Your mother would be in the kitchen making your favorite breakfast, unknown to her you would never eat her food again.

Your sibling would beat you to get to the shower, which is quite unusual because you are always the one to wake up first—now your eyes have been closed forever.

Your mother would bring your food to your room, gently rubbing your once warm feet like she does every morning, but this time they would be cold.

She will try to wake you up, but your body will be as lifeless as her soul as reality dawns on her that her child is gone forever.

Not the type of gone that aches her heart after dropping you at school on the first day, but the gone that makes her break mentally—a break which no therapy could fix.

Her screams would break your soul, and you won’t be able to console her because you are gone and never coming back.

Your father would run into your bedroom, a room that looks foreign to him because he hasn’t been there since you were a kid, and he would be filled with regret.

He will hug your lifeless body, which is funny because you don’t remember the last time he hugged you. He was always too busy with everything but you.

Your sibling would curse at themselves, angry for not asking what was wrong after seeing you stare into oblivion the night before.

Everyone would curse themselves and wonder where it all went wrong, but there is no way to explain to them that it went wrong at no specific time, but every single moment of your life.

They would sit by your bed, sad because a radiant soul just left Earth.

They would cry and cry, but no amount of tears would bring you back.

The morning after you take your life, it is not only your soul that leaves the world, but the happy spirit of everyone who loves you.

I know what you are thinking: the people who love you the most didn’t see your pain, so you assume they don't care, but they are people too—they can’t see right through a brick wall.

Let them in.

They might have a shitty way of showing they care, but trust me, they do care.

September is National Suicide Prevention Month. I wrote this last year, and I thought of sharing it here today. No matter what it is you are going through you are important and you deserve to find happiness here on earth. ❤️

I get reminded every day I live.

It's everywhere, at every glance.

I never had a daddy

A father, definitely but a daddy never.

I should be grateful but why does grateful feel so sad?

I never had a daddy

I get reminded every fucking day

The universe won’t let me forget

Damn I won’t let me forget it

My mind dives into oblivion.

A happier life but reality prevails as I see this little girl.

She has no idea how lucky she is

I see it in the sparkles of her eyes as she screams running to hug her equally excited daddy.

She has no idea how lucky she is to run towards the man who birthed her knowing she would get a smile in return.

She knows she does not have to second-guess his emotions as if every day of his arrival were a game of Russian roulette.

She has no idea how lucky she is she has a daddy and not everyone who has a father can relate.

This is one of my favorite poems. Posting this because said one time that you can never over post your work.

I am tired of talking about this person to my two friends, whom I am vulnerable enough with to talk to about my feelings. I feel like they are tired of me talking about the same person for almost a year, if not more. It’s not a pretty thing. I have a feeling it will soon reach a point where talking about my feelings will become a burden to them.

I do not want to ever mention it to them again, or to anyone, so here I am writing hopefully my last rant on this topic today. I was having a conversation with a friend some days ago. He said something that really stuck with me:

People like people just because, and people do not like people just because.

It hurt hearing him say that, but that is the truth. It does not matter what you said or didn’t say, or what you did or didn’t do. If it was meant to be, it would be. He also said:

People know exactly what they want, and you might be the exact opposite.

That last sentence did not sit right with me, probably because I am a romcom fanatic.

You see, in most of the romcoms I have watched, the male leads, in fact, do not know what they want—well, that is until they meet their female lead. The female lead usually does not meet the expectations they might have set in the past for how they want their partner to be. Their partner might even be completely far from what they wanted—but she might have been what they needed.

It is because of delusions like this that I say things like, "Maybe he doesn't want me because he just doesn't know it yet." Talk about embarrassing, guys.

When I like someone, I am so delusional that I can almost tell myself anything rather than accept that maybe he is just not that into me. There are so many things I have said to myself these past months, like, "Maybe he is with someone and just does not want to disrespect said person." That is respectful; he is so sweet and loyal. Or, "Maybe he just broke up with an ex who destroyed his ability to trust or to want to be vulnerable with anyone." "Maybe something happened in his life and he just cannot deal with somebody new right now." "Maybe he is staring at our chat like I am, not knowing what to say because he knows he has taken too long to reply."

As my other friend would say:

He is not thinking about you.

You have probably never crossed his mind since you last spoke.

Way to burst my bubble, girl. Those words might have been sharp, but they were true.

Being in this situation has made me more understanding of her situation. I always advise her to move on from her stupid ex without understanding how hard it is, because I rarely have it bad for anyone. Hers is even worse—she actually dated the guy, so she has a right to be hung up on him. But I, I didn't even date this guy. I didn't even make it to the talking stage, yet not thinking about him seems almost impossible. Is this jazz? What did you put in your stew, sir? Because what is this unwavering feeling of wanting to know him—of wanting him to know me? Maybe that is what hurts the most. Maybe it hurts so much because I didn't get to know him enough for him to give me the ick. Maybe if I had gotten to know him and found out he is not my person, I’d move on with ease. But I didn't have that—I didn't get that. So, all I am left with is the never-ending question of “what if?”

What if he is anything I delude myself with, except that he just doesn't want me? What if he just doesn't want me—he doesn't want to know me? That is the bigger “what if.”

I find it hard to ask myself that last question because it hurts. It fucking hurts. And not in the proud way of "someone I like does not like me back," but in the "what is wrong with me?" way. Am I bad-looking? Maybe he doesn't find me attractive. Am I not cool enough? I’m probably not the kind of lady he is used to being with. Do I sound unintelligent? Maybe he is used to rolling with the first-class baddies. I am not a first-class baddie. Maybe I am not fit enough. Maybe he is into girls who go to the gym and play sports. I like working out, but I am nowhere near my body goals. He probably likes girls who have it figured out; I have nothing figured out. I have not even figured out Substack or my writing career, so I am nowhere near ready.

I know he is probably not thinking about all this, and these are just my insecurities talking, which is bullshit by the way. Have you seen me? I am fucking gorgeous. I am smart and ambitious, and I do not take no for an answer. I ask how I want to accomplish something and do not stop until I get it done. It's so stupid how, if some guy doesn't like me—doesn't see me—all of my untrue insecurities pop up and I begin to doubt my very existence.

I know he is not thinking this—I hope he is not thinking this—but it hurts not even being a second thought. Maybe I am just not memorable to him—not worth remembering, not worth knowing. As much as that hurts me, it is fine. It is fine if his mind doesn’t want to know mine, let alone our hearts, because like my friend said, "People like people just because, and people do not like people just because." It is okay that he is not interested. It is okay if he doesn't want to know me. It's not possible for everyone to like you, no matter how much you like them. It’s okay that not everyone you like or fall in love with loves you back. It hurts, but that doesn't demean you as a person, nor does it make him a bad guy.

I have experienced things of late that made me arrive at that conclusion. The first one is that people like me and I do not like them back. Not that they are less than me or anything—I cannot think that of people because, God abeg, who am I? I just don’t like them, just because. Am I to say they are not feeling the same way towards me that I am feeling towards this guy I like? Maybe they are, but it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with me just not being interested.

One of the guys actually annoyed me at one point. He had texted me but skipped the whole chatting process and moved straight to calling. I had not even saved his number because I wasn’t thinking of this stranger. So, it's only fair that my crush is also not thinking about me. The funny thing was that the universe just had to make this guy’s name the same as my crush's. So, when he texted initially, I thought he was my crush. Oh chim.

Anyway, the calling became too much. Unannounced calls—it felt a bit too forward to me. That, or I am just mean. I didn't feel comfortable with him calling me like that without telling me first. I don’t even know you, guy. I hadn’t saved his number, so anytime he called, I mistook it for a customer from my business. Your girl needs money! He sounded offended that I hadn’t saved his number. I really didn't think to save it because I have too many people with that name in my life, and I wasn't sure if we would continue talking for long.

We spoke on the phone for a while, and I told him at one point that I do not usually like calls. I tried having small talk with him despite my discomfort because I didn't want to sound rude, but it wasn’t going great at all. We had nothing in common, and he kept playing mystery police the entire time. I mean, boy, you called me.

I tried communicating with him that calls from a stranger are a little bit out of my comfort zone, and that I would prefer chatting first before upgrading to calls. I told him calls from strangers give me anxiety. I wasn't lying. I just wanted to communicate my feelings to him. He got upset that I was calling him a stranger and that his calls give me anxiety. I apologized if I sounded rude because that wasn’t my intention—multiple times, if I might add—telling him how I was just trying to communicate how I feel. He also got offended when I said I wanted to call a friend, saying he thought I didn't like calls. I like calls with my friends, not strangers. Is that offensive in any way?

At the end of the call, after I apologized if I hurt his feelings, he said that he probably wouldn't be calling me again. This was when I got upset. He was the one who texted, he was the one who wanted to know me, not the other way around, so why was he trying to flip the whole thing on me? At this point, all I said was okay, and I wished him a good life, as he did me.

After some time, he texted saying that I was acting a bit off. Tf. I was really vexed. I didn't bother opening the chat because, again, tf. I deleted his number, which I had managed to save earlier during that last call.

It made no sense to me how he was feeling so entitled to my being comfortable with his calls. Why was he comparing himself to my friends? I know my friends; I was far from knowing him. That was annoying.

The crazy thing was that I didn't mind getting to know him, at least at my own pace, but he got upset by me not accepting him immediately.

This situation just made me realize that the guy I have a crush on doesn't owe me anything, the same way I don’t owe this guy anything. Not that I was forward and angry unnecessarily like that dude, but still. I don’t know him like that, and he doesn't know me. He doesn't owe me shit.

The other thing that made me okay with the fact that it is okay not to be wanted is the movie He’s Just Not That Into You. I have been seeing clips of the movie for a very long time. Since I was in a similar situation to the first lady shown in the movie, each word felt like a slap to my face.

"So trust me when I say if a guy is treating you like he doesn't give a shit, he genuinely doesn't give a shit. No exceptions."

"If a guy doesn't call you, he doesn't want to call you."

I think these two sentences were what stayed with me. Just like the main character, I believed I too could be the exception. Maybe I am so special he’d have to want me. Omo, it doesn't work like that, because again: people like people just because.

Not to judge anyone that is—to each their own. I’m just not programmed in that way.

I sometimes question myself if I am normal. I know life isn’t a fairy tale, but I still do believe someone would fall madly in love with me without knowing what I taste like.

Call me old-fashioned, but I love the mindset that sex should be done between two people in love. I’m not the type of person that would do it with just anyone, and when I do, I feel like I am the type of person that’d want my partner to make love with me.

I know it might sound cringe, but saying “fuck”—when that’s what everyone who does it calls it—makes the act look not as special as I see it to be. So yes, I do want to be made love to, not fucked, and I am not ashamed of saying it.

I know it doesn’t sound right, and I can imagine what people would be thinking. The sound that keeps popping into my head is Jules yelling at Lexi, “This isn’t the 80s, you need to catch a dick.” I’m sorry, not sorry but I’m not wired like that.

As beautiful as this may sound—or weird, depending on who is reading this—it may be kind of lonely in my case. See, nothing about me is casual. Not just sex, but everything: be it a make-out session, hugs, or even my time—most especially my time.

I am the most to-myself person I know. I do not necessarily do the whole friends thing a lot, but the ones I do have, I carry them on top of my head like mad. Now, when it comes to a relationship, I become even more picky, or I just close my eyes. Let’s just say I’m not the most open person to relationships. My friend always says she isn’t going to attend my wedding in my head and I should try being vulnerable with people.

Well, being the way that I am, if I am vulnerable one time and it doesn’t go well, I wouldn’t be again till another two years or so.

I am being encouraged to widen my horizons and take big steps out of my comfort zone, but I am afraid that is impossible.

So tell me, am I doomed never to find love if I do not succumb to the modern “fuck then fall in love” routine?

I have wanted to be a musician, a writer, a neurosurgeon, a lawyer, an entrepreneur, a tech girl, a creative, and an influencer all in a little over ten years of my life.

You know that sound from Euphoria? “Maddie knew who she was from a young age.” Too bad I was never Maddie.

When I was way younger, I wanted to be a musician. Maybe it was because I always found singers pretty cool. Growing up watching Violetta, Big Time Rush, Hannah Montana, Make It Pop, the High School Musical movies, Rags, Let It Shine, and so much more, I saw the beauty of listening to music, though I lacked the ability to create it. It didn’t help that I didn’t know how to sing, though. I have a terrible, terrible voice. Looking back, I feel bad for my siblings and cousins who I forced to listen to me sing almost every single second of every day.

Back then, in my mind, I was to be the next Michael Jackson—the next King of Pop. Over ten years later, I am still nobody. I am not saying it to demean myself or anything; I am just being self-aware. In order to succeed in life, you have to admit your situation to yourself and ask yourself the bigger question: How do I change my situation? That is to say, you are what you talk into your life; you are who you say you are. Just because I am a nobody now does not mean I will continue to be one. Even a nobody can become a somebody.

Perhaps maybe if I believed more in myself and my singing, even though I had a terrible voice, I could have become better. I always got defensive whenever my siblings pointed it out, and instead of taking it as criticism, I saw it as an insult. Deep down, I knew they were not lying, but I did not want to accept it to myself. Maybe that’s why I never got to be a great superstar. I stopped the journey before I could complete it.

“But you couldn’t sing?” I hear you say. Yes, I knew I couldn’t sing. I should have accepted that fact and asked myself the next big thing that could have changed my life and reasoning forever: How do I learn to sing? What do I need to do to become a lovely singer? It’s funny how that missing piece of the puzzle is the reason I let a childhood dream die.

Now I am grown. I have learned that lesson, but now I have a bigger problem. It’s not just one dream; it’s a million, and it feels as though I am a failure. Almost every week, there is a new obsession.

It can be the sudden urge to learn a new language, or a new business idea—in my case, it is actually a number of business ideas—learn an instrument, become an influencer, write a book, or become a “gym girlie” or “Pilates girl,” all while still being a full-time student. There is always going to be something new I want to do, and I dream of doing all of them at the same damn time. But sadly, I do none of them. The wish and the struggle of wanting everything at the same time is what leads me to having none of them.

I’m still working on it. I do not have all the answers, so who am I to give advice? But I do struggle with it, and who better to give good advice than a person suffering from the same affliction they try everyday to escape?

Know your limit. I sure as hell do not know my limit, and that is why I struggle to achieve things at the time I am meant to achieve them. I want to do everything all at once, and that is my biggest downfall. I feel like I have to do everything at the same time because if I don’t, I feel like I am not achieving it fast enough. But pushing myself too much, to a limit I am not built for yet, leads to a burnout in less than 48 hours. And boom—I am back to the doomscrolling, bed-rotting, dreaming about my dreams instead of working towards them, until some months pass and I realize I am at the exact spot I have been stuck on for the past year.

It is a cycle I am trying to break. Instead of pushing myself unrealistically, why not push myself to build stamina? Think about it: a runner did not just become a star marathon runner overnight. It takes months of dedication and practice to reach a stage where they are actually ready to take the big step of running a marathon. If a new runner were to just throw themselves into that marathon without enough practice, they have doomed themselves to fail. That is what I have been doing—dooming myself to fail before I even started. I am new to these things, and instead of building stamina and training to allow myself to become physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared to do all those things, I throw myself into war without battle skills. I was doomed to burn out from the start.

My honest advice? Take it one thing at a time, one day at a time. Nothing good was built in a day.

Why do they all agree on such terrible, terrible things? It rubs me the wrong way in every possible sense.

I used to get so angry before, arguing at the top of my lungs, but now all I do is walk away.

Anytime they start talking about things I strongly do not support or agree with, I walk away.

I do this because I know it’s a losing battle. They would never understand me. They would never even try.

“Rape isn’t real; I’m sure she wanted it.”

“A man cannot be raped because he enjoyed it, so that means a woman cannot be raped because she probably enjoyed it too.”

I tried arguing when those statement was made. I was triggered. But my protests didn’t change anything at all.

After that occurrence, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.

What I thought about screaming in his face was: “How about I break a wooden stick and shove it violently against your arsehole repeatedly as you beg desperately for me to stop?” But I didn't say it. Looking back, I wish I did. If nothing else, just that sentence.

I have come to realize that it is very difficult to change a person's mind. Their way of thinking is embedded into their very being, so how exactly can I change their opinion with one conversation?

They would forget it the moment I finished talking because they would most definitely term it as nonsense.

There was also a time we were talking about coppers—the ones who get posted to secondary schools—and a colleague of mine went, “If you are not careful as a man, these secondary school girls can ruin your life.”

My mind glitched the moment that statement was made. To be certain, I asked the person if they meant girls who make advances at these coppers. Not that I think that is right, because the coppers are supposed to be the adults in the situation and should know better.

“It doesn’t matter who makes the advances. There is no way you will not see someone that you like among the students, as a man.”

WTF. Like, the actual fuck. I was speechless. I did not know what to say to this.

It is a normal occurrence that they make me speechless at least once a day—usually multiple times, if I’m being honest.

Those are teenagers. They are children, and you are feeling comfortable sexualizing them? It will never make sense to me. Of course, girls will be blamed for a male's gaze on their bodies. When did it become normal to want to have sex with children? What will I not see in this workplace?

It’s quite sickening and mentally exhausting being around people who lack basic thinking and morals. It’s exhausting having to explain basic human dignity.

I know people can have differences in opinions, but that shouldn’t apply to topics like equal rights, corruption, sexual assault,pedophilia, human decency, or just not being cruel to individuals based on what they choose to do with their lives when it doesn’t affect you in any way.

I have never been a sexual being, but these past few weeks, I cannot get Bayo out of my mind. I wouldn’t say I like him or anything, but boy, do I like that body. Watching him being handy didn’t make matters any better. I still replay that day every day in my head, as he asked if I had a boyfriend.

I have thought of flirty replies I could have given him.

“Do you want to be mine?” It might sound plain and ordinary, but the way I would have said it would have sounded seductive and sexy. How does one become seductive and sexy? This is so hard, I hate this. I want him. I know it is wrong, so I try to stay away, but the truth is, even if I don’t give a flying fuck, I don’t know how to go about it.

I blame porn for my lack of knowledge on the matter. Everything always looked easier in porn—performative but effective—but in real life, I think I’d just cringe myself out and beg for the ground to swallow me whole.

It’s best to forget it, though. No good could come of it. Imagine if people at the office notice; I will just become the topic of discussion for every lunch break. Imagine if it gets to my father. Even worse.

To be honest, I have started taking a liking to my job. It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I’m not stressed, but somewhere in me, I still hear myself yearning to be a content creator. I’d find a way to make both come true. Maybe I can prove to Daddy I can be a badass CEO and content creator at the same time.

I am looking at the content strategy for the company. It is pretty weak, so I have decided to take it upon myself to make it strong with my knowledge of social media. As of today, content creation is of the utmost importance.

Agatha knocks on my door and I yell for her to come in.

“It’s almost lunchtime, Madam Teniola. What would you like to eat?”

“I don’t mind a Monster drink and maybe spaghetti,” I say to her, and she leaves the office.

I am typing my ideas for content on my laptop, which is about to die, when I notice I only have one part of my laptop charger with me. Bayo is there, and I look at him.

“I left my laptop charger in the car. Please, I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me the head.”

“You want me to give you head?” Bayo asks with a smirk on his face.

“The head of the charger—you know what I mean,” I say with a little laugh, but the truth is that that little joke made my body react in a way I thought could only happen in a fantasy.

He walks to my table and leans into my ear.

“I’d rather give you head.” He took my ear into his mouth and bit it—not in a painful way, but in a teasing way—and a moan escaped my mouth. Maybe it was the built-up fantasy I have had of him fucking me, but I could feel myself wet already. It was as though my body did not know how to move anymore. I sat still.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he asks me as his hands caress my breasts. I found myself nodding my head, unable to speak.

“Use your words, babygirl.” Fuck! There is a way a Yoruba demon calls you “babygirl” that leaves you weak in the knees. I manage to say yes as he gives me this look—the “I am about to ruin other men for you” look—because he would be all that is in my head.

I am wearing a dress, and I do this thing where when I wear dresses, I do not wear tights. It is a body-con dress, and all I have underneath is a pair of thongs. Very easy to put away.

He folds my dress up as I stand a little to allow him to lift it. He carries me and places me on top of the table. He went to his knees as he kisses his way from my thigh to my pussy. I have no words to say, no direction. All I can do is moan in pleasure. It feel good, but what feels great is the fact that he is on his knees eager to pleasure me. There is nothing that makes a woman wetter than when she is desired.

I was lost in pleasure when I heard a knock on the door. We quickly stopped. I smoothed my dress as Bayo stood up and sat where he had been sitting before. I quickly sat down as I yelled for the person to come in. It is Agatha with my lunch order.

“Your lunch, Madam,” she says as she places it on my table.

“Would you like anything, sir?” Agatha asks Bayo.

“Nah, I’m good. I have already eaten to my satisfaction,” he says with a smirk, looking at me. I felt awkward, like Agatha could sense whatever it was that was going on. She smiles as she exits the office. I should stop the office foolery, but I want it even more now.

For the rest of the day, Bayo and I didn’t address what happened between us. He has been on his phone ever since. I lost my appetite, to be honest. The only meal I was craving was him. I want him on his knees again, eating me out, as I try not to scream and alert everyone in the office.

I said nothing. I couldn’t focus on anything. Only Bayo was on my mind. Since he touched me, my sex has been nothing but a flowing waterfall that refuses to go dry. I could see myself grinding uncontrollably on my chair, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Or maybe I wanted him to notice so I could feel pleasure again. I was this close to spreading my legs wide open on the table, watching him watch me touch myself. The thought of that made me go even more crazy.

The rest of the night was torture. By the end of the night, I wanted to ask him to sleep over at my place and finish up where we had left off, but I was interrupted by a caller on his phone labeled “Sweetheart.”

“Hello babe, how was your day?” I heard him say.

WTF does he mean by “babe”?

Is this good? Is this right at all? I can't blame myself for finding him hot. I hope he doesn't notice me staring at his arms all the time, imagining him grabbing my ass with them. I wonder if he is a grabber.

Bayo has been working for me for the past two weeks. I haven’t had much to do at work; all I do is approve the money coming in and out of the company. The company is basically running itself.

I will never forget the day I started finding him attractive. It was after work last Friday. My friend and her brother came to visit me at my place immediately after work, so Bayo saw them as he parked my car.

My friend and her brother didn’t stay long. We had just shared a drink because they had somewhere to be, but they decided to say hi since they were near my place. When I was escorting them out after the drink, that’s when I saw him.

He was shirtless, so clearly, I’d be a bit uneasy. I wasn’t expecting to see all that, after all. His body looked built to perfection, but not in a dramatic way. I like my men lean but a bit muscular—not in a scary way, but strong. His stomach was marked with abs that gave his belly character.

After saying goodbye to them, I tried to make my way back into my apartment without being distracted by Bayo’s lovely body.

“Miss Adewale,” he said as I was about to enter. I looked him in the eye, fighting the urge to examine his perfect abs.

“I’ve told you Teni is just fine.”

“Right, Miss Teniola.”

I rolled my eyes at him, trying to seem irritated, but truly I was just happy to be in the same space as him. What is this feeling?

“I’d like to use your shower, please. My body is sticky from the detergent while washing, if that is not too much trouble.”

A part of me wanted to tell him he shouldn't wash my car, that it wasn’t part of his job description, and that we should use a car wash like normal people do. But a bigger part of me wanted him to continue washing my car so I’d be able to watch him. I don’t think I can ever get tired of the view.

“Sure you can,” I said. He took a change of clothes from the car and came right in with me.

While he was in the guest bathroom, I brought a towel for him to dry his damp skin after his shower. I could hear the water running and could see his silhouette through the bathroom door, which was left open just a bit. If I moved just a little, I’d be able to bless my eyes with goodness. I had to restrain myself because I am not a predator.

“The towel is on the bed!” I yelled before making my way to the kitchen to make something to eat for dinner. Nothing stressful, just stir-fried macaroni with chunks of chicken. It was fast to make because I already had the ingredients prepped.

As I was pouring the macaroni into my sauce, Bayo made his way into the kitchen.

“Thank you very much for letting me use your shower. I’ll get out of your way so you can call your boyfriend or whatever you do at night.”

“Boyfriend?” I asked, giving him a strange look.

“The guy from earlier,” he said.

“That's my friend’s brother,” I said in protest.

“If not him, then who?” he asked.

“Nobody,” I said.

“Oh, I see. Good to know.” He smirked.

Is he flirting? I don’t know, but I hope he is—if not in this exact moment, then in the near future.

I invited him to join me for dinner, but he declined, saying he had somewhere to be. The wetness between my legs hoped that *somewhere* was his head between them, but I mentally slapped myself for thinking about him in that manner. What is wrong is wrong. I can’t be involved with an employee.

If my father gives me three more months, I know I can make it as a content creator. But to him, it isn’t a real job. He doesn’t see the vision. He doesn’t care that people are making bastard money from it. To him, if it isn't a corporate job, it is a "lesser" path. What even constitutes a real job anyway? Something that pays you, right? Content creation pays, so why can’t he see that?

I am fresh out of NYSC, and apparently, Chief Adewale doesn’t deem it fit for his first-class, top-of-her-class daughter to "waste her brain" making videos. *“It is not sustainable, Teniola,”* his voice echoed in my head.

To play the part, I’d dressed the part, right? I wore a pair of high-waisted brown trousers that hugged my curves and ass perfectly, paired with a sky-blue office shirt tucked neatly at the waist. My hair is packed into a ponytail I styled last night. For makeup, I went for a clean, "make up, no-makeup" look, finishing it off with my go-to lip combo: a brown liner, a nude gloss, and a layer of clear gloss. I did look like a boss.

My father had made me the Director of Operations for all his hotels and short-let apartments. He even built a brand-new corporate headquarters where all the branches would report to. I don’t understand him. He has found his way in life, why wouldn’t he let me find mine?

I pull up to the complex driving my white Range Rover. I walk into the building—into my office. It feels so weird to even think it. Who would have thought I’d have my own office at twenty-three? But I am not my own boss, so what good is it? I’m just a figurehead.

Staff members murmur and bow their heads as I pass. They didn't even ask who I am. Word travels fast though, and they would have heard the boss’s daughter is starting work today. I went straight to my office. Having visited the site during construction, I know the layout of the entire office.

I dropped my coach bag on the massive desk and sank into my leather chair. I have to admit, the feel is incredible. It is soft and my bum feels like it was made for it.

A sharp knock on my door brought my attention back to reality.

"Come in!" I called out.

The door opens, and a young woman steps in. "Good day, ma. I’m Agatha. I’m the intern at the office. I was told I’d be in charge of your meals, and coffee."

I offered a warm, smile. "Please, just call me Teniola."

Agatha blinked, looking slightly horrified. "Oh, no, ma. I’d be much more comfortable with 'Madam Teniola.'"

And this is exactly why I don’t want to work for my father. I am not older than this girl by more than two or three years, yet it is 'Madam' she wants to be calling me. God abeg.

"Sure," I sighed, letting it go. "Whatever makes you comfortable."

"Would you like some coffee to start your morning, Madam?"

"Yes, please. But..." I hesitate. I am incredibly particular about my coffee. "...actually, let me come with you to the kitchenette. I’ll show you how I like it done, so you don't have to stress next time."

Agatha tries to protest, her eyes wide with panic that she is failing her first task, but I insist.

Ten minutes later, I return to my office with a perfect cup of coffee in my hand. Agatha sat by her seat with the other staff outside my door.

As I enter my office, my blood stopped flowing or started flowing fast. I don’t know which happened but I know something changed in me.

A guy is leaning over my desk. He is holding my daily planner, his thumb about to flip open the first page.

My heart is hammering against my ribs. That isn’t just a planner. I use it to journal my rawest, most frustrating thoughts. I am not about to let some random dude read all my unfulfilled dreams.

"Don’t touch that!" I snap, my voice sharper than intended.

I walk over yanking it out of his hands. I know I sound incredibly rude, but the panic of being exposed took over me.

The guy raises his hands in surrender, totally unbothered by my outburst. "My bad. Sorry, Miss Adewale."

"Don’t you know it’s rude to snoop around someone’s office?" I say, clutching the book to my chest.

Before he can answer, Agatha steps into the room breaking the awkward silence. "Madam Teniola, Chief Adewale is already in the conference room. The meeting is about to start."

I took a deep breath. "Right. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend."

I walk past him, Agatha trailing a step behind me. I could hear the dude walking in the same direction as us.

As we enter the boardroom, I see my father is already seated at the head of the table. I shot him a half-hearted smile. Yes, I am here, but I am here unwillingly. I take the empty seat directly to his right. The dude from my office sat on the chair right next to mine. I glare at him, but he just stares at my father as he talks.

My father runs through the introductions, presenting me to the board. I give a polite speech, asking for their warm cooperation. It is standard yapping. Everything I said in the speech was what ChatGPT and I cooked up. The moment the meeting ended, my father gestured for me and the mystery guy to stay behind.

"Omo mi," my father says with a smile on his face as he places a hand on the guy's shoulder. "This is Bayo. He is going to be your Personal Assistant. He’ll help you with work around the office, and drive you everywhere. You know I don't like you driving yourself in Lagos traffic."

I frown, surprised at what my father just said. "No offense, Daddy, but I don’t need a PA. I am perfectly capable, and I am a great driver."

My father smiles at me. "Bayo, please give us a minute."

Bayo nods looking at me for less than a second before exiting the conference room.

Once the door clicked shut, my dad turned to me, his tone soft. "Teni, listen to me. Bayo is the son of one of my oldest childhood friends so I feel obligated to give me a job. He can also be your security, he was part of the Nigerian army at one point.” I am just frowning because this feels like it's going to disrupt my life.

“Just do this one thing for me, omo mi. It’s not costing you anything."

I opened my mouth to argue. "But—"

"No buts," he interrupted, wrapping me in a hug to stop me from talking ending the conversation. He pulls back, patting my shoulder. "Enjoy your new office, Director."

He walks out, leaving me alone in the room.

I stay in the boardroom for a few minutes, finishing my coffee from earlier. After that, I walk back to my office.

Bayo is leaning against the wall right next to my door with his arms crossed.

"Why are you just standing out here?" I ask, standing in front of him.

He looks down at me, and I sense sarcasm in his entire demeanor. "Am I allowed to enter, ma? I wouldn't want to offend my new boss on day one."

I roll my eyes, pushing past him. "Haha. Very funny."

We both enter and I take my seat on my soft chair. I could definitely get used to that. Bayo stands near the entrance.

I looked up from my laptop, a bit uncomfortable. "Are you just going to stand by the door? You can sit down, you know…I don't bite."

"Good to know," he says, finally moving to take one of the guest chairs opposite me. He sat back.

I brought out my laptop from my bag. I already had a tab open on it researching the lives of successful influencers. I spent the entire day researching content strategies and jotting down content ideas. I am determined to live my own life not the one my father maps out for me.

Okay, there is no way of saying that without sounding selfish. I accept it, though. I might cause little to no damage to anyone’s son by being self-aware.

As I was saying, I want to feel love—the attention, the yearning… my God, the yearning. I think I’d love the attention not because I love them, but because them loving me makes me feel good about myself.

It makes me question myself less. It makes me glad that finally someone actually deems me worthy to be lovable. It’s not healthy, guys. Don’t do that. You’ll end up being the villain.

That’s why I refuse to be in a relationship with anyone that presents themselves. I know myself, and I don’t want them to mistake my love for their attention for my love for them.

I don’t love them; I love that they love me, and that’s not love from my end. It’s not fair.

This feeling makes me scared because what if, when I actually do love someone, I mistake it for my need to feel love and I drive them away because it is the right thing to do?

I wouldn’t want to lead a person on—at least not intentionally. That would be such a crazy predicament because it’s almost as if there is no winning.

I’d never get to experience the beauty of love because my brain always has to cook up a reason for me not to want it.

Maybe this staying away from love, because I want to be loved and not love, is just another illusion I delude myself with so I can be alone.

I don’t even think I know the real reason. What if it’s so hard to pinpoint a reason for something there are a billion reasons for? Or do I just want them to be? I confuse myself at times, to be honest.

Maybe it’s my inability to be vulnerable with people. I have been vulnerable with people—the wrong people—and it always ends up blowing up in my face.

These people were friends of mine, and I wonder to myself, if I am being failed in friendship, who am I not to be failed in love?

It’s hard to break down a wall built by pain and disappointment. Maybe that’s where the self-doubting comes in. Because people… not just people, but my supposed loved ones, had failed me in the past, so it makes me wonder: maybe I’m just not someone worth pleasing—worth thinking about—worth loving.

Maybe it’s my love for solitude, because being in solitude means I am all by myself and I only have to look out for me.

There are so many reasons I could think of, but I don’t want to have to list them all. However, I know all of them have something to do with me wanting to be by myself, because being by myself is safe, and being with someone is a challenge—and I am terrified of a challenge.

I haven’t been doing much of that. I have no clear reason why to tell you guys, and myself as well. Maybe it’s the pressure I kept on myself to create in quantity and quality that makes me unable to create at all. It’s kind of sad.

Or maybe it’s the fact that I wanted to be seen as this cool, successful girl who has everything in her life in check—from school, to my business, to my internship, to my love life, and, most importantly, to finishing my damn debut novel. Writing a book is not as easy as I thought it would be. It’s actually ten times the work I thought it would be. I think, at this point in my life, it is the most work I’ve ever had to do.

I’ve learnt to cut myself some slack because, as for school, I work hard—maybe not as hard as other people, but I try my best. I’ve made peace with the fact I’m not going to graduate with a first class. It doesn’t mean I’m not smart. I know I am; I just didn’t really care from the beginning or put in as much work as I should have been putting in. It’s not the end of the world. But I cannot help but feel like a failure about it.

For my business, last year was great for me. This year was a bit rocking, but it has been working well for me these last few months. It can only be God. I just pray it keeps on going well!

My internship is going okay, I guess. I wish I were somewhere else, though. It’s no fun working in your father’s company. Apparently, most of the people I work with first impression of me was that I was a spoilt brat or something. Someone literally calls me ajebo on a daily basis. I’m not saying they are evil for having such initial thoughts, but it’s just exhausting when people assume your life looks a certain way without actually looking at it through your lenses. I pray my school supervisors do not come anytime soon though. I am on zero. I don’t know why, but I have been too lazy to do anything, literally. It’s so unlike me. It’s only the first week of my logbook that is filled up. That’s just terrible.

As for my love life, it is as it has always been: as dry as ever. I did speak to my older sister about a crush I had on someone. It was nice talking to her about that kind of stuff. It made me feel closer to her, even if we are oceans apart. I was happy at the situation, not what she had to say. I told her how I had complimented the guy and told him I’d like to get to know him. She said that was lame and I should have just asked him out on a date directly so he knows I am interested in him. Well, he has a girlfriend now, so that’s not an option. Sigh… That’s why I posted that note yesterday about how embarrassment doesn’t exist and you should ask that man out today, or something like that. Don’t be like me; you only live once.

Speaking about my love life, there was a Yoruba demon after my life, and I hope he is not still after my life. Yoruba men are dangerous with their sweet mouths, so run away from them, my girlies. The funny thing was that I was—I am—attracted to him, and he knows it, I think. It was supposed to be an enemies-to-lovers trope, then I found out he has a girlfriend, so he wants to change it to a cheating trope. Nahh. I ran away. It was hard, but I did run away, and I am proud of myself for my restraint. I didn’t think it to be possible because I wanted him bad. Not for a relationship, but for… you know. I had to control myself. It felt like I had lost all sense of control around him. He awakened something in me I thought to be asleep. Do you all remember when I was questioning if I was asexual? Well, I can say it certainly now that I am sure I am not. Turns out I just needed the right motivation.

On another note, I randomly remembered when my sister pointed out how it is weird I haven’t had a boyfriend since I have been at university, and final year starts October. She went all, “Is it normal? Do we have to pray for you?” type of shit. Then she asked if I’m gay and I am still in the closet. My brother is convinced I am gay—both of them are. Well, my sister gave me a project: I should be in a relationship before I finish uni. It shouldn’t be that hard, right?

I promise, I am not cooked… well, maybe right now I am because I’m under the sun all day, everyday on site. Someone did ask me out a few months ago and I was just not interested, and I have no idea why. The person isn’t a bad person; I just didn’t want to have a talking stage, or situationship, or relationship with them. Maybe I am the problem? I do tend to usually be… I don’t really like people. Maybe I am happy being by myself. I love it—I relish it, even. The fact I don’t have to think of anyone but myself. The fact that no one has the power to hurt me because I actually do not give two shits about anyone. I think the best relationship I have had is the one I have with myself, and only myself.

Now, off to the thing that has been bugging me for weeks. What good is a writer who does not write? That’s the thing—writing is easy; expressing is the hard part. I can write words and be done with my book, but I don’t just want to write words. I want to write impactful words, but I end up writing nothing. I’m having wicked thoughts like maybe I just am not cut out to be a writer. Maybe I should focus on my engineering degree. But it doesn’t give me the thrill; writing does. But what happens when the thing that gives me the thrill isn’t for me? I am conflicted. I feel sad and alone and passionless. I don’t feel like the creator of a masterpiece, and that is all I have ever wanted—to create something that sits with people.

I believe I have spent way too much money on my dream not to see it through though, so I hope when it does eventually come out, you like it, or, even better, you resonate with it.

My mind is a mess, and the mess is what I poured on here. I know it’s a lot, but I hope you all understand my “a lot.” I sure as hell do not. I hope you all had a better month than I did. Writing this made my feel a bit better though.

I am the one you call when you are sad or bored or you just miss me

But you’ve never thought to kiss me.

I am the girl you play video games with

The girl you share your dreams with but never will I be the girl of your dreams.

I am the girl you complain to about girls who don’t love you.

They could love you but I swear it can never reach half as much as I love you.

I am the girl that has been with you throughout the awkward faces and I am still here

That’s how you know it is real.

I am the girl you’d call cool but never in a million years want.

I am the girl who is one of the guys but never will I be your girl.

I hate being understanding.

It’s exhausting caring for yourself last, but I just can’t help myself.

You can do the absolute shittiest thing to me, and I will find a way to understand why you did it so I don’t hate you. Why? Because I am understanding.

It sounds like being a nice person, but trust me, it’s just justifying people’s shitty behavior.

What is bad is bad. It’s good to be understanding at times, but sometimes that understanding leads to "see finish."

You’d think you’d be respected or loved more for being understanding, but the truth is that most people will only see you as easy.

Easy to walk over, easy to disrespect, easy to hurt—because they know you’d understand them even when they don’t even understand why themselves are doing you wrong.

It gets to a point where they don’t care if they hurt your feelings anymore, because you are understanding to everyone but yourself.

They don’t even have to think twice about hurting you, because they know you’d cook up an excuse to justify their actions.

It’s not being nice; it’s being a pushover. It’s okay to set boundaries. It’s okay to be upset with someone who hurt you. It’s okay to hold people accountable for their actions

They are free to do anything, so they would never understand their male privilege, and it vexes me so much.

It makes me want to scream out loud, but if I do, that’s just a woman overreacting and getting overly emotional like they always do.

Men are so oblivious to how much things are easier for them than us, and it makes my blood boil. The obliviousness that comes with the mentality of most humans of the male sex is the same that comes with being a white individual.

They would never understand what it is to be a woman—they never possibly could. They are as ignorant as masters are to the daily lives of their slaves.

I get them because, after all, they are but men. Think about it: from the moment they were born, they were told they were the shit, our superior. Who would want to trade power for weakness? Obviously, they wouldn’t want to be seen as bad guys, so they do what would make them see themselves as the lesser evil—they choose to be ignorant, to be oblivious, to be blind to the flawed system of the world.

It’s easier to benefit from a system that is designed for you than fight against something that was designed never to fail. Why attack an evil system? Why fight a losing war? Maybe to stand for what is right? But no. Humans aren’t built that way—at least, majority aren’t. Yes, evil is evil, but once that evil becomes good for you, perspectives change. It’s disturbing, I know. It’s unfair, most definitely. It hurts my soul and probably every woman’s, but again, we are but women.

It’s so sad our true freedom will continue to rely on if men are willing to do the selfless thing and view us as humans too—as equals. It’s ridiculous. I’ve recently come to the realization that true liberation will only come when we are truly acknowledged by men on earth. It doesn’t make any sense. Men get everything and it is not fair. Even our liberation comes at the cost of them being selfless or rather, in actual sense, just being sensible.

Men will always be thanked no matter what they do, be it selfless or selfish. They still win. So yes, I’m angry and rightfully so. Why do men have to do nothing but exist and be worshipped? It hurts; it fucking hurts.

Okay, maybe I don’t hate them, but I hate their ignorance. Just acknowledge your male privilege for Christ’s sake. It’s so exhausting having to explain it.

This rant was much needed. It came to be because I am literally surrounded by men in my working environment and, boy, I do see into their minds. Sure, not all men, but currently all the men in my workplace are nuts. I’m going to be listing some scenarios I have observed from being a part of their conversations or, truth be told, listening in disgust.

Case study number one: He seemed like a sweet guy. I thought, well, he does seem loving. He loves his daughter and his wife. She just gave birth and he always talks about them. I don’t remember how the conversation came up, but he was talking about how he doesn’t understand how men just put our wives into another round of torment almost immediately after giving birth; how selfish it is to want another child so fast. I thought he was so caring; I was like, wow, what a man. He was like, he was going to give his wife at least a year or two years before even thinking about getting another child. Sweet, right? Then all of a sudden, he says, "I’m going to visit one of my babes." I’m confused. "Aren’t you married? Don’t you have a child?" we asked. So apparently, he thinks him doing the human, responsible, loving things to do for his wife gives him a free pass to cheat because apparently while his wife is healing, he can’t stay away from sex. Wow, what a man, right? It absolutely makes no sense how we are meant to understand a man when it comes to them being selfish—because he can’t do much, he can’t hold himself, right? Women have high libidos and still don’t cheat. If a woman wants to cheat on a man, that would be considered evil, but if a man should do the same, it’s understandable because he is a man. No valid reason except his sex.

Men are free to cheat because they "have" to have sex, but a loving wife would wait for a husband no matter how long. I’m not saying women don’t cheat; of course they do. We are humans; everyone of us is capable of cheating. But the problem here is society gives men a free pass; if a woman should cheat, she is a disgraceful Jezebel. The more I think about this topic, the more I see how unfair the world is.

Case study two: The one that hurts me so much is how everything women like is stupid until a man gets involved. Think about it: social media, cooking, romance, even writing—anything as long as a man is involved. Think about poetry. A woman writes, she’s "emotional," while a man writes, he "creates a masterpiece." So, a couple of days ago, I realized that a coworker and I both play a particular game: Block Blast. He was playing it and he seemed pretty invested in it. I’d been playing it for like a month now, so I was happy someone I knew was playing it too.

When he saw me playing it another day, he was convinced I downloaded it because I saw him playing it, but I denied it, obviously, because it wasn’t because of him.

Some days later he saw me playing it, and the conversation somehow landed on our highest scores. He seemed proud of his score before he saw mine. He was on 30,000 plus. Then all of a sudden, he saw mine. It was 120,000 plus. And he went on to say, “You no get work? Is this all you do with your life?” It was funny at first and it was all jokes till he said, “How man go get this kind score, when e no be woman?” This was when I stopped laughing.

It’s so annoying how anything a woman does gets mocked. There is no winning. You lose, you lose. You win, you still lose, and that is the lives of women in this cruel, cruel world.

Now I am questioning if I actually love love, or if I just love the idea of it. Maybe I only yearn for it because that is what I’ve been feeding myself since childhood. From cartoons to K-dramas to rom-coms, my favorite part is always the confession.

I am a sucker for a love confession, but when someone confesses their unending love to me, I feel disgusted. Like, what do you mean you can’t focus because I keep popping into your mind? In a rom-com, I’d probably blush or cry, but coming from a real person, it feels like a big fat lie.

Maybe it’s because in rom-coms, I know the characters are being honest; I’ve watched them yearn for each other. But in real life, you only have your own POV. You are only ever going to watch from your own point of view and no one else's. Maybe that is the scary part. You have absolutely no idea if a person truly loves you; you just have to have blind faith. And me and "blind faith in a human being" do not go hand in hand.

I can never fully let my guard down around anyone—at least, never again. Humans are evil. Whether it’s love or friendship, you can’t really trust anyone. But then, what is love without trust? If I can never trust, I can never be in love.

Maybe that isn’t too bad, because people who fall in love often fall alone. I guess it’s better not to fall at all than to fall alone.

I do love love, but if it isn’t the type I dream of, I don’t want it at all—which is kind of depressing. I can never attain the type of love I want if I don’t let my guard down, and I always tell myself I’ll never find love if I never give myself the opportunity.

Omo mehn, this love thing is silly. It’s almost like there’s no winning. That "one true love" is a miracle, and not everyone gets it. I recommend self-love, guys. Love yourself.

Okay, bye.

I’m at a point where I don’t mind choosing death though. I hate everything. What am I living for if I can’t stand by my morals? I can’t stand by them, I’m no better than them—my parents. Doesn’t that make me as bad as my father who committed such atrocious crimes? The bystander and the culprit are two peas in the same jar after all.

Our parents are meant to guide us on the right path. Tell us right from wrong but my parents are like a puzzle. There is never a straight answer, sometimes it seems to be there is no answer at all. You never really know with them. Today good is bad, then bad is good and so the cycle of never-ending confusion continues.

I might not know all things but I know one thing for certain— one emotion is constant. It does not matter how good of a person I am to others or how many of my goals I accomplish, I will always be sad, it is part of who I am.

Being sad is not simply crying or feeling bad when something doesn’t go your way. Being sad to me is also in the little things.

Staying in bed for hours staring at the ceiling wondering if it would ever get better, not eating because eating signifies whatever you know is bothering you does not bother you anymore. But it does… It fucking does.

It's staying days without taking your bath because it is easier to feel shitter about yourself when you reek. It's holding pee for so long as you lie in bed because you know when you stand up, you will lose the trail in your thoughts of listing how pathetic your life is in many ways.

It's trying new things every now and then to see whether something… anything really brings you joy when all your favorite things don't seem to amuse you anymore.

Sadness to me is simply a state of searching for something to live for when every cell in your body is begging desperately to be destroyed.

I haven’t been posting lately because I am working on my debut novel, All By Myself, and I can barely focus on one at a time. So as to be consistent and not slack off on finishing my novel soon, I have decided to keep you all posted. Little notes, paragraphs that moved me, notes that might not make the cut, everything. I hope you enjoy this journey with me. Fighting!

My coping mechanism is journaling or writing poems. I’m going to be vulnerable right now: most of the poems I write are over ninety percent about me. When I write, I feel that it is the only moment of my life I’m not lying to myself.

It’s quite easy to delude myself. I just tell myself it’s not that deep, or I sometimes imagine I’m not the one living my life. I think of myself as one of the characters in my books—maybe then I can tell myself the feelings I pour into a write-up or a poem are just made up, like the people I write of.

I have a confession to make: I write poems about anyone and everyone. I write poems about people who make me happy (they are few, though), people who make me sad, question my self-worth, or people who make me feel like I’m not worthy to be alive. And most importantly, I write poems about the people I have "loved." Okay, maybe not exactly loved, because I doubt I’ve ever been in love. I certainly know no one has ever been in love with me. I guess I can say I have loved, but never been in love.

I’ve loved people—male and female alike, not romantically—and I have been hurt by said people. Did they love me? If it’s by the actions they had shown me in the past, then definitely not, but I like to believe that they did.

Here is a poem of one of my many feelings.

I thought it would take a miracle for someone to love me

Here I find myself hopeless because I know no amount of miracles can make me lovable.

I feel stupid

I thought you were my miracle

I told myself you were different

I told myself if you could love me all would be right with the world and maybe everyone who broke my heart was wrong

I thought they would regret it and wish they were us.

How wrong I was because you are just like every one of them.

You are just like them.

The problem here is that I don’t want to be loved because I’m cherished, but rather I want to be loved to prove it’s possible to love me.

The list below will show what my YouTube search history looked like as a teenager, and maybe probably yours too. Did you do all these things too, or are these experiences unique to only me? I refuse to believe that, because no one person’s story is unique. Someone, somewhere, would have experienced every single one of your experiences too. In no particular order: “These are my confessions,” as Usher would say.

1. How to grow your booty I used this particular search because, at a point, it felt like all the Black creators all had a naturally big Bunda. I did not want to be wasting my time watching videos of someone who already had a God-given gift. The white women usually used the word “booty,” and they would show a before-and-after picture of themselves; suddenly, I’d be hopeful that if she could get a big ass, so could I.

I was basically doing squats at that age; why was I suffering my poor legs? One of my friends at the time was drinking a lot of yogurt because she was certain if she drank a lot, she’d have a big ass. She did not. Come to think about it, we were like twelve or thirteen; why did we have “yansh fever”? Well, we shouldn’t have been really bothered, but how could we have helped it? With the boys in our class writing lists of the girls, grading us as though they were measuring meat. They would grade us from the people with fat asses to the ones with flat asses—or as they would like to say, “walls.” Of course, this type of environment would affect a child.

I was so happy when lockdown came. For some reason, I was drinking one liter of Habib yogurt almost every single day. I had grown a fat ass and I was grateful. I’d walk and not feel ashamed anymore because I knew what was at my back was not something to laugh at. I remember a day in senior school; I was walking down the stairs and two boys were behind me. I heard one of them whispering to another, “Omo, God dey create o,” and the other said, “I swear.” I knew they were looking at my ass.

I used to think boys lusting over me would make me feel pretty, but it did not. It made me feel objectified. I wasn’t to be liked because of my brains or amazing personality. That was the moment that I realized that wasn’t the type of attention I yearned for. I thought it was, but it was far from it.

2. How to get pink lips This one was a fucking pandemic. I know of a guy who bleached his lips with Hypo to get pink lips. Having black lips is not a crime, people. I don’t know if it was because of the books we read on Wattpad; if a character were to be described, they would be said to have pink lips. But the thing is, it wasn’t only the girls, but the boys too. Everyone wanted pink lips, and if they already had pink lips, they wanted them pinker. You can never go wrong with having pink lips.

I did everything I was recommended to do by various creators on YouTube. How to make lip scrubs—I still remember the recipe: you’d need an oil, preferably coconut oil or olive oil; enough sugar; and a little bit of salt. It wasn’t much; all these things could easily be found in one’s kitchen. Another way to get pinker lips was also by rubbing clothes with stones as designs against your lips. The most popular one was brushing the lips with your toothbrush. Apparently, I spoke to some of my friends who were also doing it at the time, and they said that they also brushed until they bled, literally.

Looking back, it is obvious I had a problem. This was when I was fourteen; I was brushing my lips every day to the point that I got myself injured badly. My lips literally split into three different sections. To make matters worse, I’d peel the already healing lip almost every day because I loved how pink my lips looked afterwards. I wasn’t allowing it to heal, and it went on for literal months. Yes, I know I had a problem.

3. How to remove dark spots from your body I am certain I knew the meaning of “hyperpigmentation” before I knew the meaning of “photosynthesis.” I hated dark spots. Having them made me feel like less of a girl. Anytime I fell and got injured, I wouldn’t hear “sorry”; I would be scolded because a girl should be careful and avoid rough play. “Do you want to spoil your body?” I would be asked.

I am sure my mother was always wondering why I always asked her to buy turmeric from the market, even if we didn’t use it to cook. Turmeric was always the star ingredient when it came to removing hyperpigmentation in all the YouTube videos I watched. It almost never worked; I was just kidding myself and staining all my clothes with the turmeric.

I was a crybaby when I was a teen. Words hurt, yes but words from another teenager hurt more. There were so many things my agemate would tell me that had me thinking about my life. So many things. I was deeply insecure in my body as a kid. I remember watching YouTube tutorials on how to twerk. Everyone was doing it so why not become good at doing it too? I watched videos religiously because we all knew what happens every free period and boy did, we have free periods.

Someone would have sneaked in a jam box to school and we would be jamming to music as all the girls in the class twerk and whine their waists. I was known for knowing how to whine my waist but now that I think about it, why did fuck did I feel so happy and fulfilled about that? I was only proud of that because people liked it. It made me feel secure in my abilities. It wasn’t for my own validation but theirs.

I was also a people pleaser and a pushover. It was that bad. I knew it, every fucking body knew it. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to disrespect me because they knew I wouldn’t do shit. I hate thinking about the past. I have done a lot of healing and self-growth. This person I am writing does not exist anymore. This person isn’t me. I do not give a shit anymore about what people think of me. I know who I am and I love who I am.

I am glad words do not get to me as much as they did when I was younger. I remember vividly when a fair igbo girl in my set did not take my hand because she does not shake “black” people. I felt so insulted. Am I ugly? I thought. Am I not as beautiful as the other fair girls? It was a roller coaster of emotions. I started thinking that black girls aren’t as beautiful as fair girls. I understood why women bleach their skin.

Before we continue reading, anybody I was in a relationship with in secondary school is my childhood friend. It did not help when my first “boyfriend” at the time (I was thirteen) would explain his type and he would say a woman like “Nengi from BBN” It is half cast I will marry. So, I am shit abi? It is not bad to have a type but why be with someone and constantly bring up the fact that they aren’t your type? He always made me feel as though I was in competition with any fair girl that would be within eyesight.

I also remember how he’d bring up the fact that he loves girls with long hair. At the time, I had just cut off my relaxed hair so I didn’t feel very pretty. I felt like the opposite of his type. Why was he even with me I’d think? Maybe I should be happy that he went so far down to ugly, short hair, black me. I was pathetic.

I remember watching a lot of homemade recipes on how to grow your hair. I tried them all. This happened when I was thirteen but I had no idea how much it affected me. The first real money I had, I used it to buy natural hair products in other to grow my hair. This was when I was sixteen. I wasn’t even with the dude for up to a year. It’s funny how those little comments stay with you for years.

We might not have been together but somewhere deep down in me, I wanted to prove to him that I have long hair and I am worthy of him. Talk about it is embarrassing. I wasn’t doing it for me, I was doing it for validation, his validation and perhaps other people too. I knew I could never be fair by bleaching my skin, not if I still wanted to be under my father’s roof, but I could have long hair if I tried hard enough.

I was consistent for a year or two. I saw real growth but I wasn’t still happy. It didn’t feel like I was doing it for me. It’s now that I am writing this, I realize I did it all for him, that fine boy Yoruba demon. Maybe I should be thanking God for showing me the evil ways of Yoruba boys early so I can run from them now.

I wasn’t feeling great in my own body so I decided to do something for me. Without a care of if I would be this boy’s type or any stupid ranking of girls with the longest hair in class or any of that bullshit. I got instant locs and for the first time, I felt happy in my decision. I didn’t worry about anyone. Only my opinion matters.

Another thing that really bothered me was my tummy. I used to be quite skinny before lockdown started. I had abs and everything but those couple months spent at home made me put on some weight. My abs gone, my ass fatter and that came with a little bit of a belly. Looking back, it wasn’t even that bad. I did have a bad posture that’s probably why it looked worse than it was but still. I was insecure for nothing.

Everyone kept on mentioning how drastic I had changed with my belly. They all joked about it, I cried, multiple times. That is probably why I was known as a crybaby. I was hurt; I can’t help how I felt. I used to be so ashamed when I cried especially in front of people. I knew I was weak which made me I feel worse. Some people would cry and be consoled while I would cry and it’s expected because that is what I do.

I don’t really have a belly now but I am far from my abs. I do want to get them back, for me. I’m not going to do it because I hate myself or craving for approval from people. I love me now, tomorrow and forever, whatever shape I’m in.

.

To be honest, there are so many other things that happened and were said to me in secondary school. I don’t really want to write a long ass article because of them. The guy I called my first boyfriend was the “hottest guy” at school. Forgive my terminology, I was reading a lot of Wattpad back in the day. Some girls gossiped about me saying things like,

“She is too ugly for him to be with her.” As someone who was insecure, that stung but still. It was just teenage girls being mean. Now that I am grown, I see it as them projecting their insecurities on me.

I saved the worst one that stuck with me for last. A boy in my class told me that I had too many injuries for a girl. It pained me so much. I was flabbergasted. We all had injuries, we were kids and did a lot of rough play. I started hating on my legs, wishing I hadn’t played as much as I did when I was younger. I was fifteen at this point. I had some dark spots on my legs from playing as a kid, one from the silencer from an okada. My mother hadn’t known I was already entering bike, when she saw the injury is a story for another day. I also had an injure from trying to wax my leg hairs. I made homemade sugar wax and applied it directing on my skin straight from the hot pot. It burnt me, badly. They’ve all healed and faded, I still have scars but less visible.

The worst part was after he told me that, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was surprised that he had the audacity to say something like that to my face, maybe that’s why I couldn’t say anything. I thought about it all the time. Anytime I saw him, all I saw was that statement.

I still think about it from time to time. I don’t know if I have healed from that one yet but I’m trying. When it happened, I thought about insults to rain on him. How I could have called him big head. I’ve forgotten how they used to call him that in the Nigerian way but the back of his head was what got him that name. Or how I could have called him pimpled face. I on the other hand was known for my smooth skin so that would have stung. Or how I could have called him short. A lot of insults came to mind after the occurrence but thinking back, I’m glad I did not say anything. That’s not me.

I refuse to be the reason why a person would think deep on their insecurities after I have tasted firsthand how that feels like. I wouldn’t, not because they deserve it but because I am better than that.