I remember looking at my result and questioning my life's choices, and what all my studying amounted to. Studying is difficult. You would have to battle a million other things like health, environment, and money, just to get that one thing "studying,” done. It breaks my heart sometimes.

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That one time I had issues, and I felt like everything was against me, I began to wonder if I had a problem. Maybe the school had a problem with me? But when I began the process of solving the issue, I realized how much school and a good result mattered to me. I knew then that it was all for the best and that, at the end, I would be the one holding the certificates.

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Nowadays, people take academic certificates like it's child's play, but like I saw in a post one time, "let nobody deceive you. Academic validation is valid like mad." It's not even about the certificates now. It is the journey. It is the fight to attend lectures, and it is the fight to stay committed for the duration of four to six years. And guess what? It is often easier said than done.

I've sat in classrooms where the air was so suffocating because of the number of students in attendance. I've had to back down from assignments and tests and walk out of lectures because of terrible migraines. For those few days, I'd forget I was a student. Then, I had to think about myself and my comfort. But when those few days passed, I knew the journey to bagging a degree had to resume. Why? My coursemates were already ahead of me, and I felt burdened. Suddenly, the thought of getting an "F" screamed in my face. The thought of failing over and over again. Seriously, I think the thought of failure is scarier than failure itself.

In the community I live in, almost every household has an undergraduate, a graduate, or a university aspirant. So, some may think it is all the same, but students die, students drop out, students are expelled, students fail, and some are stuck in school for years.

So, yeah, outside the university gate, when coming in as a fresher, it might seem like your turn, a new environment for your dream lifestyle. A fresh start.

It is not.

It is a good fight that is worth giving your all. It is one that is worth winning. But you might not take it seriously at the beginning. It may even feel ordinary, like something you can handle without much thought. Because schooling is something you're used to.

Until those critical moments come.

Until you begin to feel like you're losing.

And then, perhaps, you realize that you've been a soldier all along.

Fighting a GOOD fight.

Just a few days ago, we were all clamouring for graduation, posting memes and all, saying "Class of 2026" and "graduate in a bit" every ten-ten seconds.

But graduation has come and passed.

Reality has dawned on everyone.

See, the thing is, in this university life, there would be pressure to be selfish, to do things alone. And it's alright. This is not to change anybody, but as I was reflecting sometime, I thought about a particular person, most likely an undergraduate, who would remember my name as I leave.

I remember a student who continuously thanked me for giving her an opportunity at spoken-word poetry, even though I only did what I could as an executive in a creative association.

Aah! My lecturer who started calling me out because he kept seeing my content on Facebook and realized I was his student. A never-ending and welcoming "Angel" on his lips whenever he lays his eyes on me.

What about the pages of journals published by my department that include my name?

Oh! You thought I would only mention human beings. You lie.

As an undergraduate picks up the journal in two years' time, what would they see?

But I hope they find peace in my words.

I also thought about my fellowship members and students who turned colleagues.

This particular one brings me to a project which led a few students and me to form a team. I haven't met them all; I've only met the lead once. But as I leave them behind, I could see joy in their eyes, aside from their many "congratulations." For impact, for relationship, for simply knowing.

And I cry.

Because I know "Class of 2026" would be mentioned in my department. Of course, they would make mention of us generally, as a warning or inspiration to the levels below.

But what about as a person?

Do you think someone out of them would say my full name on their lips?

Or remember the places I've been?

Because I don't think it's enough to have existed or to have made a physical presence. That's good too, but there should be something we leave behind.

And I did. Even just a little. I know I did.

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Thank you for reading. ❤️

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Up till this very moment, I don't know why those GST courses are compulsory, and if they are, why is such low-unit courses so exhausting?

These courses did me bad. And many others like me. On one occasion, in one of our GST courses, we were told that our test would be CBT.

You see... unnecessary stress?

And imagine the whole department having to write the test. With computer.

Okay, good and fine. We agreed, and a test timetable was drawn out for the whole school. Every student checked to know the exact date and time for their department to write the test, and like that, the D-day arrived.

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I stayed off food that morning, deciding not to eat because the test for our department was supposed to be at 8 a.m. I thought I could quickly rush there and get back home before I had breakfast. Omo! It was when I arrived at the venue that I realized my style was minimal. My friends and some of my coursemates in the hostel didn't even bathe.

But, you know, we simply made silly remarks at each other while we revised.

Thirty minutes passed, and we still weren't allowed in. One hour later, we were still being held back outside by the officials in charge, pressing us for whatever reason.

I feel like they derive joy in making students suffer.

Soon, everybody's time and the different departments' times began to overlap with each other. Some people hadn't written, and each department gathered outside like a crusade, or would I say, a crowd?

It wasn't funny at all. The sun was scorching hot. Plus, it was the Muslims' fasting period, Ramadan, so many Muslims hadn't eaten before coming.

You know, instead of letting us in, the officials resorted to pursuing us around, telling us not to gather here or there, to queue up here and there, while they had a cosy time inside the building with running fans and ACs.

The number of students was overwhelming.

Then, within a minute or two, a shout would be heard, and it would be declared that a student had fainted.

I think about five people, in their own order, fainted. The queue moved, but really slowly, and the heat...

And I began to feel an outburst from my head to my chest, down to my stomach.

All along, I kept reassuring myself that everything would be alright, that I would be able to write my exam. But, the huge discomfort continually dawned on me that I was hungry. Worse, I had no money, except for my transport fare back home.

Life of a broke Nigerian student.

And when I thought it wouldn't get any worse, my migraine hit, and I knew I couldn't bear it anymore. Oya! Time to go home.

“I'm not writing this test. I am going home. Anything that would happen, let it happen.” I remember saying something like this to my roommate, who was in a different department and was also waiting to write the exam.

In fact, she saved me.

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She had to call her dad to send us money after we stomped out of the exam-hall crowd, so we could get back home. He had to send it there and there, while facing the POS woman, and soon enough, we were able to get home.

Later in the day, we began to hear stories about the incident and how those who couldn't write should forget about it. In other words, no make-up test.

Tor! I blindly accepted my fate.

Those who were able to write were calm. Those who shared the same fate with me kept complaining, but I accepted my fate and came for class the next day.

Guess what? A written test for the supposed CBT GST test was conducted for everybody, my department by the lecturer herself.

Similar stories. And the thing is…

I've found myself in similar situations where my school almost ruined me, and when my only escape was really narrow. Sometimes, it was my hot-headedness and foolishness, and dragging of feet that would trouble me. But then, luck comes, and it seems everything is alright.

I won't fail after all.

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But I tell you that in the university, you'd need grace to speak for you. Sometimes, even for that small bill you were able to pay at the last minute, or the roommate who offered you food when you wouldn't have been able to attend lectures because of hunger.

• That's grace.

In all dimensions, I saw it take over my university life. There was a time I had a problem with a course, and within me, I was more scared of my department because they had a habit of dragging things for too long.

But by grace, the lecturer in charge was heavily eager to solve my problem all through. Atleast, I had reassurance. That's that too.

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But trouble? It would knock on your door and come in without you opening up. While on your bed, eating spaghetti, something could just go wrong on your portal. Maybe, you've suddenly been summoned to an office for a kind of trouble. Something could go wrong with your results in a blink of an eye. You could be told your result was withheld or something? Missing documents? Maybe, some kind of confrontation with a roommate? You'd realize that it just doesn't end, and in between it all, you're trying to stay sane as a good student and a proper human being. In between, you'd curse and express gratitude because luck, grace, and trouble is for the warriors at heart.

My hope is we all remain sane to embrace it all.

Luck. Grace. Trouble.

Thank you for reading. ❤️

I've had my share of both campuses: the off-campus and the “on-campus,” and I'd recommend living on the sky for your peace of mind. ☁️🕊️

Throughout my four years in school, my school didn't let me have a single space, even with my own money, so I had to do things my way by finding other alternatives.

I heard a lot of things.

People would say, “You can always live off campus,” and soon enough, I started to believe living on campus wasn't a do-or-die affair. Except that, in my case, at some point, it was.

My small flat was burgled. There was no steady water or electricity. Plus, I didn't like my landlord's children. In fact, we had beef before I left. The whole environment wasn't so peaceful to me anymore. 🙅🏿‍♀️

So, one way or the other, I paid some money, and I found myself staying in the hostel illegally. But I'll give it to you straight: illegal things come with a lot of discomfort. You can decide not to take my advice to heart.

Anyway, I was really happy because staying on campus took a huge burden off my shoulders. But realizing you'd be sharing a room with 16 others isn't something you prepare for. Or is it? Especially if it's your first time. Just seeing this crowd in the evenings made me suffocate sometimes. 😭

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But it was so easy to cover my discomfort with “student life.” However, it dawned on me every now and then, when there was someone interrupting my privacy. There was someone eavesdropping or staring at my face. There was someone looking out for the food I'd eat or the clothes I'd wear. And I certainly didn't prepare for the different shades of personality I'd be encountering in that small room. Omo!

The worst part is, the greatest mistake I made was thinking that I could keep to myself and keep my personality, keep my cool, without being influenced by my roommates. Without being influenced by 16 others in the same room? That was pride speaking because, with time, I was proved wrong.😔

I realized I wasn't who I was before I came into the room. In fact, I did inherit some bad traits. And I'd name some now. 🤧

I learned how to lie. Someone would ask me for a cup of water, but I'd say I hadn't fetched any. Meanwhile, I had two buckets stored behind, stocked somewhere.

I learned how to steal. On a table, I'd see a nice bangle that hadn't been claimed for days, and I'd wear it to class and automatically claim it as mine. Sometimes, I secretly used a roommate's power bank.

I learned how to sleep with the light on. A particular roommate and I hated it then, but most times, we had to shut our mouths for the sake of others.

I learned to be more protective and selfish. Most times, I don't offer help, neither do I ask, because I don't want to be taken for granted. As per “that roommate.”

I learned to accept things from my roommates, like food, Maggi, and water. I just had to if I didn't want to die.

I learned to be more secretive about my life. Before they carry my matter outside.

I learned to mind my business. This remains my greatest personality trait.

I learned not to advise anybody. Except you ask it of me. I believe the mindset of “people know what they're doing” started from here. Make nobody put me for talk.

There are so much more, but listing them isn't my point. It is that, unfortunately, I find it difficult to give up these traits despite not being in those rooms anymore.

You know the way Adam and Eve realized that they were naked in the Bible? Maybe it is my fear that times have changed and the people I interact with, in small and big ways, can affect my life's choices, my personality, and my mindset.

Anyway, as the title says, don't hold me responsible for this gibberish I wrote.

Still. Thank you for reading. ❤️

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You see, the truth is, I was nothing before I gained admission. I simply knew “university” was the next step for me. Nothing beyond. I know some people would tell me not to blame myself because I was rather a young teenager then. But I've seen young people dream from their small places. Maybe, a whole story for another day?

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But when I eventually entered the university as a fresher, sooner and gradually, it felt like the doors to dreams began opening for me. The possibility of surprising myself existed there. In other words, I became a meaningful human being because of the place called “university.” I discovered I could be pushed and push back, and take up something of my own and run with it.

So, when you check the certificates I've acquired, the places I've been, and the people who have called me out, they were all tied to the one place that some people, up until now, think is “scam.” But how can a place, or the people who made me discover writing, who showed me that writing can heal and can make a person, take a fretful young student from a fresher to a coach until I began this university journey? And I didn't know I could stretch and stretch and not, like elastic, break, until I felt the university walls enclose me. And I didn't know there were forces and situations that could challenge me and shift me from my comfort zone.

Yes, University surprised me.

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Unfortunately, a few months to my graduation, I wanted to get out of school so badly and be done with it. I wanted to think of the beyond. But it's so easy to say and think. And it's so easy to find comfort by deceiving ourselves. Because then, I could count my milestones, 1, 2, 3, 4... It is all tied to the academic journey I embarked on as I stepped inside the university gates.

So, while my coursemate and I laughed over her family's behaviour and reaction to her sign-out, I asked myself, what life could I possibly have after school that is ten times better than the one I had here?

What better life could change me and surprise me than the University carefully moulded me for?

And even as I'm writing this, after signing out as a graduate six days ago, the question doesn't go away. It stays. But I think, in about five years, I'd have the answer.

It's just a feeling.

Thank you for reading. ❤️

You know, we are too quick to throw blames at people when they hurt us. Yeah, it's true, they hurt us, and they deserve every punishment or scolding, but I feel we are so blinded by it that we fail to check ourselves too.

Because maybe there were signs that we ignored.

Maybe there were signs we left unchecked, or situations we didn't take notice of.

And that's exactly who I am.

I'm the kind of person who's quick to notice the hurt done to me, my innocence in the matter, and the other person's fault. And I just go on about me.

But never the things I permitted.

Now, let me tell you one thing I feel you should know about me: I dislike inconsiderate people. If you're someone who doesn't consider people's convenience when taking actions, I would consider you "careless" and "selfish," and I would certainly distance myself.

Things like borrowing people's stuff and returning it immediately.

Reading the room and behaving accordingly.

Not intruding on someone's private time or space.

Being mindful of my actions because the other person might get hurt...

This is how I define "considerate."

So, you might use the word "careful," or even "extremely careful," when describing me. But imagine when the opposite of this is what is being done to me. It stays in my heart for a long time.

This week is currently the FYB week for my faculty, and I've been having a great time the best way I can. But towards the end of yesterday, after a whole lot of fun activities, someone showed me what it meant to be inconsiderate, and I really felt bad.

I was calm, but hurting.

I was collected, but never acted.

Instead, I scolded and cursed this person in my heart until I was in a comfortable position to rant to ChatGPT. I guess I needed someone who would take my side and say the normal "It's okay. It's their fault." kind of sentence.

But ChatGPT didn't say that.

In the long paragraph it pasted, I never read any sentence where it directly condemned the person's actions. Instead, it addressed my response to their actions.

I let them hurt me.

I watched them hurt me, and I didn't say a word.

I should have said or done something.

I should have reacted.

At the end of the day, despite the hurt and regardless of who was at fault, the problem remains with me; my consideration for others comes at the expense of considering myself. And that I find so sad.

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Thanks for reading.

But it wasn't grand. I didn't go to the beach or the amusement park, neither did I visit ShopRite or anything. I simply posted a sticker saying, "I'm +1" and a few other photo collages I made with my pictures on Canva.

I posted past 12 a.m. on my WhatsApp status only. Then, a bit later, on Instagram and Facebook. I even forgot about LinkedIn. I posted on Substack Notes when 24 hours was almost gone.

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Though it was a happy day, I also found it exhausting as soon as the date turned to "Monday, June 1" because I knew I would be getting a lot of tags, mentions, reshares, comments, and messages. But while all that was to make my day special, I wished for one thing. I had been wishing for it for a long time. To get a birthday gift from someone. To feel like I mean something to a particular person.

There was a time I considered writing a birthday wishlist and posting it. It isn't something I would do, but there's this kind of pressure when you see your contacts, friends, or acquaintances, who are mostly youths, post about the numerous gifts they get on their birthdays.

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Some would post their wishlists, others would post photos of surprise parties done by their friends, or cakes and special clothes worn. On that day, I would scroll endlessly and mutter, "Awwwn," because I'm filled with admiration and envy.

You see, I've never considered myself to have friends. Maybe acquaintances or beautiful connections. The kind of friend who goes all out for you, buys you things, shares your work, takes photos with you, appreciates you.

I doubt.

I don't have, and I've never had, such a friend.

So, I've never gotten a gift on my birthday except well wishes and prayers.

Except I decide to include that one time in SS3 when I got a bottle of Fanta from a male friend as a birthday gift. That session was the most social session for me.

So, despite being an art student, I was always shuffling between the arts, commercial, and science classes. In each class, I had 10 people who would likely say "hi" to me, 5 who would like me to chat with them, and another 5 who would likely do both.

This guy was the latter. He was a science student who was well-versed in Mathematics. I don't think there was another like him who effortlessly solved mathematical equations regardless of the topic.

He was the only science student who taught himself Further Mathematics and wrote it in WAEC. That's how good he was.

I can't remember how he knew my birthday date, but on that day, he placed a bottle of Fanta in my hands and said, "Happy birthday, Angel." And it stuck in my memory.

We are not close anymore. And while I've begun to feel like I've lost his contact, he remains a big part of my secondary school days.

So, getting a birthday gift on the early morning of June 1st, 2026, was a big surprise to me. For the first time, I wanted to brag about how someone thought so highly of me, remembered me, and how I would be among those thanking people for their gifts and well wishes.

I bragged to my mom.

I bragged to my family.

However, one thing came to my mind after continuously replying to messages.

"Maybe, all I needed the most were prayers and wishes."

"Not receiving gifts or dramatic birthday surprises doesn't mean people don't love me."

"Maybe, I could pray all that for myself and not rely on others."

"And lastly, people who get to receive all those things are their own person, and I am me."

This realization doesn't mean I will no longer yearn for gifts or birthday celebrations. It is just a realization that I am loved, and with a moment's celebration or not, it's okay. And if it's just a bottle of Fanta that could be a heartfelt expression of someone's affection, I'd accept it gladly.

Sorry, I didn't write this post on my birthday. But you could still wish me by following me across my socials. First, here's a little about the creative work I do. ✨

If you've enjoyed reading my thoughts here, I'd love for us to stay connected beyond Substack. 🥹

Come say hello: 🤭

Instagram:

angels_catalogue

LinkedIn:

Angel Afemikhe

Facebook:

Afemikhe Angel

X/Twitter:

Angel Afemikhe

I'd be happy to have you along for the journey. Thank you for reading. ❤️

One time, I told someone that I'm really exhausted. I'm exhausted by school work. By the same thing all over again. The books, PDFs, the same lecturers... it feels like torture. It feels like I've been called to do something new, quite different from what I've been doing for the past 4 years in the University.

You know, I think this has also been part of my troubles. The reason why I appear to be out of it lately. Previously, anything academics would shake me to the bones, and I'd be worried. All over the place. Now, I really don't bother. It seems that way. My mind just keeps drifting to life after school.

Work. Money. Relationships. God.

After a while, MASTERS. When I want to.

In school, I have friends. I've had friends, more like a family. I mean friends that have been with me since the beginning of my academic journey. That is, we met when we were freshmen trying to complete our screening and understand our lecturers, and we have seen the best and worst of each other through these four years.

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However, I've had to question the meaning of our friendship. If what we had is worthy enough to be called “friendship” because there are times I doubted. At times, I've also struggled to define the word “friend,” and then I would give up and decide to accept what we share.

In this friendship, we have lived separately and independently. A week would pass, and we wouldn't hear from each other, and I feel we are simply okay knowing that each one of us is breathing. Not together. In our different places.

There are times when one friend is so occupied by a project that she is too frustrated for chitchats, or when one is dealing with health issues and is rarely bothered by resumption or school activities. As a result, everyone appears to be locked in their own world.

And then, when we get ourselves back, we come together to call ourselves “friends.” We are unapologetically firm in doing so.

We study together, fill the class attendance for an absent friend, eat from each other's pot, hold each other's hands like couples do, go to conferences together, walk on the streets together because that is what we can do. That's all we have ever done.

Nothing extraordinary. Nothing overly special.

And gradually, I've come to terms with it. That it can be just that and still be satisfying.

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Then, this week came with its restlessness. Most of the time, I was absent-minded. That kind where you don't understand your emotions even though nothing appears to be physically wrong.

I would be locked in my hostel room, doing something and nothing at all, toss about for a little bit, eat if there's food, shake my head, take pills in case of a headache, and take a nap which would end in the next thirty seconds.

And silently, I felt like my friends had moved on without me. I was the one stalling. I was the one stuck.

Then, they visited and decided to drag me out to the streets of my school. They said we should take a stroll. In other words, we should leave the comfort of the hostel building which held us. In my friend's voice, I should “wear something” and come out.

I still didn't wear the best cloth nor lip gloss.

But I did, reluctantly, and we stepped into a night of fresh air, streetlights, and shining cars. For the first time, we didn't really talk about academics, our lecturers, PDFs, projects, and whatnots.

We walked in a kind of way. There's a shape for it, but I don't remember. And while doing that, we talked about random things. Our experiences, backgrounds, encounters with people, life generally. Even relationships.

Including those who won't find the love of their life because of their bad attitude.

It was so nice swinging our hips, moving at a slow pace without a worry for class or assignment submission. You know, there's this hurry that comes with academics, and it drains energy gradually.

While we strolled, once in a while, I would look at the light emitting from our hostels. It was so bright it could blind the eyes. Then, I would look at the moon and the stars, paying attention to the sounds of crickets and frogs in-between.

It was blissful. Until it dawned on me that we had just little time to spend together as friends within the walls of the University.

I wondered if we would be able to take a stroll like that again before we officially signed out from the University.

All of a sudden, I thought about the future of our friendship after graduation. And within, I felt a bit of anger and fear. And within, I wished not to complain or ask for more, but treasure every time we share together from then henceforth.

Because maybe we may never cross paths again after graduation. Our houses may be too far to go for a visit. NYSC or a possible leap in our lives may take us far apart. We may soon forget what each other's faces look like.

Our friendship for these 4 years would be put to a test, and we may fail or pass.

So, for each moment we spend together, I want to think about it over and over again, like a memory that would soon fade. I want to treasure it because, out of everything I've achieved, this is one of the few things I'm grateful for.

Ichigo ichie is how I'm feeling today.

And this uncomfortable truth is one that people cry over, hurt themselves over, become sober over, and maybe avoid the world altogether because of, but I’ve just been...there.

There are times when I’ve thought about it, and I’ve asked questions to no one in particular, but that reaction you wouldn’t expect from any human, I haven’t portrayed that.

And while you would say it’s a good thing, I feel it’s a sign of danger. Like something dangerous is gradually building and would be exploding soon.

So, one of these days, I prompted ChatGPT. I described the situation, that is, the uncomfortable truth, and it described three feelings I might be having in regard to it, and among them was “strange calmness.”

This is what ChatGPT had to say:

That “strange calmness” can happen when someone receives big news. Not everyone reacts with panic or tears immediately. Sometimes the mind goes quiet first. Almost like it’s trying to process the weight of everything slowly instead of all at once.

And honestly, from what you said, it sounds like the part that hits you hardest isn’t only the...

And I picked that. Because maybe that is how I feel. Or maybe not.

Right now, I don’t understand this feeling or whatever name you could ascribe to it. I just want one thing: the peace of God. Though, I wonder if I have it or if, when it eventually comes, I’d be able to identify it as the “peace of God.”

Nevertheless, I want to get through this.

Keep rooting for me. ✨

John 14:27 (NIV):

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

Philippians 4:6–7 (NIV):

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding.

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It happened two weeks ago. I resumed school and arrived at the hostel for the first time this semester. I was so anxious because I was going to be meeting new faces and doing all the “getting to know your roommates” thing. But, oh well. I left home and arrived at the hostel.

I met some of my roommates going about their normal activities. And I met a sewing machine.

In my space.

I was surprised. And a bit anxious. Even, I thought it was owned by my bunkmate, but reading the room, I realized it was not.

I was already anxious about the whole idea of moving to a new place and trying to accept that I was going to be staying in a room of about eight people again. I just wanted the owner to move the sewing machine so I could arrange my stuff and settle down.

I didn’t see her, so I moved it a bit. Two hours later, when NEPA showed up, she showed up too.

I had seen her earlier but didn’t register her face, so seeing her take position at the sewing machine was a bit of a surprise to me.

Surprise? She had really long braids on. She had her nails fixed, with long lashes too.

However, she was in my space, in the dead of the night, in a hurry to complete a gown because NEPA could take their light at any time.

She sat down with the unfinished dress on the table. In her words, she had a deadline for the next day: a gown for a wedding. But there had been no light to finish it on time.

Because of my bags and other things in the space, she struggled with her work.

She had to squeeze her body on the floor to iron the dress as she sewed, and she would turn her hand here and there to get the right measurements.

She even ate her evening meal, a plate of Indomie, on the sewing wheel. It was amusing how she stood up once in a while too, to answer customers who came to buy peanuts.

While all these went on, I kept watching her.

Were you waiting for her so you could organize your bag? Partly, yes.

Simply watching? Still yes.

My roommates were really supportive, coming to cheer her up with random gossip and jokes, criticizing the customer’s taste, saying “well done,” and laying hard curses on NEPA.

I woke up at 12 a.m., and she was still on the machine, with her phone torchlight brightly turned on. Light had gone out for God knows how long, but she carried on steadily.

And I wondered if she was anxious too. Of not meeting the deadline. Of her hard work being ruined. Of losing money.

Then I thought of those who would see her on the streets, with all the Gen Z vibes, and wouldn’t know all the diligent work she did, or has been doing, to have the long braids standing on her head and the nails done.

They won’t remember that the hostel isn’t a fashion house, yet she brought in her sewing machine for that period of time to work for her money.

And they would judge her.

Because young people nowadays don’t want to work. Young people nowadays want fast money. And young ladies nowadays don’t work for their money.

I think hard workers are expected to look gloomy. Or have their work plastered hard on their faces.

I think they can wear long lashes, fix nails, and make long braids.

And slay.

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Thanks for reading. ✨

So I ran from you,

Because you were brighter than the bulb in my room,

And you made the atmosphere smoggy and smoky in the morning,

When I needed to fix a thread into a needle.

For you were blinding,

And piercing like spears in my pupils,

So I couldn't see you.

I couldn't praise you,

Nor trace your beauty outside the windows.

But today I see you,

As blazing as you are, I can calm you.

I can face you.

From my other two eyes, I curse you.

If anything, it's been a challenge between me and you,

That I couldn’t win without my third and fourth eyes,

But who ever won ( that's me) could take a picture of me and you,

And your temper too.

So, bringing my face to yours is never impossible,

Just not a regular thing to do.

I will always remember,

That I would need

my eyes and the other two.

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Some time ago, I was downloading a video on an app, and due to the many ads on it, a game was downloaded alongside. It happens often, and I usually delete them without batting an eye. But this time, I decided to check the game out.

At first, I thought it wasn’t something I would like. Then I played once, twice, and then multiple times. I found myself falling in love with it because of its high requirement for critical thinking.

I love the game now. I would have loved it then too. I just didn’t know I would.

Let me give you another scenario. When I was younger, I used to love the sunlight. Everything about it. When I woke up in the morning, I thanked God for the bright sun shining in front of our house. But as I began to feel stressed walking under it, I slowly grew a dislike for it. I wouldn’t use the word “hate,” but that’s just how I feel now. I can cancel a very important appointment simply to avoid the sun.

Right now, I’m working with a client whose story ideas I develop, and whose stories I edit because she barely has the time during the week. But she loves storytelling.

Three years ago, I would never have believed I’d be someone giving professional consultation on storytelling. Never!

If you had asked me then, I might have told you I was incapable of that. That it wasn’t something I could do.

I’ve been reflecting on all these lately, and this question came up. Maybe you could answer it.

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People say we should know ourselves. This includes our personalgoals, and our goals, our wants. But how can we truly know ourselves when we keep discovering new things about who we are?

Today, we love one thing; tomorrow, something else interests us. We may be confident in being called “righteous” or a “saint,” but when we are placed side by side with money, we realize how much greed has been quietly hidden within us.

To me, these are discoveries, and there are many more we will keep having about ourselves.

So, I have this doubt that we ever fully know ourselves. Just as people try to connect with us every day, consciously or unconsciously, we are also reconnecting with ourselves, again and again. Because each day is another opportunity to see what truly lives within us.

Yes, we can find ourselves. But being static. Being fixed in one personality, one position, one way of being, is not something we can ascribe to humans.

We may stay in one place for a while because we choose to. We may even stop exploring. But the moment we give ourselves the chance, the freedom, we move. We explore. And we return changed, every time.

A trader who is doing well but decides he can be more than a trader has discovered something.

A child who says school is no longer for them and ventures into something else has discovered something.

A person who once deeply hated someone but becomes their strongest supporter has discovered something.

An adult who steps on stage for the first time, despite the fear of not winning at all, has discovered something.

These are things you and I may judge because we do not understand them. So yes, I think our lives have many doors, personal to us, and we are yet to discover them all.

Ruin.

Why do you do this to me?

You come like lightning on my forehead,

I can hear you say, “ready?”

But how can I, when I have on my head a basket full.

How can I, when ugly eyes stare at me like I’m a fool,

With each strike, you strike, and my foot pauses,

With each strike, you strike, and my mind stops,

With each strike, you strike, and my sight ceases.

You’re an emergency I don’t wish to hospitalize,

So I throw my basket because I’m scared I’d soon be carried in a basin.

Please, don’t ruin what’s left of me.

Let me see the day just once before my curtains fall.

You cut through the veins on my head.

Veins? I’m not sure I know, but you cut whatever powers my being,

Sharper than a needle sticking in my toe,

Sharper than any human foe,

Sharper than an open tear from a blow,

I crawl to my bed, but it’s sinking,

And I’m sweating,

What are you doing to me?

That I pour water, yet my scream is heard louder,

Please, stop ruining this precious gift,

Which I use to think and imagine the greatest of things.

You’ve left me shattered.

Like a madman, I walk with my hair disheveled.

It’s not like I fought Mortal Kombat,

I simply… filled you with ibuprofen.

Now I can breathe, but the air smells like a disease,

What have you done to me?

My lips are sealed, for the thought of you sends shivers down my…

So I only blink my eyes on my way home.

You’ve ruined the best of me,

And I feel…

More of a vessel than a human being.

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My mother says for someone my age, I think too much. She says the sirens are not always death. Sometimes, they are ambulances. Sometimes, fire trucks. Sometimes, police officers chase yahoo boys who stole what poverty told them to steal. But I do not believe her, because in this country, every sound arrives with mourning tucked beneath its tongue.

In this country, hearts beat like drums, and few can handle the noise.

Outside our gate, Musa the Mallam drags his wheelbarrow each morning with tomatoes that grow smaller and dearer by the week. Yesterday, he laughed when a woman complained of the new price.

“Madam, if ah tell you my problem nau you go think say ah dey lie,” he said.

No one laughed with him.

And then there is Mr. Godwin, the young guy in the one room opposite ours. He graduated two years ago with certificates folded neatly in his drawer, and each morning he irons white shirts not for work but for interviews that never call him back. Last week, I heard him tell his mother over the phone, “Soon, Mummy. They promised to give me a call. His voice cracked like it had betrayed him.

Sometimes, I watch them both and wonder if we are all soldiers in a war we did not enlist for. Even children no longer play in their compounds like normal children should. They sit indoors, half-raised by generators, some whose parents can afford it, solar; and lamplight, learning too early that darkness is the new dawn in Nigeria.

Yesterday, the sirens wailed again. Louder this time. Longer.

People rushed outside. Musa abandoned his wheelbarrow. Mr. Godwin ran barefoot. My mother held my shoulders as though she could protect me from an unknown storm.

But there, at the junction, there was no accident. No fire. No thieves. No blood.

Only a convoy.

Long black cars sped past us while armed policemen hung from the sides, clearing the roads for a politician whose face smiled down at us from election posters already peeling from the sun.

And suddenly, I understood. Nigeria does not have blood in its eyes.

It only watches us bleed.

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However, this documentary delves into the lives of the seven members as they work on their comeback album, which dropped on 20th March, 2026. It was a milestone. It was widely celebrated by their fans, ARMY, as they are called.

I listened to the album, but I only liked three songs at first. Then, as the week went by, I played all the songs on repeat, and I developed a kind of longing. A love that knows no boundaries. For people who aren’t English but managed to produce a significant English album, I found it really unique. Nothing of its kind they’ve ever produced so I decided to watch their documentary.

Unfortunately, I don’t do Netflix, so I downloaded the film on Movie Box. 😅

I wanted to see the process. I wanted to see everything—from how they chose the particular album title, Arirang, and still sang in English, to how they strived to put their soul into the songs because they had been gone for four years and wanted to leave a mark in the hearts of their fans. I wanted to see how they worked towards reconnection, finding themselves in music, together, as young people. And as a group.

And while watching, amidst the chaos, the confusion, the deadlines, one thing they were concerned about was the message the album would be sending to the world, to all those who cared to listen. As the cameraman aired their views, they lamented over the same thing: they didn’t know what the album was all about—the central theme, the message, and how they and their fans fitted into all of it. To them, it wasn’t about producing a hit; it was about what fans should always remember Arirang for.

So, I thought, everything should have a message; otherwise, it’s nothing but a floating balloon. No substance.

Even now, as I type this letter, I keep reflecting on the questions they asked themselves. I’d paraphrase their words:

“What are we as BTS?”

“When ARMY thinks of BTS and their comeback, what do we want them to always remember us for?”

“It’s been 4 years. We have grown. What aspect of ourselves do we want to show our fans? The past or the present?”

Hearing them think deeply about the album, which was still in progress, shifted something in me. At some stages in my career, at one point in my life, maybe I’ve had similar questions too. There’s this level of maturity they displayed—of people who don’t want to give back for the sake of fame, but people who want to find meaning and embody impact through the only way they know how: music.

At the end of the documentary, they still couldn’t find an answer, but they found something that you, I, and every person who listens can interpret, each person getting their own answers. They sent an open message—of love, of sorrow, of maturity, of embracing cultural diversity, of being open to change and still not changing at all, of being local and still global.

Let me tell you something quick:

I thought of starting a poetry series this year, and I’ve been keen on the message. I know I may not have it all together, but I want at least a word that would define my work, but I’m yet to find it.

My fear is that my pieces are seen as just beautiful words. Just like people are taking turns to interpret BTS’ Arirang in order to find its meaning in their lives, I want my work to embody a soul that is definable for my audience.

I’m certainly not BTS, but I’m human just like them, just like you, and I believe that every life, every work, every art should have a message. 🫶

It has a particular name I cannot pronounce,

but I see it at night—its bubbling lights, especially,

and the elderly women, whining their waists on the streets.

But it feels like a place I've never—

It's too far, beyond my sight. Maybe in South East Asia.

Nevertheless, I see with my mind's eye.

If only I could ride on the skies like the ladybird here,

or possibly that fish with a roaring sound,

I could be among the 201 to catch the country's breath,

let it echo in my ears, even though I hate the loud.

This name I talk about is not so sweet to your ear—I know,

but it is one my hormones cannot forget.

When I look up, down, I see myself in their folk clothes,

speaking their language—sweeter than Chinese.

Like a fool, at every turn, I savour kimchi.

Even I dream of karaoke with my gap tooth.

For once, the light is not too light that it blinds my eye,

to see couples, side by side, holding hands because, for them,

heaven is a modern music band.

How I miss the posters on their walls,

designed by Netflix and chill,

and protocols waving for a quick meet and greet.

What pleasure it is to talk about a glory I've never seen.

It is a miracle,

so disheartening and thrilling to the bones—

that this place

I've never been, and

probably never will.

It’s quite a meaningful phrase, used when someone accidentally says something that rhymes.

You know, people tend to think that poets are some kind of special people with a special ability, but this is one of the reasons I love poetry (literature)—we all have “it” in us. It’s just about recognizing it and working on it to be a valuable resource or talent.

I was particularly intrigued by this expression that I had to find out how it plays out in a real-life setting. I remembered a story whose plot I had been trying to organize and develop so that I can write and publish it on Substack.

The story is about a man who couldn’t relay his romantic feelings to his love because he’s nervous in that regard, but when it comes to work and business, he gives an impression of an aggressive person. Before he finally realized his love for her till when he did, he had been documenting his moments with her in a journal.

For instance, if they went out, he would describe her smile when they went on a work trip, the dress she wore for an event, and how it fitted on her body. He would give vivid details of everything and how they made him feel.

Sometimes, he would make a rough sketch of her in the journal because he couldn’t draw quite well.

Eventually, he mistakenly misplaced the journal, and it fell into the hands of his love—the girl who recognizes his initials and handwriting. The man, however, is frustrated by the loss, secretly looks for it, never raising an alarm because he doesn’t want anyone finding out one bit of the content of the journal.

The girl reads it all.

She spent a week re-reading each page like she’s in a daze. She savours each word, that she begins to cry. Coincidentally, she has been drawn to him for a long time, but has been trying to suppress it with the thought that he could never like someone like her.

She knew she should have thought of putting the journal back in place where she saw it, but she then realized it would be all for nothing. He would keep on writing about her while she keeps on pretending like she doesn’t know that he loves her, neither did she find his journal.

So, she left her reply in the same format he did, after his written pages. She wrote to the best of her ability because she knew nothing of literature.

She would smile while writing, choosing each word carefully. When she was done, she returned the journal to his workspace, a place where he could easily find it and not suspect anyone.

He found it. And read hers too.

Eventually, they confessed their love to each other, but the journal gave them the courage. With the journal, they were able to access each person’s thoughts about the other. Looking at the journal, the content, and the sincerity with which they wrote, they were both poets. They just didn’t know it.

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This is a fictional scenario I gave, but what about that friend who keeps comforting you with words like, “You would be okay, not just today,” not realizing the line would fit perfectly in a poem, or a person praying out loud, choosing words carefully, repeating the phrases: oh Lord, have mercy on your daughter, unknowingly shaping a poetic structure. Most of us journal after having a hard day. We break sentences halfway, leaving our thoughts unfinished because we don’t know what to say. Yet, it reads like poetry.

That long message you’re typing, struggling to explain your emotions to a loved one, may accidentally read like a free verse.

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Poetry may be silence. Someone who chooses not to speak but communicates with gestures and glances. It may also be a Mallam by your house that arranges his fruit by colour, creating an order that is visually lyrical without thinking anything about beauty or design.

Sometimes, poetry is in us without us naming it poetry. You never know, you may be a poet and not know it. ✨

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and they dance all through with no rhythmic control,

still shut, but rejoicing in their silence:

of the words they can't speak because the hands did the honour,

of the words they choose to withhold because it's a pat on the back of the past,

of the words that choke the vocal tract,

for they are too heavy to see the light.

Oh Father, your daughter can't speak,

so brimstones won't come falling on her teeth and tongue,

so she wouldn't starve many days,

and her tears be long.

Please grant unto her a perfect song,

and her lips may wander and recover from every hurt.

And those words would be perfumed to her feel and touch,

and she'll blabber heavenly words

until her cup is full.

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Thank you for reading.

And I cried.

It was so rough, like a silent battlefield. No arrows or guns, but an aura that signified poison for a future we haven't seen. These zombies were climbing the ceilings, while others were still far back, probably dragging their feet.

Perhaps they were weak too.

And I thought…

I could be the director of my own movie, so I tried to steer the wheel of the pictures, trying to sneak a peek into each room. Maybe I could find something, or a saviour. Maybe this woman might just win. But there was one that landed on her Honda, and it got me startled, my wishes a little shaken.

And I was sweating. Profusely.

This dream didn't feel like any movie I had watched, or a situation a friend had encountered in their previous life. It didn't feel like me either, because I wouldn't live in a place that seemed so distant from the rest of the world.

So many streets.

So many pathways.

So many shortcomings.

Still, I felt like a lion who became a kitten suddenly. That lion who could tear down one of them, but is now bound or helpless.

And I felt many other things.

But for some reason, I couldn't see the end of the dream. It faded gently, and I barely picked up its pieces to make this post. It was like a blank page even ink wouldn't fill. I don't know why it was shown to me. Nevertheless, I kept on wondering about the people who haven't turned and their way of escape. In fact, I wondered about the fate of the city.

And I checked myself.

I was so beaten on the bed, my pillow rubbing the dust on the floor, my chest yet tightened as it was five hours ago. Then I remembered how I thought about life and its essence, but went to bed feeling empty.

And I am more empty than ever before. Only that I think of those zombies, and that woman, and her loved one, and life some more.

But I do love you. ❤️

So, I want to share a little something, because it would really bother me if I didn't —especially due to the season I’ve been in, and of course, today being Valentine’s Day.

Seriously, I’ve not been all there lately, and it gets more difficult to have it all figured out when life just decides to do its thing. Oh God!

But you see, I think what God does is design people your way to make the burden a bit lighter. Of course, there are those who would make it heavier, but we all know darkness cannot comprehend the light.

In my recent post, I talked about my mom. I think that was the first post she appeared in as the theme, so yeah! You would suppose that she’s my Mom and it’s expected that she’s there for me, but trust me, this past week running into this week, she’s been extra in everything: presence, financial help, care, advice, scoldings…

I’ve loved her more than I’ve loved her ever before. I guess she’s getting the first position in this brief letter of mine.

I think I’m forgetting my friends who held me when I was literally falling on the streets. They walked with me, and in the midst of the pain, I still found myself giggling and laughing. It was terrible, but it was a bit bearable with them. You know what, this week, we had a breakout where we all came forward to point out each person’s mistakes and faults lately. We expressed ourselves, forgave, and at the end, the conversation became a medium to discover a part of our friendship we never knew existed.

I remember the kindness of the man who gave me a lift on his bike on my way to my school gate. Though the music I was listening to gave a kind of comfort, I was sweating profusely as I trekked to the gate. Then this man stopped by and offered me a ride despite the little space on his small scooter. I don’t know why, but I struggled climbing on the scooter because I’ve never ridden one, and we just laughed over it, with him saying I’m an “ajebo.”

He seemed way older, maybe in his 30s. If not, I would have asked for his contact. Just a little way of appreciating the love he unknowingly showed me.

You may ask why I was trekking to the school gate and how far it is. Yes, most times, to cut costs and have a little time with friends, students, despite the distance of their faculties, walk to the gate after lectures. But that day, my friend had an engagement, so I had to walk alone.

And did I talk about this guy who just decided to walk with my friends and I to the gate despite having a bicycle? Got to know he’s a fresher, and we got all chatty about the university, what he should expect, what university life has taught us, and the rest of them.

We were like young people getting to know each other for the first time, and vibing instantly.

How cool.

I mentioned earlier how the past week had been tough for me, so I want to appreciate my pastor, who took time to pray for me physically and over the phone, and my able leader, who has shown so much care in my activities recently.

To me, love should be celebrated every day once we recognize it amongst ourselves. The little moments we spend together, the little care shown to us that could have easily been passed off as cruelty, selfishness, or rudeness—because there’s no entitlement in love. A simple decision to be kind and open by a stranger could make you feel more loved than a little baby.

So today, I’m calling you out. I may not know your name nor anything about you, but the love we shared will keep lighting up my every path. I may not be gifted a cake, a card, or a money bouquet, but I’ve been gifted a memory of a part of you—a part of your personality and uniqueness.

I don’t get to decide if I’d experience your loving once again, but this love, no matter how little and fickle, would stand the test of time.

Thank you.

Tell me about the love you experienced recently. And don't claim you didn't.

With love,

Angel. 🫶

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