Last night I was talking to someone dear to me. We were talking about anger, and what happens when you’re angry with someone you love. I said something that, as soon as I heard myself say it, felt like it was about much more than the conversation we were having:

“When you’re angry at someone you love, it doesn’t change how you feel about them. They’re not necessarily the problem, and you’re not necessarily the problem either. Sometimes, the problem is simply in the middle of you. And the love doesn’t go away.”

Their response was : “there will be plenty of angry moments between two people who love each other. What matters is choosing to stay, and doing the work to find your way back to each other.” I haven’t stopped thinking about that, mostly because I have wondered whether anger and love can coexist.

I have been angry with God. Not the polite kind of anger that is a good testimony later. The kind that comes from grief, that asks questions you don’t know how to take back. The kind that looks at the person you loved most, watches them disappear from this world, and then wonders what exactly God’s love is supposed to mean.

I know what it is to love someone so deeply that losing them feels like losing a part of the architecture of your own life. I know what it is to believe, that God loves even more deeply than that. And she loved Him too. So what do I do with the fact that He didn’t save her?

But lately, I’ve been thinking about love differently. The kind that stays when staying is difficult. The kind that sees you clearly — your softness, your fears, your contradictions, even the ways you sometimes get it wrong — and doesn’t immediately turn away. The kind that doesn’t confuse a difficult moment with a reason to leave, but chooses to have the uncomfortable conversations, understand each other a little better, and find a way back. The kind that allows for anger, disappointment, silence, uncertainty. The kind that doesn’t require you to be perfectly faithful to it before it remains faithful to you.

I’ve been listening to Cory Asbury’s Reckless Love differently, too. A lot of songs exist about the love of God, but none quite describe it like this one. I learnt how to play it in 2017 and my life has never been the same. (Okay, too dramatic, lol.)

But the song talks about “the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God.” Love you don’t earn, but that is continually given to you. Unconditional, continuous, present, almost annoyingly persistent. The opposite of the version of love I learnt growing up.

My older sister would say often, “We were not taught what love is, but we were taught what it’s not — and that’s all we need to know the kind of love we deserve as adults with control over our lives.”

That’s part of why I’ve struggled so much with the idea of God’s love. I learnt to understand love through its limitations. Through what could be withdrawn, what had to be earned, and the things you had to get right to remain deserving of it. So a love that simply remains can feel almost impossible to comprehend.

What does it actually mean for love to be reckless? There is something frightening about it. To be seen clearly and still have someone move toward you is beautiful, but it also means allowing yourself to be known well enough to be hurt. It means giving someone the opportunity to disappoint you. It means knowing that loving someone does not come with a guarantee that you will never lose them.

Grief makes you particularly aware of this. Once you have lost someone you love in a way you had absolutely no control over, you love more cautiously. You keep one foot out the door, avoid needing anyone too much. You convince yourself that if you never let yourself become completely attached, you can never be completely devastated. But that isn’t really love, is it?

At some point, loving someone means accepting the possibility of loss. Not because you expect it, but because you understand that loving another person means allowing them to matter to you in ways you cannot always protect yourself from. This is where human love has begun to make me think about God again. Because I’ve been looking for a kind of divine love that proves itself by preventing pain. A God who loves me should save the people I love. A God who loves me should make the story make sense. A God who loves me should spare me from the kinds of losses that rearrange my entire life.

But human love is teaching me something I don’t particularly want to learn: sometimes love cannot save you from pain; it can only be present in it. And that doesn’t make love less powerful. That might be what makes it reckless. Because what if the most reckless thing about love isn’t that it saves us from everything that can hurt us, but that it continues even after it knows exactly how much there is to lose?

I think about my mother often when I think about this. I think about how much she loved life. How deeply she loved the people around her. How much she wanted to be here. And I think about how cruel it felt to watch someone who loved living so much have to leave it. There is no version of that story that makes sense to me. I still don’t know what God’s love was doing in those months. I don’t know why it looked like loss instead of rescue. I don’t know why a God who could have changed the ending didn’t. I’ve spent too much time thinking that if I could just understand why, I would know how to trust Him again.

But faith isn’t always the return of certainty. Sometimes it is simply refusing to close the door completely. Being angry and still talking to God. Questioning Him and still reaching for Him. Not understanding Him and still leaving room for the possibility that He understands me. I don’t have to pretend that losing my mother didn’t change the way I see God. It did. I don’t have to make my grief beautiful before I can bring it to Him, I can bring the anger too.

That is the thing about reckless love. It isn’t necessarily love that prevents the terrible thing from happening. It is love that doesn’t disappear when the terrible thing happens. That is what God has been doing with me all along. Not waiting for me to become certain enough, to stop being angry, or to make sense of my grief. Just waiting.

Finding God again isn’t about finding my way back to the person I was before my mother died, or recovering the faith I had before everything changed. It is learning that I can have questions and still have faith. I can grieve and still love. I can be angry and still reach. I can know that loving someone means giving them the power to hurt me, and still choose to be known, to stay, and to find my way back.

And that is the most reckless thing love can do — not promise that it will never hurt, but ask us to love anyway.

Love (in irony),

Fanii.

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time grounding myself in moments; simply existing.

For someone whose mind is always racing, who is constantly moving from one thing to the next, this has been a sharp departure from who I am. I used to be the liveliest person in every room. There was always somewhere to go, something to do, someone to call. My days were full, my mind even fuller.

These days, I’m such a dead guy, lmao. Not in a sad way. Just quieter and less eager to fill every silence but more willing to sit with it.

Life has a way of slowing you down by force, and for me, it came with loss. I’ve had to press pause on many things—habits, plans, people, even versions of myself I thought would last forever.

The other day, a friend said, “You’re not as excited about ……. as you used to be,” and I sat with that for a while.

He was referring to something I’ve always told everyone is my life’s purpose.

For the longest time, I was so consumed by that singular vision of my future that I left little room for anything else. Every decision pointed in its direction. Every version of myself existed in service of it.

Then life interrupted.

Multiple things happened at once, and suddenly the future I’d been sprinting towards no longer felt like the only thing that mattered. It’s funny how quickly your perspective changes when you’re forced to confront what is fragile.

The goals are still there. The ambition is still there. But they no longer occupy the entire room. For the first time, I can see a life outside the one I’d spent years obsessing over.

The biggest shift for me over the last 6 months has been learning how to simply be, without filling every gap with noise or movement. Just be.

Most weekends now look different. I intentionally step away—no plans, no pressure, no need to be available. About 48 hours of silence, mostly to myself. I go offline, my phone stays on DND, and I allow myself to exist without interruption, to return to myself, and live slowly.

I’m still reachable when it matters, the people who need me know how to reach me. But I’ve learned to protect time that doesn’t belong to anyone else.

And tbh? something has shifted. Peace feels less like a dream and more like a practice.

I’m not entirely sure what the future holds, but I’m certain of one thing: I will be successful. Not because I know exactly how it’ll happen, but because I’ve now learned that success was never tied to one path. The details may change, the destination may evolve, but the constants remain the same.

I’m hardworking and driven. And whatever I choose to build, I’ll give it everything I have.

But for now, I’m learning something simpler.

How to be.

Fanii.

Lately, I’ve been engaging in a lot of side-quests; weight-lifting, boxing, locc’ed my hair, tattoos, even a new career direction; but I’ve taken a break from my current life’s mission of not killing myself, to write about something I’ve been thinking about — and something I think you should also think about.

There’s something I’ve noticed: people lack consideration.

It’s present in how we treat others, and I find it absurd that this basic human decency is slowly fading; or are there just more terrible people nowadays?

Someone loses a parent, cracks dark jokes to cope, and we don’t feel the need to check in properly — we just assume they’re fine because they “seem okay,” as if grief has a uniform.

You date someone, and decide the best time to break up with them is on a big day, or when they’re already at their lowest, in the meanest way possible, because “I need to get it off my chest and over with.” I’ve seen this repeated over and over, once in my own life and with friends. (Someone once did it to me on a very big day, and I’ve never really gotten over how it stripped the meaning off what that day was supposed to be, or seen the person the same.)

The wildest part is that people don’t even pause. And it’s not always cruelty — sometimes it’s sheer thoughtlessness; a lack of that small, necessary step where you consider how your actions land on someone else.

And I’ve been trying to understand why.

Are we all just more self-centered now? Or is everything around us teaching us to be?

We’re constantly in a rush. Everything is urgent. Everything is “now now now.”
Respond. React. Move on.=]\There’s barely any space left to sit with anything — feelings, thoughts, even other people.

So instead of responding with care, we respond with convenience.
What’s easiest. What’s fastest. What gets us out of discomfort the quickest.

And consideration requires pausing — stepping outside of yourself for a second and asking, “how does this land on the other side?” But that pause is becoming rare. Because pausing means sitting with someone else’s pain, delaying your own relief, or being uncomfortable a little longer.

So we quickly choose ourselves. Not always in big, cruel ways, but in small everyday decisions where we could have been softer, but weren’t.

And over time, those small decisions shape who we become. A little less patient, gentle; a little less willing to carry anyone else’s weight, even briefly.

And that’s how consideration starts to disappear, until it’s no longer something we expect from each other.

And maybe the bigger question is: what is this doing to all of us?

People are more guarded now, quicker to withdraw, less willing to open up, because you don’t really know how someone will handle you.

It shows up in how we second-guess sharing things, how we downplay our feelings, how we start expecting less from people just to avoid disappointment.

The more we experience thoughtlessness, the more we adjust to it.

We become less expressive, less trusting, less willing to extend the empathy we’re missing.

And then it becomes a cycle.

People are inconsiderate, so you harden, become a little less considerate.
And before long, everyone is just… managing each other instead of actually caring for each other.

And that’s not how things are supposed to be.

We’re not meant to move through life constantly adjusting for a lack of care. We’re supposed to feel that people will meet us with thoughtfulness. And when that’s missing, everything feels a little heavier than it should.

Anyway, I hope you take a moment to pause, reflect, and become more intentional about considering other people. I’m learning to do the same — to be more mindful and apply consideration daily.

Here’s a song I currently fw:

Love,

Fanii.

Happy Easter to you, if you believe in it.

Growing up, I didn’t really hear the words “I love you” — neither said to me, nor said around me. I think our parents’ generation, or at least the environment I grew up in, understood acts of service more than words of affirmation.

I knew my mum loved me through what she gave up. I saw it in the things she let go of to be present, and in the comfort she denied herself so I could have a better life.

That’s what love looked like for me for a long time — sacrifice expressed through action, not language. This is why I hardly say “I love you” to anyone, but I will do everything I can to show it.

And that shaped how I receive love too.

Growing up on unspoken love, means you don’t always recognise it when it’s spoken. Words can feel foreign. You trust effort more than expression, sacrifice more than sentiment.

So even when someone says “I love you,” a part of you waits for proof. Not because you don’t want to believe them, but because your definition of love was built in silence, not speech.

And this is why I consider Easter the most important Christian event. It’s my most-rated.

That a man’s entire purpose was to live and die for people he didn’t even know. He left a form where he existed in utter supremacy, took on the form of a lowly human, and gave himself up for the salvation of others; some of whom mocked him and wished him death in the most degrading manner.

I need you to sit with this.

I trusted my mother’s judgment as a child. I followed her everywhere, ate what she ate, and believed her when she said Jesus died for me. Despite my struggles with faith and religion, one idea has remained: HE DIED FOR ME. That’s the kind of love that never wavers.

But maybe the deeper question is what that kind of love asks of us.

Not in a religious sense, but in a human one.

During one of those inevitable crash-outs grief brings, I found myself wishing it had been me who died instead of her. It was partly from a desire to disappear from life, and an inability to imagine life without her. She was fuller of life than I ever was, and itt made so much sense to me.

Someone once told me, “your grief, and your willingness to take her place in a place you know nothing of, is all I need to understand how deeply you loved her.” It stayed with me

But then one of the last times I heard her voice, she was praying — asking that whatever harm might come to her children should fall on her instead.

If love is willing to give itself fully, even to those who may not understand it, like Christ, then what does it ask of us in a world that is impatient, distracted, and self-preserving?

It asks us to slow down and choose people more carefully. To be gentle where it is easier to be careless, remembering that people carry more than what they show.

Not grand gestures or perfection, but steady human care; the kind that doesn’t treat people as inconveniences.

Because in the end, love is not only what we believe in, but what we practise in the small ways we move through each other’s lives.

(A song that perfectly describes the love of Jesus; one I’ve carried with me since I was little (my mum loved Women of Faith so baddddd))

Love,

Fanii.

It’s been a minute. A part of my brain hates routine, while another part needs it to survive. So whenever something feels too routine—like I have to do it—I just… change it. That’s my system; and yet, paradoxically, I really, really love order. . This is why I took a break from this newsletter; it was starting to feel like an obligation. Anyway, that’s not why we’re here.

Something age gives you is experience; and experience gives you lessons you know better than anyone else because you’ve actually lived them. You literally evolve in real-time. One of the recent lessons I’ve been learning is the ability to not hold on to anything—people, emotions, feelings, tasks… the list goes on.

It’s funny—one of my earliest pieces here was about letting go, and how difficult I found it. Now I let go easily, without looking back. Funny how life works like that. The things we think we need to cling to—people, moments, even feelings—often have an expiration date we don’t see coming.

In a way, I feel like the universe was slowly preparing me for this. Early last year, I dealt my first industry heartbreak as an exec; I had to let go of a project I’d given my all. I remember M.I said to me,

“There’d be many more, and you gotta learn to put in your all, and detach when it’s time”.

At the time, it felt almost impossible to imagine, but I survived.

Then September came, and my mum passed. The three days I spent in the hospital with her before she left were a physical, and painfully real lesson in letting go. When she fell ill in January, I swore to all my friends that I was ready for whatever would happen. Eight months later, I realized I wasn’t ready at all. Those final moments hit harder than anything I could have prepared for. I cried so much in that emergency ward, spoke to her about how I felt, and even then… I didn’t say all the words that would capture all the feelings I’ve carried since then.

“The heart is a guesthouse; people come and go.” - Rumi

You start to realize that people, experiences, even emotions, are visitors—they arrive, stay for a while, and then leave. They aren’t yours to keep—which, I suppose, is why we don’t all die at the same time. The more we resist that flow, the heavier life feels. But when we accept it, even heartbreak and grief can teach us something profound: that love is presence, not possession.

This is also why I no longer get upset over things or hold grudges. Everything is transient in my opinion; the only thing permanent in my earthly sojourn is my purpose. Everything else—people, feelings, success, failure—comes, teaches, and leaves.

All of this comes down to one simple idea: hold loosely, but love fiercely. Love people, pour yourself into projects, chase your dreams—but don’t clutch so tightly that the beauty of the moment slips by. Appreciate what’s here, let it teach you, and when it’s time to release, do so with gratitude that you lived that experience, not regret.

People often tell me they see the passion and dedication I bring to my work. I’m simply grateful for the gift and talent the universe has given me to reach my purpose—and that gratitude translates into love for what I do. Presence is key: in the love you give, in the lessons you receive, in the fleeting moments that make life what it is.

So here’s my little challenge for you this week: notice what’s in your life right now. Hold it, cherish it, love it… and then let it go when the time comes. That’s how we make space for what’s next—and maybe, just maybe, we live a little lighter along the way.

Here’s a song for your playlist, I’ve had it on repeat recently:

Love,

Fanii.

It’s been a minute since I wrote to you. I think I’ve been a little afraid to sit with my thoughts — or worse, give them meaning — which is essentially what writing does for me. But today, the thoughts got too loud to keep cooped up in my head, so… here we are. Me, sitting on the cold floor of my apartment, writing this. You, somewhere else, reading my thoughts.

I’d felt a deep, creeping sadness coming on days before Christmas, so I asked all my friends to leave me alone that day. I switched off my phone and stayed in bed, my mind running in circles until sleep finally took over. And mercifully, I SLEPT. I’d caught the flu days before, and the medication left me drowsy, so sleep wasn’t hard to find.

Christmas was my mum’s favourite holiday. She thrived in it. She bustled. Multiple market runs. Hours in the kitchen. Bowls of food prepared early in the morning and distributed to everyone she knew — neighbours, friends, friends of friends. Nobody escaped her Christmas spirit.

Even when work pulled me away from home, she still found a way to make sure Christmas reached me. A call. A package. Something. In 2023, I was working and traveled to KD on the 26th for a show M had, with my team; she sent us bowls of food she cooked that morning. M and Uduak constantly talk about that labour of love till today. Last year, she made me eat some “Christmas food” at my apartment, before I hit the road to Abuja for work, even though she was pissed I didn’t “eat with family”.

I got a Christmas gift every other year from my mum. This year, I didn’t get one. And it hit me hardest because, honestly, she’s essentially my only present family. Without her, it feels like my roots have been quietly severed. Christmas, the holiday that had always meant warmth and togetherness, now feels hollow.

I didn’t want to perform gratitude or cheer. So I sat with my feelings. Nursed myself back to good health. It’s hard coming to terms with the fact that my life might always be like this. It’s hard not speaking to her, or hearing her throw a tantrum because I’m working on Christmas, like last year when I had to travel on the day itself.

I miss her so much. And it hurts harder because I shouldn’t be this sad, should I? It should be easy to move on in months, or weeks, without making it my entire personality, right?

I’m learning that grief has no timeline, learning to let the absence sit beside me without demanding it disappear.

This Christmas wasn’t merry. Not a bit. Not with her laughter, her endless gist, or her bowls of food. It was un-merry. Cold. Still. Quiet. Some pieces of joy aren’t here anymore, and I’ll never get them back. That’s my version of Christmas this year — quietly acknowledging what’s missing, and carrying on anyway, because what else is there to do?

Writing this for the ones who spent Christmas in new cities, away from family or loved ones. For those who spent it grieving, heartbroken, sad, or empty. This is for people like me.

How did you spend your Christmas? Write back to me, please — I’d really love to hear.

Here’s a song that reminds me of warm Christmases:

Love,

Fanii.

A friend bought me this cap some days ago from Akunna. Everybody say, “thank you Fanii’s friend.”

Anyway, this cap had me thinking about something (my thinking cap, hehe): how fast memories fade from our minds. As someone who only recently started taking pictures and making videos of the people in my life, this realization hit me long before I got this cap, but it came back to me recently.

I’ve realized that moments we think are permanent—random unplanned hangouts with friends to eat amala and sit by the water-side, late nights at Jay’s Diner or Norma after socializing with the music industry, late-night talks, small jokes—can disappear if we don’t capture them, or even just pay actual attention. The faces, the laughter, the little quirks… they’re all pieces of someone’s story, and one day, they might be gone from memory.

That’s why I’ve started being a little more intentional. Not just with taking pictures or videos, but noticing. Really noticing. The way someone smiles when they’re telling a story, the way their voice changes when they’re excited, the little habits that make them them. These are the things that stick, the things that make a memory feel alive.

I found a very goofy picture of my mum and me from 2020, and I remember the exact day, and how that picture came to be. She may be gone, but there’s something to hold that moment in time. As someone who hardly took pictures or videos of her—simply because she didn’t always want a camera in her face—these few I made are what hold me together these days.

I want to do better now. Intentionally sticking cameras in the faces of my friends and loved ones, while also enjoying the moment with them; balance. It’s not about creating a perfect video or image but about preserving the ordinary, the messy, the real. Someday, I want to look back and remember not just the big moments, but the tiny ones that actually mattered. And maybe, if I do this enough, someone else will remember me too, even if just for a little while longer.

Sometimes I worry about fading from people’s stories, not because I’ve done anything wrong, but because life moves fast and memories slip. I don’t want it to happen.

That’s why I’m writing this. A reminder to myself, and to anyone reading: show up, pay attention, hold onto the little things. Laugh too loud, take the photo, send the message, remember the joke. This is how we stay in each other’s lives.

Don’t forget me. Not the Fanii who hates cameras in her face, but the messy, quiet, goofy, real me. And maybe, in saying it, I’m giving you permission to take pictures and videos of me, and say the same.

Because at the end of the day, it really is about presence. That’s how we survive in memory.

Here’s a song I’ve had on repeat for a long, long while. Let it remind you to treasure the moments with people.

Love, Fanii.

Have you been tried in the fire? Lmao. I’m writing this while listening to one of my favourite artists ITW. But really, have you been tried by the fire? That’s what dealing with grief feels like.

Music?

It’s a month since my mum died. I miss her.

The crazy thing about this whole thing is—I still don’t know how to grieve. I’m a solution-oriented person. I like to fix things, to find the end of every tunnel. It’s how I survive everything—work, people, school, life.

But this feels different.

I went through the motions: wake, keep, burial—moving like I was outside myself. It was easy to, with all the noise, people to talk to, things to do. I barely cried except on the day she died and the day we buried her.

Then I came home last week—to silence and solitude—and it started to hit in bits.

I used to talk to my mum at least once a day, morning or night. I don’t even like phone calls, but I made space for her, my siblings, maybe a friend or two. My mum was consistent. Even on days I didn’t feel like talking, she’d call, and I’d pick up. Our conversations were sometimes short, but she just wanted to hear my voice.

If you know me well, you’ve probably heard me say, “Let me ask my mum.” She had answers for everything. The sicker she got, the fewer our calls became.

Something you should know: I’m both anxious and avoidant. So I avoided processing anything by pushing it all to “after the burial.”
Now that it’s over, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just have this constant nagging pain in my chest, that won’t go away.

It feels like being in a black hole with an exit somewhere—you just can’t see where. Everyone says, “You’ll get through it,” and “Time will heal,” but I hate darkness, and I hate not knowing.
And the one person who always pulled me out of that black hole isn’t here anymore. It still feels weird alluding to this.

So now I live in loops.
I see her when I close my eyes—sometimes in a coffin, sometimes smiling, a memory from a happier time. Then I wake up tired and sad, go to the gym, come back to my remote 9–5, push myself till I crash by 9/10 p.m, sleep four or five hours, and wake up again to the same dreams. Rinse, repeat.

With the little sleep I’m getting, I’m constantly cranky and on edge—shrinking from people more each day, and living in my head a lot.

I MISS HER. And this is only the beginning.

She won’t be here for our milestones. Won’t see me achieve the dreams I told her about. Won’t be here to hold her grandkids. Won’t take those trips we planned. I feel like my life has gone off course suddenly; and outside being physically functional at everything, I don’t know how to come back to life.

It breaks me to think about it all.

I’m documenting every part of this as much as I can, because hopefully it helps me get through this whole thing. If it starts to feel too heavy for you, I won’t fault you for unsubscribing.

Trying to breathe through it (and failing woefully),
Fanii.

My mum died.

The Sunday before, I wrote here asking you to pray she’d find peace. For once, I think He heard and answered. People say the greatest act of love is letting go. That Sunday morning, she’d asked me to help her walk. I didn’t realize that in saying she’d walk, and in telling her it was okay to rest, I was giving her permission to leave.

Even in death, my mum thought of her last child. I’d said early on that I didn’t want to be there when she passed. She died peacefully in her sleep early Monday morning, after I had gone back home and she was at my uncle’s. If we were still at the hospital, I’d have been alone with her — and maybe more traumatized than I already am.

People keep asking how I feel. Honestly, I don’t know. All I feel is despair. I cried the whole of Monday, the day she died, but my eyes have been dry ever since. My friends are worried. They think I’m holding back my grief. Truth is, I can’t find my emotions. The moment I walked into the house and saw her blanket outside, a coldness settled in my heart. After crying with strangers and extended family members who barely knew her, I left for the comfort of my own home. It felt wrong, communally mourning my mum with people whose knowledge of her barely scratches the surface of who she was.

You’re probably wondering how I’m doing. I don’t know. I know I’m scared — of what, I can’t tell you. I slept on the floor of my friend’s apartment all last week, barely spoke to anyone, and turned off my phone because the calls became overwhelming. If you think I’m well-known, it’s nothing compared to how many people knew Mummy Steph.

Months ago, I told my brother that I felt like my anchor to life was slowly withering away. That’s the root of the despair I feel now: the uncertainty of the future. I can’t see beyond the day I’m living. The only future terms I know are “after the burial.” I’m not in denial; my mind has just blocked out my ability to feel this fully.

I miss my mum. I’ve missed her since the moment cancer became real in our lives. She would tell people I’m her best friend; and while she wasn’t mine, I was hers.

Yesterday was her wake. People spoke glowingly about her, and I cried for them. Like I said, I haven’t processed how I feel. Sitting in this car, taking her home, I have so many questions.

Is she safe? Is she scared? Did I hold her hands enough to comfort her as she went home? I feel like I failed at protecting her. Does she have a new best friend now? Someone she can talk to endlessly, tell her dreams and her never-ending stories?

I met her friends this morning. I want to gist her about it, about how they gave me money in envelopes. I have gist for her — how will I tell her now? I spoke to her casket and she didn’t laugh or speak back. They said she heard me, but did she? My mum is a yapper. She should talk to me.

I’m not sure how to end this. But this morning, they brought my mum out in a casket. And I doubt my life will ever be the same

It’s been a month since I wrote. Life’s been moving so fast I sometimes wonder how I still find time to breathe. Thankfully, God made that one automatic.

I’m writing this from the emergency ward where my mum was admitted after her health took a turn for the worse, and now she’s here permanently.

I tweeted this because I still can’t wrap my head around this entire experience. I have a graphic mind, and every scene is permanently etched there. The IV drips, her face, her groans — they play on loop. Sleep barely comes anymore, and when it does, it’s full of nightmares.

We’ve gone from exchanging “I love you” and arguing about whether I’d do NYSC, to her legs not moving, to losing her reflexes. A few days ago, I walked in and she didn’t recognize me. Couldn’t speak either. I’ve been sleeping in the hospital since Friday, and early this morning, she managed to say the most she’s said to me in days: she told me she was afraid. I held her hand, swallowed my tears, and told her not to be. She asked me to hold her, so I did. Then she said she was tired — and for the first time, I told her it’s okay. That I wouldn’t be mad if she stopped fighting. She deserves rest. She asked for music, so I made her a playlist of her favorite songs.

I’m no stranger to loss, but watching it happen in real-time is breaking something in me. My mum hates pain. She hates needles. Her hand is swollen from the IV. I’ve cried so much I’ve lost count. Every groan, every muffled scream, every time I have to clean her up — I cry. My mum had beautiful skin. It’s gone now.

This is different because my mum is the keeper of my childlike joy. She’s the only person I can be the carefree kid I once was with. Everywhere else, I have to be grown — the strong one. But now the roles have reversed. I’m the caretaker, and I feel like I’m failing woefully at it. Yesterday, I couldn’t even turn her over by myself. She chuckled, and I laughed too — through tears. The laughter stayed in her throat, did not reach her eyes.

Through all this, I haven’t felt alone. My people have been so kind. I posted about needing eye patches for these eye bags and got flooded with offers. Friends have come to sit with us, brought food, drinks, sent money, stayed on the phone with me until I fall asleep. No one’s tried to invalidate what I feel — well, except one man I was talking to who said I was “unbelievable” for how hard I was taking this. Jesus be a fence.

I don’t know how to wrap this up. So I’ll just ask you to say a prayer for my mum — that she finds peace and relief from pain. I don’t need the prayers, because part of me feels this is a karmic debt I owe, some punishment from a past life or one to come. And maybe that’s okay.

I’m writing this so I’ll remember exactly how it felt, in real time, when she’s no longer here.

Here’s a song by Fridayy I’m really feeling at the moment:

Love,

Fanii.

It’s almost 12am and I need to get this off my mind. Long read, but stay with me.

I don’t hate God. I’m not an atheist. I believe He’s real—and maybe that’s the problem. If He’s real, then He sees everything, and He lets it happen. I don’t know how to forgive Him for that.

The first time I lost faith was in 2019. I’d gone on a run, and my music stopped for a while. Lost in my thoughts, I pondered on how I’d been feeling like I was drowning in something I didn’t choose.

I’d always been deeply entrenched in the church—choir, lay readers, name it. Even when we relocated and my mum started hopping churches, I joined the choir in each one. Fear was the main language—everything was a sin. I’m quite rebellious, so it tore me apart to keep identifying with that system. That day in 2019, I shut God out. Convinced myself He didn’t exist. Wore the atheist label for a while. I also stopped running, lmao.

Then 2020 came. Three friends died. That sealed it—I told myself it was all a myth. And yet, in the middle of that year, I found my purpose. I felt alive, but also… empty. Something was missing. My friends stopped trying to talk to me about God. I mocked the idea of Him: “God doesn’t exist.”

In early 2021, I tried going back to church because of peer pressure. It felt fake, performative. Then I tried to take my life. I can’t even explain why. Like the other time in 2018, I woke up the next day as if nothing had happened—as if the substances I’d taken never touched me. Slowly, I became convinced there was a purpose for my life, that something higher was keeping me alive. I really should have died that day.

Same year, my mum reported me to a distant cousin who’s a pastor. He invited me to his church, promising not to force me back if I wasn’t feeling it. I never left. I’d found God for myself. Built a relationship with Him.

But last year, I started questioning again. One bad situation after another, I still held on—until the start of this year. You’d think by now I’d be used to pain, but this year has broken something in me. I got so angry at God. I don’t even have the kind of relationship with Him my mum does, so how could He let this happen to her? If He’s all-knowing, why let it get this far? Is He just… cruel?

The past eight months have turned me into an angry woman. Not raging anger—more like irritation laced with disbelief. I don’t doubt God exists, I just don’t trust Him. He’s let too much happen. He’s let people I love get hurt, while He stood by and did nothing. And the pastors who keep saying “God will take the cancer away” or “This is for His glory” only make it worse. Because I’ve watched her go through so much pain, and he’s still chasing glorification?

I haven’t been to church since January, and I doubt I’ll go anytime soon. I don’t even pray with conviction anymore. I say the words, hoping maybe He still cares enough to notice—but so far, life feels like a mess; a real shit-show.

So no, I’m not atheist. I just don’t feel safe with God. And when I don’t feel safe, I withdraw access. I still talk to Him, but half the time it’s me shouting, “Where were You?” I don’t know if He calls that faith or blasphemy.

What I do know is this: if He wants me to trust again, He’ll have to meet me here. Not in church, or in verses I already know. But here— in the raging silence, in the thick of the fight.

Fanii.

I know I disappeared for a while. Truth is, I’ve been fighting for my sanity. Writing this now feels a little like coming up for air. Someone who subscribes to this newsletter reached out to ask if I was okay, and that small act meant a lot. So here I am.

Music? (Found this song after years, off a playlist a friend made me)

This past month has been brutal. I’ve been in a tug-of-war with depression,(as usual; at this point, I can be described as a depressed person, lool), stumbling through mistakes, drowning in emotions I couldn’t name, and trying to find my way back to myself. I even signed up for therapy again—something I hadn’t done since last year. But I couldn’t keep up. The virtual therapist I tried was far too expensive. So here I am, piecing myself back together with self-help and sheer willpower. Like my friend Rakim says, “therapy is more expensive than madness.”

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I made a new resolution: to kill hope before hope kills me.

Hope has been both my comfort and my undoing. I’ve learned that it often sneaks in as expectations—sometimes tiny, sometimes massive—and when those expectations crumble, the fall is devastating.

I was talking to someone. They never opened doors for me, never offered me anything when we hung out, no real effort. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. But I still clung to hope, convincing myself otherwise. When I finally faced the truth, I walked away. And yet, my chest ached for days because of the picture I had painted in my head. The hope hurt more than the person ever did.

Or my mum’s illness. Every stage has dangled a thread of hope in front of me. I grab it, hold on tight, only for it to snap and leave me bruised and heartbroken all over again. Over and over, I’ve cycled through hope, disappointment, numbness, and then hope again. Each time, it drains me a little more.

And then there’s me. Four friends, in separate conversations last week, told me I have a hyper-independence problem. And they’re right. I don’t trust anyone else to carry me, even when I’m tired. I’ve built walls out of childhood trauma, fear of embarrassment, and mistrust. I only lean on myself. One friend said this is probably why my love life suffers. He wasn’t completely wrong. But the truth is—I’d rather carry the full weight of my world than risk being dropped.

Because every time I’ve dared to lean on someone, every time I’ve let myself believe that maybe this time someone could hold me without dropping me, the hope crushes me instead.

So, I’ve decided: no more hope. I’ll put in the work, live in the moment, and take things as they come. No expectations. No fantasies of what could be. Just reality, as it unfolds. Maybe it’s self-protection. Maybe it’s numbness. Maybe it’s survival.

But for now, it’s keeping me standing. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

Love,

Fanii.

Early this morning, I had a conversation with my friend Nuel. We both admitted we’ve been thinking about suicide a lot lately. Chill—I'm not going anywhere just yet. It’s just been a thought, lingering. I joke about how it’s our turn to be adults and everything suddenly feels harder… but I’m really not joking.

Some music?

Lately, I’ve been waking up wondering: What’s the point of going through the fire just to come out refined? What’s the use? Isn’t the artist just a narcissistic prick, constantly glorifying pain? Especially when there are people who somehow skip the fire and still come out whole.

Anyway, I think what’s holding me back the most is my mum. If I go, two people would be buried. Even though she doesn’t have much time left, taking away even a minute of that time would feel selfish. Wicked, even. I think that’s what love is—consideration, no matter how twisted.

I rarely say “I love you.” I rarely hear it too. But I don’t mind. I’ve always believed that expression—showing up, showing care—is the greatest act of love.

Right now, I’m going through something that has me incredibly stressed and sad. Normally, I’d call my mum—she knows someone in every city, and would fix this in an instant. But it would stress her out, so I’ve kept it from her. I’ve told my siblings. My friends have all stepped up to help me figure it out. That, in itself, is love.

I’m reminded of a newsletter I read yesterday. It said: “giving up or settling is selfish. Cowardly.” And honestly? I’m too proud to settle. I BELIEVE IN MYSELF AND MY ABILITIES, DIE! That might also be what’s keeping me here.

But this fire—this fire burns. I scream in agony at least once a day. I’m convinced this is rock bottom. My mum is the person whose judgment I trust the most, so this morning, I picked up the phone. I wanted to ask for help… prayers… anything. But the moment I heard her voice, I stopped myself. I didn’t tell her.

And that moment felt like a preview of what life without her would be like. Wdym I can’t tell my mum about this?

Still, like the tattoo on my arm says: “Don’t give up.” I don’t believe it today—the fire burning me won’t let me—but I’ll dry my eyes, fix a smile on my face, and get to work.

With love,
Fanii

PS: If this resonates—even a little—reply me. Tell me how you’re doing. I’d really love to know. No pressure to be deep. A “me too” or “same here” is more than enough.

We don’t have to do this alone.

I’ve been overwhelmed—struggling to collect my thoughts, forcing myself too function, and holding up every other part of my life I couldn’t afford to let slip. But I’m writing now, partly to process things, and partly to leave myself a trail—words that can hold my. hands if everything else fails. Today, I have no. motivation or jokes for you, I really just wanna vent.

I went home to see my mum. Also, I went because I was burnt out—from Lagos, from the chaos of the music business. I love what I do, deeply, but it drains me sometimes.

The last update I shared, my mum was undergoing chemo. But a few weeks ago, they told us she needed surgery to take out the tumor. They also warned, “it looks like it has spread.” I remember the exact moment—Friday afternoon, just before a meeting. That day broke something in me. Since then, I’ve just… kept going. Showing up to work, smiling when I need to, moving like nothing’s wrong—because if I sit still too long, the thoughts swallow me whole.

Last week was supposed to be the surgery. But it had spread too far, so they stopped.

There are so many reasons I’m sad. I have dreams for my baby girl—of soft life, ease, comfort, and good health—when everything in my life aligns.

Cancer is wicked. Watching her shrink, watching her battle pain she didn’t ask for—it’s heartbreaking. My mum is soft. She doesn’t like pain. I also have wounds—some from her—that I always thought I had time to heal from. I always believed we’d find our way back. And maybe that’s what hurts the most: feeling like time is slipping through my fingers.

I find my mind refusing to reconcile the image of her now—frail, darkened, bald—with the woman I grew up admiring: healthy, light-skinned, vibrant, with a head full of hair. It's like I’m watching my memories and reality fight it out, and I’m stuck in the middle.

I keep hoping this is some sick dream I’ll wake up from.

I kept running from the truth until last Tuesday. Before leaving town on Wednesday, I went to see her. And we finally talked—really talked.

I told her how I was avoiding everything because I couldn’t reconcile the woman in front of me with the woman I looked up to as a child. I told her how helpless I feel, how painful it is to not be able to fix this—me, the fixer. I told her how much I need my mother right now, in this messy, grown-up stage of life, where I’m figuring out how to survive, and nothing feels certain. How I’ve struggled this year, putting up a brave front, with the consistent pain in my chest. I told her my blood pressure spiked because of constant worry.. I wept through it all. Deep, ugly crying—the kind only your mother can hold space for.

She held my hands. Cried with me. Wiped my tears. Prayed for me and blessed me. And in that moment, I was her baby again. Her last born. Her final gift to the world.

I’ve never doubted that she loves me. Through every disagreement, bad decision, or moment of silence—that love has been the one constant. But now, it feels like something I’ve always known is slowly fading. And I can’t stop it. I don’t think I’m okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be okay.

I’m scared. I’m scared I’d be alone when she’s gone. I’m grieving things that haven’t fully happened yet. And I don’t know how to prepare myself for any of it.

I usually tell myself to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel—but this time, I can’t see one. I’m scared to hope. Every time I have, my heart has broken all over again.

So I’ve told my friends: I need help. So I’ve opened up to my friends. I can’t keep myself afloat on my own. I need my people—my community. And I’ve asked them for one thing: help me hold on to normalcy. Even when I go quiet. Even when I disassociate. Laugh with me. Tease me. Hold my hands like you usually would. Help me stay grounded and tethered to joy.

I might be inconsistent here. I’m struggling to show up for anything or anyone. But if you’re reading this, please know—I’m still here. I’m trying.

And if you’ve been going through anything similar, I hope you’re held too.

Love, Fanii.

PS: I cried while writing this. Forgive any errors. I just needed to let it out.

This one’s short—just a quick note from someone who had to grow some serious courage this past week.

I found myself doing things that required heart (and balls, tbh). So I thought I’d share a few lines I whispered to myself to push through. Maybe you’ll use them too:

“What’s the worst that could happen?”
This one holds my hand often. Because really—what’s the absolute worst? A rejection? Getting aired? Okay. We move. I sent an important email last week, and was aired. Did I die? Nope. We’ll jam at the top and they’ll eat their actions I’m convinced. 🙂‍↔️

“What if it’s meant to work, and my fear is holding me back?”
I hate regrets. Especially the kind where I know I got in my own way. This one reminds me to go for it. Just in case I’m standing between me and something beautiful, or beneficial to my growth.

“They take a shit just like you.”
😭😭 A personal favourite. Copped this one from Morse. When I need to approach someone way above me, no matter the power or polish—mother nature is the ultimate leveler.

“You’re a big girl now.”
God forbid anybody says I cowered in fear. My mum would be stressed. History-makers weren’t timid. If I want to etch my name in the books, I’ve got to do the hard things.

Now, the twist? I have anxiety, I’m shy, and I’m very introverted. Wild combo, especially considering the role I occupy at work and the life I lead. I constantly have to get in uncomfortable positions, have difficult conversations, and pitch. CONSTANTLY. But it is what it is 🙂‍↔️

Sometimes, I still give up sha—after at least one try. But that’s only like 1% of the time. I forgive myself for that too.

Hope last week was kind to you, and that this one’s even softer.
How do you face the hard things? Drop a note—I’d love to know.

Here’s a song I’m totally feeling atm:

With love,
Fanii

I’ve had quite the week.
Chaos at work. Burnout. Exhaustion.
Then I watched a movie where one of the two main characters finds out she has cancer… and DIES.
Yeah, I cried for hours. (IYKYK) Lmao. But that’s a story for another day.

Anyway—this week, two separate people, tried to shrink my dreams—and shrink me.

Now, I already battle with anxiety and self-doubt from time to time, but one thing’s for sure: nobody is allowed to speak limitation into me or my dreams. There’s no mountain too high to climb. I can be anything I want to be.

First, an old friend rang me at 1am on one of those insomniac nights. While we were catching up, he asked: “When are you going to leave the music industry?”
I laughed, confused. In his words, “Women don’t build great personal lives in it or get happily married there.”

In that moment, I thought of all the badass, happily married music execs I know. Women holding down homes and running empires. Then came the real kicker:
“You can’t have it all—unless you go international. And even that will take a long time.”

I asked him, “Have I ever given you the air of someone who was gonna stop within the confines of Nigeria?”
He went quiet and wished me well. The irritation I felt? Instant.

Let’s not even get into how this same person has had multiple opportunities to put me on, but always gate-kept—waiting for me to keep crawling back for crumbs. And me, being soft-hearted, still pick up his calls once in a while. Something I probably need to rethink.

The second incident was more personal. Someone close to me called at 8am. I didn’t pick up—my day had started at 6am with back-to-back meetings, and I had a deadline I was struggling to meet.
They sent a voice note after: “You’re feeling big now, when you’ve not gone anywhere. What happens when you start making 25 million naira, ehn, madam?”

I knew they just wanted to gist. I’d have called back later. But that 25 million naira comment had me livid.
Because, let’s be real, 25 million naira can’t even buy the yellow Range Rover I want. And I will get it.

People like this exist around all of us. Those who try to shrink your dreams—whether out of jealousy, mockery, ignorance, or hidden bitterness. But I’ve learned to block their voices out.

Whenever I feel discouraged, I remind myself why I started this journey 6 years ago.

I told a friend yesterday: “If I really want something—or someone—nothing can stop me from going for it or them.”
It’s one of the truest things about me.

And just last week, I said to another friend: “Your vision was assigned to you ALONE—not your friends and family. Nobody else can see it exactly how you see it, regardless of how you explain it to them. Focus on that vision, no matter how tough the winds get or the discouragement.”

Sometimes we find people who walk with us. Sometimes, we walk alone.
Thank God for taurin kai (Hausa for “strong head”) that keeps us going even when it’s lonely.

So if you don’t remember anything else I’ve ever said to you, remember this:

Your dreams are valid. You’re not crazy. You’re just called.
And one day soon, we’ll be at the top together.

With love,
Fanii.

Appaz, you people like bad decisions and love. Else, how do you explain that the letters with the highest engagement are the ones about dating, romance, and heartbreak? Smh.

Anyway, I have no updates on the last letter (I know, I know), but today I want to tell you about my almost.
We’ve all had one—that person who nearly made it, nearly fit, nearly stayed.
Maybe this will remind you of yours. Maybe it’ll even lead you back to them.
(If you’re my almost, please don’t come back. I’ll knock you.)

My almost was the kind of connection that felt older than time. When we met, it was like recognizing someone I’d known in another lifetime. You came into my life with a warmth that surprised me—a brightness I hadn’t realized I was craving. You were yellow in a grey week. Loud joy in my quiet boredom.

You weren’t perfect, but for a time, you were perfect for me. You balanced me—my noise and energy met with calm silences that didn’t feel awkward. My silences met with presence, not pressure. There was space to just be. We started inching toward something deeper, slowly dissolving into each other’s lives.

But then came the cracks. The little things we ignored at first grew into the things that tore us apart. The universe, yanked us back to our senses. And I chose myself—my pride, and peace—over the comfort I felt with you. You, in turn, chose yourself, like men often do. Easily. Without looking back.

Now when people ask me about us, I fumble. We weren’t really just friends, and calling you my ex feels unfair—it wasn’t that kind of story. So I say “my almost.” Because that’s what we were. We almost got it right. Almost found something whole.

Still, you linger. In the little ways. I call girls “baby girl” now, without thinking—because you used to call me that. I see a chain or a ring and I think of your love for jewelry. I handle conflict more calmly now, remembering how you chose stillness instead of sharp words. You taught me things without meaning to.

Of course, I carry some of the bad too. I’m a little more avoidant now. A bit more nonchalant, sometimes in ways that don’t serve me. These are habits I’m trying to unlearn. Because I don’t want to pass YOU on to my NEXT.

People love to say, “if it’s meant to be, your souls will find each other again.” But we both know that’s not me. I don’t reopen closed books. Out of principle. Out of habit. Out of pride.

Ours was the story that made too much sense, but never got its ending.

My not-in-this-lifetime. My never.

Love,
Fanii

A few weeks ago, I told you I missed someone. Turns out, my brain was just craving closure—and I got it, gently. I wrote about letting go, about floating, and now I think the universe was nudging me to release old ties and make space for something new. So, I did just that: cut cords with some, made peace with others. Then, a few mornings later, I woke up with someone plastered on my mind.

Let’s call him D.

Some music while you read?

I’ve known D for a while. I even joked to Nuel back in 2023 that we might end up together one day, but it was all banter. I never thought about it seriously—until now. He’s been on my mind so much in the last 3 weeks that I mentioned it to a mutual friend (let’s call him R), and surprisingly, he didn’t flinch at the idea. No warnings, no raised brows. Just vibes.

Now, something to know about me: when I lock in on something (or someone), it’s full tunnel vision. Hyperfixation, deluxe. It’s why I can’t double-date successfully—someone always ends up sidelined. I also can’t juggle talking to multiple people. Between life, work (my first love), and adulting? My brain clocks out.

Anyway, the way I’ve been giggly and giddy lately is... kinda alarming. In a good way, I think? It just feels like good timing. Most of this year has been emotionally heavy—dark, if I’m being real. I only crawled out of that fog at the end of April (you might remember from my last letter). So the fact that he’s the first person I’ve felt emotionally drawn to since then? That feels significant.

I asked the universe for a sign, a good or bad one. Days later, I’m scrolling the internet and I find an interview he did, and our names have the same meanings, lmao. I’m taking this as a good sign.

D feels right. Not perfect—but right in many ways. Does he know how I feel? Nope, not yet. We spoke on the phone yesterday, and he sounded genuinely excited to talk to me. Apparently, he thinks I’m cool people. I’ll be seeing him soon, thanks to something R organized (matchmaker behavior, lol). I don’t intend to particularly speak on it, as much as I intend to learn him.

I’m into slow burns now. I like the idea of knowing someone well before making emotional decisions. I used to be wildly impatient, but time and healing have taught me that things don’t need to be rushed.

There’s a lot in the mix though—our careers, my need for privacy (he’s kinda famous), and some other things I’ll keep close to my chest for now. But I’ve thought about it. A lot. I’ve walked the whole 9 yards of pros, cons, red flags, and green lights. And I’ve never felt this self-aware about a person or a situation.

R said I should write about it—so here we are, lmao. Whatever happens, there’ll be lessons in it. And I’m here for all of them.

I HAVEN’T FOUND THE ONE FOR ME YET. CLICKBAIT I GUESS, LMAOOO.

Love, and a splatter of excitement,
Fanii.

Let’s talk about this sweet Yoruba man I was with. Let’s call him “R.” I’m writing this from a plane en route Jalingo, suspended somewhere between the clouds, music, and my thoughts.

Let me tell you something: when you see warning signs, run. Those early red flags—dull and harmless at first—will one day burn bright enough to blind you.

So, R.
We started talking a while ago, and I fell hopelessly for him. I’d known of him before we met. He’s an artist with music that grabs your soul. And if you know me, you know I’m a sucker for good music.

He was in my city, mistook me for someone else, and we hit it off on Snap (That app is never beating the allegations.) We spoke about everything—our present and imagined future. Me, the Jada to his empire. The mother of the kids he hadn’t even named yet. Sweet-talker, that one.

But commitment never showed up. Imagine being in a talking stage longer than three months. Months later we met, it was utterly magical and things got intense.
But soon, the charm wore thin. His gaslighting, the subtle ways he’d twist things, started wearing me down. I began to wonder what I was still doing there. Still, I didn’t leave.

After a while we had a big fight. Made up again and again. Made promises and commitments. Yet he refused to put a label on it, which was quite fine by me, mind you. But without consistency, I eventually lost interest and tapped out.

Then he pulled a disappearing act, and instead of making a fuss, I quietly soft-blocked him. Muted and restricted him on most apps. Removed him from Snap.

Almost 4 weeks later, I was talking to a friend about another artist, and for some reason, my mind wandered back to R. They’re friends. They have this unreleased song I love. Through the first leg of my trip, I shuffled my library, and somehow R’s music came up. I deep-dived into his discography (which I know word for word), and I felt deep sadness.

I miss the man—and I’m not ashamed to admit it. He’s a sweet boy. I miss him singing to me on FaceTime (and he can siiing!!!). I miss our fights, the bouts of reassurance after, sometimes in the form of songs he’ll write me. I miss being the first to hear his songs, his personal A&R in his corner.

I miss him. But would I text him? No.
He’s way more drama and toxicity than I can handle. If we’re meant to meet again, the universe will do its thing. And if not—good luck to the women he’ll traumatize before he becomes someone’s peace.

Love,
Fanii

Yesterday, my mum turned 58, and if you know me, you know there are few things I treasure more than my mum,

She’s the kind of woman who makes an impression—book-smart, a math whiz, a deaconess, a disciplinarian, a music-lover, a woman who started working young. If you meet her once, you’ll remember her forever.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize just how much of her is in me. Sometimes, I catch myself in the middle of something—standing my ground, moving with grace, prioritizing comfort—and I just laugh because, yep, that’s Lucy right there.

I was basically her handbag growing up, trailing behind her everywhere, watching, learning. And now? I am, without a doubt, my mother’s child.

My mum knows people EVERYWHERE. And not just in the “I have contacts” way—she’s built real relationships. No matter what city we lived in, she had community—family, friends, people who owed her favors. And now, I see it in my own life: people willing to show up for me simply because, years ago, my mum did something kind for them. When she fell ill recently, her people—spread across the world—rallied around her. I joke that I can never be stranded in any city, and it’s because of how she’s lived her life.

I’m a strict babe, and I stand on business. My mum is strict. And not the “oh, she’s just a little firm” type—nah, she runs a tight ship. I’ve been called strict myself, and honestly? Blame Lucy. I watched her enforce discipline like it was her calling in life. And the few times she didn’t? She regretted it. Same here. The moments I’ve let my guard down? Disaster.

I never look like my problems. My mum pulled up to Jos, fighting cancer, nails done, hair laid. The doctors had to force her to take off her manicure. That’s the standard I was raised on. And me? Same energy. I could be dead broke, but you’d still see me looking cute. People never believe I’m sad, broke, or stressed. “Wdym?? You’re lying!” No, I just refuse to look like struggle.

I work hard for my own money. Independence was never optional for me—I understood the concept early. I watched my mum earn her own money, command respect in rooms, lead and handle business. But she also knew when to chill. She could be running things all day and still find time to enjoy life. That balance? That’s what I want for myself.

I’m a soft babe, through and through. My skin reacts to stress. My stomach is sensitive. I can’t eat just anywhere. My mum? Same. A mosquito bite will turn into a full reaction. Her hair? Delicate. And her stomach? Even more delicate. I got all of that from her. So yes, I will prioritize comfort. No, I will not just eat anywhere. Softness is my birthright.

Finally, my face is my mother’s.

Here’s a song that reminds me of childhood, with my mum:

From being my mother’s child, here’s what I’ve learned:

• Your network is your net worth.

• Boundaries exist for a reason.

• Move with grace.

• Make your own money, but never work so hard you forget to enjoy it.

• Softness is wealth.

• And yes, some things are just written in your DNA—own it.

So, if you ever wonder why I move the way I do, why I handle things a certain way, or why I value the things I do—just know: I am my mother.