I can still recall it vividly even though time has passed. I was in a danfo at the park, sitting at the backseat, on the seat at the entrance. The driver was calling for passengers when a woman came over wanting to board. I was by the window with my load bag firmly on my lap, and she wanted the available seat at the middle. A guy sat beside me but at the other end of the window. She glanced at the bag on my lap, muttered about how she wasn't comfortable, and made a show of leaving to board another. My bag, big? Yes, but it was FIRMLY on my lap, not shaky, not dropping onto anyone. The guy beside me noticed, took the bag from me, and offered to carry it since it was somehow "disturbing" the lady.

I hurriedly thanked him with a truckload of thank yous, but the woman still insisted she wouldn't sit, and the driver, seeing this, got down and came over.

At that point my social anxiety was at a full 90%, dreading he'd shout or embarrass me for inconveniencing his passengers (if you've had an experience like this with a driver or conductor, share it with me — but hold that thought, I'll ask again before we're done).

Instead, he simply unfolded the third seat at the middle row and told her to sit there. She acknowledged this only by dropping her small bag at the foot of the chair, then went right on standing outside by the door. I was so relieved, and I collected my bag from the kind gentleman with another round of thank yous.

At that moment I couldn't help but wonder if because of her dismissive, cold behavior I decided to do the same to others, because someone was stuck-up toward me, would I start doing the same to someone else, just so they know how it feels? How often do we project our baggage onto people who did nothing to deserve it?

Then I thought maybe she's like that because someone had shown her shege on a bus too maybe she'd been so inconvenienced once, stuck sitting beside someone with a heavy load the whole ride (this has happened to almost all of us before), that she'd quietly decided: never again, not with anyone carrying anything heavy or big-looking.

Two thoughts, different but similar, and I kept turning both over: how exactly was this already-suffocating world supposed to get any better if we kept treating each other like this?

And this doesn't just happen on a bus ride — it's something we do more often than we realize. Just because someone does something bad to us, we fill up with anger, and we go looking for somewhere else to put it down, so we can feel better, feel liberated.

It's the nasty look from a stranger who doesn't know you from Adam. It's the shove in a crowded place. It's the market trader who decides you deserve insults because you didn't buy, or because you stood too long near their wares. It's the person on the bus sitting like they paid for the whole seat, telling everyone else to adjust, like you could teleport into someone else's body just so they can sit wider.

Every average Nigerian has lived almost all of this and sadly, most of us have joined in too, just to prove we're "exposed," "sharp," "wise," without noticing we're only handing the same debt forward to someone who never signed for it.

When it was happening, all I could see was someone unnecessarily cold, maybe even rude. But thinking back on it now, I see someone who might just have had a misplaced sense of protecting herself, of trying to make herself comfortable in a world that keeps making her uncomfortable. It might not have been as personal as I was taking it.

Which is the part I keep sitting with not whether she was right or wrong to stand there, but how easily I was ready to file her under "cold" without once wondering what taught her to be that way.

So tell me — your own driver-and-conductor story. I promise I'll laugh. But I also want to know: in your story, who ended up paying for a debt that was never actually theirs?

Earlier today, during Zuhr, I went from being thankful for everything I have, coz once upon a time, I prayed for this exact life. Far from perfect, but it was everything I wished for at the time. An escape from my suffocating family, a home of and for myself, and most especially, a phone. I've always been envious of people my age having their own phones, holding them wherever they went, more than an accessory. I'd stare at my own empty hands and wish I had one. Now I do — which I'm obviously using to type this lol :). I felt so grateful to God for that.

Now fast forward to Asr. I woke up from an hour nap, prayed Asr, and halfway through it I started longing for things I wish for, particularly two: a conducive apartment, and an iPhone (I'm a photoholic).

Then my mind drifted back to when I had close to none of these things at all, times I longed for them desperately — and now, they're no longer enough. I simply want better, and I got confused. Is it that as humans we're insatiable, always needing and wanting more? Or is it life that keeps moving us through phases, where what was once "enough" stops being enough?

I went from wishing to live alone just to escape my family, to praying to actually live alone in a clean, conducive, quiet apartment somewhere with the basic necessities (light, constant water — I'm sick of praying for NEPA to bring light). I went from praying for a phone, to praying for an even better one, coz apparently I'm someone who's obsessed with taking photos of literally everything, an aesthete through and through.

I daydream about decorating my first apartment all the time. Movie nights sprawled out on my bed. Cooking in my own kitchen. Peace and quiet.

Does this cycle of want ever end? How am I sure that when I get everything I wish for, the whole thing won't repeat itself - those very things not being enough, all over again?

I'm not worried about the idea of "wanting more" that's just part of the different phases of life, maybe. What truly scares me is the realization that nothing ever stays perfect for too long. That when you finally get the thing you desperately wished for, it's never quite as perfect as you imagined. It always comes with a downside you didn't expect.

I don't know if this is a lesson that I shouldn't mindlessly chase material things hoping they'll provide comfort, without first finding comfort in myself or if we're just naturally insatiable, doomed to want, whether we like it or not.

But if all our dreams came true... would we still have anything to look forward to?

(P.S. — there's a whole separate essay brewing about my roommate. The unflushed everything. The singing. Why is it always the people with the worst voices who sing the loudest — like they're trying to convince themselves they can actually sing? Ughhh. Story for another day.)

If you made it this far, thank you for sitting with my ramblings. Subscribe if you want more of what's going on in my head — the overthinking, the gratitude, the random 2pm spirals and all 😝

it’s been weeks now since I last wrote.

i can’t really call it writer’s block. I’ve just been… empty.

unable to put even the smallest thought into words.

even my notes app has stayed empty.

it’s 7:14am.

the sky is blue and grey just like my thoughts.

i’m sitting in my one-room apartment, wondering when things will get better.

but I’ve stopped asking that question too much.

i’ve learned to just live each day as it comes.

that doesn’t mean I don’t have plans.

or hopes.

just… not the kind that consume me anymore.

i look outside again.

it’s still dark.

there’s something about this moment

quiet, untouched, almost like the world hasn’t fully woken up yet.

perfect.

this is the kind of feeling I like.

darkness. peace. quiet.

it won’t last, of course.

the sun will rise eventually.

the noise will return.

the day will begin.

but for now, i want it to stay

just a little longer.

blue and grey have always been my favorite colors.

anything soft. anything muted. anything that doesn’t try too hard to be seen.

some days, I like bright colors.

other days, it’s just this monochrome moods that match how I feel inside.

i think life is like that too.

there are blue and grey days

times and moments that it's so dark

we really can't find the sunlight anywhere

but even then,

there’s always something small…

a quiet kind of peace.

a softness.

a stillness you can almost hold.

you just have to sit long enough

to notice it.

maybe not every dark moment is meant to be fixed… some are just meant to be felt.

17•03•2026{Night 28}

The Qur’an…

I promised myself I would open you more this Ramadan.

But the days slipped through my fingers like sand.

And here I am, in the last nights, feeling the weight of what I didn’t do.

Yet the heart remembers.

Even now, the whisper of your words calls me closer.

Even now, the ink of my du’a can reach the pages I haven’t touched.

Perhaps finishing the Qur’an this month wasn’t the plan.

Perhaps this gentle pull in my heart is the beginning — not the end.

So I read. Slowly.

I reflect. Quietly.

I let each verse settle in my chest and bloom into a prayer.

Ya Allah, place the love of the Qur’an in my heart.

Let these last nights be enough to start a lifetime of connection.

Ramadan may be ending,

but it is never too late to fall in love.

—Between Duas

Shukroh in Ink 🌷

Many people reach the last ten nights of Ramadan with quiet anxiety.

Am I doing enough?

What if I sleep through Laylatul Qadr?

What if I miss the night that is better than a thousand months?

But before anything else, remember this:

Allah describes this night in Surah Al-Qadr as a night that is better than a thousand months — more than 83 years of worship.

And on this night, the angels descend with Allah’s decree for the coming year.

But the heart of Laylatul Qadr is not fear.

“The heart of Laylatul Qadr is connection.”

Not performance.

Not exhaustion.

Connection.

When does Laylatul Qadr begin?

In Islam, the night begins after Maghrib.

So when Maghrib arrives in the last ten nights of Ramadan, the night of seeking Laylatul Qadr has already begun.

You don’t have to wait for midnight.

You begin with Allah the moment the night starts.

Do you have to stay awake the entire night?

No.

The Prophet ﷺ increased his worship in these nights, but Islam does not require us to destroy ourselves with exhaustion.

Even small acts done sincerely carry immense weight.

“Allah does not measure the night by how long you stayed awake.

He measures it by how sincere your heart was.”

Two rakʿah prayed with presence.

A quiet duʿā whispered in the dark.

A few verses of Qur’an read slowly.

All of it matters.

A simple way to spend the night

You do not need a complicated plan.

You only need presence.

After Maghrib

Pray Maghrib.

Then sit for a few minutes and make duʿā.

Talk to Allah about everything — your worries, your hopes, your future.

Read a little Qur’an.

“Sometimes the most powerful Dua is

simply speaking honestly to Allah.”

After ʿIsha and Taraweeh

If you pray Taraweeh, you are already standing in worship during the blessed nights.

Take a moment after the prayer to make duʿā again.

Ask Allah for:

• forgiveness

• guidance

• peace in your heart

• halal provision

• a beautiful akhirah

Later in the night

If you wake up again before Fajr, pray a few extra rakʿah.

Even two.

And repeat the duʿā the Prophet ﷺ recommended for this night.

The wife of the Prophet ﷺ, Aisha bint Abu Bakr, once asked what she should say if she finds Laylatul Qadr.

The Prophet ﷺ told her to say:

“Allahumma innaka ʿafuwwun tuḥibbul ʿafwa faʿfu ʿanni.”

O Allah, You are Most Forgiving and love forgiveness, so forgive me.

Repeat it often.

Let the words soften your heart.

A reminder for the worried heart

Some people feel heavy in these nights.

They think about the Ramadan they didn’t use well.

The days they were distracted.

The Qur’an they didn’t finish.

But remember this:

“Ramadan is not judged by how you began it.

It is judged by how you end it.”

And Allah is still inviting you.

Even now.

Even tonight.

If you feel like you wasted Ramadan

Then let the last nights be your return.

Because sometimes the most beautiful endings begin late.

“Allah can change the story of a Ramadan in a single night.”

One sincere duʿā.

One moment of repentance.

One quiet conversation with your Lord.

And the doors of mercy remain open.

So if you are reading this tonight, do not panic.

Do not rush.

Just turn your heart toward Allah.

Speak to Him.

Ask Him.

Trust Him.

And remember:

“Laylatul Qadr is not a night you win by staying awake.

It is a night you win by turning back to Allah.”

— Between Duas

Shukroh in Ink 🌷

— — —

This reflection is part of Between Duas: The Last Ten Nights — a small series of quiet notes written in the sacred spaces between prayers.

If these words resonated with you, you are welcome to stay. More reflections will continue here — between duas.

between distraction and healing

Do you ever stop and ask yourself that question? The one you usually ignore because life is noisy, because there’s always something to do, someone to answer to, a screen buzzing at your fingertips. But if you pause, really pause, does it feel like you’re moving forward… or just keeping busy to forget the cracks inside?

Healing isn’t measured in smiles or laughter, or even in the way you carry yourself when the world’s watching. Sometimes, it’s the small quiet things: breathing without holding back, sitting with your thoughts without flinching, admitting to yourself that yes, it still hurts, and it’s okay.

I’ve noticed people around me—my friends, my classmates, strangers at the cafe—how they rush through their lives, filling the gaps with movies, books, music, errands, jokes, scrolling. It’s all a distraction, and I’ve done it too. I’ve laughed at jokes, talked for hours, gone through the motions of school, of life, but deep down, that shadow of unfinished grief or unspoken hurt lingers.

Healing is messy. It doesn’t announce itself. It’s not a checklist. You can’t post it, show it off, or even fully understand it in the moment. You might think you’re done because you’ve stopped crying, because you’ve smiled, because you’ve been kind, because the world thinks you’re fine. But are you healed… or just distracted?

And sometimes, that’s the truth we need to accept: we’ll keep distracting ourselves, and maybe that’s part of the process. We’re allowed to live in fragments until we’re whole enough to notice them. Until then, don’t be too hard on yourself for laughing when your heart is heavy, for being busy when your soul still aches. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

Healing is quiet. Healing is patient. Healing is noticing the spaces in between distractions, the moments you feel the ache and let it exist without running from it. And maybe one day, those spaces will be filled not with distraction, but with peace.

Softly, gently, without announcement.

Take your time. Notice the quiet. Heal at your own pace.

The friend I always wanted? Turns out I had to become her first.

Hey…yes you. The one quietly showing up here.

Do you ever notice how much energy we spend trying to be the kind of friend someone else wants — only to realize they weren’t keeping up their end? I did, recently, in a way that hurt more than I expected.

I’ve always cared a lot. I pick up calls, show up, listen, laugh, cry, vent, be there — the full package. I like being the person someone can rely on, the friend who remembers birthdays, the one who checks in when it’s raining or when the world seems heavy. But here’s the truth: not everyone shows up the same way. And that’s okay… it’s just painful when you’ve invested more than they were willing to meet.

Case in point: one of the girls in my group, let’s call her N. We’ve been friends for a while, but a recent argument made me see her clearly. She started cursing me out over something mild, something fixable with words, and I felt my blood boil. I was seconds away from losing control, maybe even making a scene in public. But the friend I’ve always felt closest to, the one I’d hold space for — stopped me gently. And that moment? That moment reminded me: I know who I am, and I won’t let anyone make me feel less than that.

I cut N off. Fully. No lingering “maybe we’ll talk later.” Because she crossed a line that wasn’t negotiable. The other two didn’t correct her, didn’t defend me, and honestly, that told me everything I needed to know. Their inaction spoke louder than any words she could have shouted. And you know what? That’s fine. I’m not angry anymore. I just quietly rearranged my space so it’s safe.

That was a wake-up call. All my life, I’ve tried to make friendships work, only to feel betrayed, unseen, or made small. And here’s the lesson I’ve finally embraced: you are the type of friend you need.

That doesn’t mean you stop caring. It doesn’t mean you build walls. But it does mean:

• You protect your peace.

• You recognize who adds value to your life and who quietly drains it.

• You show up for yourself first, in the way you hope others will someday show up for you.

Think about it. The friend you wish you had? Maybe it’s you. The one who listens without judgment. The one who forgives minor slips but holds strong on respect. The one who celebrates your wins quietly but wholeheartedly. That friend already exists — inside you.

And yes, this means you’ll leave people behind. You’ll say no to invitations, conversations, and moments you once thought were worth bending over backward for. And that’s okay. True friendship doesn’t demand compromise at the cost of your dignity.

The truth is, friends will come and go. People will let you down. Some will test you, push boundaries, and reveal themselves too late. But if you cultivate the friend inside yourself, you’ll never be truly alone. You’ll never be made small by anyone else, because the space inside you is already full — full of patience, laughter, understanding, and care.

So yes, you can be the friend you want to have. You can be generous, loyal, soft, playful, protective, and present — all while standing firm when respect is crossed. That’s the paradox: the best friend you can be isn’t just for others. It’s for you. And that’s the kind of friendship worth holding onto.

The love and care you seek? Start with the one staring back in the mirror.

I used to think holding on meant feeling strong. Now I think it just means not walking away.

hey, you… yes, you. The one quietly showing up again.

I’ve been thinking a lot about imaan lately. Not in the poetic way people talk about it, but in the tired, everyday way. The kind where you’re just trying to get through the day without breaking down again.

Life has felt heavy for a while now. I finished my exams, and I thought maybe that would bring some relief. But the environment I’m in is still hard — inconsistent electricity, mosquitoes, expenses, and water issues that only just got fixed after a month of using well water that wasn’t even clean. Home isn’t exactly peaceful either, even though I wouldn’t face these physical struggles there. So I’m stuck between hardship here and discomfort there.

And it’s Ramadan.

I try to focus on what I have instead of what I don’t. I try to just get by quietly, without expecting much. But every time I start to feel okay, something happens again. Another problem. Another reminder of how tight everything is. And when that happens, I break down like all the strength I built up was just temporary.

The physical stress makes everything heavier. When your body is tired, hungry, overheated, and restless, hope feels far away. Faith feels harder to hold. Even simple patience becomes work.

Sometimes it feels like my duas are only answered in small ways — just enough to survive the day. Electricity comes back. Transport shows up. I can afford something small at the market. Water gets fixed. These things matter, I know they do. But the bigger prayers, the life-changing ones — feel unanswered. Jobs. Opportunities. Stability. Ease for my family. Barakah in my sister’s business. A way out of this constant survival mode.

It can feel like I’m asking for real change and only receiving temporary relief.

And then a thought comes that I don’t like but can’t ignore:

What if I’m meant to stay like this?

What if this tightness is permanent?

That thought hurts, especially when I see how some people have the opportunity to work, to plan, to try. They get the chance to struggle toward something. We’re still struggling just to stabilize.

Morning and evening are the hardest. In the morning, the day already feels heavy before it even begins. In the evening, everything catches up — the fatigue, the uncertainty, the quiet. And when something bad happens during those times, it doesn’t feel like one problem. It feels like confirmation that nothing will change.

Lately I’ve also been tired of making dua. Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I don’t know what to say anymore. I wake for sahuur, pray, stand in Tahajjud… and sometimes my mind goes blank. Not peaceful blank. Exhausted blank.

It’s strange to be in a moment where you care deeply, but you don’t have the energy to ask.

I used to think that meant something was wrong with me spiritually. But now I think it might just mean I’m tired.

There’s a difference.

When hardship is constant, hope becomes heavy. You start expecting the next problem even when things are calm. So when relief comes, you can’t fully trust it. And when another difficulty appears, it feels like proof that nothing is changing.

But maybe survival itself is not nothing.

Maybe the small things that keep happening — light returning, water working, help appearing in unexpected ways — are not meaningless. Maybe they are quiet signs that I am not abandoned, even if I don’t understand the full picture yet.

I’m learning that faith in hard times doesn’t always look like strong feelings. Sometimes it looks like showing up tired. Sometimes it looks like saying one honest sentence instead of a long prayer. Sometimes it looks like silence because there are no words left.

And maybe that still counts.

I’m also learning that breakdowns don’t mean failure. When someone carries too much for too long, pressure needs somewhere to go. Tears are not the opposite of strength. They are evidence of endurance.

Right now, I’m trying to live one day at a time. Not because it sounds wise, but because thinking too far ahead feels impossible. Some days the goal is simply to exist without losing hope completely. Some days the goal is just to rest in the fact that I am seen, even when I have nothing to say.

I don’t know when things will open up. I don’t know when opportunities will come or when life will feel less tight. But I’m still here. Still asking sometimes. Still trying to hold on in small ways.

And maybe, for now, that is enough.

Softly yours,

Shukroh 🕯️

somewhere between holding on and letting go

Why does life have to be so overwhelming?

One minute I’m convinced I don’t need people or friends, because what’s the point, right? And then, almost without warning, I find myself quietly yearning for one while at the same time remembering why I chose distance in the first place. It makes sense in my head, even if it sounds confusing out loud.

People don’t choose you just because you chose them. No matter the effort you pour into someone, it doesn’t guarantee they will hold you the same way. I have a friend I truly care about. I tried to be intentional with her, picking up her calls, showing up again and again, listening when she was angry, exhausted, or simply needed somewhere to place her thoughts. I listened to everything.

I thought it meant something rare. I thought I was someone special to her.

And to be fair, she does things for me too. But I’ve started to realize she does those same things for many people. She is someone who shares easily, who releases her frustrations wherever she finds space. And I happened to be a safe space.

The signs were there. I just didn’t look closely enough.

Maybe it was the way her eyes wandered when I tried to talk about my own worries. The way silence would sit between us until I finished, and then the conversation would quietly return to her. Maybe it was the small moments when care felt one-sided, like I was holding a cup that was never meant to be filled.

I once read something about friendships where one person is always the listener where pain becomes a competition without anyone intending it. That piece stayed with me because it reminded me that listeners are people too. They have feelings too. You cannot pour endlessly into someone and expect them never to need a place to rest.

I also noticed how often she chose another friend of ours — I’ll call her P. And that’s when something shifted in me. I used to think that spending more time with someone, being present, making deliberate effort, would naturally make them choose you more. But people don’t work like that.

Your love language may be choosing people. It doesn’t mean theirs is the same.

I began to understand that connection is not measured by effort alone. Sometimes people feel closer to those who give less, simply because something unspoken aligns. And that realization was quiet, but heavy.

So I started to loosen my grip. Not with anger. Not with drama. Just a slow, gentle detachment — like stepping back from a conversation that was never fully yours to begin with.

I’m not ready to pour myself into someone who wouldn’t hold me with the same care. And I’m not saying she should revolve around me. No. That was never the desire.

I just wanted mutual presence.

Not equal effort, but equal regard.

And maybe this is what growing up feels like — realizing that not every connection is meant to deepen, even if it was once warm. Realizing that some people are companions for a season, not a lifetime. Realizing that choosing yourself is not rejection of others, but protection of your own quiet center.

There are days I still feel the absence of what I hoped that friendship would be. But the ache is softer now. It no longer asks for answers. It simply reminds me that closeness cannot be negotiated into existence — it either rests naturally, or it doesn’t.

I think I’m learning that it’s okay to want people and still walk gently when they cannot meet you where you stand. It’s okay to release expectations without releasing kindness. It’s okay to care… and still choose peace.

And maybe life feels overwhelming because we are always standing between two truths at once, the need for connection, and the need to remain whole on our own.

I am still learning how to hold both.

And so I keep what was real, release what wasn’t, and walk gently with both.

Softly yours,

Shukroh 🦢

Go ahead.

Say it’s my fault.

Say I stayed too long, or didn’t try hard enough, or asked for too much with a quiet voice and hopeful eyes.

Say I should’ve known better than to expect consistency from people who only show up when it’s convenient.

You can say it.

I won’t interrupt you.

Because for a long time, I already did.

I blamed myself for the thinning of connections that didn’t collapse dramatically enough to be mourned.

For friendships that faded without warning signs.

For conversations that slowly stopped arriving.

For the way I kept offering softness to hands that didn’t know what to do with it.

I told myself it must be something about me—

too observant,

too gentle,

too inward,

too quiet in rooms that reward noise.

So yes, you can say it’s my fault.

It fits the narrative nicely.

It gives everyone else an easy exit.

But here’s the thing—

it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Because I’ve realized that not everything that ends was broken by you.

Some things simply run out of honesty.

Some people stop choosing you long before they stop speaking to you.

Some bonds don’t shatter; they just grow thin, and you’re left holding the weight alone until your arms get tired.

And when you finally let go, they call it selfish.

Or cold.

Or distant.

Go ahead. Say that too.

What they don’t see is how carefully I learned to loosen my grip.

How I practiced not chasing explanations.

How I taught myself that peace doesn’t always arrive loudly—it often comes disguised as acceptance.

I don’t need to be absolved anymore.

I don’t need to be understood by people who never tried to read me past the surface.

I don’t need to rewrite myself smaller just to be kept.

So yes—

say it’s my fault.

Say I changed.

Say I withdrew.

Say I stopped caring.

What I actually did was stop bleeding quietly for connections that required me to disappear to survive.

And that?

That’s something I no longer apologize for.

It doesn’t really matter what story you tell about me now.

I’ve already chosen the one where I stay.

And that was enough.

early February • after the rain

The rain finally stopped, even though just hours ago it had been pouring cats and dogs. I had doubted it would ever end. It was the evening of the last few days of January. The sky was a patchwork of blue, grey, and white, like a shadowy blanket draped over the world. The wind carried a melody, and the trees seemed to dance to its rhythm.

I love the smell after it rains—the petrichor. It smells of earth and peace, filling my nostrils with a quiet calm that I can almost taste on my tongue. I looked out the window. People were walking under umbrellas of every shade: purple, red, orange, green, like fragments of a rainbow scattered across the streets. The soft pitter-patter of their footsteps on puddles mingled with the fading drops, creating a quiet symphony.

Some hurried, likely trying to reach destinations delayed by the earlier storm. Others ran, laughing or cursing under their breath. A cat crouched under the shelter of an old chair, eyes shining like tiny lanterns, serene amid the chaos. At the far end of the street, a dimly lit café caught my eye. The menu glowed faintly through the glass. A man entered, soaked from the rain, no umbrella, no boots. He approached the counter, muttered something softly, and moments later, a mug of something hot was placed before him. He smiled, thanked the server, and took a seat by the window, watching the street with quiet contemplation.

Our eyes met briefly, and he smiled and waved. I could almost hear him mutter, “À kú ọ̀jọ́ ọ̀ọ́”—a Yoruba greeting acknowledging the rainy day. I waved back, murmuring, “Àwa niyẹn ọ̀ọ́” in response. In that fleeting exchange, the world felt gentle, as though the earth itself was pausing to recover from the downpour.

And slowly, the evening sun crept from behind the roof of a nearby house, like a beanstalk sprouting for the first time, painting the sky with grey tinged with orange and red. The puddles shimmered with the reflection of fading light, and the scent of wet earth lingered, grounding me in the quiet, fleeting beauty of the moment.

I thought about life, how it often feels like a storm. Sometimes, it pours relentlessly, soaking us in trials, heartbreak, and confusion. And yet, just like the rain, the storms do pass. The world softens afterward. Colors seem brighter, sounds more distinct, and even the simplest interactions—a shared smile, a quiet greeting, the warmth of a stranger—carry a weight that lingers long after.

The café lights flickered gently as night approached, people walked home beneath umbrellas now empty of rain, and the cat finally stretched and padded away into the alley. There was stillness in the air, a gentle pause that reminded me of the quiet resilience in life: that after every storm, no matter how harsh, there is a moment of calm, of clarity, of small, unassuming beauty.

I sipped my tea slowly, feeling the warmth spread through me, and realized that moments like these are life’s soft gifts. They may be brief, but they leave traces in the heart that last far longer than the storm. Life, like rain, has a rhythm—sometimes overwhelming, sometimes tender—but always moving, always reminding us that beauty waits in the pause, in the aftermath, in the quiet spaces where the world takes a breath.

And after the rain, I remember: life always finds a way to show it's soft, fleeting beauty.

softly yours,

Shukroh 🌧️

03•02•2026

Life can be so bitchy. So unfair. Like it has a list of ways to test you, and you’re just standing there, wondering if anyone else sees the chaos too. And yet… in-between those harsh, impossible moments, life tosses you a tangerine. Bright, sweet, momentary. A laugh at the memory of a hard day, the warmth of someone’s smile who stayed just long enough to leave a mark, or a fleeting success you didn’t see coming. It’s tiny, but it makes the bitter parts bearable.

People come and go like passing clouds. Some hover, shade the sunlight for a while, then drift away quietly, leaving you with a soft, empty space you didn’t know was there. Dreams, too, feel that way. The ones you chase, the ones you bury quietly in the corners of your heart—sometimes they stay, sometimes they leave. And you learn, slowly, that the stillness in your chest isn’t emptiness. It’s understanding. Life is unpredictable. Someone here today may not be here tomorrow. A smile may vanish, a voice may fade, a hand may slip from yours without warning.

Years pass faster than we notice. It’s February now, and January—the month of vision boards, of hopes, of whispered promises to yourself—has gone the way old shadows retreat at the first light of day. You didn’t even notice it leaving. And that’s life. Fleeting. Sweet, sour, messy, tender. You take the tangerines, you savor them, you remember the bitterness too, and somehow, that combination makes everything feel… alive.

Maybe that’s all we can do. Accept the sour and the sweet. Let the passing people and lost dreams be a soft echo. Taste the small joys when they appear. Laugh at the memory of what hurt. And hold the tangerines close—because even in life’s chaos, there is always a little sweetness.

So when life gives you tangerines, hold them for a moment. Taste them, and remember that even the bitterest days carry a kind of sweetness.

softly yours,

Shukroh 🍊

Time moves faster than I ever want it to. One moment, I’m living a day I thought would last forever, and the next, it’s gone—never to return. Sometimes I catch myself staring at my hands or my reflection, wondering which version of me is left behind, which one has quietly slipped away to make room for the new. I feel it slowly, like a soft tug at the edge of my chest, the pang of realizing I can’t go back to ten years ago, to those moments that once felt ordinary but now glow with an almost impossible nostalgia.

And yet, when I look back, I laugh. At the times I thought would break me, at the embarrassments and the heartbreaks I once wanted to erase. Somehow, the harder moments become stories I carry with me, stitched into the fabric of who I am. Maybe that’s what Time does—it takes away, but it also leaves a quieter, deeper kind of gift. You probably understand. You’ve felt it too. the way days disappear, how childhood summers vanish, and how the versions of yourself you once were only live now in memory.

But then there’s Ageing. And it’s different from Time. I’m not afraid of the big change itself—not really. What scares me are the little things I might lose along the way. The freedom to run without thinking. The joy of eating something messy and feeling alive. The way it feels when someone younger reminds me of the person I once was. I’m not obsessed with my younger days; they weren’t perfect, and my older years gave me choice, independence, and the strange, beautiful weight of knowing who I am. Yet I think I’d miss that innocent ignorance, the soft comfort of knowing nothing about the world and feeling safe in it.

I’d miss my beauty, too, not just the face I see in the mirror, but the subtle kind that blooms and glows in youth, fleeting and fragile. I remember watching TikTok videos of actresses comparing themselves now to what they looked like in their 20s or 30s, imagining the young it-girls they must have been. Beauty, like a flower, withers. Time doesn’t wait for admiration or regret—it just moves.

And maybe that’s what frightens me most: the quiet, unstoppable march of it all. The knowledge that each day, I’m losing and gaining, holding and letting go, all at once. Yet maybe, in the fear, there’s also wonder. Because the very thing I fear, Time, is also what allows me to grow, to become, to live. I just wish I could pause sometimes. Just long enough to catch the versions of myself that I can never get back.

Maybe I'll never stop being afraid of time. but maybe that's how I know I'm truly alive.

Long before I learned how to name myself,

I learned how to notice.

Beauty found me in quiet places

in old books that remembered their readers,

in poems that felt older than language,

in buildings shaped by hands that believed time would listen.

This is not a confession or a conclusion.

It is a fragment,

left behind for whoever understands

that some souls are made to witness before they are made to become.

Hey, you, yes you. The one quietly showing up here again.

I did not ask people who I was.

I looked inward, quietly, and found that I love art—

books that smell like time,

poems that feel like confession,

buildings that look as though they were dreamed before they were built.

I love vintage bookstores, Victorian eras, libraries that existed long before me.

I love aesthetics, not because I need them, but because they make being alive feel intentional.

For a long time, this was misunderstood.

Even by me.

I thought loving something meant wanting to be it—

an author, an artist, a visionary.

But sometimes, love is simply admiration without ownership.

Sometimes, I don’t want to create the thing

I want to live inside the feeling it gives me.

I want wealth, I think, because I don’t want limited choices.

But if I’m honest, I also imagine the admiration of people who know me,

their surprise, their approval.

And every day, my reality reminds me of what I do not have, until wanting more becomes exhausting.

No matter how much I save, I stay in the same place.

Because you cannot save your way out of poverty.

And learning that is a quiet kind of grief.

I express myself better on paper than with my mouth.

My ideas arrive fully formed when no one is watching.

But when I look at the stories of successful people, the grind terrifies me.

It feels unfair that dreaming should require so much suffering.

Sometimes I envy people who are simply able to worki n jobs they chose,

moving, even slowly, toward something they believe in.

That ability alone feels like a gift I keep reaching for and missing.

Lately, I’ve stopped reading.

Stopped wanting.

Days pass over each other like waves,

and I stand still beneath them.

I think the desire to be comfortable burned me out.

So I let it go

and with it, I lost the small joys too.

If you are reading this, know that I am not hopeless.

I am just tired of wanting a life I cannot yet touch.

And I am leaving this here

so you know you are not the only one

who loves beauty deeply

in a world that asks first for endurance.

If this reaches you, know that I am still here—

becoming slowly, quietly,

like old ink darkening with time.🖋️

Late January, beneath a quiet sky.

Hey, yes, you. The one quietly showing up here again. I’m writing from a place of clarity and realization, the kind that comes when you finally pause and look at patterns you’ve been living inside of without naming.

Being the friend who always shows up often starts as love. You listen carefully. You remember details. You stay longer than planned because leaving feels like abandonment. You believe consistency is kindness, and empathy should be effortless.

And for a while, it is.

But over time, something shifts.

I remember a week when I stopped checking in, just to see if anyone would notice. The silence answered before anyone else did.

That’s when you begin to notice it. the way your presence is expected, not necessarily appreciated. How your availability has become a constant others rely on, without anyone asking whether you’re tired too. You don’t resent being dependable. You just start to wonder when it became invisible.

There’s a quiet loneliness in being the strong one. In being the listener. In being the person everyone leans on while you carry your own weight in silence. You tell yourself it’s fine. That you don’t need much. That understanding is your love language.

But understanding shouldn’t mean disappearing.

At some point, showing up stops being generosity and starts becoming a habit you never questioned. You stay because you always have. You give because you’re good at it. And without realizing it, you begin waiting for the same care, the same attentiveness, the same effort to come back around.

This isn’t about keeping score. It’s about balance.

You’re allowed to want friends who notice when you’re absent. Who ask how you’re doing without needing a reason. Who show up for you without requiring a crisis as an invitation.

Being kind doesn’t require self-neglect.

Being loyal doesn’t mean being endlessly available.

And showing up for others should never cost you your own presence.

Sometimes, the most important place you need to show up is for yourself.

If this felt familiar, you’re welcome to stay. Subscribe for more essays on friendships, growth, and quiet clarity 🤍.

That’s when the question starts to form.

Hey, yes, you.The one quietly showing up here again. I’m writing from a place of clarity and realization, the kind that doesn’t arrive loudly but settles in once you’re finally honest with yourself.

There are people who feel close simply because they’ve been around for a long time. You share routines, inside jokes, maybe even memories. You know their habits, their tone, their presence. And without realizing it, time convinces you that closeness has already been established.

But familiarity is not the same thing as friendship.

Familiarity is comfort built on repetition. Friendship is intention.

One exists because it’s easy to stay. The other exists because both people choose to.

It’s easy to confuse consistency with care. To assume that because someone is always there, they are invested. But sometimes people remain not out of commitment, but out of convenience. Because you’re part of the environment. Because you’ve always been reachable. Because nothing has required effort yet.

The difference shows itself in the quiet moments.

I remember realizing I had people I spoke to often, but no one I could call without first explaining why.

When you stop reaching out first.

When routines break.

When life changes shape and no one adjusts with you.

Real friendship stretches. Familiarity dissolves.

Friends ask questions even when nothing is happening. They notice when you’re quieter than usual. They don’t need shared spaces or shared obligations to stay connected. They show up not because it’s easy, but because you matter.

Familiar people know your face.

Friends know your weight.

This isn’t about resentment. It’s about discernment. About learning to tell the difference between connections built on habit and those built on mutual effort. Not every familiar presence is meant to walk with you into new seasons.

Some people are simply part of who you used to be and that doesn’t make them bad. It just makes them finished.

There are people you talk to often, laugh with easily, and recognize instantly in a crowd but if they disappeared from your life tomorrow, nothing would really change.

And once you notice that truth, you can no longer unsee it.

A gentle note before you go

If this piece put words to something you’ve been feeling quietly, you’re not alone here.

Subscribe if you want more essays about friendships, becoming, and the soft clarity that comes with growth. And if this reminded you of someone—or yourself—feel free to share it.

You’re always welcome back 🤍

late January evening

I meant to keep going.

That was the plan.

But January has a way of loosening your grip on intention. The days stretch, the light lingers a little longer than it should, and suddenly you’re sitting on the stairs with a book you didn’t finish and a heart you haven’t checked in on all day.

The wood beneath me was cold in that familiar way the kind that reminds you this house has been holding moments long before you arrived. The light leaned in gently, like it remembered me. Like it had been here before, watching me pause in the same quiet way.

I left the book closed. Not out of disinterest, but respect. Some chapters don’t want to be read yet. Some parts of you need to sit unopened, resting in their own weight.

There are pauses that feel heavy, and then there are pauses that feel like mercy. This one was the second kind. A breath disguised as stillness. A moment that didn’t ask me to be anything but present.

So I stayed.

Halfway between where I was and where I was going.

Letting January hold me the way it always does. softly, without questions, without urgency.

And for once, I didn’t rush myself out of it.

the order is not intentional

After midnight, mid-January

The tea beside me had cooled, steam no longer rising, leaving only its faint scent of warmth. Outside, the wind carried the sharp tang of frost through the window crack. Somewhere far away, a door slammed, echoing like it belonged to another house entirely. I wrote because pieces of myself seemed safer on paper than anywhere else. The candle flickered once, uncertain, then settled, leaving the shadows soft and gray.

the order is not intentional.

If you’ve ever survived a Lagos bus ride, you know it isn’t merely transport. It’s an experience, a performance, a social experiment (and a test of how much patience you really have—seriously, you might discover new levels of rage you didn’t know existed).

Rule 1: Sit wherever you can find space, but never too comfortably. Comfort is a threat here (lean back too much and someone will think you’re trying to claim territory). Sit too close to the window? That’s a crime of strategy—everyone behind you is probably thinking, “Is she going to get off at Jibowu or Mile 12?” And nobody talks about the quiet strategy anyone sitting by the window uses: you don’t sit too close to the edge, always leaving plenty of space before the chaos (aka other passengers) comes in. (I do this too, by the way, hehehehe. Sometimes I even give the seat a tiny “safety nod” before boarding.)

Rule 2: Prepare for chaos. Every stop is like a scene in a Nollywood climax. People shouting, hawkers hustling, conductor screaming at a volume you didn’t know humans could reach (seriously, I think I heard the bus engine sigh in defeat). Someone bumps into you. Another bumps into them. (And somehow everyone acts surprised like it’s their first day on Earth.)

Rule 3: Maintain a poker face. Eye contact with strangers is forbidden unless you want them to mentally catalog your life choices. Smile? Immediately suspicious. Look bored? Instant judgment: “She thinks she’s too good for this bus?” (Spoiler: nobody is too good. Nobody. But please, keep smiling anyway.)

Rule 4: Bag placement is strategic warfare. Front, lap, lap again, or dangling dangerously from a hand? All positions carry unspoken consequences. One wrong move and someone’s foot is in it (and yes, they will glare like you personally ruined their childhood).

Rule 5: There are unwritten rituals: never mention the bus breaking down, always nod when someone asks if they can squeeze in, and pray silently when the engine coughs louder than your neighbor’s karaoke session. (Bonus points if you mutter a “please, no” under your breath when someone tries to take your seat.)

Rule 6: And undoubtedly, we can’t ignore the occasional speakers-in-human-form (aka fellow passengers) who talk as if the entire world has hearing problems. You don’t raise your voice? Na so them go think you no sabi English. Or the legendary Iya Damilola types, whose phone conversations are louder than DJ Tunez at a Friday night street party you hear every single word from start to finish (and yes, it’s impossible not to eavesdrop). But don’t complain ooo, before you try, remember: it’s them schooling you on Lagos survival, subtle chaos edition (and no, I did not tell you to take notes 😏).

Always check your money before boarding. I mean, double-check, triple-check, maybe even show it to a random stranger, just to be safe. Make sure it’s intact and that you have change, so you can avoid stories that touch the heart. (Reminds me of a man who forgot his wallet at home, bravely boarded the bus, and Omo the conductor’s glare could have cut glass. Not even a smile in sight. But that's a story for another day).

And yet, amid the noise, the heat, and the stares, there’s rhythm. Somehow, if you survive without losing your voice, patience, or dignity, you are not just a passenger—you are part of Lagos folklore (and maybe even the protagonist in a future Substack essay you’ll write, dramatic hand gestures included).

Yes, every ride is chaotic, slightly dramatic, entirely Nigerian, and slightly traumatic. But maybe that’s why we love it—or at least survive it, one bus stop at a time (and laugh about it later, of course).

If you survived reading this and are still alive (mentally and spiritually), share it, reshare it, restack it, and tell me your own Lagos public transport tales. I know you have stories. Don’t leave us hanging—let’s laugh, cringe, and survive together.

O

Hey, yes you — the one quietly showing up here again. I’m writing from a place of noticing old wounds resurface, and choosing to sit with them instead of running.

I stumbled upon an old classmate on LinkedIn today. 500 connections. A score of 339 in his UTME. And in that moment, a sudden wave hit me — sadness, a flash of jealousy, an ache I hadn’t expected.

It struck an old wound, the one that whispers, “You’re behind.” And yet, I noticed it, breathed into it, and let it be, instead of shoving it away.

We all have those moments when we see other people. friends, acquaintances, seemingly having their lives figured out (which isn’t always true, by the way, or often it’s the result of a lot of unseen effort), or achieving things, and then you feel like you’re the only one who can’t quite figure out your path. Or maybe you have it figured out, but nothing seems to be working.

I felt that today. This is one of many times, really. It feels like a mix of anxiety, sadness, and fear, all bundled together at once. And in noticing it, I realized: it’s an old wound I never truly healed from.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived my life chasing validation and applause. I set goals, worked hard, and poured energy into them just to be praised. And then, immediately, the crowd goes quiet, and the passion quietly fades with it. And then came comparison.

I’ve always found myself measuring my life against others, checking what I was and wasn’t doing, questioning my worth based on someone else’s timeline. Suddenly, I feel like I’m not doing enough. I start wishing I had their life, or their opportunities, or their achievements. Comparison consumes you, quietly but relentlessly. It makes you ungrateful to yourself, robs you of appreciation for what you do have, and quietly eats away at your self-esteem.

And yet… in noticing it, something shifted. I realized that comparison, as painful as it feels, is also a mirror. It shows what I truly value, what matters to me, and where I still need to grow. It doesn’t define me. It only points me to the parts of myself I’ve neglected or doubted.

There is a quiet lesson in surrendering to the feeling instead of running from it. For me, that surrender has a name and a home in my faith. It doesn’t erase the ache, but it softens it. It whispers that I am not behind, not lost, not lacking. I am exactly where I am meant to be. My pace, my path, my growth — they belong to me alone.

By the end of the day, I could feel it: the tension loosened, just a little. I reminded myself that the ache is a signal, not a verdict. That my journey is not measured in scores, connections, or applause, but in quiet, consistent steps forward.

Maybe you’ve felt this too — the sudden pang of comparison, the anxious whisper that you’re behind. Let it pass through you, observe it, breathe into it, and then return to your own path. That’s where the clarity lives, not in measuring yourself against anyone else.

Written gently, from where I am.

Until the next becoming.

If comparison has ever visited you in a quiet moment, you’re welcome to share your experience in the comments. This is a gentle space.