features almost too impossible to ignore. But she needed to, most especially that day. For reasons quietly tucked away somewhere in her heart.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “Strike two.”

“You’ll be fine,” she muttered.

“Here I was, hoping you’d go with sleek. Or handsome. Or both.”

A ready reply hovered over her tongue but before she could wield her arsenal, another voice beat her to it.

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“Is there a problem here?”

The words immediately sent shock waves down her spine. She didn’t know when she instinctively stood up like she had been caught in the very act of adultery.

“Are you okay, babe?”

Wait, what?

She looked at him. Sharp-suited, towering presence, a man she barely even recognised. Everything about him felt strange and unfamiliar. And rightly so.

More importantly, he had no right to lay such claims on her. Not ever.

He stepped closer, jaw tight, eyes on the man who’d been trying to hit on her earlier, and back to her.

“Tell me…is this guy bothering you?”

Without meaning to, Wonuola’s eyes slid back to the man she was first in conversation with, the one whose lines she’d pretended not to feel, whose presence she pretended had no effect on her, seconds ago. And strangely, absurdly, he was the one who felt familiar.

Before she could speak, and even begin to untangle what needed explaining, he—the one she truly knew—beat her to it.

His composure intact, he found the small of her back as he turned to the man who just arrived.

“Noble of you, truly,” he said, chuckling. “But you’ve got it twisted. This isn’t a damsel-in-distress situation. I’m not a creep.”

Clearly not done, he stretched hand. “Ademola Ariyo, her legally wedded husband.”

The would-be hero looked between the two of them, slowly realizing he’d been a pawn in a game he hadn’t known he was playing.

Which, unintentionally, he had been.

“It’s our anniversary,” Wonuola explained, turning to gaze at Ademola with open adoration, as if the stranger were no longer in the room at all.

“We were sort of role-playing. It’s kind of our thing. We pretend to be strangers, my husband hits on me, I play hard to get for a hot second. Something fun. Something us,” she added.

“Something fun?” the man echoed, equal parts irritated and disbelieving.

“It’s her idea, by the way,” Ademola said, tugging playfully at her petite nose.

“Really? My idea?”

He cocked his head. “Oh, so now you don’t remember?”

She squinted, all mischief. “Nope.”

“Come on, baby. You know it’s you.” He laughed, low and easy. “You’re the spontaneous one. And I like to indulge you in all your delulu antics.”

“That’s such a diplomatic way of saying I’m the fun one in this marriage.” She was facing him fully now, chin tipped up. “But you love it here, don’t you?”

He pulled her by the waist to himself. “I’d be insane not to.”

“Congratulations, husband of the year.”

He bit back a smile. “That’s not the kind of congratulations I want.”

“So what kind of…”

“Ah-ah, wait,” He laughed, glancing past her shoulder. “The guy don comot o.”

Wonuola turned. It was just the two of them left, the stranger gone, as though he’d never been standing there at all.

“We didn’t even get to apologize,” she said.

“He probably just hissed on his way out, and moved on with his life with a resolve never to jump into conclusion that every woman is a damsel in distress.”

“Fair point.” She gave a satisfied sigh. “That was actually fun.”

“We are never doing that again,” Ademola replied.

“But why?” She cooed.

He gave a low grunt. “Obvious reasons.”

She tossed in a eye roll. “Ah, you have the entire evening to convince me otherwise.”

“That,” he said, pulling her chair out for her, “is my specialty, baby.”

“Cheers to year five, Mr. Ariyo.”

“Cheers to seventy five more years, Mrs. Ariyo.”

There was a soft clink, barely audible under the buzz of their surrounding, and then nothing but the two of them in their own world.

THE END.

💌Long time, no (short) fiction, right? And for good reason, too. There’s been more back-end work than front-end. Mama’s cooking haha (I’ll keep you posted on the updates).

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this piece. Kindly let me know.

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

For a while, the people I’d term as “solid” came from certain [predictable] spaces. Good spaces, really. I’m talking certain communities that have grown, trained and inspired many.

And if someone came from such, I notice that a mental list is checked, that such individual must, to a large degree, be one of the solid ones.

[Note - solid here doesn't in any way mean they have it all figured out. I don't believe such individuals exist, save for self-deceit. My definition is more inclined with people who know what they want, who know what they’re doing and it shows].

Oftentimes, they are not that difficult to spot. Because like I said, the ones I know have certain affiliations with people and spaces that I already deeply admire. Such that until proven otherwise, I believe this or that person has a good head on their shoulders because of where they come from.

However, the subtle danger of this, I found, is the fact that I was more inclined to place people in categories by the unhealthy expectations I set in place. I almost forgot that I have to actually look at the person in front of me rather than read the spaces they come from as a stand-in for who they really are.

It is true that people can tell who you are by the company you keep. Show me your friend, and I’ll tell you who you are, right?

However, even Judases can be found among disciples, too. So sometimes, affiliation isn’t always the ultimate litmus test that a person is good. Or in this regard, solid. A person’s character (read: fruit) is a better tell.

There’s someone in my life. Let’s call them Y. (Don’t worry, we are not finding “X”. LOL).

My getting to know Y has been humbling. Thoroughly. It feels like a much-needed disruption to my initial idea that everyone who is solid has to look a certain way. You know, well-packaged, aesthetically-appealing, too vibrant and predictable.

But let me tell you what endears Y to me.

It is the depth of the substance embedded in their person. Oh my goodness. The gentleness of it! The sheer beauty of it. It’s not loud but it’s undeniable. Well, maybe not at the first glance or interaction. In fact, anyone who doesn’t get close enough may tend to underestimate, overlook, or even dismiss Y to a very large extent.

Someone might look at Y and think, “Oh, that person? They’re just…okay. I guess.”

I know I would have thought so. In fact, at first, I did think so. And it’s not because they’re sinking in oblivion or wallowing in mediocrity. It’s just that they do not present as one of those I earlier described…those I’d have easily considered a “force to reckon with.”

But interaction after another, I slowly started to realise so many things I would have missed if not for the kindness of God that willed for our paths to cross for such a time as this. My favourite of those realisations is the fact that truly, God deposits character, wisdom, and substance in places I (we) sometimes wouldn’t think to look.

This human, Y, hardly speaks in those all-too familiar, cliché christianese. I hold nothing against those, as long as it does not from a performative standpoint. But I’ve come to know that truly, Y knows the Lord. I see it in how they choose to honour Him daily, even when it’s not always the most “convenient” thing to do. I see it in the way they treat others. And also in the way they are ever ready to serve and contribute to purpose-driven endeavours.

Everything I’d term as solid, I have seen in Y’s fruit [character]. Well, except for the fact that they didn't have to come from those spaces I would have attributed to someone with their kind of character.

Now that I think about it, maybe if Y did come from such spaces, my fondness for them might have been ephemeral. Surface level.

But now, as I get to know Y for who they truly are void of my projections, I appreciate the beauty in their person so much; the work God has done in them and the one they have done in themselves.

Safe to say they've easily become one of my favourite people in the world. And I’m grateful I didn’t miss out on experiencing such profound depth in a person, just because they came in an unconventional form.

By the way, if anyone reading this is trying to discern an individual, stripping them bare of some instant appeal, or a lack thereof, I’d advice this:

Pay attention to the person. (By this I mean their fruit).

Jesus says, “By the fruit you shall know them.” Not by their gifts, swag, nor signature appeal. Although you can sight a person by all of the aforementioned, but one can only and truly know a person by their fruit.

Interestingly, the usage of “fruit” in Matthew 7:16 and Galatians 5:22 is from the same word. Karpos. I found that in both contexts, it is used metaphorically to refer to the visible results, actions, or character that naturally grow out of what is inside a person’s heart.

You get? Hopefully you do.

In the meantime, I’ll pause here for now.

A girl just finished writing exams, and in the midst of reveling in the joy that she’s now a pharmacy school finalist, she thought to slip in a necessary essay in the midst of her self-inflicted hiatus.

But I’m back now.

Let me know how you’ve been fairing. Xx.

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

It is basically when two co-stars, having served all the feels and butterflies, build such a strong fanbase, with a tandem name to match. E.g - James and Nadine (Jadine); Kim and Xian (KimXi), Daniel and Kath (Kathniel), and so forth.

Some of these people eventually got into an actual relationship. And when it didn't stand the test of time, it always made me wonder if some of those dynamics were born out of pressure more than mutual affection and a desire for commitment.

I remember when two of my favourite actors broke up. I took it personally. Wept, even. I mean, dude had once written a song about finding forever in her. We, the shippers, believed it. So when it fell apart, the confusion was everywhere. But, I guess that’s life. Circumstances. Whatever. Maybe not necessarily because anything got jinxed.

The thing about watching love unfold from the outside is that you only ever see what you’ve been shown. Or what they want you to see. You fall in love with the idea of them, and then feel betrayed when real life turns out to be more complicated than how things appear.

I think about that a lot when I see how we respond to love stories or meet-cutes unfolding online.

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Sometime in January, I came across a post on here, someone writing about a date with a person she’d met on Substack. Although I didn’t leave a comment, I was genuinely rooting for them because of how she described the experience. Too cute. It made me happy in that quiet, vicarious way. I even sent the article to my friend and we had a whole banter about it. “Ehn, people are finding love on this same substack?!” LOL!

Until recently, when another article randomly surfaced on my feed. A follow-up. Turns out I’d missed a few updates because I wasn’t subscribed to the lady’s substack. And things had not gone the way some of us had hoped and gushed about. Sadly.

For some reason, I went back to the initial post from January and read through the comments. And that was when something profound hit me. While the lady shared about one date—just one!—in the comments, people had begun talking wedding bells, owanbe & aso-ebi.

I know some of those comments were meant in good fun, that’s understandable. My love radar too is keen. So, I’m not talking from a kill-joy perspective.

I'll have you know I reckon as a member of the hopeful romantics association. Unapologetically. If you’ve read my works—essays, fictions, then this is no news. I love love. I know how to gush, and rile with excitement for people I barely even know just because they have a cute thing going on.

But…I’ve also been learning to calm down lol.

When people do the soft-launch or hard-launch (as the case may be), it’s okay to be genuinely excited for them. Hello, you’re normal. It’s okay to drop the quirky, heartwarming comments.

What I don’t think is okay is the subtle pressure that masquerades as “rooting” for them, especially when you know very little. And we see a lot of this. Mention one date, and someone’s already planning your wedding with a human you barely even know yourself. Write about your new relationship, and your DMs fill up with people asking for relationship advice, as if two people figuring things out together are suddenly qualified to hand out a handbook. (I read about exactly this recently, and the person being asked had to gently admit she didn’t have much to share. Because how could she? They were still figuring it out themselves.)

I think it’s because of these subtle pressures that some keep their relationship private. The pressure about timelines, projected-perfection and whatever else. And to be fair, it’s not entirely anyone’s fault. Anyone who shares something on social media should expect some attention. That’s the nature of sharing.

But when people do share, let’s resist being too in their faces about it. Yes, some of them are also too in our faces: stepping on our necks, and everything—but let’s not be like them 😂. No aura for aura. Let’s allow them figure out the next chapter without feeling like they need to conform to a script the shippers (read: audience) have already written.

After all, every good love story deserves the chance to unfold on its own terms. Even when we’re watching a romcom and can already swear two people will end up together, there are always what I like to call the “inevitable in-betweens.” The seasons they have to go through, and grow through, together. And you, the one following the story, have to let it write itself.

The same should go for the love we see blooming around us. We’re witnesses to these stories, not co-authors, whether we’re close to them or watching from afar.

Thank you for reading!

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

Everything was set. Then, they went to do a thanksgiving in their church, in advance, for the trip. Sadly, the plan fell through eventually. As far as I know, they haven’t yet set foot in the country they were planning to go to. Till date.

Sad, right?

Now, I want you to sit with the irony of that for a second. They gave thanks in church. To God. For a trip that was already in progress. But somehow, in the retelling, the summary became: She jinxed it.

Everyone reading this, including me, the one writing it, has had their fair share of “shoot, I jinxed it.” Whatever your “it” was, you know exactly the moment I'm talking about. The job. The travel opportunity. The new relationship. The announcement. Yada yada yada.

Do plans get altered? Yes. Do unexpected things happen? Absolutely. Does bad-belle1 exist? Verily, verily, I say unto you, it does—especially if you’re from this part of the world.

However, at what point did jinxing become a whole theology? A lot of us (believers included) have blurred the lines between caution and superstition. We have started operating like good things can be spoken out of existence, and the wrong person knowing, or the wrong amount of excitement too soon, is enough to unravel what God already set in motion.

This is where we must be careful.

I’ve convinced myself more than once that the only reason something didn’t go as planned was because I jinxed it. And recently, I had to sit down and properly examine that thought process.

Here’s what I’m realising.

When something falls through after we’ve celebrated/announced it too early, the mind goes hunting. It needs a reason. And the whole jinxing theology, or jinx-ology (if you will, lol) comes very in handy.

It’s almost merciful in a strange way, because it gives you something to hold. If you caused it this time, then you can prevent it next time. Be more careful. Tell fewer people or no one at all. Don’t throw a party until the deal is sealed.

But sometimes what we’re actually building, slowly, is a faith that lives in fear. A life where hope feels like a risk. Where good news has to be smuggled quietly from one day to the next, where excitement is a liability, and a potential threat.

Now, I want to be careful, because this is not an argument for reckless oversharing. Eww, that one.

Discretion is real.

There are things that aren’t ready to meet the world yet. There are ears who genuinely don’t have the capacity to hold what you’re carrying yet, and knowing that isn’t paranoia. I believe it’s wisdom. Not every vision needs an audience while it’s still forming. Some things are sacred before they're shareable, and protecting that is very legitimate.

One quote I heard from DDK that I haven’t gotten out of my mind is:

Secrecy means you have something to hide; privacy means you have something to protect.

And it makes so much sense! The former is often rooted in fear. The latter is rooted in wisdom. When something beautiful is happening in your life, and you feel the need to take your time, ask yourself…

Are you being quiet because this thing is sacred and you're stewarding it? Or are you being quiet because you're scared, and you've decided the only way to keep it safe is to keep it hidden?

Selah.

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On the other hand, do you also know that people have known about stuff and it still worked out in the end?

The jinx framework only ever appears after something falls through. Nobody says “I jinxed it” when it works out. The superstition is applied backwards, as an explanation our minds need badly.

But let’s face it. Sometimes things don't just work out. And it’s not because of those who heard or didn't hear about it. It’s also not always because you were hopeful too soon.

What if it’s just not for you on the long run?

We’ve heard testimonies of how certain opportunities didn't work out but something bigger came from such disappointments/delay in the end. Which is why, for the believer, the reminder that God is sovereign cannot be overstated. Human words and bad energy do not have more authority over our outcomes than God does.

What I’d advice?

Be led by the Spirit. Be wise. Know your rooms. Identify your people. Not everything needs to be shared, and not everyone deserves (early) access to what you’re carrying/building.

Of course, there are certain things that can’t stay hidden/private forever but at least when you share, it should be because you are ready.

So how do you know you’re ready?

I’d say you’re ready when the sharing is no longer load-bearing. When you’re not sharing it to make it feel more real, or because keeping it in has become its own kind of anxiety. You’re ready when the news can stand on its own, with or without the reaction you’re hoping for.

Never share something out of pressure, or because everyone is doing the hard launch.

Also, when you eventually do share, don’t let any negative voice convince you that God’s blessing is “fragile” like porcelain. Just like a song says, Iṣé t’Olúwa ṣe, kò lè bàjẹ́2.

The giver of the blessing is also the preserver of the same. And God is both, and more. Never forget that.

Again, apply discretion in your endeavours. And above all, live your life from a standpoint of victory, not victimhood.

God is for you. 🤍

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

(Yikes, I said I was going to reduce my usage of that phrase in my essays but oh, well…muscle memory).

For some reason, the relative quietness of May 16th bothered me a little. So, I’m here to talk about it, and some more.

Not to compare or anything, but I know what International Day of the Girl Child looks like. Everything from the advocacy, to the hashtags, down to lots of aesthetically pleasing stuff and the energy in general. All of which is deserved, let’s be honest. Advocacy for our girls is vital and hard-won.

But I kept thinking: where is the equivalent for the boys?

Before I could dig further, a realisation hit me. Most of the men didn't even celebrate themselves. And I think this is a good place to begin this conversation.

Unlike women, who have spent decades masterfully building a culture of collective lifting, men don’t really know how to celebrate each other (or themselves). When it is a woman’s day, or a woman’s milestone, we gather to validate each other’s existence fiercely. We have created a beautiful, global sisterhood that insists on being seen.

Men, on the other hand, seem not to have that same infrastructure of collective vulnerability.

Someone just raised a brow. Okay, let’s test the hypothesis.

If you’re a man reading this, I have a small exercise for you. Kindly put all five fingers up.

Put a finger down if, the last time you achieved something massive, you actually paused to celebrate it before immediately looking for the next mountain to climb.

Put a finger down if you’ve been going through a rough patch emotionally, but you haven’t told your closest friends because you don’t want to be a “burden.”

Put a finger down if you can count the number of times another man has looked you in the eye and given you a genuine compliment that had absolutely nothing to do with your job, your money, or your status.

Put a finger down if you saw a post about International Day of the Boy Child, felt a small tug of recognition, but quickly scrolled past because it felt “awkward” to revel in it.

If you put even one finger down, you know exactly what I am talking about.

It’s almost like men have been conditioned to believe that unless they are winning a war or building an empire, their internal world doesn’t require maintenance. Like they are expected to absorb the shockwaves of life, swallow the noise, and keep moving.

In our society, the average man has been so thoroughly trained in self-erasure that even a day designed for him passes without much acknowledgment.

When you condition a human being to believe that their worth is tied strictly to their utility, self-celebration feels like some foreign idea. But celebrating oneself requires a belief in your own intrinsic value. For most men, pausing to say, “I matter, just as I am,” feels like a waste of time, or worse, a sign of weakness.

They have been trained to keep their emotions at bay.

Keep it locked, keep your head down, and keep working.

And yet, the beautiful, frustrating paradox is that men do know how to celebrate. If you doubt that, just look at the absolute frenzy on the timelines after Arsenal won the cup recently. Their fans have flooded social media with unbridled, infectious joy.

The problem isn't that men lack the capacity for joy. It’s that they don’t know how to celebrate themselves.

It’s like they need an external triumph to grant them the permission to be loud, to feel, and to take up space. They can celebrate a victory they watched on a screen, but they cannot celebrate the victory of simply surviving another day as a man. Without a scoreboard or a trophy attached to it, a day dedicated purely to their existence feels…unearned.

Which brings us back to May 16th.

If you paid close attention to the few posts circulating on International Day of the Boy Child, a striking pattern emerged: most of those posts were made by women, for men.

It was the mothers, the sisters, the girlfriends, and the wives that did the most—at least, from my observation. Some men did receive it in good faith, and some others probably reckoned it a complete waste of time.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the fact that women are the ones showing up for this conversation, noticing the quiet, feeling bothered by it, writing about it, says something about where the work begins.

I have come to lend my voice.

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To tie my thoughts in a “blue” bow…

As I sat with these thoughts that evening, I wrote something down on Notes:

It really is a ministry.

It requires a specific kind of devotion to look at a little boy, knowing the world will immediately try to harden him, and demand his utility, and decide to protect his softness instead.

I think about this a lot because, down the line, I hope to raise children.

To stay true to the context of this post, I’ll zoom in on the aspect of raising a son.

When I think about the kind of mother I want to be to the future boy(s), I know the assignment is peculiar. Jesus be a shield, for real…because have you seen a typical house where a boy is being raised?😂 (And this is me freaks out at the slightest inconvenience).

That is why, I have no intentions of doing it alone, of course, but alongside a good man, who is both Spirit-empowered and self-aware. A husband and father who models what it looks like to be both strong and soft, both present and intentional.

Together, we will raise a boy who doesn't just need to be told what being a man is. He would see it modelled. Every day, in the home he grows up in, in the way his father speaks to me, and in the way his father speaks to him.

A home where he knows the power of words, because he grew up hearing them used well. A home where emotional intelligence is taught, not assumed. A home where kindness is demonstrated, and vulnerability is not a cause for embarrassment. Where love is palpable enough that he never has to wonder if it’s there.

I hope we raise a boy who, before anything else, is rooted in his identity as God’s image bearer. So that when the world comes with its definitions of what a man should be, our son already has an enduring one.

It would be a privilege to be in that number, you know? Two people, together, raising a boy (a man) who isn’t out of touch with both his masculinity and his emotions.

From our lips to God’s ears.

Grace to the called. 💙

Related Essays:

💌. The Men who feel

💌. Where are the men?

P.S - I was originally going to title this piece, “I like boys” but it felt…I don’t know, weird?😂Thankfully, one of my favourite rom-coms of all time came through for me with the idea behind the title & subtitle choice. (*winks).

Let me know how this piece stirred you. 🤍

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

9 times out of 10, you show up before I ask. You remember the things I mention in passing, in a conversation where I didn't know I was dropping hints that I needed/wanted something.

You just “get” it; you just “get” me without me having to perambulate around you long enough to look pathetic.

Certainly, this has been my experience quite a number of times. The people I'm surrounded with? Oh, they get me. At least, most of the time. I’m grateful for the fact that I’m loved at home; I have incredible friendships, and I’m not too bad myself in reciprocating (or even initiating) the same.

But, I hardly know how to ask people for things - sometimes I'd rather chew jeans lol. I'm the type of person that anyone could be handed an open check, “what do you want?” and I'd say, “Um, I don’t know”😂 (my friends fight me on this one).

Fun fact: I probably know. Might even have a thing or two in mind. But what I often want is for the person who’s offering to “read” me and without fail, do something thoughtful within their capacity from the archives of what they know I’d like.

What I'm only now starting to see is how low-key unfair that is, to them, and sometimes to me.

But in my defence, I’ve always told myself it’s consideration—I don’t want to burden anyone with the specifics of what I want.

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What I'm learning differently about intentionality?

What if an intentional person isn’t just someone who operates on the “they just get it” wavelength? But rather, upon being told (and/or reminded) implement your likes and dislikes consistently, going forward?

I’ve realised that the people who love me well aren't just the ones who figured me out on their own. The best of them are the ones who, when I finally communicated my inclinations, actually did something with it. They didn't get defensive or deflect; they simply made adjustments because I mattered that much to them.

We throw around the phrase “bare minimum” a lot. But I think even that is subjective. Context changes everything. Real intentionality isn't about always “getting” it. I believe it’s about staying curious enough to keep learning the person in front of you.

And if you're on the receiving end of someone's care, don't be too quick to dismiss people for things they failed to do, especially things you never communicated. No one is a mind reader. While they might be genuinely keen on learning you, help them. Give them something to work with—what you like and don't like. Then watch what they do with it. That will tell you everything about whether they're for keeps.

Recently, a series of consistent kind gestures from a good friend completely undid me. I told them, “Thank you for being intentional” - to which they replied, “Thank you for making it easy for me to be intentional.”

I've been turning that over ever since. So, I asked what they meant by that, and piecing their response together made me realise something profound. When openness to communicate meets readiness to implement, everyone is happy (did you catch that?😂)

Intentionality, just like communication, is a two-way street. It could get so much better when things aren’t left to chance, and the parties involved simply communicate their expectations in clear terms. Being intentional is nuanced, never forget that.

Gentle reminders can also be helpful. You know “it is in God we live, move and have our being,” (Acts 17:28) not in another human being. You may forget to mention something; they may forget you mentioned something, hence, let’s be gracious to one another.

May the Lord help his Church. 🤍

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

But you know what? It is what it is.

I'm not sure what I'd expected this 25 to look like, except that my 18-year-old self had very confidently decided I'd have completed two degrees by now, be working at a dream job, and be preparing to get married. Cute, right?

However, that's not what it's like today.

As one with a now fully developed frontal lobe and everything, instead of pretending I have it together, I simply made a list of 25 things that I’m still figuring out at this “big” age. Kindly indulge me:

1. The fact that I'm surrounded with so much love, but still slip into doubt on some days.

2. That money is a tool and I intend to be very good at using it (not being used by it).

3. My fluctuating weight. It's exhausting.

4. Recently, I realised I no longer care much for what I thought was my “spec.”

5. How to love people who don't like semo? (Unfortunately, I do).

6. How to finish a creative project without starting three new ones mid-way.

7. Learning the healthy distinction between what I want to do on the long run and what I can do right now.

8. Why my love language can sometimes be “individual specific.”

9. How to make peace with the fact that some people will probably keep calling me “Bola” even after being told not to. Repeatedly.

10. What being a “soft girl” really means to me.

11. How to effectively follow-up a soul I won or almost won during evangelism.

12. My storytelling prowess. Still growing into it.

13. Whether I'm drawn to certain people or just to how they make me feel about myself.

14. Wait, how can I convince someone to add “Sunday naps” to the constitution?

15. The reason I spiral and then go ahead to do/say something I don't mean.

16. How to build something real without needing everyone to see it yet.

17. How to be ambitious for my faith, not just my career.

18. If obedience is easier when you understand or when you don't.

19. To trust the process without needing the process to explain itself.

20. It's my silver jubilee year. Do I have to pretend to like silver? (I'm a gold girlie. This is non-negotiable.)

21. That I can be both a work in progress and enough, right now, today.

22. If I write because I have something to say or because I don't know how else to feel things.

23. How to receive without immediately calculating what I owe back.

24. Twenty-five is not late. For anything.

25. How to go: “Blessed be the name of the Lord” despite circumstances.

Many happy returns to me. 🥂

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, please go and do that first. I’ll wait. LOL!

So, the men already spoke. They were honest, self-aware, and some of their concluding thoughts were. . .interesting. Thought-provoking, even. But, based on popular demand, I decided to “summon” the ladies.

To be fair, I turned the same questions I’d asked the men around and asked the women to answer just as plainly. And just like part 1, I also wanted a range, so you'll find responses from the singles, the dating and the married.

Note: For the women who are dating or married, their answers are in retrospect, reflecting on their experiences before their current relationship.

Interesting thoughts, this sequel. Enjoy:)

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Q1. Be honest: how obvious do you actually get when you’re interested in someone, and do you think it's enough?

F.A.A (single): Heh! I try not to get obvious at all. At least, I think I'm not obvious until in retrospect, maybe a guy I like (who reciprocates) and I have gotten the feelings thing out of the way and he starts to tell me all the several ways I was obvious. But it's not something I consciously do because I try to suppress as much as I can.

L.A (dating): I’m a very very expressive person so it’s usually very difficult to hide how I feel. I like to say I wear my emotions on my sleeve. So if I’m interested in someone, it usually shows in the way we talk, the extra attention I give, and the little, intentional things I do to make them feel seen and valued.

J.K (single): I get obvious, you’d see me in spaces that he’s at, I’ll chip in a “nice shirt” comment, say hi or bye. I wouldn't be extremely obvious, but obvious enough that at least he'd see me around. I think it’s enough, I have a huge self-respect, I don't want to be seen as doing too much or being pushy and I like staying in my lane.

D.C (dating): Honestly, it depends. If I really am interested, I make it obvious I am. And yes, I think it's enough.

TKJ (married): When I'm interested, I reach out to the person more. I'm generally a curious cat, but my curiosity would be super high. When I ask question 1, it would have like 1a, 1b, 1c. You get? Lol.

But I would be interested in something important to them at that stage of their life. There was a guy I really liked, and we were just friends, but he was job-hunting, and I was too. But I made it my life's mission to help with his CV and send him a job role.

Chocolate diamond (dating): I once liked this guy. Let's call him Dee. I was always texting him and checking to see if he was breathing 🙄. He knew I liked him, I strongly feel that he did.

A.R (single): I keep the tone of our conversation light, friendly, and engaging for a period of time, and as I do this, I gauge the response or vibe of the guy. But I’m also very objective, as I don't linger when it is clear that he may not be feeling me as I am, him. And that's always my cue to put an end to whatever it is (not).

Q2: Have you ever liked someone, dropped hints, and later found out he completely missed it, or worse, never noticed at all? What happened?

F.A.A: Nope.

L.A: I usually say I’ve been quite lucky when it comes to my love life. I’ve never liked someone who didn’t feel the same way. For me, all I had to do was stay in constant communication with him, send him my whole gallery, and laugh at all his jokes, even the dry ones. 😂

J.K: I did, dropped hints he was sharp enough to notice, since he felt the same way.

For another, he didn't get the cues although it was online and we had met once. I liked all his posts, I'd always comment, and I guess I was grouped as a fan.

D.C: Omooooo. Where do I start from? I liked a friend of mine for a long time and thought he did too with how our dynamic was. Long story short, when I outrightly confessed my feelings to him, he said he never saw us that way. Welp! Sisters, take that confession to the grave.

TKJ: Ah yes! There were four guys I really liked during my single period. In no particular order.

Guy 1: He never noticed. I stumbled on him online and saw that we liked the same things at that time. I stalked him but had no way of connecting with him without being weird about it. Work brought us together, which I felt was divine. Lol.

I did drop hints, as I said earlier, I carried his work on my head. When we finally met, he told me he liked the way I talked and that I gave sound counsel. But the counsel he eventually asked me about was for a girl he was interested in. Ouch! So he missed it completely. And I moved on.

Guy 2: I was attracted to him and sent him a message that I'd like to be friends with him when we eventually connected. He found it interesting, and we started our friendship. We talked often, took walks together, and he would invite me to personal stuff, but he kept asking me about my 'bobo', which always threw me off balance. (In my head, I was like: Guy, I'm waiting for you, you're asking about 'bobo').

I got frustrated because I couldn't tell if he had never seen me that way or if he was just playing with me. I blocked him, and he noticed and was confused if he had done anything wrong to me. I had no explanation, of course, but I think that helped us create some distance. I don't know if he missed it or didn't notice.

Guy 3: We talked a lot on the phone, and it would seem like he was hinting at us being together. Then he asked me out on a friendly date. I thought he was going to ask me out, but he didn't. Then he dropped this line, “No romance without finance,” while we were chatting one day, and I got it. He noticed, but he wasn't ready. When he eventually came around to ask, I was already with someone else.

Guy 4: This one is my very good friend, and in one bold moment, I told him how I felt about him, and his response was, “I'm going to sleep. When I wake up, I'll respond,” I guess he never woke up from that sleep.” Lol. (Not literally, he’s alive and well) But it woke me up. We just moved on and continued our friendship.

Chocolate diamond: Yeahhh, cos he sister-zoned me. And that hurt like hell!

A.R: I definitely have, and it’s either they didn’t get the memo, or they just weren’t interested.

Q3: Looking back, were your hints actually as clear as you thought they were, or were you lowkey expecting him to read your mind?

F.A.A: I don't drop hints, please. I love my dignity.

L.A: Like I said, I wear my emotions on my sleeve, so yes! he was very sure I liked him. However, he made the first move. I didn’t have to do anything like be overly expressive about how I felt about him.

J.K: I think they were clear, I think they were enough.

Although on some occasions I’ve doubted if they were clear because I’d always keep a straight face and not act too cute, because I'm also trying to ensure that other people don't see that I like him. It's a weird dynamic, I want to be seen but I don't want to be seen as doing too much, so much that other people can notice.

And yes I was low-key expecting him to read my mind.

D.C: Well, as I said, I told him outrightly after dropping multiple hints that he was too dumb to see.

TKJ: I have done every type of hinting, from subtle to medium to full on, admitting it. I expected them to get it, really, but in retrospect, are clues not meant for someone who is on a hunt or searching for something? I don't think any level of hint would work for a man who is not searching for a woman like you.

Chocolate diamond: I don't think they were clear enough. Dee probably felt I was very caring😭😂. But, then...I guess he really was blind.

A.R: I think if these guys were just as interested in me, the hints were tangible enough that they could have worked with it. Because if I engaged your mind to a reasonable extent and employ little pockets of time to tease you, it means I like you.

Q4: If you've ever held back from making your interest known, what was usually the reason: fear of rejection, not wanting to seem too forward, uncertainty, or something else entirely?

F.A.A: Not wanting to seem too forward. Plus I think that men should make the first approach. Although, to be fair, I've never wanted to show interest because I wasn't ready to be in a relationship.

L.A: Well, nobody likes rejection. And in a society where it’s the norm for men to do the chasing, making your interest known as a woman can sometimes feel underwhelming.

In my case, he made his intentions known to me. All I had to do was pray about him and engage him in conversations to understand his thought process. I’m glad I did, it remains one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

J.K: For me it's a mix of everything. It's fear of rejection, pride, not wanting to do too much and what if I stress so much and he's not even the one? What if we get closer and I figure we can't even work out? There's no harm in trying, maybe this is me overthinking but these are reasons I’ve held back.

D.C: Na collabo.

TKJ: I held back because I didn't want to ruin the motive of their relationship with me. I value my relationships and my feelings shouldn't ruin the other possibilities of that friendship.

Chocolate diamond: Na collabo!

A.R: Holding back from making my interest known first is never easy, but most times it’s the wise thing to do, especially when the man doesn’t catch any of the signals I’ve dropped prior.

Bonus: Kindly share your concluding thoughts.

F.A.A: I honestly don't know where I stand on whether a woman should show hints or not. Even though I think that, as women, when we like someone, it just naturally shows that we like them, and even if the guy may not see it, others around us do.

But I believe that when you know that you like someone, try as much as possible to self-regulate because, girl, dignity above all. Lastly, don't invest emotions where no one is investing back so you don't experience heartbreak without a relationship.

L.A: Don’t cast your net into waters you’re not interested in fishing in. Learn to set boundaries early and make your intentions clear especially if you’re not interested in pursuing anything romantic. I’m glad I didn’t have to keep guessing his intentions toward me.

J.K: “Once bitten, forever shy”- a quote from one of my friends.

Although I haven't experienced upfront or face-to-face rejection from a man, I know what it feels like not to feel wanted. It's one reason I wouldn't profess my feelings or be seen doing too much. It's why I tread very carefully.

I feel we human beings are extremely complex; one man might be okay with you telling him how you feel, while another may not be. A guy might be quick to understand your cues, another may not even notice you until you stop trying.

I don't have any advice because I'm still trying to figure it out but I’d say observe the man, don't stop trying to show your interest, don't do too much, respect yourself too and maybe he would come along, if not get yourself busy with some work.

D.C: I don't think it's just Christian men that are blind. Men in general can be pretty daft in the love department. I don't know how to help them. Honestly. But to the sisters, I say, drop the hints. Engage with a guy when you like him. There is no other way to go about it.

The guy that is really interested in you will get those hints and even drop his own hints, sometimes, embarrassingly so. It’s cute though. At least, I think my boyfriend's pursuit of me was/is cute.

TKJ: Looking back, I think I should never have bothered hinting at any of the guys I liked. A guy who you like more than he likes you is a liability. You are at a disadvantage because you'll find yourself always waiting for them to ‘see’ you.

A guy who is yours, sees you without your need to hint at anything. It's okay to like someone. That we can't control. But to be seen by them should never be our responsibility. If it never came naturally to them before the relationship, you'll spend the rest of that relationship adjusting their eyes to ‘see’ you.

Chocolate diamond: People say to tell a guy upfront that you like him and want more than friendship. My dearrr...My own person isn't colour-blind, he'd choose me before I auditioned!

A.R: A woman's green light is supposed to augment a man’s interest and intentional pursuit, not replace them entirely. A man knows what he wants, and if he seems unsure, then maybe it’s just not “you” he wants…and that’s okay!!! We don’t have to be a walking billboard of hints for the right man to get it.

Selah.

💌: Interviewer’s note.

Oof. Someone pass me a glass of water because, dang! I genuinely perceive people getting delivered, to be honest. Most especially my ladies who are stuck in a limbo of “he likes me, he likes me not.”

Honestly though, between the men's side and the women's side of this interview, I think the conclusion writes itself. And it has been an absolute honour curating this. Thanks to everyone who has been a part of this process in any shape or form. God bless you! 🤍

What stood out the most to you from this series?

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

Some weeks ago I came across an online post asking how women can drop subtle hints to a man they’re interested in, and some of the responses caught my attention. Apparently, there’s a growing idea that Christian men are…well, completely “blind” to these cues.

So I did what any curious person would do and went straight to the gender in question. I put together a few honest questions and asked some believing men I know—to answer them as plainly as they could.

Most of my respondents are single, but fair warning though: the “singleness” of some of them is…subjective. At least one or two of them I personally know, have something in view (but I’m not at liberty to say).

Also, I wanted the perspective of men who have been through it and come out the other side. So you’ll find responses from a man in courtship and a married man, as well. But for these men, their answers are largely in retrospect, reflecting on their experiences before their current relationship.

Tighten your seatbelt (or attention span) and dive in. Responses appear in the order I received them :)

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Q1: Be honest…how obvious does a woman have to be before you actually catch on?

Mr. E (single): On a scale of 1-10, I’d say a 5 is obvious enough for me. She’s not overly quiet that I have to piece puzzles together to notice, but also not overly loud with it that the whole world finds out at the same time I do.

MAJ (dating): Quite obvious to recognize, she only needs to be a little extra with her body language. She expresses almost every love language most often times, except words of affirmation.

I.O (single): I do catch cues very easily, and I can separate between the generic kindness women have and subtle signals that show they want to be noticed.

A.J.O (single): On a scale of 1-10... it has to be 8. Just be genuinely interested in talking to me. Be in my space.

A.O (single): Her actions should be impossible to ignore, characterized by the high-energy devotion of someone deeply in love rather than the ambiguous gestures of a friend.

A.J (married): Mildly obvious, from the attention she shows and words spoken. May not necessarily be extravagant with both.

P.S (single): Personally, they might really not have to do too much. I take interest seriously because I just believe, even if that’s not always the case, that everybody should be about their business. So an extended amount of interest in my business can be a pointer or maybe something to note. I would not fuel that interest if I’m not interested.

Q2. Have you ever found out (too late) that a woman liked you and you completely missed it? What happened?

Mr E: Yes, once. She was a classmate, and it was during SS1 or SS2 that I noticed she was especially kind to me. And that was all I saw her as—a kind girl, oblivious that she wasn't particularly very welcoming to the other boys like she did me.

MAJ: Lol. Well yes, when I was still very young. I wasn’t just smart.

I.O: Ohh, I have never found out late, if there was I probably never found out at all. Or she never gave any signs of it, like those friends who know how to be very platonic but deep down have butterflies.

A.J.O: Yes. I was not so sure if she was being nice or interested. But from my end, timing was a big issue. I felt unready.

A.O: Yes, I wasn't close to the person, so I heard it through a friend that I liked, too.

A.J: No, I tend to know after a short time because I pay so much attention to words and body language.

P.S: If you mean someone liked me and I found out later, well I don’t think when I found out I was surprised. If anything they must have been too friendly and I would have suspected.

Q3: Was it genuinely not clicking, or you just chose not to see it?

Mr E: I genuinely didn't see or notice anything. I simply saw her as a kind girl. Too simple-minded to read the room, and too occupied chasing the “hot” girls at school to notice. She’s the very quiet type. I found out in SS3 when a female classmate pointed it out to me. And struggled to believe it.

MAJ: In retrospect it clicked, I wasn’t just smart enough to be aware.

I.O: Hm, you dey ask serious question 😄 let’s have it. The latter…I am the type of guy to choose not to see cues especially when I am genuinely not interested. My reason for this is that I am conscious of how I reject interest, just to avoid messing with a lady’s self esteem.

A.J.O: I chose not to see it.

A.O: I already liked someone at the time. Trying to give attention to another person who liked me would feel like I wasn’t genuine about it.

A.J: There are some noticed not so early, and most times, it was because it wasn’t clicking. I notice it faster if I already liked the person.

P.S: I think I could read signs of being too friendly, especially when I see them around other people. I could sense the investment in time, being caring (maybe a bit too much). Saying things like, “I enjoy talking to you.” So it’s clear as day. I would either withdraw, ignore or plainly affirm that we are just friends or colleagues especially if I didn’t see them that way.

Q4: If you’re ever slow to pursue a woman you’ve noticed, what’s usually the reason (lack of interest, timing, uncertainty, or something else entirely?)

Mr E: It’s usually a lack of interest, but sometimes timing does play a huge role in my decision.

MAJ: It could be all of the above, most times lack of interest. If a man likes you that much, he’d return the energy.

I.O: Mostly lack of interest, I have got a sense of spec that is not just body features oriented—like common sense, how witty she is, proper communication skills, how she loves the Lord and some others. I avoid signals from women without the above basic qualities, if I’m slow it’s cause I want to verify.

A.J.O: For some, lack of interest... others, it has mostly been timing.

A.O: The main reason is due to uncertainty (fear of marrying wrong) as it can be costly. So, I often do not want to rush into it based on emotions alone.

A.J: Lack of interest mostly, and there are just few times that it was me being unsure if the interest from her was really it or just something of the moment that just fades off, maybe a week later or so.

P.S: I really don’t pursue women. Honestly. And a woman having an intrest in me would not mean I’d automatically reciprocate it.

Bonus: What are your concluding thoughts?

Mr. E: Just because the guy seems slow on the uptake doesn’t mean he is stupid. A lot of circumstances play huge roles in these outcomes. Some of us are being careful (trauma, fear of disrespect and losing face), some of us are genuinely oblivious, some of us also have no interest, and some of us might just not be ready. It’s seldom because of your face-cards.

Most of us know women are beautiful creations in their respective disciplines if you know what I mean...And honestly, understanding how to read “him” will save you a lot of stress and face. It’ll help you know if a conversation is the right move, walking away, or knowing the kind of hints to drop.

Not all of us fall for the shifting your hair behind your ears thingy. If you like him, study him, and you'll have all the answers you desire. We’re not hard to read, for real.

MAJ: Don’t couch your feelings. If you feel it, show it. Don’t get tired of flashing the greens. Some guys just don’t know better or aren’t as confident, if you like him, ‘help’ him. You’re called to be a “helper” remember? All the best!

I.O: If a man can’t catch a signal, think of many other things he would not catch, like how something made you feel, your body and mood changes, those things a man should know without your words sometimes. (If he can’t read his environment he can’t read you.)

Lastly, your boundaries are equally attractive don’t loosen up just to be noticed.

A.J.O: If you ever give obvious signals and he’s not catching it, he simply doesn’t like you.

A.O: While traditional relationship norms often suggest men should take the lead, human personality is far too diverse for a one-size-fits-all rule.

When you feel a genuine connection, you don’t have to wait for a “first move” or risk an awkward direct confrontation. Instead, you can use subtle, intentional cues to signal your interest, effectively opening the door for the other person to walk through.

A.J: I believe Christian ladies should create a balance between showing interest, and not also going to the extreme on that. Both ways, you can’t be too extreme on both sides (hiding your interest and showing too much of it) and the reason is because men most times takes pride in being the hunter. But even hunters can be lured, but it stopped at being lured and not the lady doing the chasing. This is not me saying women are preys. Just an analogy.

P.S: Well, from personal experience and these kind of questions, I’d say don’t ask a guy if he likes you unless he has said it before.

A Note Of Appreciation.

A huge thank you to all my respondents. Na men una be! I genuinely appreciate that you’re the kind of men I can disturb with things like this and have you deliver. It means more than you know. 🙏🏽

💌 Finally…

Hey everyone.

Now that I think about it, I’m itching to do a Part 2. Not from the men’s P.O.V this time, and definitely not to disagree vehemently with what they shared. Although…we can agree to disagree, right? 😂 (I’m quite passionate about the topic at hand lol).

So, I wanted to ask: if we’re doing this second part, would you rather it’s just my own thoughts, or should I go full mini-interview and get the women involved too? Let me know. 👇🏽

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Until next time, lovelies. 💛

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

What is good about a God who allows bad things to happen?

Well. What is good about a Friday where a man who had gone about doing nothing but good was stripped, mocked, nailed to a cross, and left to die in public?

On the surface. . .NOTHING!!!

Nothing about that Friday looked good while it was happening. Peter, James, John and others didn’t think it was good (John will say so). The women weeping at the foot of the cross didn’t think it was good. It looked hopeless; like everything they had believed in, walked away from their lives for, staked their hope on was collapsing in real time, in the most brutal way imaginable.

Nothing looked good about that day.

Selah.

But three days later, everything that looked like an ending revealed itself to be the most significant beginning in human history. God was not oblivious on that Friday. He was Sovereign over it; working in spite of the silence, the suffering, and everything that made no sense yet.

Recently, I realised that Romans 8:28 doesn’t say God causes everything. It says “He causes all things to work together for good.” There is a difference.

The worst Friday in history became the hinge on which all of human redemption turns. Good Friday is good not because of what it looked like. It is called “good” because of what it accomplished in the end, for everyone who chooses to believe.

John 3:16 NKJV

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.

Do you believe? 🤍

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Part II:

Just in case you skipped Part I, and jumped right into this part, you entirely missed the point. Don’t be carnal; circle back in repentance right now! 👀

Now to the giveaway…

For those who played along with my riddle on my last post, here is the resolution:

• It’s a movie ticket ❌

• It’s affiliated with a Substack personality ✅

• It’s a gift ✅.

But some of those who guessed correctly last week had a slight advantage.

They have my WhatsApp contact, and had already gotten hints on my status last month. Sometime in March, I had brunch with and got my copy of her latest release (it was personally signed, too—one of the perks of being a good mentee, her words not mine). And in her characteristic generosity, she slipped in an extra copy as well.

That extra copy is specifically for you, my newsletter geng (but this one’s still sealed, so it wasn’t signed).

Moyo Amure’s story (in both Book 1 and 2) is so close to my heart for reasons I could honestly write a whole separate post about.

But in short, Ms. Itunu’s work has shaped the way I think about (prolific) storytelling, excellent character development, and what it means to stay faithful to my writing journey. Y’all, the author that she is! Even more, the genuinely sweet soul that she is! Super grateful for her, really. 🤍

Giveaway Terms & Conditions.

🎉. Drop a comment with: your name, your current state of residence, and whether you’ve read or are planning to read Book 1: Moyo’s Diary.

🎉. Ensure you’re subscribed to Build to Bloom and Quality Time if you haven’t. (3 points)

🎉. If you have already completed Moyo’s Diary, you have 3 points. If you are just planning to buy Moyo’s Diary, you have 2 points.

🎉. In your comment, highlight the themes you love to see in a good Christian romance fiction and why (4 points).

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P.S - (The winner will be selected based on point count first, then randomly where points are tied. So the more boxes you tick, the better your chances. The announcement will be made on Easter Monday: 6th April, 2026).

If I were you, I’d tell my friends about this. Think about it, if you don’t win but someone in your inner circle eventually gets to win, it’s a win-win, right? Exactly.

Rooting for you. 🫶🏽

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá.

“Conversational chemistry” was how best I could describe it.

It’s that specific pull you feel when the convo just hits the right spots; when it’s easy, alive and you feel, “dang, I could get used to this.” I’ve felt it enough times to know it’s real. And because it has turned strangers into acquaintances, and acquaintances into friends, I’ve made a habit—almost a reflex—of assuming that a good conversation must be leading somewhere. Friendship or otherwise.

Last year, I had a call with someone. Prior to it, what we wanted to discuss was already defined; it was strictly business. In fact, it wasn’t supposed to be more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes. But then we got on the call, and everything just took a different turn.

I’m not going to deny it. It was a great call, the other person had specifically said so, too. But for me, it was one of those calls that really warmed my heart. I couldn’t stop replaying it in my head for days. Note, this is coming from me who has a genuine love-hate relationship with phone calls.

For some reason, I started hoping they’d randomly text a few days later, and be like: “Hey, when next are you free?” And maybe it could become a thing. Which is saying a lot, because I am firmly against the sheer nonsense that is the talking stage. (As you might already tell, the call had been with a guy).

Hypothetically, and I was very much in my hypotheticals back then—he had a good head on his shoulders. And something about the quality of that conversation made me think that whatever it could have been would have been straightforward and intentional. Funny thing is I had never really considered myself attracted to him before. But after that call, it felt like there had been a subtle shift in my “platonic default settings.” LOL!

In the end, the call was the call and nothing more. I never got another invitation to relive it, and I never pushed for one. Right now, we don’t even have an ongoing friendship per se. They’re just…someone I know. All settings normalised. Baruch Hashem Adonai.

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The thing about “conversational chemistry” is that it has a semblance to intimacy so much that the two are so easy to confuse. You see, the attention, the recognition, and the sense of “they get me” in the middle of a conversation can be very tricky. But it doesn’t mean the other person felt what you felt, or that what you felt was even about them specifically.

Sometimes our emotions are responding to the quality of the conversation itself.

We have to understand that a great talk can happen with someone who ultimately just knows how to hold a conversation. Someone who lights up a room (or a phone call) and then goes back to their life, completely unaware of how they made you feel on a Friday evening. They weren’t trying to be your friend. They weren’t trying to be more than friends. They were just... good at talking. Vibe check was all it was, at best. Hard pill, swallow it (I’m a pharmacist-in-training😂).

Some of us, me included, romanticise the idea of a good conversation way too much.

One of my personal inside jokes is, “The day I know I’m in love, it’ll definitely be in the middle of a good conversation.”

But I’m learning that not every conversation that moves me is a potential beginning, even for a friendship. Speaking of friendships, there was someone I used to be very close with back in the day.

One of the hallmarks of that friendship was our sizzling conversations. Years have passed, and without either of us deciding it, there’s not much substance left in that connection. Although, if we crossed paths today, I’m sure the ease of the conversation would still be there. But I no longer consider them a (close) friend anymore for valid reasons.

Friendship (or any “-ship”) needs more than a good conversation to survive. It needs consistency. Some of the most loyal, present, irreplaceable friends may not be particularly sparkling in certain conversations. You sure have things in common, but they may not always build on your ideas in ways you find stimulating. And if we’re not careful, we’ll undervalue them, chasing after the highs of a good talk with someone who went back to their life completely unbothered.

Furthermore, I think part of growing up relationally is learning to let a good conversation be exactly what it is, and nothing more than what it is. If the Lord wills that it becomes something, tend that garden well. But if it doesn’t become more, then let it go. It takes two to tango.

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💌 Hey, everyone.

This coming Good Friday, I’m hosting a giveaway. It’s my way of saying thank you for the Quality time you spend here with me.

Here’s your first clue, in two truths and a false statement:

• It’s affiliated with a Substack personality.

• It’s a movie ticket.

• It was a gift to me.

Drop your guesses, stay tuned, and come ready to win. I’ll be in touch. ❤️

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

I had no business being there.

My room was fully air-conditioned, with a porter who called me “sir” even though I was twenty-two. I paid my way out of inconveniences, well, technically, my folks did. But when the pumping machine packed up and the caretaker launched into his signature “God willing, I will fix it” speech, something in me felt restless. I don't know why.

I had walked past the neighbouring cool kids’ hostel where there was a tap—and all the way there, to a crumbling concrete ring in a hostel I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in.

“Life Hostel,” the rusted sign read. I’d always found that funny. Nothing about this place had ever looked alive.

Until now.

She was light-skinned, the kind that makes a Nigerian man stop and wonder if she’s actually from this world or the one beneath the water. She had this air of mystery. I’ve always believed that if one must die, they might as well die happy. And a woman like her? Absolutely worth it.

Her skin caught the hot sun and sent it back polished. And that angle she stood, whew. Hot, in the most innocent way I’d ever seen.

“Focus,” I muttered to myself, adjusting my grip on the bright blue bucket that had never in its short life seen the outside of my room.

⁂

“Here to draw?”

Her voice hit me like a splash of cold water. She had straightened up, dropped a heavy bucket effortlessly with one hand, watching me like someone who knew I couldn’t.

A smirk played on my lips. “Any other reason people come by a well?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said.

I flashed my signature smile, the one that made the XX chromosome swoon in real time. She watched it happen and looked, if anything, slightly amused, the way a doctor looks at a patient wondering if they’re fine.

“I’m Tobi. And I have a feeling you’re about to tell me your name is something as pretty as your face.”

She didn’t giggle. Most of them giggled. “Tell me, Tobi, am I not the fifth girl you’ve tried that line on in two weeks?”

I didn’t have an exact count. But I knew she might be right.

“Okay, psychic.” I kept smiling. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

“Charis.” She said it softly, offering it like a password.

“Charissa,” I teased, but before I could go any further, she corrected:

“My name is Charis.”

“Sorry,” I said, then I glanced at the fetcher, then back at her. “Well, Charis, I have a confession.”

She looked at me. “What?”

“I’m sort of a well-virgin.”

With an arched eyebrow, she asked. “Are you?”

“A well-virgin” I let my smirk widen. “Or a virgin-virgin?”

It sounded worse out loud, so I added quickly: “Don’t mind me. My hostel’s pumping machine packed up and I thought—I don’t know. I thought I’d come look for water.”

Charis leaned against the well, crossing her arms. She looked at me with an intensity that made me feel like my black shirt was transparent. “You could have fetched water anywhere else. Why this well?”

“Maybe God knew I’d meet a pretty lady here.”

“God,” she repeated softly.

There was something about the way she said it. “What? You don’t believe?”

“In you or God?”

“Me, obviously.” I scoffed. “God has nothing to do with this. Or anything else, for that matter.” I paused, the words trailing into something I hadn’t meant to say out loud.

She smiled, not exactly warm. There was something quieter underneath it. “But you just said God knew you’d be here. You wouldn’t say that if somewhere inside you, you didn’t believe He cared.”

I tilted my head. “Are you about to preach to me?”

She paused.

“You’re lucky that’s not in my job description.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by that. I decided against it.

⁂

“Do you need my help?” She eventually asked.

It felt like a trick question.

Because the honest answer was yes—obviously, I had no idea what I was doing, but saying yes to a girl I’d just tried to impress felt like a different kind of surrender. One I wasn’t ready for.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “This should be easy.”

She smiled like she’d expected that exact answer.

I gripped the rope, dropped the fetcher into the well. It hit the water with a hollow clack and just sat there, bobbing like something confused. I tugged. It came up dripping and empty.

I dropped it again. Same result.

Charis said nothing. She just watched me fail patiently like she had all the time in the world to humour me.

“Okay,” I said finally, releasing the rope. “How do you do it?”

Her lips tipped in a satisfied smile. “Ask me properly.”

I looked at her. “What?”

“You said you were fine.” She tilted her head. “So ask me properly.”

I exhaled and held out the rope. “Charis. I need your help.”

Something in her eyes settled, like a thing clicking into place. She stepped forward.

“Here’s the trick,” she said. “You have to lower the bucket like you expect something to be there. Right now you’re dropping it like you’ve already decided it won’t work.” She paused. “You’re holding on too tight because you’re used to being in control. To get what you need, you have to learn to let go.”

I had a flirtatious rebuttal ready on my tongue but the look in her eyes stopped me. I felt this was a moment I needed to take more seriously.

“Watch,” she said quietly. Then she demonstrated, her arms moving with an ease that made the whole thing look less like fetching water and more like a life lesson. We heard the deep, satisfying glop as the fetcher tipped and drank. Then she poured it into my bucket.

“Your turn,” she said, handing the rope back.

Her fingers brushed the cord just above my hands. Her skin was cool, startlingly so, against the hot afternoon.

I tried to mimic her.

The fetcher hit the surface and I forced myself to let the rope go slack, and immediately felt the panic rise, the fear of losing my grip entirely. Then the weight shifted. The rope pulled taut, thrumming with something drawn up from the deep.

“I got it,” I breathed.

She smiled. “You did.”

I did it two more times until my bucket was filled up. I hauled the water up, muscles working harder than I'd expected.

By the time I was done, I was breathing through my mouth, sweat breaking through the expensive cologne. I felt something I couldn’t immediately give a name, quieter than pride. More like relief.

Charis just stood there, watching me in amusement.

“Most people spend their whole lives at the edge, afraid to let the fetcher draw. They think holding on is the same thing as having something. But anything worth having is first worth surrendering,” she said.

“You’re very—” I paused, searching for the appropriate word, but I decided to cut to the chase. “Let me take you out sometime. Or at least, have your number. You saved me from a very dry weekend. And I don’t do dry; I do the other one.”

She looked at me like I’ve learned nothing.

“I don’t have a number.”

I stared at her. “Everyone has a number.”

She shrugged.

“So what…no phone? No WhatsApp? You’re telling me you don’t have a—”

“I’m telling you that you already have what you came for.”

I looked at my bucket, full and heavy. Then back at her. “What I came for,” I repeated slowly, “was a bucket of water. But what made me stay was. . .you.”

“I know,” she said. “But you came to this well because your own supply ran out, Tobi. That will keep happening. Your strength, your control, your ability to pay your way out of things, it will run out. And when it does, you’re going to need a source to draw from that is beyond you.”

I smiled. “So what you’re saying is…I need you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she replied.

Damn, I thought. I really liked her. But I decided not to push further. If not today, tomorrow, I told myself.

We said our goodbyes.

⁂

I went back the next day.

It wasn't for water. My hostel’s pumping machine had been fixed the previous evening. I went back because I’d been replaying the conversation since I got home, the way you replay a song that stays with you.

Charis wasn’t there.

I tried twice more that week. Different times, same well, and still nothing. I eventually asked one of the porters, an old man, if he’d seen a light-skinned girl named Charis fetching water in the afternoon.

He looked at me like I was confused. He said that well had been dry since the previous semester. Nobody had drawn water from it in months.

I stood there for a moment, running the logic back through my head. I had been there. I had held the rope. I had felt the weight of actual water pulling against my hands. My bucket had been full, heavy enough that I’d switched arms twice on the walk back. I didn’t imagine it. I wasn’t the type to imagine things.

I was a student of physical science. The universe, I had learned, doesn’t lie. It doesn’t make exceptions and it doesn’t hallucinate on anyone’s behalf. If something happened under observable conditions, it happened. Full stop.

So either the porter was wrong, or I was losing my mind.

I walked over to see for myself. The well was boarded up, padlocked, and swallowed by weeds. It looked like it had been that way for a long time.

I stood there for a while. Nothing about it made no sense.

Eventually, I walked back to my hostel and never told anyone.

⁂

It’s been ten years.

I still don’t have proper language for what Charis was. An ancestor? A ghost? An angel? I don’t know.

What I know is that a well that hadn't worked in months produced water that afternoon.

What I know is that her name, in Greek, means grace, something I only looked up years later, long after I’d stopped trying to make sense of it and started trying to live by it.

I came to that well full of pride and empty in ways I didn’t yet have words for.

She was right, by the way. My supply ran out. More than once. The ability to pay my way through every inconvenience—all of it ran out, in ways that my family’s wealth, my degree and my looks couldn’t fix. And every time, I came back to what she said by that well:

You’re going to need a source to draw from that is beyond you.

I was never meant to be my own source. And the moment I stopped pretending I was enough on my own, that was the moment something greater finally filled what I’d been carrying empty for years. Grace changed everything.

The End.

Author’s note:

Sometime in February, my pastor was preaching about the woman at the well when the idea hit me: “How can I reimagine that narrative entirely?”

That question became this story.

If you’ve read my previous works, you’ll know this isn’t the usual. I mostly do light-hearted romcom/feel-good stories, but I’m learning to make room for whatever form a story needs to take.

Hope this blessed you :)

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

LOL! Puh-lease. I still can’t fathom how they came up with that. For rhymes, perhaps? Ugh. It is well. We’ll come back to that.

As I was saying, my reflections kept coming back to one central, piercing thought:

God has no inadequacy.

The things we erroneously perceive to be His “inadequacy” usually become the basis for our own idolatry.

When I first wrote it down in my study notes this way, I ‘marinated’ in it for like ten minutes straight. Because, Lord!

Then it hit me. This isn’t just ancient history. We love to side-eye the Israelites, but this is the heartbeat of our most modern struggles. We search for satisfaction in so many places—often because, somewhere deep down, we’ve concluded that God isn’t enough, or that He isn’t present in this particular area of our lives.

Just like them, we are complex beings with intricate needs that God designed Himself to meet. But when we perceive a deficiency in His ability or willingness to provide, we create substitutes (idols) to fill the void. The Israelites fashioned a golden calf because they hadn’t seen the form of the God who spoke to them. He was real, He was working, but He wasn’t visible in the way they wanted. So they made something they could see.

It’s the same with us.

When we perceive God’s “inadequacy” as a lack of visible care, we construct our own golden calves: things that are tangible, things we can manage and control, hoping they’ll deliver what only God can give. We trade the Creator for a creature we can get our hands on. We do it with careers. With substances. And very often, with relationships.

Which brings me to the phrase that inspired this newsletter: “Man’s got needs.”

I’ve heard this phrase being used to justify hookup culture, a lack of self-control, or a “harmless” vice. And here’s what’s really happening when we invoke it: we are trying to solve a soul or spirit hunger with a “body” solution.

But man is more than a body.

Feed only the body, and the rest of you starves.

The Body

In Deuteronomy 8, Moses recounted how God provided manna, food the Israelites didn’t even know existed, and ensured that their clothes didn’t wear out over forty years of wilderness wandering. Forty years. Not a single worn-out sandal.

If you’ve concluded that God is inadequate when it comes to your security or your pleasure, you’ll inevitably make an idol of money or lust, because you’ve decided you have to secure those things for yourself.

You don’t trust Him to provide, so you take matters into your own hands.

The Soul.

The soul is that part where the mind, the emotions, and the will all reside. And the soul is—well—soul-ish. It has a massive need to be seen, to be valued, to hear the words: “You belong.”

When we perceive God’s inadequacy as His being “distant” or “too holy to care about what I’m feeling,” we go looking for that affirmation in all the wrong places.

We build idols out of people’s opinions. We tether our souls to toxic situations and people who lead us astray, simply because they offer us the validation we’ve convinced ourselves God is withholding. We trade the Truth that sets us free for a lie that just feels cozy, for a moment too long.

The Spirit.

The spirit is the most misunderstood and probably the most neglected, even when it’s the deepest part of us. It’s the part that knows we weren’t just made for 70 or 80 years of eating and feeling fly. It’s the part that Jesus was talking about when He quoted Deuteronomy 8:3: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

If we perceive God’s “inadequacy” to be that He is invisible or “silent,” we try to fill that spiritual void with materialism or sheer nonsense. We try to satisfy an eternal hunger with temporary things. It’s like trying to fill a canyon with a teaspoon of sand. It’s never going to work.

The spirit needs connection to the Source. Without it, you can have the best sex, the most money, and the loudest applause, and you’ll still wake up feeling empty.

Back to that “Deuteronomy means dethrone” your enemy” nonsense. Deuteronomy actually means “second law.” But in a weird way, idolatry is an attempt to “dethrone” God from the areas where we think He’s failing us. My advice? Don’t.

God’s track record is not one of inadequacy. Never has been. The question was never whether He is enough. The question is whether we trust that He is.

Fellow saints, don’t build the calf. Don’t trade the real thing for a substitute that was never designed to hold what you’re asking it to hold. Man’s got needs—and God, in His fullness, can meet every single one of them.

’nough said.

In ’s voice, “Grace to you.”

This song is fitting. Theologically so :)

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

I’m not the Bride.

I’m the Bride’s namesake.

I’ve kept this screenshot tucked away in my gallery since 2024, when I first scrolled past my Twitter feed and found it. It made me pause because first of all, beautiful couple. My “Awww” radar kicked off instantly.

Second, the bride sharing my name, like my actual preferred name? Loved it!

If the headline had read, “Bola found love,” I probably wouldn’t have rated it as much. (Another reminder to the world, and my immediate family…please, don’t call me “Bola”— leave it for the Bolatitos, Bolanles, and whoever likes to be called Bola).

Anyway, seeing my name paired with the idea of being found felt like a quiet, personal affirmation. You know how it goes in the opposite scenario, when someone sharing your name does something disappointing or flat-out evil, and you just shake your head in embarrassment, thinking, “This one is a disgrace to the namesake union?”

This was the antithesis of that. This felt like a win for the “home” team.

When I first saw that caption: “Love Found Debola in the Comfort of Her Home,” my heart melted! Wow, a mirror of possibility.

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I don’t know the logistics of her story. I don’t know if she was scrolling through a dating app, responding to a serendipitous Instagram DM, or if a mutual friend simply bridged the gap. But the “how ” matters so much less to me than the “where.”

This is because I don’t necessarily buy into the idea that love requires you to be a nomad. It can find you right where you are, in the middle of your ordinary, un-perfomed life.

In contrast, the thought of dressing up with the heavy consciousness that I must look a certain way to leave an impression; be in an endless talking stage, or the social fatigue of auditioning before a million opposite gender just so the supposed “one” might finally notice me?

No, thanks. Hard pass. I’m not built for the man-hunt. All the best to the hunters.

The crux of my point is this: Love should feel like home. Why? The ultimate definition of love is already waiting at home. In God. When our foundation is built on the love of our Heavenly Father, home isn’t just a physical space; it becomes a state of being. A place where you’re fully known; and fully loved. Unconditionally so.

Finally, if love is truly a reflection of the Divine, it shouldn’t require us to lose ourselves in the crazy patterns of the world to find it. It should meet us in our most honest moments, in the comfort of our own skin, and perhaps in the comforts of our own home.

Did this article resonate with you? I’d love to know.

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

For instance, a movie showing the honeymoon suite with two exhausted humans, staring at each other like, “So… now what?” (Cue in meme sound: Swear you don’t know what you’re here for).

Seriously though, I believe everything is supposed to be awkward (at first) about another human being in your personal space for the rest of your life, and sharing every single thing with them. Literally.

What do you mean you sleep with the lights off? Like, in the dark? Are you not scared a child of light?

What do you mean you want to come into a bathroom I am currently using? As how? For what? Is it for Garri or Eba? Wait for your turn, my Chief.

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For someone like me, who would like to get married one day but sometimes get quietly freaked out by the whole idea…these tropes can be comforting. They normalize the learning curve is real. And gosh, I love to see it very much. When done well, it can show that two people can love God, love each other, and still not know all they’re doing yet.

Those who’ve walked the road longer always say the same thing, that you learn as you go.

BUT…

There are some narratives that don’t sit well with me. The one where the couple waited until marriage to do the deed, and the man frames it as something he did for her. Even worse when there’s an initial ‘struggle’ with physical intimacy. Then he makes it seem as though it were her fault because he only waited because of her.

Heck, what???

Last year, I saw a short film on YouTube built around this exact kind of idea. To be frank, the screenwriter is someone I know to be a very brilliant mind. No doubt about that one. But when I was done seeing this film, I wished stories like that could be told differently.

Maybe I should’ve managed my expectations. It wasn’t a faith movie after all; it only borrowed the elements. It borrowed the language of “waiting until marriage before sex.” It painted a seemingly church girl who had a warped idea of physical intimacy, as many do. Very relatable, that part. We’ve heard many of such stories in real life.

But my bigger issue was with how the male character was written.

As much as he said some really sweet things, and well, he was undeniably easy on the eyes—but still! The narrative positioned him as the long-suffering one, the one who had “endured” waiting. His frustration was centre stage.

The film failed to reinforce the truth that there’s mutual responsibility in waiting before marriage. Nothing was done to correct the erroneous entitlement on the his part. He’d even found an alternative with “corn”– and when the wife caught him, he wasn’t exactly remorseful.

????

Anywho, there was some back and forth for a while, but eventually, they found their way around their... consummation. And they lived happily ever after. Or so, the film implied.

Whatever happened to the fact that the man had to unlearn the idea that he didn’t do her a favour by waiting? Nothing. See, that’s exactly where the problem was, for me.

It’s very okay to paint a character with a flaw. But whoever would like to explore these kinds of narrative (maybe I will, one day) and you’re in the faith space, please and please…tell these kinds of stories better.

A better story would show two adults owning their choices in the end.

“I waited because of you.” ❌

“We both waited because we believed in something bigger than our urges. We both believed in God’s standard. We will commit to learning and we will make it through. Together. ✅

I believe there’s a way to address these issues without being preachy or speaking a lot of “Christianese.” However, it is important to tell these stories with realism, yes, but let’s also stress mutual responsibility and accountability.

Selah.

(Cover Photo - Pinterest).

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá.🦋

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I’ll look her dead in the eye, with my best “innocent child” smile, and ask: “Mummy, do you love me?” I know the answer. I’ve known it since the womb. But honestly? I just love hearing it. Especially when she hits me with that signature Nigerian mother sarcasm that basically translates to: “If I didn't love you, would I be bearing your wahala (excesses)?”😂. Trust me, I have plenty.

I am a “words of affirmation” girlie through and through. Love, for me, is something that needs to be clearly articulated. And consistently so. I don’t just want to guess how you feel about me; I want to hear it.

I want to know that even though we’ve known each other for years, you still let me know I occupy a significant space in your heart. I want to know that the “rating” is mutual. Reassurance is my thing: my guy.

According to the dictionary, it is simply the act of removing someone’s doubts or fears.

But lately, I’ve had to ask myself: Why does that tank run dry sometimes?

In a world where “life happens” and commitment feels like a high-stakes gamble, we tend to hand people our insecurities like a hot yam (and yam is so mid, by the way) and say, “Please, tell (show) me this isn't true.” Or, in my case, a gentle plea: “Remind me of what is true: Tell me again and again.”

The problem with (human) reassurance, however, is that it has a very short shelf life. It’s like eating sugar; you get the rush, the doubt subsides for an hour or a day, and then the “what ifs” start creeping back in.

What if they’re just saying that because they’re being nice?
What if their feelings changed since the last time we spoke?
What if I’ve finally become “too much?”

Recently, it was in the middle of this internal tug-of-war that the Holy Spirit whispered a thought to me that shifted my entire perspective:

Anyone who craves reassurance cannot be far away from reminders.

Whew. That was a whole corrective posture right there.

Even God understands this human need for repetition, which is why Scripture is a massive, beautiful collection of reassurance. “I will never leave you.” “I am with you.” “Fear not.” “You are Mine.” God doesn't say it once and expect our finite minds to hold it forever; He puts it on a loop because He knows we are prone to spiritual and emotional amnesia.

Now, what are the reminders you cannot be far away from?

First, your identity.

If your identity is in Christ, you didn’t audition for this role. Grace cast you. The One who chose you isn't petty or vindictive. When you remember you’re “rated” by the Creator, human validation stops being a survival requirement and starts being a sweet, added bonus.

Also, remember track records, too.

We have to be fair to the people in our lives, for real. No one can give 100% every single day—they can’t even do that for themselves! Unless there’s a clear, consistent reason to stop believing they care, don’t. Don't “cancel” people for the crime of being humanly unavailable sometimes. If they showed up before, revel in it. If the thought keeps bugging you, communicate it.

Our craving for reassurance isn’t a flaw. I believe it’s a pointer to something much deeper.

We often think the solution is finding the “perfect” person who says (or does) the right things at the right time. But even when, for example, the “dream partner” comes into your life, and they speak your one million love languages, and their last name is “Reassurance,” I promise you, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Why? Because the human heart has a God-sized void that words of affirmation were never meant to fill completely. Words of affirmation are beautiful, but the “Word of Truth” is foundational.

Stay with your Bible, read your old journals (or whatevel, sit quietly with your Father. You don’t need a new reason to feel loved; you just need to remember the eternal ones you already have.

They say reassurance hits differently when it’s not requested…when it just finds you right where you are. That is the heart of God right there. He didn’t wait for us to ask; He loved us first. He chose us first. And the best part? He chooses us eternally.

Be rest assured. 🤍

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💌. Hey, wonderful people. . .

Two weeks no see, huh? Your girl is currently in the midst of a very peculiar season. Between the craze of preparing for another set of Pharmacy school exams and just… life, it’s been a lot. I’m slipping this special newsletter into your inbox today because these thoughts have been sitting on my mind for a while, and honestly, I wanted to give you a valid reason for my recent inconsistency.

I’m actually supposed to be scheduling a few “Valentine-esque” newsletters right now, as usual (and trust me, I have ideasss!), but sadly, I won't be off the hook of exams until the 20th of February. So, bear with me.

But…leave some room for surprises, though. I’ll be in touch. Pray for me, too. 🥹

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Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá. 🦋

Back in January 2024, I felt a gentle prompting to write personal letters to people (online). At the time, WhatsApp felt like the ‘safest’ medium to put out this intention of mine. So, I put it up on my status, asking anyone interested to send me a DM.

A few people did, and I followed through.

It was a one-time thing for the most part. I love writing (I truly do) and when the moment calls for it, I still send friends emails or letters here and there. But that season was different. Special, too.

Guess what?

Recently, I stumbled upon one of those letters, still tucked away in my Google Docs. Sadly, the person I wrote it has gone to be with the Lord now. He’s the dear friend I wrote about here. (God rest his soul).

Now, when I found that letter again, it felt like time reaching back to tap me on the shoulder. A reminder that I didn’t know then what I know now. I wasn’t trying to preserve memory or predict loss. I was simply being obedient to God’s leading.

Another thing that sat me down was the memory of how genuinely happy he was when he received it back then.

In his reply to me, among other things, he said: “Debola, I wish I could frame those words.” That exchange became one of the hallmarks of our platonic friendship, proof that words, when given sincerely, can become keepsakes.

As I read through again, I felt gratitude. I was glad. Deeply glad that I didn’t postpone or overthink it; and I sent it when I did (he passed a year after).

Now, I’m not saying that the only reason we should write people letters is because of loss, or the possibility of it. No. That would be missing the point. We should write letters because people are here now. I’d written my friend a letter while he was here, so writing him a tribute when he was gone never felt like it was the first time I was telling him he mattered.

What remained was honouring memory, not racing to say what should have been said too late. And that, somehow, made the loss a little more bearable…because I knew he knew.

Now, even when you don’t really know a person, a letter can still matter. It’s an even greater blessing when you rely on the Spirit’s leading to guide your words—to say what needs to be said, to offer encouragement, comfort, or affirmation that the recipient might not even know they needed.

That’s why I genuinely appreciate what big sis is doing on her platform: sending out (New Year) letters to people who signed up when she opened the call last year. I received one recently, and it absolutely wrecked me in the best way. Those words are staying with me for a long, long time.

Ask any writer, and they’ll tell you: the joy of writing is one thing, but the exceeding joy of being written to (or written about) especially for something good? Heck, it’s surreal.

🗣️: Hey, future partner, I’m not asking that you be a writer… just that you write me letters. Plentyyyy! Letters that don’t need too many fancy words. Just love up on me with thoughtful words, bucko! Okay?

So shall it be.

But I digress.

Said all all of that to say: Give people their flowers with kind words and heartfelt sentences, while they’re still here to receive them. Most especially people who cherish it. Because words have a way of outliving moments, you know?

Even more, writing someone a letter can be an extension of the Father’s nature: El-Roi, the God who sees. They are reminders to people that they are seen, appreciated, and loved, sometimes in ways a simple “thank you” or an almighty bouquet never could.

Write more letters, y’all. They (you) will be glad. 💌

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá.🦋

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Either way, I put it to you that I’m NOT kidding.

I did, in fact, sleep off during crossover night. Like, proper sleep. The kind that reminds you that good sleep is a very good gift. I’m sure I must have snored; I had quite a long day.

Now, back story. . .

Days prior to the 31st, I'd spent ample time giving thanks and reflecting, mostly with tears in my eyes, because 2025? Whew, don't get me started on how that year stretched me.

I was happy and ready to “cross over.”

The Lord had given me a personal word for the coming year, and for the sake of what I’ll be sharing in this letter, I’ll tell you.

He called it: My Landmark Year.

Surely, it only makes sense to prepare well, yeah?

The plan was simple, and thankfully my church made it easier with five prayer watches scheduled at 6 a.m., 9 a.m., 12 p.m., 3 p.m., and 6 p.m. I’d joined four out of the five and added a personal fast. By 9p.m, the crossover service was set to begin, and I was ready. Charged, even.

Only, I’d settled for streaming the crossover service from home (long story, same as last year).

But, earlier that day, I had tidied my room, and in the process, apparently offended dust, mould, and whatever allergen came for me. By evening, I was uncomfortable. I had runny nose, subtle sore throat, and was feeling quite irritable. Still, I pressed on. Nothing was ruining my crossover. Or so I thought.

When the time came, I joined the service.

Yet the discomfort persisted. I showered. Twice. I had an anti-allergy medication I could take, but it was the drowsy kind. So at first, I avoided it, humorously thinking, if it’s you the devil wants to use tonight, it won’t work. I’m a Pharmacy student, I know better than to demonize medication, but my spiritual warfare mindset was on 100😂.

After a while, I decided to use it. Worst-case scenario, I might doze a little but I'll stay conscious of the service. I even washed my face a couple more times, just in case. LOL.

Alas, around 10 p.m., I sat down from dancing, still slowly moving my body here and there to the rhythm of the worship, praying under my breath. I was hoping the Word session would begin soon; sermons usually keep me on my toes… unless, of course, I’m actively trying to cheat sleep.

Minutes passed, and I exchanged Hallelujah (my tambourine) for a pillow. What was I thinking? Don't ask; I wasn’t. In hindsight, that was the exact moment I let down my guard.

The next thing I realised? My eyes are fluttering open at 6:17a.m on January 1st 2026. In the Nigerian parlance, “everywhere first blur.” I couldn't immediately process it.

Immediately, I went: “What?! No. No. NO!”

I won’t lie, I beat myself up a bit.

Why didn’t I just endure? Why did I even take the meds? Why use the pillow? Why?! Is this how I want to begin a landmark year, sleeping through a kairos moment?

Eventually, I replayed the parts of the service I missed.

Still, nothing felt like it. It didn't feel like a “Happy New Year.” I wasn't too happy about the fact that missed the exact moment the clock struck 12a.m. It mattered so much to me, and missing it felt like the year started on such awkward, unserious note.

It was in that moment of spiral the Holy Spirit came for me with a gentle, loving rebuke.

When I finally sobered up, I picked up my journal and began to write. And here are some major things (not all) I learned from that experience:

1. A landmark year didn't have to begin with perfection.

It was a legalistic mindset to expect that if I did everything just right, the year will go smoothly. Reality check? No, it doesn't work that way. God was kind enough to disrupt that assumption early. A perfect start is not the guarantee of a purposeful year; a consistent walk with the Lord is. I needed the reminder.

2. God factors in human frailty.

We’re wired for rest; we slumber physically (and sometimes spiritually). But Psalm 121:4 reminds us: He who watches over us neither slumbers nor sleep. The Keeper of Israel (the Keeper of me!) remains faithfully awake, watching over His word to perform it. My Landmark promises stand, and it's not because I stayed awake. But because He stays faithful.

Even when Jesus rebuked the disciples for not being able to watch with Him for one hour, He still saw them beyond that moment. He looked past their weakness and saw the purpose He had for them.

3. What truly matters to God is the posture of our hearts, not our performance(s).

As 1 Samuel 16:7 says, while people look at the outward appearance, the Lord looks straight at the heart. He is El-Roi, the God who sees without missing a thing. He sees intentions, efforts, and even our honest limitations.

Finally…

When Nigeria hit midnight, 2026 was already underway in places like Kiribati and New Zealand, which are hours ahead. In other places, like Hawaii, the year hadn’t arrived yet at all. It dawned on me that if God could govern the whole earth across continents, clocks, and calendars…then surely my Landmark year was not hanging by the thread of 12a.m W.A.T.

That realisation was a good starter for me this year.

What I thought was a missed moment became an avenue, an early invitation, to trust God this year beyond timing, performance, and my perfection.

I don’t know how this letter landed for you, but my hope is that this year, you’ll be a little kinder to yourself—and a lot more trusting of the God who is Faithful in your journey.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. 💛

Yours in Quality Time,
Adébọ́lá.🦋

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Somewhere in the back of her mind, that viral audio echoed: “Yeah, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.”

If the circumstances were different, being in a cruise on Christmas Eve might have been like a scene worth romanticising.

But for Àràolúwa, it was far from it.

Ara was carrying loss, her heart still learning how to survive in a season her sister once owned so loudly. She hadn’t been looking forward to Christmas this year. In fact, she’d been quietly bracing herself against it.

The one who was obsessed with the season was gone. Her sister, Tinuola, who lost her life to cervical cancer in February, had loved Yuletide more than life itself.

Tinu went all out.

Three years before she passed, she started the “Twelve Events of Christmas” tradition. It was a vlog of carols, orphanage visits, loud parties, karaoke nights, and everything in between.

Ara had never belonged in that world.

She was the quiet one. The introverted artist with paint-stained fingers and a low tolerance for crowds.

Yet, here she was, on an “all-white” cruise party that represented every loud, festive thing she had been trying to outrun.

The organizers intended to circle the Lagos coastline for a few hours until Christmas. The boat eased away from the dock just after sunset, gliding past the lit-up high-rises of Eko Atlantic. They stayed close enough to shore that she could still make out the headlights on the Lekki-Ikoyi Link Bridge.

The only reason she was here was Imabong. Tinu’s best friend and the self-appointed watchman of her legacy, Imabong had refused to let December pass quietly. She insisted Ara show up for the season in typical Tinu-fashion.

She agreed, but on her own terms. There was no way her mental health could survive twelve emotionally expensive events.

Ara had tried to stay firm, but Imabong was relentless. After a heated negotiation on December 10th, she conceded to three events: an orphanage visit, a carol service, and, reluctantly, karaoke. They had cleared the first two until Imabong called twenty-four hours ago with a “better” idea for the grand finale.

“Ara darling,” she’d said, already laughing, “change of plans. Let’s do a cruise instead.”

Ara groaned. “A what now?!”

“Relax,” Imabong continued. “If I remember correctly, you’re tone deaf. There's no way I’d let you clown yourself trying to sing O Holy Night and all other high-pitched hymns Tinu loved and could sing effortlessly…”

Her sister’s voice still rang in her ears from a cover of Andy Williams’ It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. Tinu was the singer; Ara wasn’t.

“Thanks for the shade,” she replied.

Imabong laughed. “Let this last event be for you, too. We’ve had enough tears this year to last a lifetime. Come out of your shell. Make Tinu proud. Don't worry, the cruise party is decent.”

That was how Ara found herself here, surrounded by Lagosians who were intent on making the most of the night. How Imabong had secured access to the event was a mystery Ara had decided not to investigate.

The upper deck throbbed with music and laughter, people acting like they were the reason for the season. She had escaped to the quieter lower deck earlier, craving some time to sit with her thoughts.

She let out a soft sigh, pulling out her phone and staring at a picture of her late sister. Bright eyes. Goofy smile. The one whose middle name was “Joy” and who lived like it.

“I swear, Tinuola Jakande,” Ara whispered. “Wherever you are, you’re laughing at me. This is the kind of madness you lived for.”

She sighed again, painfully this time, her thumb brushing the screen. “I miss your chaotic big head.”

Just then, a sharp gust of wind betrayed her. Her wig shifted violently, nearly taking flight.

Then she turned, one hand clamped to the wig, dignity hanging by a thread… and found a man standing a few steps away, staring at her with the silly expression men wore when they were trying very hard not to become useless with laughter.

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How long has he been standing there? She thought, slightly frowning.

“As you were!” she snapped, her voice tight. She adjusted her wig with a stiff, defensive jerk, her internal walls shooting up another ten feet.

“Too bad,” he mumbled. “I think the view is worth it, anyway.”

Who’s this one?

Ara eyed him with deep suspicion. He was tall, caramel-skinned, and his white shirt fit perfectly, sleeves rolled just high enough to expose muscular forearms. Sunglasses hung from his collar, teasing the suggestion of chest hair, a thought she shut down immediately.

She had come for closure, not for good-looking cruise-distractions.

“I didn't startle you, did I?” he asked, taking a step closer.

His accent gave him away. The T-glottalization. Obviously a Brit-returnee who’s probably in town for the infamous “Detty December.” Or whatever. It was not her problem.

She wasn’t here to mingle. She was here to finish the last thing she’d agreed to and go home. And hopefully with that, Tinu’s absence this Christmas would no longer hurt as much.

Ara acted unbothered, still not sparing him a glance.

“I promise you, I don't move like that,” he raised his hands. “I’m not a creep.”

“Well, I’m still deciding,” she said.

He let out a deep chuckle. “Fair enough.” After a beat, he added, “I’m Zik, by the way.”

“Zik…” she nodded slowly, her wall cracking just a tiny bit as she looked for a way to poke fun at him. “Ezekiel? Hezekiah? Melchizedek? Or is it…Azikiwe?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Whoa! You went Old Testament on me fast. Minus Azikiwe, of course.”

She shrugged, pretending she hadn’t caught a whiff of his cologne. Her brain registered it as something hot—actually, dangerous.

“Zikora,” he said, dragging out the syllables. “Zikorachukwu Ibe.”

Ara opened her mouth slightly, unsure of what how to respond to a man who has the sweetest Igbo name she'd ever heard.

They held eye contact for a beat too long. She was the first to look away, but the coldness in her posture thawed a little.

“Why is this suddenly awkward?” Zik asked.

“You think?”

“Yeah. But the good kind. The kind where the other person is interesting enough that you’re willing to keep embarrassing yourself. Myself, I mean.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped her. It was the first time her face hadn’t felt like a mask all night.

He looked proud of himself for a second. “See? Good awkward.”

“Right,” she muttered, but her cheeks were warming.

“I might have a confession,” Zik said, his tone shifting. “I actually followed you down here. I spent the last few minutes trying to think of a smooth way to say hello. Everything sounded a bit rubbish in my head… until the wind did me a favour.”

Ara’s stomach flipped.

His lips twitched again.

“Ara! There you are!” Imabong’s voice cut through the air. She strode toward them, her eyes widening as she spotted Zik. “Oh, hi Zik! Didn’t know you were hiding down here, too.”

He gave her a quick high-five. “You know how it is. Just catching some air.”

Ara blinked, looking from Zik to Imabong. “Wait, you two know eachother?”

“Yeah, we go way back,” Imabong said. She turned to Zik, her filter disappearing as usual. “Need I mention, this is Araoluwa, Tinu’s sister. Polar opposite of Tinu in every way. I literally had to blackmail her to get her on this boat.”

She'd never have to wonder why Ima and Tinu used to be best of friends.

“Oh. Small world,” Zik said softly, his eyes returning to Ara’s.

“Indeed,” Ima replied, taking a step back. “I’ll leave you two to your cruise meet-cute.” She winked dramatically at Ara. “You’re in good company. Loosen up!”

Then she disappeared back toward the main deck, leaving both of them again.

He turned back to her. “So…Ara.”

“And now that you finally know my name?”

He chuckled. “I didn’t realise you were Tinu’s sister. If I had, maybe I’d have found a less ridiculous way to say hello.”

“Good thing you agreed it was ridiculous,” she said.

He laughed again, before his face turned serious. “I’m sorry about your loss. She was a beautiful soul. Truly.”

Ara exhaled. “Yeah… she was.”

She hesitated, then continued, the words spilling now. “I’ve been trying to survive this season her way. But…”

She shook her head, staring at the water. “In the end, I don’t think it’ll ever feel the same without her. Ever.”

Zik didn’t offer a platitude. He just leaned against the railing. “Maybe it’s not supposed to feel the same. Maybe it’s just supposed to feel… different. And maybe that’s okay, too.”

She managed a dry laugh. “You knew her, right? She was ‘extra.’ She’d invite me to these things and I’d give a hard pass. Now I’m here, doing the things she’d approve of, hoping I’ll run into her memory and find a little joy.”

Zik stayed quiet, giving her space. When she didn’t continue, he finally spoke. “I get that. Really, I do.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He continued. “You’re allowed to miss Tinu and all she represented whilst letting the season work its wonders with you, too.”

“Wonders?” she echoed, skeptical. “Like what?”

He gestured around them. “Like this. A cruise you probably didn’t want to be on. A conversation you didn’t plan to have, with a chap you were convinced his name was Melchizedek.”

She laughed then, freely. “That’s a bit too convenient, don’t you think?”

“Fair,” he agreed. “And just so you know, I’m not trying to make light of what you’re feeling.”

“I hear you.”

Silence settled between them, comfortable this time. The water lapped softly against the hull, the music above them muffled, distant.

“So, your name… yeah? I like it. Never heard it before,” he confessed.

She could say the same for him but she decided to keep it to herself. “I like my name, too. It's…deep.”

“Really? What does it mean?”

“God’s wonders.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s profound. Funny thing is, I had no idea when I mentioned wonder earlier. Guess your name backed me up. After all, it is the season of wonders.”

She rolled her eyes. “Prove it. Without talking about this moment.”

“Easy,” he said, adjusting his posture with a proud gait.

She made a ‘go on’ gesture with her hand.

He smiled, unapologetic. “You know the only reason Christmas is even a thing in the first place is because of Wonder…well, Christ—coming to earth through a family and a place no one would have thought to look.”

Ara gave a slow, polite nod, like: yeah, what else?I’ve heard this sermon before.

As though Zik could hear her thoughts, he added, “Celebrating Christmas isn’t proof that life is perfect, or we had the best year,” he said. “It is proof that God is present. In joy, in grief, I dare say especially in grief.”

That line did it for her.

It slipped past her defences, past the halfhearted joy and the careful distance she’d been keeping all season.

She gave a small, impressed smile. “You’re…oddly poetic,” she quipped. “Metaphors dey cry.”

“Occupational hazard,” he laughed.

That got her attention.

“And what occupation is that, Mr. Hazard?”

“Now, someone’s curious.”

She kissed her teeth, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“Well,” he said, flashing a full smile with his well-set tiny dentition. “For tonight, I’m a man on a mission.”

“And what would that be?” she asked.

“A listener,” he shrugged slightly, “and a messenger of good tidings.”

“Oh.” Ara gave a small clap. “And what would be your final tiding tonight?”

He paused, now fully looking at her. “Even when life doesn’t feel the same, when the people we love are gone, and we don’t know how to celebrate or why…remember, God is with us. That’s the heart of Christmas.”

“Hmm,” she muttered.

If Ara was honest, really honest, God had felt far all year. A familiar name she no longer knew how to call without resentment gnawing at her.

She exhaled slowly.

Zik wouldn't be the first person she'd hear it from this season. Last week, at the carol service she attended, the pastor reiterated “God with us” over and again, almost to the point she believed the pastor’s name was Emmanuel.

“Thank you,” she finally said to Zik. “I needed to hear that.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome, Wonder Girl.”

She internally cringed. “Call me Wonder-girl one more time and I promise you, I'll call you Melchizedek for the rest of my life.”

“Whoa!” he started, teasing. “Is that your way of saying you'd want to call me for the rest of your life? Because honestly, ‘Melchizedek’ sounds pretty dapper when you say it. I could get used to that.”

He leaned in just an inch closer, his eyes locking onto hers with a palpable intent. “Does this mean I've officially made the shortlist?”

She bit back a smile, trying to maintain her unimpressed facade. “So, that’s your style, huh?”

“What?”

“You start off sounding all deep and soulful just so you can pivot to flirting once you’ve lowered my guard?”

Zik let out a bright, unabashed laugh. “Oh, my days! You think that's what this is?”

“Looks like it to me.”

“So, tell me…is it working?” Zik cocked his head, a smile playing on his lips. “You don't have me all figured out yet, you know?”

“Right,” she nodded. “You've been creepy from the jump; how did I forget?”

“Wow. Creepy? That’s all I get after being a messenger of good tidings?” He placed a hand over his heart, feigning a mortal wound. “My ego is in shambles.”

“First impression lasts longer, I guess.”

He chortled. “Ah, right. So you wouldn't mind giving me your phone number to buffer the harsh assumptions? At least, give me a chance to prove I’m a healthy dose of charming.”

Ara shook her head, intent on playing hard to get for at least a few more minutes. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice light with a challenge.

Just then, the atmosphere shifted. The thumping bass from the party above faded into a collective roar as the countdown began.

Zik didn’t push for the number. Instead, he softened, extending his hand toward her. “Would you like to do this together?”

She looked at his hand, then up at him. The wall didn’t just crack; it finally opened. She nodded, sliding her palm into his.

The echo from the upper deck filled the silence between them.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1…Merry Christmas!!!”

Ara closed her eyes as the fireworks cracked above the skyline. She ignored the noise that surrounded her and quieted her mind.

Somewhere between this unexpected moment, she felt a gentle nudge she hadn't felt in months. The certainty of a Presence beyond that of the charming man holding her hand—who may or may not mean anything in the long run.

She took a slow breath, letting it settle in her bones. The pain of missing Tinu remained, but it mingled with hope. Grief wasn't linear, she knew that; but she’d try to breathe again. One day at a time.

When she finally opened her eyes, she met Zik’s gaze, and for once, she didn't look away.

“Merry Christmas, Wonder Girl,” Zik said softly.

Her smile was genuine this time, the nickname no longer feeling like a cringe-worthy pickup line. “Merry Christmas, Melchizedek.”

She looked back at the water, then at the man beside her, appreciating the strange orchestration of events that had led her to this deck. For the first time in months, the creative spark flickered in her chest.

Ara finally knew what her next real painting would look like.

The End.

🎄: Author’s note:

I started writing this early in December, wondering what the season must feel like for those carrying grief. I know I have. Somewhere along the way, I got stuck and wasn’t sure this story would ever see the light of day.

The twist? When grief struck again, losing my Grandma on the 21st, I picked it back up as an outlet for the whirlwind of emotions inside me. Sad but here we are. 🥹

P.S: (You know me, even when I write about grief, I’d sprinkle in some love. Haha. I hope you enjoyed Ara and Zik as much as I enjoyed writing them!)

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance. ❤️

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