I am a queen of pretence when it comes to my own emotions, bro. I wake up every day pretending I like this thing called life. God knows how long I’ve had the practice. I can pretend to like kids, picture myself raising one or two, nod along like the timeline doesn’t terrify the hell out of me.

I can sit and listen to my friends rant about their bad day when, five minutes earlier, I was somewhere much darker than “bad day,” somewhere around “Hey Google, ways people kill themselves.” I don’t say it out loud, to them or to anyone. I can hold someone else’s whole heart steady in my hands while mine is barely holding itself together behind my back.

Sometimes I do the opposite, and it makes me wonder if I’m a hypocrite.

I know lashing out isn’t very human, talk less of very Muslim. But if I’m having a bad day and you decide to be a bitch, congratulations, we’re both now living the day I was already having alone. Maybe that’s the whole tragedy of people, we hand each other the exact pain we were trying not to carry by ourselves, like it’s a gift.

So why can’t I extend other people the same mercy I extend myself in silence? Why is it easier to fake being fine than to fake being kind?

There is something uncomfortable about knowing exactly who you want to become and still waking up as yourself. Every. Single. Day.

You know the kind of life you want. You know the kind of woman you’re supposed to be becoming, the kind of imaan you’re supposed to be building. And still, most days, all you can do is watch other people already living it from your side of the window, close enough to see it clearly, too far to touch it.

Wanting to be good doesn’t make you good. Apparently, becoming is something you practice, not just wish away, and I’ve been wishing a lot longer than I’ve been practicing.

Without reading a single page, I already know I can walk into that exam hall and pull 50%. I have the time. I have the courses. I have the materials sitting right there. I am just a fucking procrastinator who also happens to be a perfectionist, which means I don’t half-do anything. I just don’t do it at all, because doing it badly feels worse than not doing it.

And the annoying thing? I’m fully, painfully fucking self-aware. I know exactly what I’m doing versus what I should be doing, in real time, and I do the wrong one anyway.

I have wasted an embarrassing amount of my life waking up, building a whole new schedule, new year, new me, this time I mean it, only to abandon it a week later and slide right back into my old fucking life.

That’s a special kind of failure.

Knowing exactly how much better I could be if I’d just put in the work, and still not putting in the work.

There is a particular cruelty in being old enough to know better and still young enough to keep making the mistakes you swore you’d already outgrown.

I can know exactly what I believe and still fail to live a single day by it. I can want to be disciplined, kind, faithful, honest and still wake up face to face with a version of myself I don’t like.

For a long time I thought becoming better meant arriving, eventually, at some finished version of me. The woman who wakes up on time. Prays every prayer, on time, every time. Reads Qur’an daily. Keeps every promise. Manages her money like an adult. Studies when she says she’ll study. Writes consistently. Speaks gently. Loves people properly and doesn’t keep making the same stupid mistake on loop.

She sounds lovely. Very.

But she also doesn’t exist. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever, and I’m trying to be okay with that possibility too.

There’s a difference between unfinished and careless, though, and I’m not trying to blur that line to let myself off the hook. Being unfinished doesn’t cancel my responsibility. Doesn’t mean my actions stop having consequences. Doesn’t mean I get to hurt someone and go, “well, I’m still figuring myself out.”

I’m still responsible for what I do. Still responsible for the apologies I owe. Still responsible for breaking the patterns that keep landing me in the same shitty places.

But responsibility doesn’t require self-hatred, and I had to actually learn that. It wasn’t obvious to me.

I think I’ve spent years confusing guilt with goodness, like the harder I punish myself, the more that proves I actually meant the regret. But repentance isn’t supposed to be a life sentence. Maybe the whole point is just to turn. Notice where you’re standing, admit it’s the wrong spot, and turn around.

I want a relationship with God that doesn’t require me to be perfect before I’m allowed to show up. I want to pray even while I’m ashamed. Open the Qur’an even when I feel like a hypocrite doing it. Ask for forgiveness without immediately deciding I’ve used up my quota. I want to get better without turning “better” into another stick to beat myself with.

There’s still a lot of myself I don’t understand. Things I’ve done that I don’t want to repeat. Patterns I’ve been dragging around longer than I’d like to admit out loud. Parts of me that want one thing while another part already knows better and does the opposite anyway.

Some days I am, at the exact same time, the woman trying to change and the woman actively resisting it.

Maybe that’s not proof I’m incapable of becoming.

Maybe it’s just proof I’m human.

Still Free Palestine till it’s actually free.

Yo. It’s been a long while.

I’ve genuinely wanted to write way before Ramadan, but then one thing or two keeps happening, and at some point I didn’t even know what to start with anymore. I wanted to write about the so-called “Christian genocide” in Nigeria, back it with data, and trace where it actually started, and then when the US troops arrived to “help us,” I wanted to break down what their real interest is, because illegal mining doesn’t stop being illegal just because nobody’s talking about it. Then a few days after our uniformed messiahs landed, Muslims started dying during Ramadan. Some while still fasting. Some mid-prayer in the mosque. Then I wanted to write about the president and the economy since he took office. Then I went to a women’s event, successful women o, the kind that get invited to panels, and 95% of them were convinced that women are women’s biggest enemies because one woman somewhere once blocked their promotion. And I’m sitting there like, what if she just didn’t like you? As a person? What if it had nothing to do with gender at all?

I didn’t write any of it.

I also wanted to write about my best friend, the most constant thing in my life for the last four or five years. That one is actually a good story. I’ll save it.

Tonight though, something else has been sitting with me.

This night I’ve been reminiscing.

At what point do you actually break up with someone you think you have something real with? Like genuinely real, the kind where even when everything outside is falling apart, they’re still who you want to be around. At what point do you decide that’s not enough reason to stay?

Do you leave while you’re still in love?

Because I don’t understand that part. I don’t understand how you go from planning a future with someone to them becoming your past. The timeline doesn’t make sense no matter how many times I sit with it.

And here’s the thing, you can tell me I’m one of the best things in your life. I’ll hear it. I’ll probably believe it. But there are ways you just don’t treat people you love, and it’s not even a long list. You don’t say all the right things and then move through life in ways that quietly prove none of it.

And I’m genuinely confused; do you ever stop loving someone even after they’ve shown you that you don’t mean as much as they claimed? Is that even how it works? Or do you just leave with the love still on you, like something you can’t put down no matter how heavy it gets?

Is there a possibility of meeting someone like them again? Maybe the universe will be kind enough to send you someone even better, but that thought feels like a betrayal of whatever this was, doesn't it? Because you don't even want someone better. You want this to have been enough. Maybe the universe will; maybe not.

I don’t have an answer. I just have this night.

Free Palestine.

This writing feels subpar; i feel like i can do better, but do you deserve the better?

Yesterday I learned that someone, not quite a friend, but a friend of someone I consider family, posted pictures on Instagram with his suicide note as the caption. It was a scheduled post. He was already gone.

My friends in the group chat said, “But he looked so happy.” My cousin said, “But we were just joking together two days ago.”

And there it is. The Great Nigerian Misunderstanding. No, I’m not blaming anyone , we mean well, but we still think depression has a face. And it’s true, that’s what we see. That’s it, most of us don’t understand depression. We think you can pray it away, eat it away, or sleep it away. We think happiness in photographs means happiness in the ribcage, in the skull, in the 3 a.m. thoughts that eat you alive.

They said he was joking with them two days ago. They said he was at a wedding two weeks ago, spending money, laughing. As if grief operates on a schedule. As if depression sends you a fucking calendar invite before it drags you under. Depression is a master of disguise. It wears makeup, it spends money at weddings, it laughs at jokes until its ribs ache, and then it goes home and schedules its own ending.

Depression isn’t you looking sad. Sometimes the grief is just eating you from the inside, and nobody can understand why because they don’t know the story. It might be something that happened five, ten, fifteen years ago that’s making you cry today. Last week I was on a bike going to the market, thinking about food, and suddenly I was back there—maybe fifteen years ago—when my brother and my dad got shot during a robbery. We were just going to get me food. My brother didn’t make it. I was the one who was okay, and sometimes that feels like the cruelest joke.

Right there on the bike, in the middle of the Kigali wind, I was drowning. If you had seen me ten minutes earlier, you would have called me a "happy fellow.", they would’ve said, “Oh, she was laughing. She seemed so happy. I don’t understand why she did what she did.” Bro, I did it because my brother died while getting me a fucking gala and no one was punished for his murder.

The Depression That Comes in Waves

If you’re depressed and you’re also a woman, there’s this other layer. During your period, there’s a wave of depression that comes with it—thick, suffocating, uninvited. Last time I felt it, I saw a truck moving and thought, “How would it feel to get hit by that?” Not because I wanted to die, but because the thought just arrived, heavy and intrusive like a period stain you didn’t see coming. You should see this.

That’s when I knew my period was approaching. I’m on medication to manage my depression, but still, it shows up like clockwork. Depression in Nigeria isn’t talked about enough. It’s not understood. It’s treated like a character flaw, like weakness, like something you can just decide not to have.

The first time I saw a therapist, I was fourteen. It was my school counselor, she’s dead now, may God console her family. She was a good woman. She saved me in ways she probably never knew.

What We Don’t Talk About

One of the causes of depression is upbringing. Broken homes, spaces where kids don’t feel safe enough to talk. When I was fourteen, living with family, a widow in her thirties approached a friend to tell me she “liked” me. She was a grown woman with a child. I was a child. I couldn’t tell my guardian. There was no room for that kind of conversation.

There was a girl in my area who was raped. They told us not to go near her, not the six or seven men who raped her, but her. We were supposed to avoid the victim. One day, I was sent on an errand. The same gang tried to drag me into the bush. A bike man passing by saved me. I told people. Nobody did anything. Nobody went to confront them. It was just, “Thank God you’re okay.” The fools are still in the village.

When there is no space to speak, the silence becomes a tomb. I couldn't tell my family when a "family friend" bike man touched me. I couldn't tell them when he crossed boundaries. Why? Because in a home where you are already judged, the truth feels like a weapon that will only be used against you.

In Nigeria, if you say you’re depressed, people look at you like you’re confused. “Why are you depressed? (This reminds me of that why are you gay video, we dey craze gan in Africa in general) Look at all these reasons you should be happy.” Bro, I cannot explain my depression to you. I have a life you don’t know about. Even if you’re involved in my life, you don’t know my story. There are things I can’t explain that you wouldn’t understand even if I tried. And even if I did explain, there’s a high probability you’d still act weird, dismiss it, or tell me to pray harder.

Prayer helps, I won’t lie. There was a time someone told me to read a page of the Quran daily, and it was soothing. But there are times when you need medical attention. There are times when prayer alone isn’t enough, and that’s not blasphemy, bro. That’s just the truth.

The “Small Mercy” of a Boundary

People wonder why I’m “difficult.” Why I don’t want to get married yet, or why I want a separate room, or why I tell men, “Don’t fucking touch me.” I use Islam as my shield. I say it’s for religious reasons and it is, but it’s also for me. It’s the only boundary this society respects. If I say “I don’t shake hands because of the Prophet,” they nod. If I say “I don’t shake hands because your touch feels like a violation of my history,” they call me a “sadist” or “dramatic.”

I’ve had therapists who didn’t understand why I still wear my hijab after everything “Muslim men” have done to me. They don’t get it. My faith is the thing that keeps me from the edge. When I felt like taking my whole bottle of medication just to sleep forever, it was the fear of Allah and the love for my siblings that pulled my hand back.

The Things We Carry

I’ve been diagnosed with severe depression multiple times over the years. I’ve always known I was depressed, fucking depressed. Recently, I found out I also have borderline personality disorder. I agreed with the diagnosis about 85%. My behaviors aren’t consistent.

I am 25 with the face of a teenager and a soul that has lived a century of "life-altering experiences." I self-sabotage. I lose jobs because my brain decides to "lose the train of thought" and go to sleep instead of working.

Depression doesn’t look like sadness. Sometimes you wear makeup, smile at the camera, post pictures. Your pain doesn’t just disappear like that.

Our Men Don’t Understand Boundaries

Nigerian men—no, African men—no, actually, men in general are terrible with boundaries. I see it in Arab men, Western men, everywhere (Home and abroad men dey move mad). One of the reasons I started karate was for self-defense. I was good at kumite (sparring), terrible at kata (forms). My coach seemed different from the others. He seemed safe. This one is a pastor, connects with everyone, had a great job, was in a relationship with a good woman. He seemed like one of the good ones.

Then one day he grabbed my breast and wanted to kiss me.

I felt so disappointed. So embarrassed. Even when you think you’ve found a safe space, they mess it up. And if you try to explain this to a man, they’ll say, “Where were you when it happen?” “But it’s normal.” It’s only normal because you’re not the one experiencing it. Or worse, your brain is so fucked up that you think it’s an advantage. I’ve seen men on Twitter say they wish their maid had raped them when they were young. What kind of thinking is that? Even monkeys shouldn’t think like that.

So I decided: I don’t want men to touch me. First, I’m Muslim—it’s not allowed for the opposite sex to touch each other. That’s my shield now. That’s my boundary. I don’t shake hands. I don’t hug. Don’t touch me. Well, try it without my permission and get slapped.

The Weight We’re Not Supposed to Carry

There was a time I almost took all my medication (nitrazepam), the kind that knocks you out for hours if you take one pill. I divide mine into four pieces. That day, I thought about taking everything, like the whole pack. As a Muslim, the fear of what comes after, the idea of leaving this “earthly hell” only to face something more permanent is often the only thing that stops me.

It is a “hard mercy.” Sometimes, I am only still here because I am too afraid of the alternative.

I don’t say this to cast a stone at those who have already gone. Who am I to judge the weight of a burden that became too heavy to carry? I also thought about my siblings. I love them so much.

What People Don’t Understand

Everyone has different problems, different interests. One of my men sent me a blog post about the ontology of time. I tried to read it and thought, “What the fuck?” But that’s life. That’s someone’s interest. What makes someone sad might make you think, “How is this what you’re sad about?”

People can’t justify your depression. They can’t wrap their heads around it. And honestly, after all these years of being diagnosed, of trying to explain, I’ve realized: depression doesn’t need to look a certain way to be valid. Your pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.

If you’re a woman in Nigeria, there’s even more to worry about. I have a brother over thirty who’s not married and nobody’s forcing him. But me? “Nabeelah, when are you getting married?” I once asked my extended family to point out one woman they know of, whose marriage was worth emulating. Nobody said anything (At least I can rest a bit, sorry to those I threw under the bus).

I’m not suffering, my dear. I don’t want to suffer. I’m still young—well, I kind of have a young face, so that counts.

For the One We Lost

To the man who scheduled that post, who smiled in those pictures, who joked two days before: I didn’t know you, but I see you. Your depression was real even when you looked happy. Your pain was valid even when nobody could see it.

And to everyone reading this while drowning quietly: your grief doesn’t need to perform to be valid. Every morning you wake up is a revolution. Every time you admit you’re not okay even just to yourself that’s rebellion.

In a place where “are you depressed?” sounds like an accusation rather than concern, just continuing to breathe is an act of defiance.

We’re everywhere, the ones wearing long sleeves in Lagos heat, the ones who smile through deliveries while crumbling inside, the ones who mask medication as vitamins and therapy as “work meetings.” We’re the secret-keepers, the smile-wearers, the silent screamers.

Your pain is real. Your depression is real. Even when they can’t see it. Especially when they can’t see it.

I don’t know if I’m “fine,” and I don’t know if I’ll ever be. But I am here. I am still breathing. And in this “smelly, sardine-packed jungle” of a world, that is enough of a revolution.

Free Palestine.

I started writing this without a title, and I don’t even know what to write about. It’s 4:40 AM here, about 3:40 AM Nigeria time. I’m typing with my cat sitting on my lap—is this what joy feels like? I’m a bit uncomfortable, as he’s resting his head on the arm I’m supposed to use for writing. But I’m happy. Not happy per se, but content. My heart is full. I feel loved. Isn’t life filled with little inconveniences here and there?

I’m writing with my left hand and supporting with the right rather than vice versa. There’s something profound about this awkward detail, my cat’s head on my arm, forcing me to write with my non-dominant hand. It’s the perfect metaphor for contentment, isn’t it? It’s not perfect comfort. I’m literally uncomfortable. But I wouldn’t move him for anything because this—this pressure, this warmth, this small inconvenience—is the love I’ve been writing about wanting to hold onto.

If you’ve read my other pieces, you might notice something different in this voice. Not because the honesty has changed, but because I’m writing from a different room in myself. I usually write from the drowning, from the weight, from the loss. This time I’m writing from the surface, breathing.

Lately, my sadness has been on pause. It peeps in to check up on me once in a while, but overall, I feel like I’m in a better place. Good serenity. A place where I don’t have to worry about a man touching me without my permission. Great friends and lovers. A therapist who cares about me. I’m grateful for my elder sisters, parents, and guardians, and my younger ones too.

I’m grateful for the opportunity to make my own mistakes, to stumble and rise without someone breathing down my neck. To have people who’ll catch me if I fall but won’t stop me from falling in the first place. That’s freedom, isn’t it? The right to fuck up spectacularly and start over whenever.

My sadness hasn’t disappeared yet; it still peeps in to check on me once in a while, like an old friend you’ve outgrown but can’t quite cut off. But it doesn’t live here anymore. I’m not cured. Everything isn’t fixed. But right now, in this moment, I have safety. I have chosen family. I have a therapist who actually gives a damn. I have a body that’s finally mine alone.

I feel content.

It’s still Free Palestine, till it’s actually free.

I'm drowning in tears, worries, and fear. I'm drowning in confusion, depression, and anxiety. I'm fucking drowning while the voice of my flatmate from the living room drowns out my thoughts—can someone tell them to reduce the noise and use earphones at least? But no, I can't even ask for that small mercy because the voice in my head is currently torturing me too.

I'm confused, I'm sad. I'm sad, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm inherently a sadist who feeds on my own pain, or because I'm on my period and my hormone decides its best to alter mood and emotional well-being and turn me into a walking wound. Maybe I should blame hunger, everything makes more sense when you can point to an empty stomach. But what do you do when you've eaten and the emptiness is still there? What do you do when the hunger isn't for food but for something you can't name, can't buy, can't fix with a meal?

The drowning isn't dramatic like in movies. There's no thrashing, no screaming for help. It's quiet, like the stillness of a starry night. Each breath gets a little harder, each thought a little cloudier, the tears get a lil stronger. I'm going under while my flatmate argues with someone on the speakerphone; the kids are murmuring or playing outside my window. How can noise become both too much and not enough at the same time?

I keep waiting for someone to notice I'm not swimming anymore, just floating face-down in my own thoughts. But how do you signal distress when you look fine from the surface? How do you say "I'm drowning" when you're sitting upright, when you answered "I'm fine" just this morning, when you're still showing up to life's appointments even as you're disappearing from yourself?

I'm drowning, but I don't even know if I want to be saved anymore.

But 2024 brought its own weight. I lost my cousin during childbirth, and shortly after, her dad. It was a heavy year, especially for my aunt, now a widow, burying two daughters.

At the same time, my own life was falling apart: school stress, heartbreak, my home was broken into, I lost concentration at work, and depression knocked me down twice. I’m doing better now, taking my medication and understanding myself more — these personal struggles delayed my update on the impact of our 2024 fundraiser… Omo, life really put me through it.

Despite everything, your kindness showed up. Seventeen incredible people helped raise ₦1,000,666, and after disbursing the funds, someone else added another ₦2,000, which we’ll put toward the 2025 campaign.

Your support changed real lives. We saw surprise, tears, laughter, and new hope when we handed out the grants. I hope that same joy finds its way back to you.

The Women Behind the Numbers

Each woman in our program has her own story of strength. Here are the incredible people your kindness supported:

Widows Supporting Education Dreams

Mummy Adama sells plantains to pay for her children’s schooling — two in university and one in secondary school. When her landlord sold their home last year, she had to live in her shop.

Mummy Twins cooks food at a local school while raising three teenagers alone. Her husband, a policeman, was killed on duty. Though the government gave money to help, their adult son sadly misused the funds.

Mummy Hassan became the only provider for her children after her husband died in a polygamous home. Her university student and secondary school graduate (now working at a tomato factory to help with money) depend on her small shop selling provisions.

Mothers Rebuilding After Abandonment

Mummy Danku’s story breaks your heart. After becoming a widow and then remarrying, her second husband left her when she needed a C-section, refusing to pay hospital bills. She now sells vegetables to take care of herself and her toddler.

Mummy Abbey took out a loan of nearly a million naira for her husband’s business, only for him to vanish with the money. Now, she cleans at a school for less than ₦20,000 monthly while supporting three children, one of whom is currently taking final exams.

Mummy Toheeb raises five children by herself, with an ex-husband who has ignored a five-year-old court order to pay ₦16,000 monthly for child support and school fees. She sells soft drinks to make ends meet.

Elderly Without Support

Mama Agba, in her 60s, has no children or husband. She works as a sweeper, earning just ₦7,000 monthly, and used her grant to start selling palm oil for extra income.

Small Business Owners Fighting Poverty

Mummy Ayo, who lost her husband in her 30s when a trailer hit him while carrying a mirror for work, sells pap and fruits to support her four children. Three got school scholarships after their father’s death.

Mummy Goggy, a mother of four who lost her husband very young, lives with her children and two cats in one room with a door half-eaten by insects. They use ceiling panels and chairs to cover the gap and cook with firewood to save money.

Mummy Korede, thrown out while eight months pregnant after confronting her cheating partner, now raises four children by herself,  including one with special needs who is learning plumbing. She sells alcohol to feed her family.

The Laundry Woman washes clothes for people and sells garri to support her four children.

Resilient Newcomers to Widowhood

Mummy Michael recently lost her husband and supports her young son by selling medication.

Mummy Chibuike’s food business failed because of debt and health problems. Though her children are grown, they struggle with money too, and she now sells palm oil to get by.

Mummy Ahmed has raised her son alone since he was 2 years old. He’s now 19, and she still sells cow skin to make a living.

Mummy Faith works as a tailor supporting three children — one learning tiling, one teaching, and one still in primary school.

Mummy Oni Noodles sells noodles to support her family since her husband died.

Mummy Onike struggles to support five children by selling plastic items.

Iya Kutu sells Tuwo (a northern Nigerian food) to feed her family.

Mummy Ajoke lives with her brother and sells fruit at a bus stop to support her child.

Mummy Daniel balances being a student while raising her child alone.

To everyone who donated, retweeted, liked, or shared our campaign,  your contribution mattered more than you know. I am truly blessed with the gift of people.

Looking Forward: Our 2025 Vision

This year, our goal is to:

• Support 10 single mothers and widows with business grants

• Pay school fees for underprivileged children with strong academic potential who risk dropping out

• Offset basic debts and microloans that are weighing down one of our own

We’re hoping to raise ₦2.5 million to make this happen.

Behind this cause are real people with names, dreams, and silent battles they fight every day. A little help from you can be the difference between giving up and getting a fresh start.

You can view last year’s donors here: Donor List

Here’s how you can help:

• Donate directly: Wema Bank — Nabeelah Junaid — 7820978900

• Spread the word: Share the campaign and inspire others to join us!

Thank you for seeing them.

Thank you for standing with us.

I want to start with "You don't see us". But no, you do. You see us, wake up beside us, sometimes inside us, but you still can't see us. We're masters of the quick recovery. Dabbing eyes, practicing smiles in mirrors, saying "I'm fine" like some anthem, trying to hold ourselves together with spider-web strength while carrying grief like contraband beneath our skin.

Depression doesn't understand work hours, (I mean, what is "9-5"? And who is Adetola, plus why do I need her 1-1 meeting?), doesn't care about your priorities. She's selfish like that, putting herself first with no conscience nor your permission. We're counting breaths between breakdowns in the bathroom, pressing cold palms against colder tiles, wiping our tears with the back of our palm while saying, "Of course, I'm fine." Or what am I supposed to say in a country where depression sounds like a foreign language, where "it's all in your head" comes wrapped in prayers and "snap out of it" is served with holy water? Where your mother calls it a "Western problem" and your aunt suggests more church services, as if demons can be exorcised from chemical imbalances.

The Lagos heat makes everything heavier—thoughts, breaths, movements. Each step through this smelly, sardine-packed jungle feels like wading through molasses, while everyone around you moves at normal speed. You're sweating, but not from the sun. Your hands shake, but they'll say it's probably hunger. Everything is always probably hunger or probably demons or probably you're just being dramatic.

Remember that woman before you at the mall yesterday? The one who dropped a joke and laughed too loud? She's been fighting with demons foreign to others, carrying her mother's cancer diagnosis like a stone in her pocket (as per, first daughter). Her colleagues say she's "too quiet these days." Her family says she's "losing weight from too much thinking." Nobody asks what she's thinking about.

Some days, it feels like you're getting used to it, like the birthmark on your chest that is an inch right before your breast. Just then, just when you've accepted your fate, depression lifts—bringing a glimpse of happiness so brief you can't even get a pen to jot it down before it flies away.

We're everywhere—the man who smiles through delivering your food while his home crumbles around his wife and children, the teenager who wears long sleeves even with Lagos sun and heat just to hide the war (scar) they're fighting with themselves, the friend who stops answering calls because sometimes existence itself feels like too heavy a burden to bear. We're the ones who get told "but you have everything going for you" and "what do you have to be sad about?" as if sadness checks your bank account before it settles in your bones.

This is for all of us—the secret-keepers, the smile-wearers, the silent screamers. The ones masking medication as vitamins, therapy sessions as "work meetings," and breakdowns as "just tired." Your pain doesn't need to perform to be valid. Your grief doesn't need witnesses to be real. And sometimes, just continuing to breathe, to exist, to carry on despite it all—that's not just surviving. That's a revolution in itself.

In a place where "are you depressed?" sounds like an accusation rather than a question, every moment we keep breathing is an act of defiance. Every morning we rise is a rebellion against the weight that tries to keep us in bed. Every time we admit, even to ourselves, that we're not okay—that's a revolution too.

Still Free Palestine.

I hate me.

No, that's not entirely true. I love myself, but I hate who and what I become when touched without my permission. I hate it. Deeply.

Today was supposed to be my off day at work, but I moved mad, so my manager showed me she could be madder. I had to show up, with plans to leave and head home, then to training. Instead, I went to get beads near Ikeja under bridge.

After purchasing the beads, I realized I was exhausted. It was 5:30 PM, and I hadn't eaten breakfast - just an unripe mango I'd taken from the fridge. I chewed a bit, not wanting to waste it, but eventually threw it away.

Hungry and tired, I stopped for a meal, trying to fill the emptiness inside - both physical and emotional. Afterward, I decided to look for an AirPod - something I could manage until I could convince my sister to get me a better one.

Nigeria's bank chose that moment to be predictably useless. I left two shops without the AirPod, I’m here wondering if this was a curse or a blessing.

Walking to the taxi park, still lost in thought, a guy standing with his group of friends touched me. I'm not even sure if it was my hand or shoulder. But I know exactly what I did next.

I looked him straight in the face and slapped him - a slap he held onto even as I walked away. "Never touch me again," I said.

His friends called out, "Alhaja, you too dey vex," but I was already seven to fifteen steps away, filled with a rage I could almost see and touch.

Because this wasn't just about today. This was about every violation I've endured:

- The man in Oshodi who trapped me while "helping" a customer, pressing his knees against me

- The old man on the bus, deliberately rubbing his elbow against my breast

- My primary school teacher, Uncle Victor, who exposed himself and tried to bribe me with 29 naira

- Countless other moments where my body was seen as public property

Each memory is a scar, a reminder of the countless times I was made to feel powerless.

But not anymore.

My body is mine alone, motherf****r.

I've been sitting here, fingers hovering over keys, wondering how to break this long silence, well, we both know it’s been a while. So where do I start from? Do I start with the part where holy men proved themselves unholy? Where the trust placed onto them became a four-letter word? Do I tell you how men of God showed themselves to be merely men – and what terrible men they were?

Or maybe I should tell you about my brain's rebellion against medication withdrawal. One moment I'm touching stars, and the next I'm crawling through darkness while my head rings like a goldsmith's workshop – hammer hitting anvil, hitting skull, hitting hope, hitting Nabeelah on her head as if she won’t be there for it again tomorrow.

Then there are the two children I've somehow inherited because their father decided fatherhood was optional. They're living proof that love and responsibility don't always share DNA. We're building a family out of broken pieces, and somehow it's working.

The universe has a sick sense of humor, you know? Just this morning, I finished my meditation, voice steady with affirmations: "I am the architect of my life; I build its foundation and choose its contents."(Even as others keep trying to renovate without permission), "I am doing my best."(Wallahi T-pain no try reach me), "Though these times are difficult, they are only a short phase of life."(A phase that sometimes feels eternal) "I am indestructible"(Whatever 'destructible' means on any given day).

Then my phone buzzes with the everyday chaos that no meditation app prepares you for. A friend's gentle guilt trip about unreturned calls. My brother, with the audacity of a man who sees my pocket as an ATM, asking for ₦2500 to go "greet friends." Like, bro, has sitting at home suddenly become a extreme sport? When did staying still become such a foreign concept? Ofe pa mi ni?

How do you reconcile being both architect and demolition crew of your own life? How do you hold space for trauma and healing, for responsibility and resentment, for meditation and madness – all in the same breath?

I don't know. But here I am, writing to you again, carrying all these contradictions like mismatched luggage. Maybe that's all any of us can do – keep moving forward, even when the path looks like a mess, even when we're not sure which story to tell first.

So here's my mess, served fresh. Take what resonates, leave what doesn't. I'm just here, trying to make sense of it all, one word at a time.

It’s still free Palestine, darling.

I cried for my loss, for my inability to say No, costing me a long-term or lifetime of sorrow and pain.

When Lord, Alfred Tennyson wrote the line, “'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I might understand the kind of grief he was facing. The pain of loving so high, with everything you got and then losing it all in a giffy, without the chance of saying goodbye.

One thing about me, dear readers. I hate losing. Not lover, friendship or anything no matter how intangible it seems to others. It means more to me.

Five days ago, I went out and took one of my cats along. I went to my vet friend, who also has a lot of cats, she carried my cat and we were talking, she dropped her and Bellah ran inside their apartment. After some minutes, she went to look for her, she couldn’t find her.

I told her I’ll come back for her tomorrow, apparently that’d be my last time of seeing her. I went there in the morning, they said she’s still hiding, I went in the afternoon my friend’s mum said they’ve seen her and I should let my friend get back so she can cross with another cat, I wanted to say No, because I don’t want her to go through pregnancy plus I have no intention of giving her kids out and I don’t want to raise more cats. But I didn’t say anything else. I told my brother though, that I want to say No but I don’t want to hurt her.

I went back the third day, they can’t find my baby, yesterday was the fourth day, I went into their rooms to look for her. I can’t find her, we can’t find Bellah.

I wonder how she’s fairing wherever she is, she’s gentle and shy, she can’t kill an ant or fly, so I don’t know how she’ll survive with no food.

I miss her. I wish I had loved her more than I loved her, but I’m not sure there is another stage of love than the one I showed her.

I pray she comes back home to us, Tabby miss her too.

It’s still Free Palestine ♥️

Strangely enough, the hardest path wasn’t following your heart. It was the point of realization, the point where you realized that you wanted more when you made yourself realize that, Nabeelah, science has never been my forte. I’d have done better as an art student and a lawyer rather than a radiographer.

Now, the issue is the courage to turn back. No, you can’t get back the wasted time, but all you can do is to atleast follow your heart, no matter your age. It’s not too late.

Kinda feeling like a broken record here, to be sincere, motivation has never been my niche, but you get the drill. Go for what you want and I hope you get to experience happiness with gratitude while on it.

Till next time, Gees.

It’s still free Palestine❤️❤️.

She said, "Nabeelah, I've been loved. That's how I know what love looks like, feels like, even tastes like."

Curious for more, I pressed for details. She asked if I had ever been confined, and I imagined being locked away, alone with stale bread and a brownish water that smells like distress and I had no other option, but to drink the water at least. So I can survive.

"Love," she explained, gently bringing me back from my imagination, "is freedom from confinement. It frees you to be yourself completely, without reservation. A reassurance that you're not alone in that big world, and you have someone to share your experiences with. 

Her definition for how love feels makes sense, so I was curious, then I asked what love looks like. She shared stories. It was the late-night call to ease her worries, love was when her lover stayed up late to comfort her anxieties, love was when her lover woke up 5 am to get her pain relief and pad for menstrual pain, love was when…As she shared these experiences, I interjected, understanding dawning. "So, what does love taste like?" she said love. It taste like heaven, it taste like bitter chocolate, it tastes like grandma's cookies and sometimes it tastes like my lover's tongue. When he gave me a kiss because I asked him what bitterkola tastes like after he ate it, then he said it is bitter sweet, I was scared to taste it, so my lover ate the bitter kola and kissed in the same breathe so I can have a feel of what it tastes like without eating it.

When she was done, I told her the people loved by her were the chosen ones. I like the way she paint them with such tenderness, it was heartwarming.

She said thank you for always being so sweet Dami, i hope you see yourself in these stories too, because you radiate love.

Her words sparked a final question: "Is this what love is? Is this all it's supposed to be?"

A gentle touch, light and joyful like a feather dancing on my skin, landed on my arm. "Honestly," she said with a smile, no words will ever be able to fully capture what love is. It's everything and more."

Maybe there are no perfect words for love, but hearing my friend's stories reminds me of the beauty it brings to our lives.

Till next time ✌🏽.

It’s still #FreePalestine

Last week, I hopped on a crowded bus. It was the four-seater kind, and I was comfortably settled in the third seat. Then, a man carrying a heavy load soon joined my row. To steady himself, he placed his hand on the back of my seat. This meant I couldn't comfortably lean back as usual.

I admit, I almost complained. But then I glanced at the people in the front row of the bus. A woman in blue leaned on the man next to her, and the woman beside him was practically squeezed between them and the man across the aisle, who himself was lapping his friend because that was the last available sit.

Isn't that what life's about? a little inconvenience here and there for the one we love, our neighbors and the stranger in a bus?

Life is full of little inconveniences, and sometimes, especially on a crowded bus, it's inevitable, everyone is dealing with a slight adjustment for the greater good – getting where they need to go.

That being said, the inconvenience is temporary, and you'll be at your destination soon enough.

By the way, what should I write about next?

With love and a special hate for the oppressors in Israel 🖕

#FreePalestine 🇵🇸

These women kept me sane. They're the ones who saw me through tough times, the ones who make me being a lil weird so cool, always there to celebrate and constantly call me back to life. It doesn't take a village, it actually takes these women.

• Kemi: The strongest woman I've ever met. She makes doing all so wonderful – a mum, sister, provider, and badass designer. She's always there to show me love and uplift me whenever I'm down.  She gave me money to start my bead business, even sent me money to get a bed when I moved house. My queen fr.

• Nimah: My sister with the ultimate African parent vibe (don't ask, she gets it). She taught me kindness, especially towards other women, constantly there to uplift me, she's like the best thing before and after plantain. A true girl's girl, and my favorite human.

• Hephzibah: You might say my love is devastating, but darling, I wouldn't love you any other way. You repeatedly tell me how much I'm loved even on days when I know loving me is hard, you call me back to life. If loving you is the best thing I do in life, babe, I ate.  Beloved, people loved by you are the lucky ones, and I'm glad to be one of them. Thank you for reminding me never to beg anyone to care for me the way I've deeply shown up and cared for them, and thank you for letting me love you.

• Angel: I constantly see what you do for women, for me and our other sisters. You make being a girl's girl look easy, like a full-time job! Have you seen how you have a thread for everything concerning women? You bring me back home to myself, my Angel of consistency, I pray life treats you gently, even when it's moving at a trillion miles an hour.

• Nafeesah: This woman, dear reader, is what you call extra sauce. Her presence makes life worth living again. She's sometimes, okay mostly, annoying, and will send you on errands a hundred times (like, sis, excuse me, don't we have the same legs?), but then she's so beautiful and it makes up for all those little flaws. Seriously though, she's the definition of perfect imperfection.

• Munirah: Some would say she's my ride-or-die. We've saved each other a thousand times over, and sometimes it's from each other. She's my happy place; my days with her are an experience. Munirah, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for loving me back. That love fills me up.

To every single woman out there, especially the women in Palestine, Sudan, Congo, Yemen, Haiti, Afghanistan, Syria, and every other country in the world who are suffering every single day.

To the women of resistance, liberty, and revolution, the women who refuse to surrender and disappear. To the women who are also a whatever.

I am so thankful that I get to exist in the same universe as you all.

Important Message

One of the best woman I know is running a cloth drive for women who are fleeing abusive marriage all year round or relationships. See more details in the leaflet 👇

Till whenever + Ramanan Mubarak 💜

Love and madness might share intense emotions and behaviors, which is why they've been linked in literature and philosophy for centuries. But unlike love, which thrives on mutual respect, understanding, and empathy, madness is characterized by extreme irrationality, chaos, and obsession. It manifests in erratic behavior, illogical thoughts, and a lack of control. My neighbor, unfortunately, embodies all of these traits.

We both rent an apartment in the same compound, but he was here first(so, chief tenant), and while my cats only spend a couple of hours outside daily, strictly within the compound grounds by my window, he seems to have a personal vendetta against them. He demands I cage them and throws a fit whenever he sees them outside, claiming...well, nothing really. He just doesn't want them out. To justify his stance, he fabricated a story about another neighbor owning dogs and having to sell them, claiming it's against the rules, and he doesn't want to appear biased. I confronted the woman today, and she confirmed she's never owned a dog. It's all a lie.

Now, my cats are the sweetest, most laid-back creatures you'll ever meet. They only go outside for their business and then come straight back. Then, around January 30th, I noticed one of them stumbling around like she was hurt. Initially, I dismissed it, but others noticed, too. So, I took her to the vet, who confirmed she'd been hit by something. I couldn't believe it. But guess what? Three weeks later, yesterday, to be exact, my neighbor was caught chasing my cat around the compound farm (which isn't even his property) with a big stick! Why? Because he wants them indoors, threatening to kill them no less. That level of hostility towards harmless animals is frankly disturbing, and if that's not madness, I don't know what is.

Till I write to you again.

Right now, at 2:02 am Nigeria time, I am cuddling, and he smells like a sweet, musky, earthy scent. Doesn’t love have all kinds of scents? He refused to sleep anywhere but by my side, and it took me a lot of grace to make him sleep. He is just so dramatic. While the other one is lying or hiding somewhere, I don’t know, and I am not worried because she’ll be fine. And there’s him, who has refused to be anywhere else but by my chest, inhaling my smell like I am all that matters.

Sometimes, I wake up with scratches from his nails on me; I once bled from his bite. Maybe it is a toxic relationship, maybe not, but painfully, I still won’t trade it for anything else. “Does he annoy me?” Yes. Extremely. Painfully obvious. Of course. But weren’t we made to torture one another? Weren’t we made to suffer from one another? He is my love. And he tortured me with his love.

Sometimes, I fear that love is equivalent to obsession, choking, overburdening, and maybe inconveniencing, a bittersweet pleasure surpassing everyday happiness. He is the chaos that calms my fears, the love that defines my existence. You might never know because he is not yours.

And there is Bellah, a harmonious blend of pristine white and midnight black, my no-drama queen, a mixture of chaos and tranquility. I almost cried while watching her get injected three days ago. She walks like she is suffering from a side pain, yet she is not. It’s just one of her precious attributes that makes her stand out.

Her love for me transcends the need for constant interaction. She finds sufficient company in herself, yet her presence brings a sense of warmth and comfort to my days. She reminds me that love can manifest in many forms and that the most profound connections are sometimes forged in the quiet spaces between two souls.

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” - Rumi

Meet my cats Tabby - Furrid and Arabellah - Furrid

Hey there, I hope you are having a great morning, or perhaps yours is just beginning.

I don't know, I'm just asking, but deep down, I don't really care about you right now. I'm currently thinking about Nasri, Basema, Mohamed, Ayman, Mahmoud, Walla, Alla, Aya, and the other 18 family members Ahmed lost. I'm also thinking about 52-year-old Dr. Talat Jehan Khan, the Texas doctor who is Muslim and was tragically murdered last Saturday at a picnic table – so far, the police say there's no evidence of a hate crime (The jokes write themselves, don't worry). I'm thinking about the 6-year-old Palestinian-American who was stabbed 26 times simply for being Muslim. I'm thinking about little baby Meerah, who was injured by Israeli missiles, and the other 8,000 people killed in Palestine. I'm thinking about their lives before all of this, not so perfect, but certainly better than this. I am thinking about them because they are not a number. They are the whole fucking planet.

Sorry, this is not what you are here for, so you want to skip reading. How I wish the Palestinians could skip these parts of their life, too. Well, I am thinking about you too, you who sit across the fence and say nothing about the genocide because your voice doesn’t really matter, and there is also war and insecurities in your backyard, so why should you care? Most especially when these people are Muslims, and they are not even that good, people who hide behind religion to incite terrorism, it serves them right. your thoughts aren't that deep, but you'd rather not talk about it. Well, still, fuck you unrespectfully, and I don’t mean on a bed or in a pleasurable way – also a double one to you, Muslims who look away.

The love these people have is what these oppressors and their supporters will never have, the community surrounding them is what they will crave but never see, and they are martyrs, as they said. I have a lot more to say, but I will end it with Khalil of Palestine's words “I am not a Number. I am the whole planet.”

Until a better time, if there is.

I find myself writing these words while on a bus journey, passing through Itori on my way to the tollgate. My dear friend is by my side as we return from Abeokuta. I was there because I was stuck with a great loss.

Whoever said "time heals all wounds" probably hadn't experienced this type of loss. I’m talking about the kind that brings back old pains and leaves you thinking, “Ha, is this life worth living at all?”

Grief is an unrelenting companion, like the persistent Nigerian traders in the Yaba market—it knows no boundaries. It doesn't care whether you know it by its middle name or sing its praises: grief doesn't go away. I call it a sibling of death, for they walk hand in hand.

Just when you think you are used to grief after shared meals and stolen glances, it reappears with a gentle assurance. It whispers to your heart, saying 'You can never be too certain. Welcome to another chapter; do not despair. You'll get used to me, as you always do.' I wonder how much pain one must endure before the universe says, 'Omo, you've endured enough for a lifetime.'

When death sneaks in, like a silent intruder in the night and robs you of happiness, it leaves grief behind to carry on its work, then quietly disappears. It's almost as if death waits until the family has become intimate with grief, living alongside its unwelcome presence, before it strikes again.

How can we truly love if we're not haunted by the possibility of its loss? In a world where death is an inescapable part of life, this loss serves as a reminder of life's fragility. I found myself constantly asking, 'Who is next?'

Grief changes you forever. Remembering who you were before the grief engulfed you makes you grieve even more. And you never return to being ‘you,’ no matter how hard you try. Grief is not something we can get over, no matter how hard we try. I pray we grant ourselves the chance to heal, extend our hands for support when necessary, and that we someday learn to coexist with this ever-present companion.

Yesterday, I felt a range of emotions. The pain cut deep into my heart, sorrow nearly tore me apart, and guilt left me yearning for a chance to turn back time. I felt numb and disconnected from the world. Today, all that remains is anger and hopelessness. Maybe tomorrow will bring solace, or maybe not.

It's on the TL that I learned that depression and thoughts of suicide may accompany the menstrual cycle.

Earlier this month, it took the grace of God for me not to run toward an incoming trailer with container. The thought kept whispering in my mind. It kept telling me to do it or I should cross Gbagada Express without caution.

I found myself in a pool of tears, more than ever, even over minor stuff like tasteless food. It took me a lot of time to connect the dots. Deep down, I know I’m not suicidal, and I have so much to live for. I have this phobia associated with bridges over water. Whenever I pass by the third mainland bridge, I feel it’s drawing me close and calling me home. But the feeling is not like this one telling me to run toward a coming trailer while telling me I’ll stay by the other side and watch as the blood splashes all over the road while rejoicing at the morbid spectacle.

Lol, I know I’m just a girl, but I’m not that kind of a girl. That’s not me. Again, it’s not me. I despise the presence of blood. I just had to get used to menstruation because I had no other choice. I don’t watch horror movies because the sight of blood is enough to ruin my week and give me nightmares. Yeah, it’s that much.

So I sat down and asked what was the cause of all this, thanks to the women who have gone through it and shared their experiences. I realized it’s part of being a woman - and that’s on period!

I called my friends who were miles away to cry and seek solace in them. When they ask why I am distressed, I have no concrete answer. I sum it up to life. I know life sucks and all other paparazzi, but by Allah, I know I’m surrounded by love, I’m loved, the love of family, friends, kindness of strangers, and the smile of infants - a love that embraces me fully.

It's interesting how you believe you understand your menstrual cycle, only for the next one to bring a fresh wave of chaos.

Thanks to the women who keep updating and educating us on this journey. May the universe be kind to you.

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