Subscribe

See ehn, there is something ridiculously exciting about a new talking stage.

You meet someone, you start texting, and suddenly your phone has become the most interesting object in your possession. You’re checking your notifications every three minutes like you’re expecting breaking news. You reread their messages. You smile at your screen like an idiot. You tell your friends, “I don’t even like him like that,” while simultaneously screenshotting his “good morning” text and sending it to them.

Everything is new.

You’re learning their favourite songs, their weird little habits, how they take their coffee, what makes them laugh, what they were like as children. You’re discovering each other in tiny pieces, and there’s something thrilling about not knowing exactly where it’s going yet.

Maybe this could actually become something.

And that uncertainty is part of the fun.

But then, somewhere along the way, the excitement starts wearing off and a very important question begins to creep into your head:

So… what the fuck are we doing?????

Excuse my language

But Seriously.

How long is a talking stage supposed to last?

Because I genuinely want to know.

Is there a recommended time frame? Is there a handbook somewhere? Do we get an email when it’s time to progress to the next stage?

Three weeks?

Two months?

Six months?

At what point does “we’re just getting to know each other” become “we have been doing this for so long that I’m beginning to wonder if I’m your girlfriend without the benefits of actually being your girlfriend”?

And honestly, I don’t think there’s a universal answer.

Some people need more time.

And that’s perfectly fine.

Not everyone meets someone and immediately knows, Yes, this is the person I want to date. Sometimes you genuinely need time to figure someone out. You want to see how they communicate, how they handle conflict, whether their actions match their words, whether you actually like them beyond the butterflies and late-night conversations.

The talking stage is supposed to help you figure those things out.

But there is a difference between taking your time and taking someone for granted.

Because what exactly are we talking about for six months?

At some point, you’ve probably discussed your childhood, your favourite films, your family, your exes, your fears, your five-year plan, your blood group and the fact that you hate coriander.

What more information are we collecting?

You’ve been calling every night.

You know each other’s schedules.

You know when they’re having a bad day.

You’re sending each other random pictures throughout the day.

You’re flirting.

You’re emotionally attached.

You’re getting jealous.

You’re basically performing the duties of a relationship without actually being in one.

And somehow, if someone asks what you two are, the answer is still:

“We’re just talking.”

JUST TALKING??????? Uche, REALLY????

At this point, you are practically conducting a census.

I think the problem is that we’ve turned the talking stage into this strange limbo where nobody wants to ask the obvious question because they’re afraid of ruining whatever is happening.

“What are we?”

That terrifying little sentence.

Suddenly, perfectly functioning adults become politicians.

“I really like you, but I don’t want to rush anything.”

“I’m just seeing where things go.”

“I don’t believe in labels.”(seriously, I don’t)

“Why do we have to define everything?”

And sometimes, these answers are completely genuine.

But sometimes, “I don’t want to rush” is simply another way of saying, I like having you around, but I’m not sure I want to choose you.

And those are two very different things.

I don’t think the talking stage needs a deadline.

I think it needs direction.

If you’ve been talking for two months and things are naturally moving forward, wonderful.

If you’ve been talking for four months and you’re both genuinely taking your time because you want to build something properly, fair enough.

But if months are passing and you’re stuck in exactly the same place, constantly confused about where you stand, constantly wondering whether they actually want you, then maybe the issue isn’t that you haven’t given it enough time.

Maybe you’ve given it too much.

Because the purpose of a talking stage is to get to know someone well enough to decide whether you want to date them.

It isn’t supposed to become a permanent residence.

And I think that’s what makes the beginning so beautiful in the first place.

There is a particular kind of magic in not knowing yet.

The first few weeks can feel like a tiny universe that only the two of you understand. Every notification makes you smile. Every phone call lasts longer than it was supposed to. You stay up way too late because somehow a conversation about your favourite childhood cartoons has turned into a three-hour discussion about life.

You’re excited to see their name pop up.

You’re curious about them.

You’re wondering what they’ll be like in person, what their hugs will feel like, whether they’ll remember the tiny things you casually mentioned.

There’s a sweetness to that uncertainty.

But eventually, you have to leave the mystery.

Because getting to know someone is exciting.

Not knowing where you stand for six months is exhausting.

So maybe the question isn’t really “How long should a talking stage last?”

Maybe it’s:

“How long should I be comfortable staying in something that has no idea what it wants to become?”

And I think the answer is different for everyone.

Some people will know after three weeks.

Some will need three months.

Some will need longer.

But at some point, there should be a moment when the two people involved stop standing at the edge of the relationship, staring at it like it’s a swimming pool they’re afraid to jump into.

Because you can only “see where things go” for so long before you eventually have to admit that you are the ones deciding where things go.

A talking stage is meant to be the beginning of something.

Not the entire plot.

So enjoy the butterflies. Enjoy the stupid grins at your phone. Enjoy learning someone’s favourite song and pretending you didn’t immediately add it to your playlist. Enjoy the late-night calls, the flirting, the “have you eaten?” texts and that ridiculous little feeling you get when their name appears on your screen.

Enjoy it.

Just don’t unpack your bags and start paying rent there.

Because at some point, somebody has to ask:

“So… are we doing this, or are we just really, really good at talking?”

You both might just be good at talking.

And remember, growing up is hard and that’s okay!

Comment

Subscribe

But genuinely, I was sitting there, minding my own business, when the thought came.

And I immediately thought, This is actually a good idea.

Which is funny because I had spent the entire day trying to think of something to write about.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I opened my Notes app. Nothing.

I stared at my laptop. Nothing.

I even did that thing where you start typing random words just to see if something comes out.

Still nothing.

Then I went to the toilet and suddenly my brain decided to clock in.

Typical.

I think inspiration is just naturally disrespectful like that.

It never comes when you sit down and say, Right, I am ready to be creative now.

No.

It comes while you’re brushing your teeth.

In the shower.

Halfway through a conversation.

When you’re trying to sleep.

While you’re cooking.

On a bus.

Or, apparently, while you’re taking a shit.

And I actually love that about it, because I really really really love taking a shit man.

There’s just Something so… ugh anyways

we tend to think inspiration has to look beautiful.

We imagine writers sitting beside windows with coffee, listening to soft music and having profound thoughts.

Meanwhile, some of our best ideas are born while we’re doing the most random, boring things.

You hear someone say something and think, Wait, that’s a whole article.

You see something on the street and suddenly have a story.

A song comes on and reminds you of something you haven’t thought about in years.

You’re lying in bed at 1 a.m. and suddenly understand exactly what you want to say.

And then you spend the next ten minutes trying to remember it the next morning.

Fucking hell man

I think that’s because we’re not trying so hard in those moments.

When you’re forcing yourself to come up with an idea, every thought sounds stupid.

No, that’s rubbish.

No one would read that.

That’s already been said.

That’s too boring.

But when you’re just living your life, your brain wanders.

And sometimes, while it’s wandering, it finds something.

Maybe that’s what inspiration really is.

Not some magical moment where lightning strikes and suddenly you’re a genius.

Maybe it’s just paying attention to the random thoughts you normally ignore.

The things that make you laugh.

The things that annoy you.

The things you overhear.

The things you suddenly remember.

The weird little observations that make you think, Hmm.

Those little hmms can become something.

So I’m no longer convinced that we need to go looking for inspiration.

Maybe we just need to notice it when it finds us.

Even if it finds us in the shower.

Even if it finds us at 2 a.m.

Even if it finds us halfway through doing absolutely nothing.

Even if, like me, it finds us on the toilet.

Because apparently, sometimes, your brain saves its best work for when your trousers are around your ankles.

So yeah.

And remember kids, growing up is hard, and that’s okay.❤️

There are some things people say that make you wonder if God gave them a mouth before giving them common sense.

“With all due respect…”

Actually, no.

With all due disrespect, please shut up.

Not everything you notice needs to become an announcement.

Not every thought deserves a microphone.

Not every observation requires a reaction.

And not every aspect of somebody else’s life is an invitation for you to provide commentary.

Sometimes, the most mature thing you can do is have a thought, realise it is completely unnecessary, and let it die quietly inside your head.

Yes.

Shut.

Up.

Someone is getting fat?

Shut up.

I promise you, they know.

They have a mirror.

They have clothes that used to fit differently.

They have probably noticed their body before you did.

You don’t need to stand in front of them with your hands on your waist saying,

“Ah ah! You don add weight o!”

Congratulations.

What exactly have you contributed to society?

And Nigerians, please.

We need to have a meeting, Because why is commenting on people’s bodies practically a national sport?

You haven’t seen somebody in six months and instead of:

“It’s so good to see you!”

You say:

“Ah-ah, you’ve really added weight.”

My dear, welcome back to the living.

You could have simply said hello.

And it isn’t only weight.

Someone loses weight?

“Are you sick?”

Someone gains weight?

“You’re getting too big.”

Someone is naturally slim?

“Are you eating at all?”

Someone is curvy?

“Hmm. You’re really big.”

So what exactly is the acceptable human body?

Should everyone just become a perfectly sized rectangle and report for inspection?

Someone has acne?

Shut up.

Please.

For the love of everything holy.

They know.

They have a mirror.

They have probably spent more money on skincare than you have spent on your entire wardrobe.

They have googled things you didn’t even know existed.

They have changed soaps.

They have tried creams.

They have taken pictures of their face under different lighting trying to determine whether their skin is getting better.

They do not need you walking up to them like a dermatologist who graduated from the University of Unsolicited Opinions.

“Ah ah, what happened to your face?”

Nothing happened.

Their skin is being skin.

And sometimes people forget that the person you’re pointing at has feelings attached to the body you’re discussing.

Imagine waking up already insecure about something, walking outside, and someone confirms the exact thing you’ve been trying not to think about all morning.

What did you achieve?

You didn’t fix it.

You didn’t help.

You simply reminded them.

Someone is repeating an outfit?

Shut up.

This one especially kills me.

Because why are you conducting wardrobe audits?

Maybe they like the outfit.

Maybe it’s their favourite shirt.

Maybe they have three shirts and are doing their absolute best.

Maybe they have forty outfits and simply don’t care what you think.

Maybe they are broke.

Maybe they are comfortable.

Maybe they washed it.

Maybe they didn’t.

Mind your business.

There is something so strange about the way we expect people to constantly prove that they are changing.

New clothes.

New hairstyle.

New phone.

New shoes.

New everything.

For what?

To satisfy people who will look at you for five seconds and then go back to their own lives?

Wear the same outfit.

Wear it again.

Wear it next week.

Wear it until the fabric begs for mercy.

Who are you people? The Fashion Police?

And Nigerians…

Ah.

We deserve our own paragraph.

Because Nigerian people can turn an ordinary family gathering into an unsolicited TED Talk about your entire existence.

You walk into the compound.

“Ah ah, Amyy! You don grow o.”

You just arrived.

Please allow me to put my bag down.

“Are you still doing that thing?”

Which thing?

“Your business.”

What business?

“My dear, at your age…”

There it is.

At your age!! Aunty Mary, no provoke me abeg

The most dangerous four words in the Nigerian vocabulary.

At your age, you should be married.

At your age, you should have graduated.

At your age, you should have a job.

At your age, you should have children.

At your age, you should know how to cook.

At your age, you should stop sleeping so much.

At your age, you should…

SHUT UPPPPPPPPP

Perhaps I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Perhaps my timeline is different.

Perhaps I don’t want what you want for me.

Perhaps I’m struggling with things I haven’t told you about.

Perhaps I’m doing better than you think.

And perhaps

just perhaps

you don’t know enough about my life to comment on it.

“I’m just being honest.”

This sentence has excused an astonishing amount of cruelty.

“I’m just being honest.”

No.

You’re being rude.

Honesty does not mean saying everything you think.

I can look at your outfit and think it is terrible.

I can keep that thought to myself.

I can notice your acne and say nothing.

I can notice you’ve gained weight and keep walking.

I can realise you’ve worn the same shoes three times this week and continue eating my food.

This is called self-control.

Not every thought needs to graduate into speech.

You don’t get bonus points for being the person who says the thing everyone else was polite enough not to say.

Sometimes “brutal honesty” is just brutality wearing a nice little blazer.

And honestly?

Some of you aren’t even being honest.

You’re being cruel.

Because there is a difference between telling somebody something they genuinely need to know and pointing out something they cannot immediately change simply because you noticed it.

Not everything is your business.

Someone’s body isn’t your business.

Someone’s skin isn’t your business.

Someone’s clothes aren’t your business.

Someone’s relationship isn’t your business.

Someone’s salary isn’t your business.

Someone’s fertility isn’t your business.

Someone’s lack of marriage isn’t your business.

Someone’s academic journey isn’t your business.

Someone’s financial struggle isn’t your business.

Someone’s family problem isn’t your business.

And sometimes even when it is your business, you still need to know how to speak.

Because being right doesn’t automatically make you kind.

You can be correct and still be a still be a jerk!

You can tell the truth and still destroy somebody with the way you deliver it.

And that matters.

I think we need to rediscover the beauty of shutting up.

Imagine a world where people actually paused before speaking.

Where you saw someone gain weight and thought:

“That’s none of my business.”

And kept walking.

You noticed someone’s acne:

“I hope they’re okay.”

And said nothing.

Someone wore the same dress:

“Good for them.”

And continued your day.

Someone hadn’t achieved what you expected:

“I wonder what they’re going through.”

And minded your bloody business.

What a peaceful society that would be.

Because you never truly know what somebody is carrying.

The person you mocked for their weight might be struggling with their relationship with their body.

The person you embarrassed about their skin might already hate looking in the mirror.

The person wearing the same clothes might not have money for new ones.

The person who hasn’t gotten married might be grieving someone you don’t know about.

The person who hasn’t found a job might be applying every single day.

The person who seems “behind” might actually be fighting battles you have never been invited to witness.

You don’t know.

And because you don’t know, perhaps you should be gentle.

Learn the difference between being observant and being intrusive.

You are allowed to notice things.

You are not entitled to announce them.

Read that again.

You are allowed to notice things.
You are not entitled to announce them.

Your brain can process information without your mouth forwarding it to the group chat.

Not every observation needs public distribution.

Sometimes kindness is simply choosing not to say the thing.

Sometimes love sounds like silence.

Sometimes maturity is knowing that your opinion can exist without becoming somebody else’s problem.

And perhaps before we say something about another person, we should ask ourselves four very simple questions:

Is it true?

Is it necessary?

Is it kind?

And, most importantly

Did anybody fucking ask me?????

Because if the answer to the last three is no…

Please.

With all due respect.

With all due disrespect.

With all the respect I can manufacture from the bottom of my heart

shut the fuck up.

Not because you aren’t allowed to have an opinion.

But because other people are allowed to exist without being constantly reviewed by you.

Let people wear the same clothes.

Let people have acne.

Let people gain weight.

Let people lose weight.

Let people grow their hair.

Let people cut it.

Let people be single.

Let people be figuring things out.

Let people exist without turning their existence into a discussion.

You don’t have to comment on everything.

You don’t have to correct everything.

You don’t have to analyse everything.

You don’t have to make people feel small just because you noticed something about them.

Sometimes, the kindest thing you can give another human being is not advice.

Not criticism.

Not your “honest opinion.”

Just peace.

So the next time you see something about someone and that little voice in your head says,

“Ah-ah, look at this one…”

Tell the voice:

No.

Let it rest.

Let them breathe.

Let them live.

And for once in your beautiful, loud, unnecessarily opinionated life

mind your business.

With love, of course.

And with all due disrespect…

shut up.

Una don make me vex mehnnn

And remember, growing up is hard, and that’s okay.

Toodles.

Comment

Subscribe

There is a particular kind of heartbreak that becomes ten times more embarrassing when your mother finds out about it.

Not because heartbreak itself is embarrassing.

But because mothers have a way of making you feel like you have committed a constitutional offence.

You could be sitting quietly in your room, tears travelling down your face like they pay rent there, and your mother walks past the door.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, Mummy.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m fine.”

She looks at you.

You look at her.

She looks at the phone in your hand.

And then comes the question that can resurrect every ancestor in your bloodline:

“Is it a man?”

Suddenly, you want the ground to open.

Because yes.

It is a man!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh chim.

And somehow, saying it aloud makes the entire situation feel more ridiculous.

You are crying.

Over a man!!

A grown man!!

A man who probably slept peacefully last night.

A man who may have eaten jollof rice afterwards.

A man who is perhaps somewhere laughing with his friends while you are in your room listening to sad music like you are the lead actress in a Nollywood tragedy.

And the worst part?

You know better.

That is what makes it painful.

You know he is not the only man on earth.

You know you will survive.

You know your mother has probably experienced heartbreak before.

You know your friends are going to tell you, “Babe, stand up.”

You know there are approximately eight billion people on this planet.

And yet your heart has decided that this particular human being is the end of civilisation.

You’re a mumu.

We are taught to be embarrassed by heartbreak.

Especially as women, there is this strange pressure to look composed after someone breaks your heart.

You can cry privately, of course.

But don’t let him know.

Don’t call him.

Don’t send the paragraph.

Don’t ask why.

Don’t double-text.

Don’t look desperate.

Don’t let him see that he affected you.

And if you eventually tell your friends how badly you’re hurting, someone will probably say:

“Ahn ahn babe. Forget him.”

As if the human heart is an app you can uninstall.

As if you don’t have memories attached to this person.

As if you don’t remember the sound of his laugh.

The stupid nickname he called you.

The way he used to say goodnight.

The random voice notes.

The conversations that lasted until 3 a.m.

The plans.

The “one day, we’ll…”

The version of yourself that existed when you believed he was staying.

People are very quick to tell you to forget the person.

Nobody tells you what to do with the life you imagined around them.

Because sometimes, that is what you’re actually grieving.

Not just him.

The future.

The possibility.

The person you thought you would become beside him.

The imaginary apartment.

The imaginary holidays.

The imaginary children you absolutely did not discuss seriously but somehow already had names for. ( another mumu behavoir, but go off)

The imaginary “us against the world.”

You are not just losing a person.

Sometimes, you’re losing an entire little universe that existed only inside your head.

And there is no funeral for that.

No one sends flowers.

Nobody wears black.

You just wake up one morning and realise that the future you were so excited about is no longer coming.

So you cry.

And perhaps your mother is right.

Maybe she says:

“Leave him.”

Maybe she says:

“You are young.”

Maybe she says:

“There are plenty of men.”

Maybe she even adds that classic Nigerian line:

“Is he the only man in Nigeria?”

And honestly?

No.

He is not.

But heartbreak has never been a mathematical problem.

You can know there are plenty of men and still miss one particular man.

You can know he treated you badly and still wish he had treated you differently.

You can know you deserve better and still want him.

You can understand that the relationship was unhealthy and still grieve its ending.

Two things can be true.

You can love someone and know you shouldn’t be with them.

You can miss someone and know you shouldn’t call them.

You can wish things had worked out and still accept that they didn’t.

You can be intelligent enough to understand the situation and human enough to still cry about it.

That doesn’t make you foolish.

It makes you human.

Sometimes the tears aren’t even about him.

This is the part nobody tells you.

Sometimes you aren’t crying because you want the man back.

Sometimes you’re crying because you wanted to feel chosen.

You wanted to feel special.

You wanted someone to stay.

You wanted someone to look at all your strange little pieces and say, “Yes. These ones too.”

Maybe you’re crying because being rejected touched something older than the relationship.

Maybe it reminded you of every other time you felt unwanted.

Every time you were overlooked.

Every time you wondered whether you were enough.

Every time someone left.

Every time you had to pretend you didn’t care.

So when this person leaves, it isn’t simply:

“A man broke up with me.”

It becomes:

“Here we go again.”

And suddenly you’re not crying only for him.

You’re crying for every version of yourself that has ever felt abandoned.

That is why sometimes the tears are bigger than the situation.

People may look at you and say,

“Why are you crying this much over him?”

And perhaps you don’t even know how to explain that you aren’t.

Not entirely.

There is something almost funny about heartbreak.

When you’re in love, everything feels poetic.

When you’re heartbroken, everything feels like evidence.

You scroll through old chats like a detective.

“So this is what he meant?”

You examine punctuation.

“He used three kisses here. Now he uses one. Something changed.”

You replay voice notes.

You check his last seen.

You accidentally open his profile.

You immediately close it.

Then you open it again.

“I’m just checking.”

Checking what????????????????????????

There’s no new report on his profile picture, babe.

And then there is the playlist.

Oh, the playlist. Na my group be this.

Suddenly every sad song has been written specifically about you.

You are washing plates while crying.

You’re eating rice while crying.

You’re brushing your teeth while crying.

You’re even scrolling through TikTok and somehow the algorithm has become your enemy.

A random video says:

“If he wanted to, he would.”

You throw the phone on the bed.

“PLEASE!”

And yet tomorrow, you will pick it up and continue scrolling.

Because heartbreak is not always dramatic.

Sometimes it is simply doing normal things while carrying something heavy inside you.

You go to church.

You laugh with your friends.

You reply messages.

You post pictures.

You say, “I’m good.”

And then you get home.

Silence.

And there he is again.

Not physically.

But in your head.

So, does your mother know you’re crying over a man???

Maybe she does.

Maybe she doesn’t.

Maybe you are still hiding in your room, wiping your face before she walks in.

But perhaps one day you’ll understand that there is nothing shameful about having loved someone enough for their absence to hurt.

The shame is not in crying.

The shame is not in missing someone.

The shame is not in admitting that you cared.

We have become so obsessed with appearing unbothered that sometimes we forget that being bothered is part of being alive.

We want to look mysterious.

Detached.

Hard to get.

Hard to hurt.

But I don’t want to become so emotionally invincible that nothing can touch me.

I want to love.

Properly.

Messily.

Terribly.

Beautifully.

I want to be able to say, “This hurt me,” without feeling stupid.

I want to be able to admit, “I miss you,” even if I never send it.

I want to be able to grieve something that mattered to me without needing to prove that I have already moved on.

Because perhaps the goal isn’t to become the girl who never cries over a man.

Perhaps the goal is to become the girl who can cry over a man and still remember herself afterwards.

The girl who can lie in bed and sob and then, eventually, get up.

The girl who can miss him without returning to him.

The girl who can love someone deeply without making them the centre of her existence.

The girl who can say:

“Yes, I loved him.”

“Yes, he hurt me.”

“Yes, I cried.”

“And yes, I survived.”

So if your mother catches you crying and asks,

“Is it that boy?”

Maybe you don’t have to lie.

Maybe you can wipe your tears, sniff dramatically, and say:

“Yes, Mummy.”

And when she inevitably says,

“Ah-ah! For man?”

You can laugh.

Because honestly?

She might have a point.

But she doesn’t know everything.

She doesn’t know the conversations.

The memories.

The little hopes.

The version of the future you quietly built.

She doesn’t know how much courage it takes to let someone matter to you.

And perhaps neither do you.

Until they leave.

Until you break.

Until you cry.

Until you realise that underneath all the jokes, all the Nigerian aunty commentary, all the “forget him abeg” and “there are plenty fish in the sea”— ( there’s no fish auntyyyyyyy)

there is simply a human being trying to understand what to do with a heart that still loves someone its mind has already let go of.

And maybe that is okay.

Maybe you are allowed to be heartbroken.

Maybe you are allowed to be ridiculous for a little while.

Maybe you are allowed to cry over a man.

Just don’t forget to eat.

And please, for the love of God, don’t text him at 2:17 a.m.

Your mother has suffered enough.

And remember kids, growing up is hard, and that’s okay

hi, if you’re reading this, please subscribe. I’ll buy you Fanta.

There are some Nigerian words that don’t need translation because the tone does half the work.

Someone calls you ọmọ alágídí, and you already know you’re in trouble.

It is not simply “you are stubborn.” It carries history. It carries irritation. Sometimes affection. Sometimes disappointment. Sometimes the quiet prediction that you will be a problem for somebody someday.

You hear it when you refuse to do something simply because everybody else is doing it. You hear it when you insist on your opinion during a family argument. You hear it when your mother has explained something three times and you still have questions. You hear it when an auntie tells you what you should do with your life and you have the audacity to say, “I don’t think I want that.”

And sometimes, you hear it long after childhood has ended.

That is the interesting thing about being an ọmọ alágídí.

The stubbornness survives.

Only now, you’re an adult.

Nobody can technically force you to do anything anymore. You have your own money, your own room, your own phone, your own life, perhaps even your own family. Yet somehow, one disapproving phone call from home can make you feel twelve years old again.

Because Nigerian adulthood comes with a peculiar contradiction:

You are old enough to make your own decisions, but somehow never old enough to make the wrong ones without everybody having an opinion.

And perhaps this is why stubbornness in Nigeria is more complicated than we like to admit.

Sometimes it is a character flaw.

Sometimes it is a survival mechanism.

Sometimes it is pride.

Sometimes it is courage.

And sometimes it is simply what happens when a person has spent too many years being told to bend.

https://open.spotify.com/track/32uLRYPFYAjNZGC7rQ6PXA?si=0d4YbceIROePwcE5fbvxXA&utm_source=copy-link

THE NIGERIAN OBSESSION WITH A “GOOD CHILD”

There is an unwritten Nigerian curriculum for being a good person.

Greet everybody.

Respect your elders.

Don’t talk back.

Don’t embarrass your parents.

Listen to instructions.

Don’t question everything.

Know your place.

Don’t be too loud.

Don’t be too ambitious.

Don’t be too difficult.

And whatever you do, don’t make your mother explain you to somebody at church.

A lot of these values are not inherently bad. Respect, humility, consideration and community are important. In fact, one of the beautiful things about Nigerian culture is how deeply we understand that a person does not exist entirely by themselves.

But sometimes, somewhere between teaching a person to respect others and teaching them to disappear for the comfort of others, we lose the plot.

We begin to reward compliance more than character.

The “good” adult becomes the one who doesn’t cause trouble.

The one who agrees.

The one who keeps quiet.

The one who doesn’t challenge family traditions.

The one who takes the job they were told to take.

Marries who they were told to marry.

Lives where they were told to live.

Studies what they were told to study.

And if they are unhappy, well—

“At least you have something.”

There is a particular Nigerian talent for turning endurance into morality.

If you tolerate something long enough, you’re considered strong.

If you leave it, you’re considered ungrateful.

If you question it, you’re disrespectful.

If you refuse it, you’re stubborn.

And so the word alágídí becomes convenient.

It can be used to describe someone who genuinely refuses good advice.

But it can also be used to discipline someone who has simply developed a mind of their own.

WHEN “RESPECT” BECOMES “DO AS I SAY”

One of the most interesting things about Nigerian society is the way respect is often measured through obedience.

You can disagree with me.

But if you disagree with me loudly, you are disrespectful.

You can have an opinion.

But if your opinion contradicts mine, you are proud.

You can make your own decision.

But if I don’t approve of it, you have suddenly become “too independent.”

We say we want people who think for themselves, but often only when their thoughts lead them to the conclusions we already reached.

And this is where the ọmọ alágídí becomes inconvenient.

Because a stubborn person asks questions.

Why?

Why should I?

Why can’t I?

What happens if I don’t?

Who decided that?

What if there’s another way?

Those questions are harmless in isolation.

But in a culture built around hierarchy, they can sound like rebellion.

The problem is that we sometimes mistake authority for infallibility.

Being older does not automatically make someone right.

Being someone’s parent does not mean every decision they make is wise.

Being married does not make someone emotionally mature.

Being a pastor does not make someone incapable of making mistakes.

Being respected in society does not mean you should never be questioned.

And being younger does not mean you are incapable of knowing something an older person doesn’t.

That last one can get you disowned at Christmas, but it remains true.

BUT LET’S BE HONEST: SOMETIMES THE ỌMỌ ALÁGÍDÍ IS ACTUALLY JUST STUBBORN

This is the part we don’t like.

It is very easy to romanticise rebellion.

We love stories about people who refused to conform until they became successful.

We love the entrepreneur who ignored everybody and built a company.

The woman who left the relationship everybody told her to endure.

The artist whose family said it was a useless career.

The person who moved abroad despite everybody saying they were making a mistake.

Once the story ends well, we call them brave.

But nobody talks about the stubborn people whose stubbornness destroyed something good.

There are people who cannot apologise.

People who would rather lose a friendship than admit they were wrong.

People who interpret compromise as weakness.

People who hear advice and automatically reject it because it came from somebody they don’t respect.

People who say, “That’s just how I am,” when what they really mean is, “I don’t want to change.”

That is not conviction.

That is ego.

And ego can wear the costume of independence very convincingly.

There is a difference between having boundaries and being impossible to reason with.

There is a difference between knowing your worth and believing you are always right.

There is a difference between refusing to be controlled and refusing to be accountable.

The mature ọmọ alágídí should be able to say:

“No.”

But also:

“I was wrong.”

That second sentence is much harder.

SOMETIMES STUBBORNNESS IS HOW YOU LEARNED TO SURVIVE

Perhaps this is where the subject becomes less funny.

Because not everybody becomes stubborn because they have always been difficult.

Some people become stubborn because being agreeable once cost them too much.

They said yes when they wanted to say no.

They stayed when they wanted to leave.

They kept forgiving people who kept hurting them.

They followed instructions that made them miserable.

They allowed relatives to make decisions for them.

They allowed partners to define them.

They allowed friends to cross boundaries because they were afraid of being called difficult.

Eventually, something inside them hardens.

And one day they say:

Never again.

That person may look stubborn from the outside.

But from the inside, they are trying desperately not to abandon themselves again.

This is why I think stubbornness deserves more compassion than we usually give it.

Sometimes it is the scar tissue left behind by years of having no choice.

Sometimes the person who says “I don’t care what anybody thinks” actually cares very deeply.

They just cannot afford to let everybody’s opinion control them anymore.

THE FAMILY MEMBER WHO SAYS, “YOU’VE CHANGED”

Every Nigerian adult eventually meets this sentence.

“You’ve changed.” Yes aunty Irene, and?!!!!!!!!

Butttt, Sometimes it is true.

Of course you’ve changed.

You are supposed to.

You have experienced things.

You have met people.

You have failed.

You have grown.

You have discovered yourself.

The problem is that people often say “you’ve changed” when what they really mean is

“You no longer behave in the way I was comfortable with.”

You used to answer every phone call.

Now you don’t.

You used to explain every decision.

Now you simply make them.

You used to ask for permission.

Now you inform people.

You used to tolerate comments about your body, career, relationship, money, clothes, religion, or personal life.

Now you say, “Please don’t.”

And suddenly, you’re proud.

You’re stubborn.

You’re becoming disrespectful.

You’ve forgotten where you came from.

Maybe you have.

Or maybe you’ve simply learned that adulthood means your life eventually has to become yours.

This does not mean family opinions become irrelevant.

It means they become opinions.

There is a difference.

WHY NIGERIA ACTUALLY NEEDS ỌMỌ ALÁGÍDÍ

This is where I think stubbornness becomes almost political.

Not political in the party-politics sense.

Political in the sense that every society is shaped by what its people are willing to tolerate.

Nigeria has a lot of things we have normalised.

Bad systems.

Poor service.

Corruption.

Unfairness.

Gender expectations.

Nepotism.

Silence around uncomfortable issues.

The endless “manage it” mentality.

We are extraordinarily good at adapting to things we should be demanding to change.

Sometimes resilience becomes dangerous when it teaches us how to survive problems instead of solving them.

And this is where we need people who are stubborn enough to say:

No.

No, this shouldn’t be normal.

No, I don’t want to participate.

No, there must be another way.

No, because everybody is doing it doesn’t make it right.

No, because an elder said it doesn’t make it unquestionable.

No, because we’ve always done it this way doesn’t mean we have to continue.

Every meaningful shift begins with someone becoming irritatingly unwilling to accept the status quo.

The journalist who keeps asking.

The activist who keeps speaking.

The writer who keeps writing.

The woman who refuses to shrink herself.

The young person who builds something despite everyone saying it is impossible.

The person who says, “This system doesn’t work,” instead of spending their entire life learning how to survive it.

Sometimes stubbornness is the first stage of change.

BUT STUBBORNNESS WITHOUT WISDOM WILL EAT YOU ALIVE

You cannot fight everything.

This is another lesson the ọmọ alágídí eventually has to learn.

There are battles that deserve your voice.

There are battles that deserve your silence.

There are arguments you need to have.

There are arguments you need to walk away from.

There are people you need to confront.

There are people you simply need to leave alone.

Growing older should not make you less stubborn.

It should make you more intentional about your stubbornness.

You should know what your principles are.

You should know which things are negotiable and which aren’t.

You should know when you are protecting your dignity and when you’re merely protecting your ego.

Because sometimes the strongest thing you can do is refuse.

And sometimes the strongest thing you can do is bend.

A tree that never bends eventually breaks.

But a tree that bends in every direction has no shape of its own.

Perhaps adulthood is learning how to be neither.

THE REAL DANGER IS NOT BEING STUBBORN

The real danger is being so afraid of being called stubborn that you become obedient to everyone except yourself.

There are people living lives they don’t want because they were terrified of disappointing their families.

People in careers they hate.

Relationships they outgrew.

Friendships that exhaust them.

Cities they don’t belong in.

Religious communities that no longer feel like home.

Dreams they buried because somebody laughed.

And they call it maturity.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it is simply fear with a respectable name.

There is something deeply sad about becoming the kind of adult who has an answer for everybody but themselves.

“My mother wants this.”

“My father said that.”

“My family wouldn’t approve.”

“People will talk.”

“What will they say?”

Nigerians can make “what will people say?” sound like a legal injunction.

But people will always say something.

You can live correctly and somebody will still misunderstand you.

You can live badly and somebody will still praise you.

You can succeed and somebody will call you lucky.

You can fail and somebody will call you foolish.

You can stay and they will ask why you haven’t left.

You can leave and they will ask why you couldn’t endure.

At some point, you have to stop outsourcing your life to the imaginary courtroom of public opinion.

SO, BE AN ỌMỌ ALÁGÍDÍ

No GREE SEH!!!!!!!

Not the kind who refuses to listen.

Not the kind who mistakes arrogance for confidence.

Not the kind who destroys good things simply because compromise feels like losing.

Be the kind who knows why they are saying no.

Be stubborn about your dignity.

Be stubborn about becoming better.

Be stubborn about asking questions.

Be stubborn about refusing to participate in things you know are wrong.

Be stubborn about your dreams when the dream is worth the sacrifice.

But remain humble enough to change your mind when evidence changes.

Remain soft enough to apologise.

Remain curious enough to learn.

Remain loving enough to understand that the people who disagree with you are not automatically your enemies.

Because perhaps the goal was never to stop being an ọmọ alágídí.

Perhaps the goal was to become one with wisdom.

There is a kind of stubbornness that closes doors.

And there is another kind that keeps knocking.

One says:

“I refuse.”

The other says:

“I refuse to give up.”

Those are not the same person.

And perhaps that is the strange Nigerian paradox of the ọmọ alágídí.

We need you.

We need the person who will question.

The person who will challenge.

The person who will refuse to accept nonsense simply because it has become tradition.

But we also need you to grow.

Because rebellion without reflection is just noise.

And obedience without thought is just surrender.

So maybe being an ọmọ alágídí is not about having a hard head.

Maybe it is about learning what your head is worth.

Knowing when to lower it.

Knowing when to lift it.

Knowing when to bow.

And knowing, without apology, when not to.

Because in a country that has perfected the art of telling people to manage, sometimes the most important sentence a person can say is:

“No. I think we can do better.”

And so Alagidi, stay wicked, stay stubborn!

And remember, growing up is hard and that’s okay.

https://open.spotify.com/track/1NTTEPMrcMFhD1YUoGrta6?si=qjJUeHxJTPy7DRdkHbEnXQ

If you’re reading this, please subscribe, I'll buy you fanta.

We don’t talk about it enough, the way a single notification can shift our entire mood.

One moment, we’re mindlessly scrolling. Half-present. Half-bored. The next, their name appears, and suddenly… we’re sitting up straighter. Reading faster. Smiling without meaning to.

And we hate it a little.(maybe)

Because we know what that means.

We’re in it.

Not in a relationship. Not in anything defined. Just… in that space. That in-between. That almost-something where nothing has been said, but everything is quietly building.

And the crazy part?

It’s just texting.

Just words.

But it never feels like “just” anything.

Because when two people actually know how to talk?? like really talk, not dry replies, not forced energy, something else starts to happen. The conversation flows too easily. Too naturally. There’s no pressure to keep it going, yet it never dies.

It just… moves.

And then the flirting starts, but not in the obvious way.

Not the cringe pickup lines. Not the overused compliments. No.

It’s in the tone.

The way they say something normal, but it feels different coming from them. The way a simple “you’re funny” somehow lands heavier than it should. The way they respond to you like they’re paying attention, not just to what you said, but how you said it.

And suddenly, you’re rereading messages.

Not because you didn’t understand, but because you’re trying to figure out if that line meant what you think it meant.

And deep down, you already know it did.

That’s the thing about this kind of flirt-texting, it’s not loud.

It’s quiet.

Controlled.

A little dangerous.

Because both of you know exactly what you’re doing… but no one is saying it out loud.

You’ll be talking about something completely random, and then there’s a reply that just lingers. A message that feels like it was typed a little slower. Thought about a little longer.And you pause.

You actually pause before replying.

Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you suddenly care how you say it.

And that’s when you realise, it’s no longer just conversation.

It’s tension.

The kind that sits in your chest when you see “typing…” and then it disappears. The kind that makes you check your phone again, even though you just checked it two seconds ago.

The kind that has you saying “I don’t even like him like that” or “it’s not that deep”…

…but you’re smiling at your screen at 1 a.m.

Be honest.

We’ve all been there.

Staying up later than we should, just to keep the conversation going. Pretending we’re about to sleep, but still replying instantly. Saying “goodnight” and then somehow talking for another thirty minutes.

Because ending the conversation feels like ending the feeling.

And we’re not ready for that yet.

So we stretch it.

We send one more message. Then another. Then something slightly bolder, just to see what they’ll do with it.

And when they match it?

Oh. OH!

That’s when it really begins.

Because nothing is more addictive than someone who can keep up.

Someone who doesn’t miss the hint. Who doesn’t kill the vibe. Who knows exactly how to respond, not too much, not too little, just enough to keep that energy alive.

It becomes a rhythm.

Back and forth.

Push and pull.

You tease, they return it. They say something that makes you pause, and now it’s your turn to respond without breaking the tension.

It’s almost like a game, but not childish.

Intentional.

And the more it builds, the more you start to look forward to them.

Not in a loud, obsessive way.

Just… quietly.

You find yourself checking your phone and hoping, just a little, that it’s them. You see their name, and your mood shifts instantly. Even on a bad day, even when you’re tired, something about them just… softens you.

And that’s when it gets scary.

Because you realise it’s not just about flirting anymore.

It’s about how they make you feel.

Seen.

Matched.

Understood in a way that feels effortless.

And the tension?

It never fully goes away.

If anything, it deepens.

Because neither of you rush it. Neither of you says too much. You stay right there, in the middle, where everything is still undefined, but somehow… more real than things that are.

And maybe that’s why it hits so hard for us.

Because in a world where everything moves fast—where people rush feelings, rush labels, rush everything?? this kind of connection slows things down.

It makes us feel again.

Every message. Every pause. Every “I’ll reply later” that turns into “why haven’t they replied yet?”

It’s all part of it.

The tension.

The curiosity.

The quiet anticipation.

And the truth is… we don’t actually want it to end.

Because once it becomes something clear, something defined

it changes.

But this?

This right here?

The late-night texts. The subtle flirting. The unread messages we pretend not to overthink. The way we both know, but don’t say.

This is the art of it!!

This is the part we secretly love the most.

The part where nothing is official.

Nothing is promised.

And yet somehow…

it feels like something is already happening.

And if, somewhere between these lines, you found yourself smiling at your screen… or thinking of a name you haven’t said out loud in a while, then maybe this wasn’t just an article. Maybe it was a reminder.

Of how it feels to be met. To be seen. To be slowly pulled into something that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

If that feeling stayed with you, if it softened you, even for a moment, stay a little longer, please?

There’s more where this came from.

And remember, growing up is hard, and that's okay.

There is a particular type of silence that only exists between two people who are in love.

Not the peaceful silence.

Not the comfortable kind where two people sit together doing nothing and it still feels warm.

No.

This one is different.

This is the silence where two phones sit on opposite sides of a city, both glowing with notifications that are not from the one person both owners are secretly hoping to hear from.

The silence that says:

“I miss you. But I refuse to lose.”

Because somewhere along the way, modern romance quietly turned into a competition.

And apparently, apologizing first means you’ve lost.

Please subscribe, I'll buy you cold Fanta (wink wink)

Most relationship fights don’t actually begin with anything serious.

Someone’s tone was slightly wrong.

Someone forgot to call back.

Someone said something careless.

Tiny things.

But what follows is rarely about the original issue.

It becomes something far more dramatic.

A test of ego.

Who will apologize first?

Both people retreat like generals planning their next move.

Conversation slows.

Replies become shorter.

Eventually they disappear completely.

Two people who spoke every day now act like strangers performing emotional theatre for an invisible audience.

And the performance is impressive.

Outwardly, both seem completely fine.

Inside, however, things are slightly less dignified.

One person is rereading old chats.

The other is checking if the first person has viewed their story.

One types a message, stares at it, deletes it.

The other opens the conversation window every fifteen minutes, just to confirm nothing has changed.

Both people are pretending they don’t care.

Both people are failing woefully, I mean spectacularly!

Pride is an extraordinary thing sha, and slightly stupid.

It convinces us that silence is strength.

That emotional distance equals dignity.

That the first person to apologize is somehow weaker.

But pride rarely tells the whole story.

What it actually protects is fear.

Because apologizing first means lowering the armor.

And lowering the armor means admitting something uncomfortable:

This connection matters to me.

And that’s where things get dangerous.

Love, for all its beauty, is fundamentally humiliating.

Not in the cruel sense.

But in the vulnerable sense.

To love someone is to give them the quiet power to hurt you.

To misunderstand you.

To disappoint you.

To see parts of you that you would normally hide from the world.

No matter how confident we pretend to be, that level of exposure can make anyone hesitate.

So we protect ourselves.

We act unbothered.

We wait for the other person to make the first move.

We convince ourselves that if they cared enough, they would reach out.

And maybe they are doing the exact same calculation on the other side of the silence.

Two people.

Same longing.

Same stubbornness.

Same fear of looking foolish.

Someone once wrote that nothing is louder than the silence between two people who both want to text first.

It’s a peculiar form of tension.

You hear a notification and immediately check your phone.

Not that you care, of course.

You just happen to be curious.

You see something funny and instinctively think, I should send this to them.

Then you remember.

Right.

We’re pretending to be strangers now.

The irony of this ritual is almost poetic.

Two people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company can spend days avoiding each other… simply because neither wants to lose the pride battle.

And the battle itself is absurd.

Because nobody actually wins.

You either reconnect, which means someone eventually apologizes.

Or the silence stretches so long that the connection quietly fades.

Either way, pride never gets the happy ending it promised.

The truth is that many relationships do not end because love disappears.

They end because ego becomes louder than affection.

Because two people would rather suffer privately than risk a moment of emotional humility.

Because saying “I miss you” feels more dangerous than staying silent.

And so the standoff continues.

Two people in love.

Both longing.

Both stubborn.

Both waiting.

And if you ask either one of them why they refuse to apologize first, they will probably shrug with impressive confidence and say something like:

“Beg?

Please.

I’d rather eat cold eba.”

We like to imagine that lies come from somewhere dramatic.

From villains.

From manipulators.

From shadowy forces whispering terrible ideas into otherwise innocent minds.

It makes the world easier to understand that way. If deception comes from somewhere out there, then we can continue believing honesty naturally lives within us.

But reality is rarely that generous.

The devil may indeed be a liar. But he is certainly not the only one.

And if we are painfully honest, some of the most convincing lies in our lives are the ones we quietly help maintain.

If you're reading this, please subscribe. (I'll buy you Fanta)

Human beings have a complicated relationship with truth.

Contrary to what we might think, we are not always blind to it. In fact, most of the time we see it clearly.

We see the red flags in people.

We notice the contradictions in our own behaviour.

We feel that quiet tension when something in our lives no longer feels right.

But recognition and acceptance are two very different things.

And many of us spend years living in the strange space between them, that quiet territory where the truth is visible but deliberately ignored.

You see denial? Denial is one of the most sophisticated lies we practice.

Not the loud kind.

The subtle kind.

The kind where we notice something is wrong but immediately soften it with explanations.

Maybe it’s not that serious.

Maybe we’re overthinking.

Maybe things will change.

We are not completely blind.

We simply negotiate with the truth until it becomes comfortable enough to live with.

We do this in relationships all the time.

We see the lack of effort.

We notice the disrespect hidden inside small jokes or careless comments.

We feel when affection becomes obligation.

But instead of confronting what we know, we smooth the edges of reality.

We tell ourselves they’re just stressed.

We tell ourselves nobody is perfect.

We tell ourselves love requires patience.

And sometimes it does.

But sometimes what we call patience is simply our refusal to face what we already know.

We do it with our own lives too.

There are moments when we know, deeply and quietly that something in our life no longer aligns with who we are becoming. And we still stay, like a mumu.

A job that drains us.

A friendship that has quietly expired.

A lifestyle that feels more like survival than living.

Truth taps gently on the door of our awareness.

But change is expensive.

So we stay where we are and call it “being realistic.”

Modern life has made deception even easier.

We live in an age of curated existence.

Our timelines glow with soft life aesthetics, polished captions, and carefully arranged moments of happiness. Everyone appears to be thriving. Everyone is evolving. Everyone is “doing amazing things.”

Meanwhile, somewhere behind the camera, we are anxious, confused, lonely, or quietly comparing our lives to strangers on the internet.

But the performance continues.

Because the truth is messy.

And lies photograph far better

Perhaps the most fascinating lie we maintain is the illusion that we are more honest than everyone else.

Other people are fake.

Other people are hypocrites.

Other people are living double lives.

Meanwhile, we overlook our own contradictions with remarkable generosity.

We judge others by their actions.

But we judge ourselves by our intentions.

Convenient, isn’t it?

Hypocrisy rarely begins as something dramatic.

It begins quietly.

A small lie to avoid embarrassment.

A small exaggeration to appear impressive.

A small omission to protect our image.

None of it feels particularly dangerous at first.

But lies have a way of multiplying.

Soon we are maintaining versions of ourselves that are easier to present than the truth.

We learn the language of authenticity without practicing it.

We quote wisdom we do not follow.

We talk about growth while carefully protecting the habits that keep us stagnant.

As someone once said:

“The most dangerous lies are the ones we tell ourselves long enough that they begin to feel like truth.”

Sometimes we even experience brief flashes of clarity.

A quiet thought that whispers:

You know this isn’t entirely honest.

But we push it away.

Because acknowledging it would require rearranging parts of our lives we are not ready to disturb.

And confronting ourselves, TRULY confronting ourselves, might be one of the hardest tasks a human being can undertake.

The strange thing about deception is that it rarely protects us.

It only delays the inevitable.

The relationship eventually collapses.

The dissatisfaction eventually surfaces.

The identity we carefully constructed eventually begins to feel hollow.

Truth has a stubborn nature.

It waits patiently.

And sooner or later, it insists on being acknowledged.

But here is the hopeful part.

Human beings are not only capable of lying.

We are also capable of waking up.

Self-awareness is one of the most powerful things we possess. The moment we begin questioning our own narratives, something shifts.

We notice patterns we once ignored.

We recognise excuses we once defended.

We begin choosing honesty, not because it is comfortable, but because it is freeing.

Because pretending is exhausting.

And truth, even when uncomfortable, is far easier to carry.

The devil may indeed be a liar.

But perhaps the more interesting conversation is about us.

About the small daily performances we participate in.

About the quiet self-deceptions we nurture.

About the identities we construct to avoid confronting who we really are.

Because many of the lies shaping our lives were not forced upon us.

We saw them.

We recognised them.

And sometimes…

we chose them anyway.

Growing up, it turns out, is not just about gaining knowledge or independence.

It is about slowly confronting the illusions we once relied on.

The ones about who we are.

The ones about who others are.

The ones about how life is supposed to look.

And the process can be uncomfortable.

Sometimes even painful.

But maybe that discomfort is not failure.

Maybe it is simply the sound of truth replacing illusion.

And remember, growing up is hard, and that’s okay.

Please subscribe, we’ll buy you Fanta(Wink wink)

We grew up hearing two very different voices.

One whispered: “Your body, your mind, your feelings they’re yours. Explore, feel, live.”

The other screamed: “Abeg, behave! Don’t feel too much, don’t want too much, don’t ask questions or else!”

Somewhere in between, we learned to live with guilt, fear, and secret desires. Even now, in our twenties, those messages echo in our heads, in our relationships, in our friendships, in how we see ourselves.

“You’re too much. You’re too little. You want too much. You feel too much. Na wa.”

Desire Is Human — Not a Crime

We notice it. We crave it. We chase it in relationships, friendships, even in our own thoughts.

Yet everywhere, society tells us: wanting is dangerous.

At home: “Abeg, don’t behave like that.”

At school: curiosity is mocked.

Online: every choice, every feeling, every thought is judged!

The truth? Feeling, wanting, exploring — these are human. Natural. Valid. Nothing about it should make us shrink or apologize.

“Feeling is not a crime. Wanting is not wrong. Shame is learned, not real.”

Self-Worth Isn’t Measured by Approval

We grew up learning:

Follow the rules → worthy.

Express curiosity → spoilt.

Explore your feelings → dangerous.

So we silenced ourselves. We compromised. We became experts at performing “acceptable versions” of who we are, hiding the messy, juicy, real parts.

“We were raised to check our feelings, our bodies, our hearts… as if being human needs permission.”

Shame is Everywhere Omo, Everywhere!!

It doesn’t just live in parents’ lectures or school rules.

It whispers in:

Friendships (“You’re too much.”)

Romantic choices (“You’re moving too fast.”)

Culture, society, or peers (“That’s not appropriate.”)

We internalize these messages until our instincts themselves feel dangerous, until even thinking about what we want feels like rebellion.

“Even when we follow the rules, shame finds us. Always.”

Reclaiming Ourselves

Here’s the thing: our curiosity, desire, and need for connection are not mistakes.

We can want love, attention, affection, emotional connection, without shame. And that’s okay!!

We can explore friendships, romance, intimacy, and still respect ourselves, our boundaries, and our growth.

It’s not about doing more or less.

It’s about understanding, respecting, and owning our experiences.

“Reclaim your body. Reclaim your heart. Reclaim your life.”

Healing From the Messages We’ve Been Fed

We need to Start by noticing:

The guilt that rises when you express desire.

The shame that creeps in when you explore relationships or feelings.

The fear that lingers from upbringing, culture, or society.

Then, give yourself permission:

Permission to feel.

Permission to explore.

Permission to exist fully, without hiding or apologizing.

And do it RADICALLY!

Self-worth is non-negotiable.

Curiosity is human.

Connection is valid.

To the Generation Feeling It

We are messy. Curious. Guilty sometimes.

We are also intelligent, intuitive, and deserving of love, including love for ourselves.

The world will try to police our feelings, our hearts, our desires.

But our growth, our healing, our self-respect???those belong to us!

Every time we reclaim what we feel, every time we trust ourselves, every time we honor our needs, we push back against shame.

“Curiosity is not a crime. Desire is not a mistake. Self-worth is non-negotiable.”

and you’re not……. “Dirty”

Remember, Growing up is hard… and that’s okay!

Did you subscribe?? If you did, 1 Fanta for you!

There is a particular kind of tension that lives in the space between a sent message and a delayed reply. It hums quietly. It makes people reread their words. It convinces grown adults to negotiate with themselves. And somewhere in that silence, a second message is typed, erased, rewritten, and then abandoned.

This is not really about texting.

It’s about fear.

We live in a culture that has quietly turned emotional restraint into virtue. Where composure is mistaken for confidence and detachment is framed as self-respect. Where wanting clarity is seen as desperation, and following up is treated like a moral failure. Double texting didn’t become “cringe” on its own it was sentenced there by a generation terrified of being seen wanting.

From a distance, the rules seem reasonable. Don’t appear too eager. Don’t send another message. If they wanted to reply, they would. Wait. Be cool. Protect your dignity.

But up close, these rules unravel.

Because the truth is that most people who resist double texting aren’t calm. They’re anxious. They’re rehearsing restraint as if it were strength. They are not unbothered, they are bracing.

The second text isn’t withheld because it lacks value. It’s withheld because of what it might reveal.

Care.

And care, in this era, is risky.

“But why do i have to hold back? Why can’t I text you twice in a row? I love you”

Modern dating and communication reward ambiguity. Silence is romanticised as mystery. Delayed responses are read as power. The person who needs less appears to hold more leverage. So people perform indifference not because it feels natural, but because it feels safer.

In that safety, something subtle happens: sincerity begins to feel embarrassing.

Wanting a reply becomes a private shame.

Double texting is no longer a neutral action, it becomes a referendum on your emotional worth. It is no longer “I had something else to say,” but “I hope I’m not doing too much.” It is no longer about communication, but about self surveillance.

And so people wait, stupidly so to say.

They wait for the other person to validate their importance. They wait because they’ve been taught that initiative equals insecurity. They wait while conversations die quietly, not because there was nothing to say, but because pride sat heavier than honesty.

This is where emotional cowardice enters, not as insult, but as diagnosis.

Emotional cowardice is not the inability to feel. It is the refusal to be seen feeling.

It is choosing silence over vulnerability even when clarity would serve both people better. It is hiding behind rules instead of asking direct questions. It is mistaking avoidance for boundaries.

The culture of anti double texting thrives on plausible deniability. If you don’t send the second message, you never risk rejection. You never have to confront the possibility that the other person is uninterested. You can tell yourself a cleaner story: “If they wanted to, they would.”

But that story often protects the ego at the expense of truth.

Because sometimes people do want to, and still don’t.

People get distracted. People overthink. People assume they have more time than they do. People misread signals. People mirror restraint. Two individuals can be equally interested and still lose momentum because neither wanted to look eager.

In those moments, the second text is not desperation. It is leadership.

It says: I am willing to be clear even if clarity costs me something.

That willingness is rare. And rarity is often mislabelled as weakness before it is recognised as strength.

To be clear, not every double text is healthy. Repeated messages that ignore explicit disinterest are not vulnerability, they are boundary violations. But a thoughtful follow-up? A continuation of a conversation? A check-in rooted in curiosity rather than control?

That is not cringe!!

That is communication, hello???

The discomfort people feel around double texting reveals something deeper than etiquette. It reveals how much emotional labour has been offloaded onto appearances. How often people are taught to manage how they are perceived rather than say what they mean.

So many interactions stall not because interest is absent, but because courage is.

Courage to say, “I enjoyed our conversation.”

Courage to say, “I’m still thinking about what you said.”

Courage to say, “I’d like to continue this.”

These statements are not needy. They are specific. They are grounded. They are human.

The irony is that everyone claims to want honesty, but few are willing to be honest first. Everyone wants effort, but few want to risk offering it without guarantee. Everyone wants depth, but many are unwilling to wade past the shallow end of self-protection.

So we produce a culture where people perform aloofness and call it standards.

Where restraint is praised, but connection is starved.

“Omo, make I no go double text am, make e no be like say I love am too much” Lmao

Where the unsent second text becomes the quiet graveyard of potential.

If an article feels like it is speaking directly to you at this point, it is likely because you have been here. You have typed the message. You have hovered over “send.” You have told yourself a story about dignity. And you have chosen silence, not because it felt right, but because it felt safer.

The question is not whether double texting is cringe.

The question is why vulnerability feels like something to be embarrassed by.

Because in a world obsessed with control, the bravest thing a person can do is be unmistakably sincere.

And sometimes, sincerity looks like pressing send again.

So yeah, send it. If you perish, you perish.

Well…. I hope not

And remember, growing up is hard, and that’s okay!

Promises that if we studied hard, prayed hard, and played by the rules, life would reward us. We were told adulthood meant freedom, stability, and choices. Instead, many of us stepped into a world that feels heavier, louder, and lonelier than we imagined.

But here’s the truth,

we are not broken. We are not lazy. We are not lost.

We are simply…….awake.

The Pressure We Carry

We scroll through curated lives and wonder why ours doesn’t match up. We hustle, grind, and “build brands,” yet many of us feel like we’re running on an endless treadmill, sweating but not arriving anywhere. It’s exhausting, this constant demand to perform, to impress, to “be someone.”

But let me tell you, you already are someone.

Not because of what you’ve achieved, but because you exist with potential the world hasn’t seen before.

The Silent Struggles

Young adults today wrestle with things our parents didn’t have language for, mental health battles, identity questions, the suffocating noise of social media. We’re told to “just be grateful” while carrying burdens that would crush anyone. Gratitude matters, yes. But so does honesty. And the honest truth is, it’s hard.

And yet, look at us. Still here. Still breathing. Still dreaming. That’s strength.

Why We Refuse to Settle

This generation is restless, not because we’re entitled, but because we know there’s more to life than survival. We refuse to settle for jobs that steal our joy. We refuse to settle for relationships that drain our spirit. We refuse to settle for silence in a world that desperately needs our voices.

And maybe that’s our gift, we are the generation that keeps asking why.

Why must things be this way? Why can’t we change it? Why not us? “ why can’t we be like other children”? - in paw paw’s voice.

The Call

So here’s the invitation:

Take the weight you carry, and instead of letting it crush you, let it build you. Slow down. Pay attention. Build habits that align with the life you actually want. Surround yourself with people who see the fire in you, even when you feel dim.

Because history isn’t written by the most comfortable, it’s written by the most courageous. And that’s us!

We are tired. We are searching. We are bruised.

But we are also brave, unafraid, and unshakably alive.

We are the generation that refuses to settle.

And remember, growing up is hard, and that’s okay.

Dear Gen Z,

Do you ever feel guilty for resting? Like, the moment you lie down to take a nap, your brain whispers, “Oya, get up, people are hustling.”

That’s the curse of being young in Nigeria. Hustle culture is in our bloodstream. If you’re not chasing one side gig, you’re chasing another. If you’re not on Instagram seeing people ‘blow’, you’re on Twitter watching motivational speakers tell you that billionaires wake up by 4 a.m. to drink green tea. Meanwhile, you haven’t even slept since yesterday.

The Rest We Were Denied

Growing up, we were taught productivity, not peace. You couldn’t just lie down doing nothing, mama would shout, “So you’ve finished reading your books? You’re now relaxing like somebody that has arrived in life?”

From childhood, rest became guilt. Joy became guilt. Even small enjoyment like meat in the pot required strategy, risk management, and repentance.

Why We Don’t Know How to Pause.

Now as adults, we don’t know how to stop. We feel lazy if we’re not “hustling”. We feel unserious if we’re not learning one new skill. We even carry guilt into love: “How can I be thinking about romance when dollar has reached ₦1,800?”

But truth is, rest is rebellion. In a system designed to wear you out, pausing to breathe is protest. Laughing with friends is resistance. Loving someone deeply is countercultural.

So maybe this is what I’m trying to say

Don’t let this country trick you into thinking your worth is tied only to struggle. You are not just what you produce. You are not just your grades, your hustle, or your achievements.

Sometimes, the most radical thing a Nigerian youth can do is lie down, close their eyes, and say: “I deserve to exist without proving anything today.”

That’s not laziness. That’s healing.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how we’ll survive long enough to build the future we keep dreaming of.

With love,

A fellow tired-but-still-dreaming youth

And remember, growing up is hard, and that's okay!

Follow us, Abeg?🤲🏻