The Dott signifies the end but thank you for constantly starting new journeys with me.

The time is 00:22 and I’m currently on the phone with a man whose favourite pastime is to rage bait me. Anyways, during our conversation I started playing random songs and I played Ife Bi Eji Owuro by Sola Allyson.

One of the things you guys need to know about me is that I love Yoruba songs. I love it so much. In fact, one of the things I love the most about myself is that I’m Yoruba. There is something about hearing certain things in Yoruba that just makes them sound deeper. You can say the exact same thing in English and it will sound normal, then say it in Yoruba and suddenly it has entered your soul.

So there I was, ranting about how Ife Bi Eji Owuro is such a perfect love song and how they don’t make love songs like this anymore, and this man thinks it’s the perfect time to tell me that they absolutely still do. Naturally, I asked for an example because I was ready to be educated.

This Yoruba man said Aye by Davido and Orente by Adekunle Gold.

Not only did he say that, he went as far as to say that these so-called “love songs” carry as much weight as my beloved Ife Bi Eji Owuro by Sola Allyson.

Disgusted was an understatement.

To be fair, one of the first things that came to my mind was, this guy is lucky that he is not beside me because I will first knock am.

My dearest readers, I just need you guys to understand that I have caught feelings for a man who thinks Ife Bi Eji Owuro, which translates roughly to love being pure and fresh like the morning dew, is on the same wavelength as “she no want designer, she no want Ferrari.”

I have not recovered.

And before anybody accuses me of being dramatic, I would like to remind you that I am a writer. Dramatising things is literally part of the job description.

I do not remember the first time I heard Aye by Davido, but growing up I remember always thinking the music video was weird. More importantly, I remember thinking Davido was a selfish lover.

Because let’s actually talk about the music video.

In the first scene where we see the babe, she’s being carried around and it’s quite obvious that she’s comfortable. She’s living a certain kind of life. Then she gets with the “real lover” and suddenly she’s practicing love in the trenches.

My brother, you took this woman from riches to poverty and then had the audacity to sing about it.

And not quietly either.

You put it on a song.

You told all of us.

You basically said, “She no want designer, she no want Ferrari. She just wants my love.”

Sir, you removed the designer and Ferrari from the equation.

Of course she doesn’t want them anymore. 😭

But even outside the music video, I think Aye is interesting because everybody automatically categorises it as a love song. And I understand why. It sounds romantic. He’s talking about a woman he finds beautiful. He’s telling her she belongs to him and that he belongs to her. He’s telling her nobody can love her like he does.

So yes, technically, there is love in the song.

But is love actually the point of the song?

This is where I disagree.

Before we go further, I know there are a lot of you who are going to sit there and say, “Why are you deeping things that aren’t that deep?”

First of all, because I can.

Secondly, because somebody has to.

And thirdly, if we were only supposed to listen to music and never overanalyse it, what exactly am I supposed to do at 00:22 while talking to a man who enjoys annoying me?

I need you guys to remember that there is very little in Aye that actually tells us why he loves this woman.

In fact, the closest we get to a proper love profession is when he says that nobody can love her like he does.

And I’m sorry, but that sounds more like a threat than a love profession.

“Nobody can love you like I do.”

Okay?

And what exactly do you do?

Because I’m listening.

What I get throughout most of the song is that she’s beautiful, she’s attractive, she’s desirable, she likes his music, she dances, she doesn’t care about designer or Ferrari and he believes nobody can love or touch her the way he can.

That’s attraction.

That’s desire.

That’s admiration.

That’s possession.

But love?

I’m not completely convinced.

Some of you would probably point to the line about how they say love is blind but he can see her for her eyes. And yes, it sounds beautiful. It sounds like something you should send to your girlfriend at 11:47pm with a red heart.

But please ask yourself: what depth does that line actually carry?

What does it tell us about their relationship?

What does it tell us about her?

What does it tell us about what she means to him beyond being beautiful and desirable?

Exactly.

In fact, if I’m being completely honest, Aye is giving situationship.

And I know I’ve just opened another can of worms, but hear me out. It’s giving that kind of relationship where there is clearly attraction, there is clearly something happening, there is clearly a level of possession, but nobody is actually sitting down to tell me what exactly this relationship is.

He knows she’s beautiful, she knows he wants her, they both know there’s something there, but where is the emotional depth? Where is the “this is why I love you”? Where is the part where I actually understand what this woman means to him beyond the fact that she’s fine and he doesn’t want anybody else touching her?

It’s giving “we’re not dating but don’t let anybody else talk to you.” 😭

Meanwhile, Ife Bi Eji Owuro feels like love is the actual subject.

There is a softness to Yoruba love songs that I think we have lost. They don’t just tell you that somebody is fine. They make you feel like the person has somehow become part of your existence.

And maybe that’s the difference I’m trying to explain.

There is a difference between “I want you” and “I love you.”

There is a difference between looking at somebody and thinking they’re the baddest person you’ve ever seen and looking at them and thinking, I cannot imagine my life without this person in it.

Aye is very much giving me the first one.

Davido is looking at this woman and basically saying, “You are fine. You are my woman. You want my love. Nobody can do what I do. Now dance.”

And you know what?

I respect it.

I’m not saying the song is bad. I actually like Aye. This is not a Davido hate campaign. Please, before his fans come and start looking for me.

I’m saying I don’t think a song being about a woman automatically makes it a love song.

Because if that’s the standard, then half of Afrobeats is a love song.

A man can spend three minutes telling a woman she has a big bum, that she’s the baddest, that nobody can touch her like he can and that she should come and dance, and apparently we’re supposed to call that romance.

No.

Sometimes the man just likes what he sees.

And that’s okay too.

Actually, I think that’s what makes Aye so interesting. It’s not really a quiet, vulnerable love song. It’s confident. It’s possessive. It’s sensual. It’s celebratory. It’s basically a man admiring a woman and being very sure that she belongs with him.

There is almost no vulnerability.

He’s not scared that she’ll leave him. He’s not telling her that she changed his life. He’s not talking about how she stood beside him when nobody else did. He’s not telling us about the things he loves about her personality. He’s not even particularly interested in convincing us that he loves her.

He’s just very sure that nobody can love her like he can.

And perhaps that’s why the song feels romantic without necessarily being deeply romantic.

It gives you the feeling of love without giving you much of the story behind the love.

Which brings me back to my original problem.

How dare this man put Aye beside Ife Bi Eji Owuro?

One song makes me want to sit down, stare out of a window and rethink every relationship I’ve ever had.

The other has me hearing “she no want designer, she no want Ferrari” and wondering if this man simply removed the woman’s access to both and then decided to call it romance.

I am not saying Aye has no love in it. Clearly, it does.

I’m saying love is not what makes the song interesting to me.

It’s the attraction. It’s the confidence. It’s the possessiveness. It’s the idea that this woman doesn’t need all the things the world says she should want because, according to him, his love is enough.

And maybe that is love to some people.

But for me?

I want more.

I want the kind of love that sounds like Ife Bi Eji Owuro. The kind where the person isn’t just telling you that you’re beautiful, but is trying to explain what your existence has done to them.

I want the kind of song that makes you feel like the person being sung about isn’t just wanted, but known.

So no, Mr Rage Baiter.

Aye is not on the same wavelength as Ife Bi Eji Owuro.

And before you ask, yes, I am aware that I have spent this much time arguing about two songs at 00:22 in the morning.

But you started it.

And you are lucky you’re not beside me.

Because I still might knock you.

The Dott

P.S. I’ve come again, if you’re here and you can see this, please like this blog post, comment on it, argue with me abeggg 😭. I know we don’t all have the same views, so I really need you guys to argue with me. I’m a Yoruba woman who believes she’s right every time, I need you guys to convince me otherwise, so pleaseeeee like and comment.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

Unlike all my blog posts, this is the first time I’ve had to go old school and use a pen and paper. It was either that or not write at all.

It’s currently after 2 and recently I started watching Sex and the City. Not because a friend suggested it, but because I recently found out that one of my favourite TikTok sounds came from the series. I don’t know why, but once I found that out I felt like I had to watch it. The sound was too good for me to ignore.

I don’t know if any of my readers have watched Sex and the City, but I know one thing for sure.

Carrie Bradshaw is my least favourite character.

Career-wise, I absolutely love the woman. She’s a writer, she writes a newspaper column about relationships, she’s witty, funny and somehow always manages to say exactly what she’s thinking. Relationship-wise?

I genuinely think she’s an idiot.

Her and Big’s relationship pisses me off so much that sometimes I have to pause the episode and stare into space. Every time they appear on my screen together, I automatically prepare myself for nonsense. I don’t even know why I still get surprised because those two have been stressing me since season one.

But while it’s very easy for me to sit here and judge Carrie, I’ve also realised something quite uncomfortable.

There’s a Carrie in almost everybody.

Irrespective of gender.

To be fair, I genuinely think what Carrie and Big had is what modern people have renamed situationships.

I hate those things.

In fact, I hate them so much that if anybody tells me they’re in one, I automatically conclude that they do not have sense.

Now before all the situationship veterans gather outside my house, let me explain.

What is a situationship?

It is an unofficial relationship. It always involves one manipulative person. Oftentimes the man is the manipulative one while the woman is the mumu.

Before anybody starts shouting in my comments, I said oftentimes, not always. Please face the point.

I hate to say it, but in a situationship there are almost always signs that the person doesn’t rate you. They may never actually say it with words, but people have a funny way of speaking through their actions.

I have this friend who was a complete mumu.

Unfortunately for her, she liked a man. There was a time they went out together and he kept looking at flowers and engagement rings. Mind you, this same man had never bought her flowers. Not one flower. Not one rose. Nothing.

Then his birthday was coming and he kept saying he didn’t want to do anything. Fair enough.

Next thing…

Birthday dinner without her.

Sometimes the signs are not hidden. We just become motivational speakers and start giving the signs meanings they never asked for.

“Oh maybe he doesn’t like celebrating.”

“He has a lot going on.”

“He’s just not expressive.”

Meanwhile, he’s expressive.

Just not with you.

That’s the thing about situationships that annoys me the most. They somehow turn very intelligent people into detectives that are actively ignoring evidence.

You’ll notice everything.

You notice that he replies faster to other people.

You notice that he remembers everybody else’s birthday except yours.

You notice that he’s always available when it’s convenient for him.

You notice that every conversation somehow happens on his terms.

You notice all these things…

Then somehow convince yourself they don’t mean anything.

I also think situationships bend time.

One minute you’ve been talking for three weeks.

Then somebody asks how long you’ve known each other and you suddenly realise it’s been 11 months.

Eleven months.

In eleven months somebody can literally carry a child, give birth and start complaining that the baby doesn’t sleep at night.

Meanwhile you’re still saying,

“We’re just seeing where it goes.”

Brother…

Where exactly is it going?

Another thing I hate about situationships is that you slowly stop being yourself.

You become understanding.

Too understanding.

You stop asking questions because you don’t want to seem needy.

You stop asking for reassurance because you don’t want to apply pressure.

You pretend you’re okay with things that would normally annoy you because you’re scared that if you complain, they’ll leave.

Then one day you realise you haven’t actually been yourself for months.

You’ve been auditioning.

That’s another thing.

Situationships are one long audition.

You’re constantly trying to prove that you’re funny enough, calm enough, pretty enough, understanding enough, independent enough.

You’re doing everything possible to be chosen.

But nobody ever stops to ask the important question.

Do I even like this person?

Because you’re so busy trying to make somebody pick you that you forget you’re also supposed to be choosing.

The worst part is when it finally ends.

Not because breakups are fun—they’re not.

But because now you have to explain why you’re heartbroken over somebody who technically wasn’t your boyfriend.

You can’t even cry in peace because one aunty will ask,

“Were you people actually dating?”

And somehow that’s supposed to make you feel better.

That’s actually the problem.

You weren’t.

You somehow learnt his favourite food, his favourite football team, what he wants to name his future children and the story behind that scar on his hand.

You spoke every day.

You prayed for him.

You worried about him.

Then one day he’s gone.

And because there was never a title, people expect there to be no heartbreak.

I think that’s one of the cruelest parts of situationships.

You’re grieving something the world keeps insisting never existed.

Maybe that’s why Carrie annoys me so much.

Not because she loved Big.

We’ve all loved people we probably shouldn’t have.

She annoys me because every single time Big showed her exactly who he was, she rewrote the story in her head until it sounded like love.

And if I’m being honest…

Most people in situationships do exactly the same thing.

The red flags are there.

The mixed signals are there.

The inconsistency is there.

But hope is such a dangerous thing because it convinces you that potential is more important than reality.

Maybe that’s why I think situationships are dangerous.

Not because they waste your time.

Time can always be recovered.

They’re dangerous because they slowly teach you that confusion is normal.

That inconsistency is romantic.

That mixed signals are chemistry.

That breadcrumbs are enough to keep you full.

Eventually certainty starts feeling suspicious because you’ve spent so long surviving on uncertainty.

Love shouldn’t feel like you’re constantly decoding secret messages.

It shouldn’t require weekly meetings with your friends just to figure out whether somebody likes you.

And if you have to create a PowerPoint presentation explaining why somebody definitely likes you despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary…

Please.

Stand up.

Carrie might disagree with me.

But then again…

Carrie also spent six seasons chasing Big, so maybe she shouldn’t be the one giving relationship advice.

The Dott.

Also, I need you guys to start liking and commenting on my blog posts😭😭, pleaseeeee. It’s crazy that I’ll have over 200 views and then have no comment or just 1 or 2 likes. Pretty please 😭😔

The time is 16:09 and I just finished having a conversation with a friend. Infact, I like to call it another episode of our daily rant. She complains about her life and I complain about mine. It’s honestly cheaper than therapy.

During this week’s rant, she told me that growing up, she had a plan. According to sixteen-year-old her, she’d be married by now, have her dream job and two children. She said it so casually that I almost didn’t realise how sad it was until we both laughed. Because from the looks of things, she was honestly closer to winning the lottery than having that dream family or dream job.

When we ended the call, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she said.

The funny thing is, I never really had a dream job growing up. Infact, I didn’t even decide I wanted to become a writer until 2015, and the funniest part is that I didn’t even know I could write until my mum forced me to.

I don’t blame her though because… wdym an English teacher’s daughter couldn’t write?

So I did exactly what any fifteen-year-old would’ve done.

I wrote.

Unlike a lot of people, I never sat down and imagined marriage with a deadline attached to it. I never thought, “By 25 I’ll be married,” or, “By 28 I’ll have three children.” I always believed those things would happen if Allah wills. They’ve never been things I wanted to force onto a timeline.

A career though?

Now that’s a different conversation.

That has always been the dream.

So after speaking to my friend, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years.

I decided to dream again.

Not as twenty-six-year-old me.

As fifteen-year-old me.

I wanted to write the life she would’ve imagined if someone had walked up to her and asked, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

She wouldn’t have hesitated.

By 20, I’d have my degree. I’d still study English because younger me genuinely couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Law? Never. I hated confrontation.

Adult me though?

I’ll argue dieeeee.

Give me five minutes and enough evidence and I’ll defend my point like my life depends on it.

I’d have served in Lagos because in my head, Lagos was where life happened. Everywhere else just… existed.

I also wouldn’t have a boyfriend because younger me was fiercely independent, slightly selfish and, if we’re being honest, a tiny bit wicked. I’m almost certain one or two boys would’ve left that era needing emotional rehabilitation.

By 22, I’d have a viral YouTube channel. I’d finally know how to edit those aesthetically pleasing videos that somehow make people want to romanticise washing plates. My makeup would be flawless because at fifteen I genuinely believed makeup was a skill you woke up with one random Tuesday.

I’d also finally start taking men seriously.

Unfortunately, younger me had a type.

Light-skinned.

I don’t know what was wrong with that girl, but may Allah forgive her.

#ThankGodForGrowth.

By 23, I’d be working at my dream media house. My light-skinned man—let’s call him Custard Bucket because that’s exactly what he is—would still be hopelessly obsessed with me.

He’d probably draw me an art portrait of my favourite cartoon character because that’s the kind of thoughtful thing I’d imagine my future husband doing.

The funny thing is…

Someone actually did that for me.

Life is strange like that.

Sometimes it gives you things your younger self would’ve dreamed about, just not from the people she imagined.

At the same 23, I’d be writing my first book. I’d also break up with Custard Bucket because he’d want to move too quickly, and I’d convince myself that love could wait but my career couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand why I kept choosing myself over us, and honestly, younger me would’ve thought she was making the right decision.

After that, life would become very cinematic.

I’d become wildly successful, buy my mom a house, travel whenever I wanted and become that cool aunty that randomly flies to Italy because she wanted authentic pasta instead of whatever Tesco thinks pasta should taste like.

I’d get verified on every social media platform because apparently younger me thought a blue tick meant you’d officially made it in life.

I’d eventually get married too.

Not because I was in a rush.

Just because that’s where marriage sat on the timeline.

Everything happened exactly when it was supposed to.

Everything made sense.

And that’s when I realised something.

Teenagers don’t know how to dream with disclaimers.

They don’t say, “Hopefully the economy is okay.”

They don’t say, “If I can afford it.”

They don’t say, “Provided nobody rejects my application.”

They definitely don’t say, “Depending on how the job market looks.”

They just dream.

They don’t know that you’ll spend months applying for jobs and wonder if your CV is personally offending recruiters.

They don’t know you’ll meet people who change your life and people who leave it just as quickly.

They don’t know you’ll spend years chasing opportunities that looked so straightforward when you were fifteen.

They don’t know you’ll achieve things you once prayed for but somehow still convince yourself you’re behind because life doesn’t look exactly like the picture you drew in your head.

When you’re fifteen, the future feels guaranteed.

Not possible.

Guaranteed.

Maybe that’s why children dream so loudly.

Nobody has introduced them to disappointment yet.

Nobody has told them that sometimes life changes because of things completely outside your control.

Nobody tells them that sometimes your dream doesn’t disappear.

It just changes.

Somewhere between paying rent, replying to emails, wondering what to cook every evening and checking whether your salary has entered, dreaming quietly becomes calculating.

You stop asking yourself, “What do I want?”

Instead you ask, “What’s realistic?”

And maybe that’s necessary.

Reality has bills.

Reality has responsibilities.

Reality has a very interesting habit of humbling people.

But I also think it’s a little sad.

Because while writing this, I noticed something.

Fifteen-year-old me would’ve written every single one of those dreams with confidence.

Twenty-six-year-old me kept interrupting herself.

“Well… hopefully.”

“If Allah wills.”

“Maybe.”

“We’ll see.”

Somewhere along the way, I learnt that dreams come with terms and conditions.

And I hate that a little.

Not because life has been bad.

It hasn’t.

In fact, if fifteen-year-old me met me today, she’d probably lose her mind. She’d think I was cool simply because I live in another country, have people who willingly read things I write, and somehow convinced strangers on the internet to care about my opinions. She’d also be very disappointed that my makeup still isn’t giving what it should be giving.

But she’d also ask me one question.

“What’s next?”

And I don’t know if I’d answer with the same confidence she would’ve.

Maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Not losing your dreams.

Just becoming aware of everything that could stop them.

So…

What’s it like to dream?

I honestly can’t remember.

I remember planning.

I remember hoping.

I remember calculating.

But dreaming? Dreaming the way children do, without fear, without backup plans, without wondering if you’re already too late…

I don’t know when I stopped doing that.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy of adulthood.

Not that our dreams don’t come true.

But that somewhere along the way, we become too afraid to dream them in the first place.

The time is now 19:09.

I think I’m going to try again.

Not because I think life owes me the version fifteen-year-old me imagined.

But because maybe she deserves to know that I haven’t completely forgotten how.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

It’s 17:07, I’m currently sitting in the kitchen and I’m getting my period soon so my emotions are all over the place. One minute I’m laughing at a TikTok, the next minute I’m staring at a wall thinking about my childhood. As you can imagine, I’m having a fantastic time.

Recently, I decided to make a list of everything I’m scared of and then try to remember the story behind it. Some of the fears were easy. Some of them made absolutely no sense. Some of them felt like things I picked up somewhere along the way and forgot to put back down.

The one that still tops the list is my fear of being locked in closed spaces.

In summary, I’m claustrophobic.

It’s a nasty fear and, to be fair, it’s one of the few fears where I can actually remember the cause.

I’m what people call a “late bloomer”. In secondary school there was absolutely nothing happening on my chest. Nothing. If breasts were being distributed, mine had clearly gotten lost in transit. Normally that would’ve been fine, but unfortunately every other girl in my class seemed to have received theirs already.

And then there was me.

There were two boys who thought this was the funniest thing in the world. I was in JSS2 and they were in SS1, which somehow made them believe they were qualified to comment on my body. They’d make jokes, make comments and generally go out of their way to remind me that I was different.

I didn’t tell my mum at first.

Partly because I was embarrassed and partly because when you’re that age, you convince yourself that if you ignore something long enough it’ll eventually disappear.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

At one point they started locking me inside one of the cubicles and standing outside laughing.

They did it more than once.

Every single time I cried.

Every single time I panicked.

And every single time they found it funny.

The last time it happened, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went home and told my mum. The next day she followed me to school and thankfully that was the end of it.

At least that’s what I thought.

Because the funny thing about fear is that the event can end while the fear stays behind.

It happened years ago.

I’m no longer a teenage girl.

Those boys probably don’t even remember it happened.

But every now and then, when I’m in a lift for too long or in a room that feels too small, my brain goes right back there.

Not consciously.

Just quietly.

Like an old song playing in the background.

And for a brief moment, I find myself imagining that somebody is on the other side laughing.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realised that fear doesn’t care about logic.

Logically, I know there aren’t two secondary school boys waiting outside a lift to laugh at me.

Logically, I know nobody is locking me in a room.

Logically, I know I’m safe.

But fear has never really cared about logic.

Fear cares about memory.

And sometimes memory is stronger than reason.

The strange thing is that while writing this, I started wondering if I’m actually scared of small spaces.

Because when I really think about it, I don’t think the cubicle was the worst part.

The worst part was being trapped.

The worst part was knowing somebody else had control over whether I got out.

The worst part was being scared while somebody else laughed.

Maybe that’s why some fears survive for so long.

Because they’re never really about the thing itself.

Maybe I’m not scared of closed spaces.

Maybe I’m scared of feeling powerless.

Maybe I’m scared of being trapped.

Maybe I’m scared of not being able to leave when I want to.

After writing all this, I went back to my list and realised something else.

The funny thing about making a list of your fears is that you start noticing how they’ve changed over the years.

As a child, my fears were simple.

Darkness.

Monsters.

Teachers.

The occasional auntie that said “come here” with too much confidence.

Back then fear was visible. You knew what you were scared of and why.

But somewhere along the line adulthood happened.

And now my fears are a lot less straightforward.

Heartbreak.

Rejection.

Being abandoned.

Trusting the wrong person.

Not achieving the things I want to achieve.

The possibility that I’m one bad financial decision away from becoming a motivational speaker.

The fears changed.

Or maybe I changed.

Because the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realised that adult fears are harder to identify. Nobody sees heartbreak coming. Nobody wakes up expecting to be disappointed. Nobody plans for friendships to end or people to leave.

The monsters just got better at hiding.

One thing that surprised me while making my list was seeing love somewhere on there.

Not love itself.

Falling in love.

Which is funny because I spend half my life writing about love.

I write about strangers.

I write about heartbreak.

I write about butterflies.

I write about being chosen.

And yet somehow falling in love still terrifies me.

I think it’s because falling in love feels exactly like standing at the edge of a tall building.

You know something beautiful might happen.

You also know you could fall.

You could get hurt.

You could be disappointed.

You could spend months writing angry blog posts about a man that wasted your time.

And despite knowing all of that, people do it anyway.

Which honestly sounds like terrible decision making if you ask me.

The biggest thing I learnt from making this list is that a lot of my fears have already happened.

I’ve been disappointed.

I’ve been ghosted.

I’ve lost friendships.

I’ve trusted the wrong people.

I’ve had my heart broken.

I’ve cried over things that felt like the end of the world.

And somehow I’m still here.

Which is annoying because fear would have me believe those things would destroy me.

But they didn’t.

They hurt.

They changed me.

But they didn’t destroy me.

So maybe fear lies sometimes.

Or maybe fear forgets that we’ve survived before.

Maybe I’m not scared of heights.

Maybe I’m scared of what happens when my feet leave the ground.

Maybe I’m scared of losing control.

Maybe I’m scared of uncertainty.

Maybe I’m scared of not knowing how the story ends.

But if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that I’ve survived every bad ending I’ve ever had.

And maybe that’s enough reason to believe I’ll survive the next one too.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for starting new journeys with me.

The time is 01:21am and by some miracle, I’m currently listening to Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo. Also cramps are really dealing with me so my current solution is to chest the pain and complain to you people because unfortunately that’s all I can offer right now.

One of my favourite/worst traits is that I do this thing where I become extremely attached to something and then one random day the attachment just… disappears. Sometimes the obsession lasts months, sometimes it lasts up to a year, but eventually something inside me just switches off.

Early last year I started playing this game called “Project Makeover” and when I tell you I was obsessed, I mean genuinely obsessed. I loved that game so much that I even started spending real money on extra lives. Real human money. Pounds. In this economy.

That’s how serious it was.

Every free moment I had, I was playing it. It got so bad that I started timing my lives like someone waiting for salary. Then one random day, I stumbled on another game by accident called “Tasty Travels” and just like that, my entire loyalty shifted.

Project Makeover became a thing of the past.

Till today, Tasty Travels is still my favourite game by the way.

But yesterday I was playing it and suddenly an ad popped up for Project Makeover. Normally I wouldn’t care because games are always advertising other games, but what shocked me was that the version being advertised looked completely different from the version I remembered.

The graphics looked better. The storylines looked more interesting. Everything looked shinier and more appealing.

In fact, if I had never played the game before, I would have downloaded it immediately.

And that’s when something clicked in my head.

Everything and everyone puts their best foot forward at first.

Games do it.

Brands do it.

People definitely do it.

And honestly? I don’t even think it’s always intentional.

I think human beings naturally want to be liked. We naturally want to appear interesting, attractive, easy to love. So at the beginning of things, everybody is operating like a PR team.

Nobody introduces themselves with their worst traits.

Nobody walks into a talking stage and says, “Hi, by the way I’m emotionally inconsistent and sometimes I disappear when I’m overwhelmed.”

Nobody says, “I actually struggle with communication and I overthink everything.”

Instead, people present the best version of themselves first.

And I think that’s part of the reason I constantly avoid talking stages or “getting to know someone” properly. Because a part of me genuinely believes that a lot of people are lying.

Okay maybe “lying” is too harsh.

But I do think a lot of people are performing.

And before you people start, yes I know I also do it too.

Please calm down before you start quoting my words back to me.

But honestly, when you first meet people, everybody is softer. Everybody is more patient. People reply faster. People laugh harder. People become more intentional because they want to be perceived a certain way. People are accountable.

It’s like job interviews.

Nobody enters an interview and says, “Sometimes I’m lazy and I actually hate teamwork.”

Everybody suddenly becomes passionate, driven and “a people person.”

And the thing is, I don’t even blame people for it because I think there’s a very human fear behind all of it.

People are scared that if they show their full selves too early, they won’t be chosen.

So instead, they slowly reveal themselves in bits and pieces.

And comfort is usually where the real version starts appearing.

Not even in a bad way sometimes.

I think comfort just removes performance.

At the beginning of friendships, relationships, even jobs, people are trying. Trying to impress you, trying to maintain certain standards, trying to be perceived in the best possible way. But eventually human beings get tired.

The mask slips.

Not immediately though. The real version always arrives slowly.

And I think that’s the scary part.

Because sometimes you don’t even miss the person, you miss the first version of them.

The version that replied quickly.

The version that seemed endlessly patient.

The version that looked perfect because you hadn’t seen enough yet.

And honestly, maybe that’s why heartbreak confuses a lot of people. Because somewhere in the middle of things, you realise that the person you became attached to was partially real and partially presentation.

As I’m writing this, I’ve switched songs and now “Okan Mi Ti Fo We We” by Brymo is playing through my AirPods and honestly the song fits this entire conversation so perfectly. There’s something about it that sounds like disappointment sitting quietly in a corner. Not loud heartbreak, not dramatic sadness, just that slow realisation that things are not exactly what you thought they were.

And maybe that’s exactly what this blog post is about.

The slow realisation.

The funny thing is that I don’t even think this applies only to other people.

I do it too.

In fact, if I’m being very honest, I think everybody does.

At the beginning of friendships I’m probably calmer, more agreeable and less chaotic. Meanwhile deep down I know that if you give me enough time, you’ll eventually meet the version of me that disappears into random moods, overthinks conversations from 2019 and writes blog posts at 1am while fighting cramps.

Nobody starts with the difficult parts of themselves.

We earn those parts gradually.

And maybe that’s why real connection is actually difficult.

Because eventually there comes a point where the “best foot forward” version fades and the real person starts standing there instead.

The impatient version.

The emotional version.

The insecure version.

The tired version.

The less shiny version.

And then the real question becomes whether people still want each other after that.

I think that’s why I found that Project Makeover ad so interesting because it reminded me of how easy it is to sell people potential, polished versions and carefully selected moments.

But eventually, whether it’s games, friendships, relationships or even ourselves, the full version always reveals itself.

Always.

And honestly? I don’t even think that’s a bad thing anymore.

Because maybe real connection isn’t about finding people who never change or never disappoint you.

Maybe it’s about finding people whose real selves still feel safe after the performance ends.

The Dott.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

The time is 9:24am and I currently have “Eko” by Ajobiewe playing through my AirPods. In case you’re wondering why I’m listening to chants this early in the morning, I need you to understand that this particular blog post centres on identity crisis, and these chants sort of remind me of my history.

In junior school, I was once given an assignment to write the oríkì of where I’m from. Before I go into details, you need to know that growing up, I was always told that we’re from Lagos. In fact, according to the history of my surname, I’m from Lagos. But at the same time, I had aunties who would constantly say my dad is from Ibadan.

So when I got that assignment, the first thing that came to my mind was to write the Ibadan oríkì. I got home and asked my mum, but she didn’t know it. My dad wasn’t around at the time, so I asked my aunt who was very good with Yoruba chants.

The first thing she said to me was that Ibadan people are known for being thieves, and that the oríkì we have is centred around stealing.

I was 11.

Imagine being told that you are a thief because of where you’re from.

It sounds funny now, but it stayed with me for a very long time. To be fair, I think it made me a very intentional person because I told myself that I would never take what belongs to someone else. I didn’t want anybody to look at me and say, “She’s from Ibadan, of course she’s a thief.”

But the funny thing about words is that even when you try to reject them, they find a way to sit quietly in your mind.

Till today, one of my biggest fears is being somewhere and something goes missing. It has happened before, and one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind was, “Did my Ibadan ‘thieving nature’ finally resurface?”

Which is crazy. Because I know I’m not a thief. I’ve never stolen anything apart from the usual meat and milk from my mum’s kitchen, and that one time I took ₦200 from her purse to buy airtime (and even that one, anxiety nearly finished me😭).

But that’s how powerful words can be.

You hear something about yourself long enough, and it slowly starts to feel like truth.

Not because it is, but because it’s loud.

I was raised in a proper African home, and one thing I’ve noticed, not just in my life but in the lives of people around me, is that there’s always a plan.

Parents, aunties, uncles, even neighbours sometimes—they all seem to know what your life should look like. There’s a script. A very detailed one. Career, relationships, how you should behave, what you should wear, how you should think.

And before I go further, I’m not here to drag anybody or question parenting. Most parents genuinely want the best for their children. But wanting the best and knowing the best are two very different things.

I have this friend—we’ve been friends since junior school. Everybody knew this boy loved gadgets. Like, obsessed. If anything spoilt in school, he was the one people called. That kind of person.

But his parents wanted him to study law.

“My child must be a lawyer” vibes.

They didn’t understand why he was so into computers. To them, computers meant one thing—Yahoo boy.

So he was pushed into law school.

And he kept failing.

Not because he was dumb, but because he was in the wrong place.

Eventually, he dropped out. Today, he works in tech, and he’s actually good at it. But that whole experience? It damaged his relationship with his parents in a way that still hasn’t fully healed.

And sometimes I think about how many people are living lives like that.

Lives that look right on paper but feel completely wrong on the inside.

I recently saw a tweet that said Nigerians have an extended childhood. That you can be 27 and still be treated like a child because life delays adulthood here. And honestly, it made sense.

Because sometimes it’s not even about being rebellious.

It’s about trying to prove that you are your own person.

But how do you do that when every decision you make is being questioned?

When you try something and it doesn’t work out, it’s not seen as part of the process—it’s seen as confirmation that you’re unserious.

I know someone who once paid a lot of money for a course because they were trying to “get their life together.” They finished it, got the certificate, applied for jobs, tried everything, and nothing came out of it.

Now imagine already feeling lost, then having people around you constantly remind you that you made the wrong choice.

At some point, it stops sounding like advice.

It starts sounding like truth.

And that’s how self-doubt grows.

It’s not always loud.

Sometimes it’s very quiet.

It’s in the way you second-guess every decision.

In the way you hesitate before trying again.

In the way you start to believe that maybe… they’re right about you.

And I think that’s the hardest part—figuring out who you are when so many voices are telling you who you should be.

Because what if you’re not wrong?

What if your path just looks different?

What if the reason it doesn’t make sense to them is because it was never meant to?

What if you do what they want and you’re unhappy?

What if you always feel lost?

I don’t have all the answers.

I don’t know if I’m right.

I don’t know if the choices I’m making will eventually make sense.

But I do know that there is something very exhausting about living a life that constantly needs validation from people who are not the ones living it.

And maybe that’s where I am right now—

not certain, not fully confident, but slowly realising that even if I’m wrong, I would rather be wrong on my own terms than spend my whole life trying to be right for everyone else.

Because at the end of the day,

the worst thing isn’t making the wrong decision.

It’s living a life that never really felt like yours.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

The time is 7:44am and as usual, I’m currently on my way to work. I honestly didn’t plan this but ironically I have “Eji Owuro” by Sola Allyson playing through my AirPods. Before you people start dreaming, no I’m not in love — I just have a very diverse playlist. Sometimes I’m a lover girl, other times I’m a trenches babe that can tear step, and sometimes I’m just a bad bitch. Life is about balance.

A couple of months back, someone I liked told me “I love you” and honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal… or at least that’s what I told myself. But I mentioned it to my very unserious friend and he said, “At your big age, na this kind thing dey shack you?”

I laughed when he said it, but it didn’t leave my mind as quickly as I expected it to. It just stayed there, quietly, like one of those thoughts that doesn’t make noise but refuses to go away.

Because the more I thought about it, the more I started to question it.

In recent times, I haven’t really been the type of person that shows my emotions openly. If anything, I’ve prided myself on being a “hard girl.” Calm, composed, not easily moved, very much giving “I’ve seen it all before.” So me getting excited over something like “I love you” already felt slightly out of character for me.

And if I’m being honest, even if my friend didn’t say anything, I probably would have checked myself anyway. I would have told myself to relax, to not get carried away, to act like someone that has sense. Because apparently, at a certain point in your life, you’re supposed to stop reacting to things like that.

But that’s the part I don’t understand.

When exactly did getting older become equal to feeling less?

Because I don’t remember there being a meeting where we all agreed that excitement is childish and emotional restraint is what makes you mature. I don’t remember signing up for a version of adulthood where you have to downplay your feelings just to look like you have everything under control.

My mum is a typical Muslim Nigerian mother. Strict, no nonsense, very much “I am your mother before anything else.” But at the same time, she is one of the most playful people I know. There have been random days where she’ll just come into my room and start tickling me for no reason. Sometimes she’ll hide somewhere in the house just to jump out and scare me. Other times she’ll dress up and start doing a full fashion parade in the living room like she’s on a runway.

And growing up around that, I never saw excitement as something to be embarrassed about.

It was just normal.

So now it confuses me when people attach childishness to joy and maturity to being overly composed. It confuses me that as we get older, we are expected to become more controlled, more measured, less expressive, as if the goal is to slowly strip ourselves of the things that make us feel alive.

I understand that life happens. I understand that people go through things that force them to toughen up. I understand that heartbreak, disappointment, and one or two Yoruba men have shown people serious shege. But even with all of that, I don’t think those experiences are supposed to take away our ability to feel things fully.

Because the truth is, people still get excited.

People still smile at their phones. People still reread messages. People still get that small, unnecessary happiness when someone they like says something sweet. People still get butterflies. The only difference now is that we pretend like we don’t.

We act like we’ve outgrown it.

We perform this version of maturity that makes it seem like nothing moves us, when in reality, we are just as soft as we’ve always been, just better at hiding it.

And maybe that’s what my friend’s comment really made me realise.

Not that I was childish for being excited, but that somewhere along the line, we’ve all been conditioned to believe that excitement has an age limit.

And I don’t think that’s true.

Because no matter how old I get, I don’t think I’ll ever reach a point where “I love you” means absolutely nothing to me. I don’t think I’ll ever become so grown that I stop smiling at things that make me happy.

Personally, if someone I like sends me a long message, I will smile. I will read it more than once. I will act like I don’t care, but deep down I care very much. I will still feel it.

And I don’t think that takes away from my maturity.

If anything, I think it makes me more human.

Because growing older shouldn’t mean becoming emotionally dry. It shouldn’t mean losing the parts of yourself that feel things deeply. It shouldn’t mean replacing joy with composure just for the sake of appearances.

So maybe next time someone says, “At your big age…”

I won’t even argue.

I’ll just smile.

Because clearly, I still have something they’ve convinced themselves they had to outgrow.

The Dott.

The Dott signifies the end, but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

I was going to get into this blog without telling you guys the time I started, but I’ve realised that just like my opening line, telling you the time has become part of my ritual.

The time is 11:40 and I’m currently sitting on the carpet, thinking about my life.

One thing about me is that I self-reflect a lot. Maybe too much. I think about old conversations I’ve had with people and I analyse them like I’m preparing for a presentation. Did I say too much? Did I say too little? Did I read the situation wrong? Should I have kept quiet? Should I have spoken more?

It’s actually a bit exhausting, but it’s also how I understand myself.

And in the middle of this current “self-reflection session”, I remembered a conversation I had yesterday. In that conversation, I talked about someone I used to be friends with. Let’s call him Tayo.

I don’t know if Tayo still reads my blog (I hope he does), but at some point in my life, Tayo was literally the elder brother I never had.

Before I go into why we stopped talking, I need to explain something important.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, then you already know that I’m a feminist. It’s not something I say for vibes, it’s something I genuinely believe in. And before anybody starts, I’m not about to argue about what feminism means. Google is free, please use it.

But one thing I’ve realised is that people seem to forget that feminists are still human beings.

And one thing about human beings? We are hypocrites.

All of us.

In different ways, at different times, in different situations.

So I’ve always found it interesting how people can recognise hypocrisy in themselves and in others, but the moment a feminist shows even a tiny bit of inconsistency, it becomes a full-blown issue.

Why are feminists expected to be perfect?

Why is there no room for contradiction, growth, or even mistakes?

Anyways, back to my story.

Tayo and I met on TikTok, and I’m not even going to lie — up until last year, he was someone I could confidently say had my back. He was consistent, present, and reliable.

And if I’m being honest with myself (which is the whole point of this blog), I may or may not have taken that friendship for granted.

Okay, not “may or may not”.

I did.

He was my unpaid therapist.

My tour guide around London.

My “let’s go out so you can clear your head” person.

Looking back now, I can admit that a lot of our friendship involved him showing up for me, and me… not always returning that energy. I kept telling myself I would, but I never really did.

We were still making plans, still talking about places we wanted to go, still moving like everything was normal. This was around August last year, and life was happening to me in ways I didn’t fully understand, so those plans felt like distractions I needed.

Then one day, he sent me a 2 minute 30 second voice note.

Saying we couldn’t be friends anymore.

In my head I was like… what do you mean?

I genuinely thought it was a joke at first. A prank. Something unserious.

Until he explained.

He had gotten into a relationship, and one of the conditions his girlfriend gave him was that he had to cut me off.

Now, him getting a girlfriend was actually good news. I used to drag him for being single all the time (and before you people start, yes I’m single too, but his own single was way more serious, please focus).

If he had told me, “I have a girlfriend now, we won’t be able to talk or hang out as much,” I would have understood.

But cutting me off completely?

That one shocked me.

Especially because there had never been anything romantic between us. Ever.

After the initial shock, something else hit me.

Something very uncomfortable.

I realised… that this is something I could do.

In fact, let me not even lie — I would 100% ask a man to cut off his female friends for me. I’ve always prided myself on running a very tight regime.

So imagine my confusion when my chest started tightening because another woman did something I myself am capable of doing.

That was when it clicked.

I ate my own poison.

And now it was bitter.

Because it’s easy to justify something when you’re the one benefiting from it.

It’s easy to call it “standards” when you’re the one setting the rules.

It’s easy to feel secure when you’re the one being prioritised.

But the moment you are on the receiving end of that same decision?

Suddenly it feels unfair.

Suddenly it feels extreme.

Suddenly it feels like too much.

And that’s where the feminism conversation comes in.

Because for me, feminism has always been about fairness, autonomy, and respect.

But where exactly does that stand when I’m okay with controlling a situation as long as it benefits me?

Where does it stand when I expect understanding, but struggle to extend that same understanding to others?

That’s the uncomfortable part.

That’s the hypocrisy.

And I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

Growth is not always about being right.

Sometimes it’s about realising that you’ve been wrong in ways that made sense to you at the time.

I told a friend about the whole situation, and this one — this one decided to be funny.

He said, “Shebi you’re a feminist? You shouldn’t be angry.”

And I just stared at him.

Because what does that even mean?

Am I not allowed to feel hurt?

Am I not allowed to process loss?

Does identifying as a feminist suddenly remove my human emotions?

That statement annoyed me, but it also made me think.

Because maybe the real issue wasn’t even the situation itself.

Maybe it was the fact that I had to confront a version of myself I wasn’t ready to admit existed.

The version of me that can be controlling.

The version of me that can justify things when it suits me.

The version of me that isn’t as consistent as I thought I was.

And that’s the thing about “eating your own poison”.

It forces you to taste your own decisions.

To sit with them.

To understand them.

To realise that the same things you dish out can find their way back to you.

And when they do?

They don’t taste the same.

They’re bitter.

Very bitter.

But maybe that bitterness is necessary.

Maybe it’s what forces you to reflect.

To grow.

To do better next time.

Because if there’s one thing this situation taught me, it’s this:

It’s easy to stand on principles when they favour you.

The real test is when those same principles are used against you.

And honestly?

I’m still figuring out where I stand.

The Dott signifies the end, but thank you guys for starting new journeys with me.

The time is 2:00pm and I’m currently sitting on my bed. I just finished watching the movie The Fall Guy and I genuinely loved it. I mean Ryan Gosling was absolutely amazing in it. The action was good, the humour was good, the romance was good, everything was just good.

But somewhere along the line, I got distracted by a completely different thought.

I suddenly realised that the movie came out in 2024.

Now I’m not entirely sure because I’m too lazy to Google it right now, but one thing I’m very sure about is that it definitely didn’t come out this year. Which means it has been out for at least a couple of years, and yet here I am in 2026 watching it like it just dropped yesterday.

And that made me start thinking.

Every single time someone presses play on that movie, someone somewhere is probably getting paid. Maybe it’s the producers, maybe it’s the directors, maybe it’s the streaming platforms, maybe it’s everybody involved. I don’t actually know how the money flows in that industry, but I’m very sure money is flowing.

Which means that something that was created years ago is still generating income today.

And that reminded me of a tweet I saw on Twitter recently.

In 2022, the song Ku Lo Sa by Oxlade went viral on TikTok. When I say viral, I mean viral viral. Everybody was using the sound. People were dancing to it, people were making covers, people were posting edits, people were simply vibing to it in their rooms.

The year is now 2026.

And people who worked on that song are still making money from it.

Every time someone streams it.
Every time it randomly trends again.
Every time a new person discovers it.

A lot of people will just listen to the song casually without thinking too deeply about it, but the reality is that every stream is putting money in someone’s pocket.

Something that was created four years ago.

And that concept genuinely fascinated me.

Because it made me realise that some people have figured out how to build income that outlives effort.

Not income that comes only when you are actively working.
Not income that stops the moment you stop clocking in.

But income that continues to exist long after the initial work has been done.

And naturally, that made me ask myself a very serious question.

What exactly can I build that would continue to pay me even when I’m not actively working?

Now before some of you rush to comment “get a job”, please relax. You’re skipping the very important part where I said while I’m not working.

This is not about avoiding work.

This is about building something that doesn’t completely collapse the moment you stop working.

And before anyone says the usual “go into tech”, let me just say this honestly.

I find it interesting that whenever conversations about wealth happen, tech immediately becomes the default answer. And while that works for a lot of people, I also know myself well enough to know that I probably shouldn’t force myself into a career path that I don’t naturally enjoy.

If I’m going to build something that lasts, it probably has to come from something I’m already naturally good at.

And when I sat down and really thought about it, I realised something.

I actually have two talents.

The first one is writing.

The second one is making people laugh.

Now technically speaking, those two talents could lead me straight into stand-up comedy. And I’ve thought about it before. Comedians literally build entire careers out of making people laugh. They tour cities, they sell out shows, they release specials, and some of them end up building very serious wealth from that.

But if I’m being completely honest with myself, I don’t think I see myself becoming a stand-up comedian.

Standing on a stage while a room full of strangers stare at me, waiting to decide if I’m funny or not? Yeah… that sounds like a very stressful career path.

So instead, I’d rather stick to what I know.

And what 396 of you already know that I know.

Writing.

Recently someone actually asked me to sit down and draw out a life plan for myself. Not just vague dreams, but an actual structured plan about what I want my life to look like in the future.

And every single time I tried to map it out, everything kept leading me back to writing.

It didn’t matter how many times I tried to branch out into other ideas. Somehow the path always circled back to writing.

Which honestly makes sense when I think about it.

Because I’ve been writing for years.

Before anyone suggests “you should write a book”, please know that I actually tried that already. Years ago I started writing one. I don’t even remember the exact chapter but I think that I had reached around chapter four.

And then my laptop crashed.

Everything disappeared.

Every chapter.

Every idea.

Every character.

Gone.

At the time it felt so dramatic that I just abandoned the whole thing. Maybe one day I’ll revisit it, maybe I won’t. But that moment did remind me of something important — writing has always been something I return to.

Even when I stop for a while.

Even when life gets busy.

Even when I convince myself I have “no inspiration”.

Eventually I come back here.

Typing random thoughts and sending them into the internet for 396 of you to read.

And the interesting thing is that every time I post something, someone messages me saying it made them laugh, or it made them think, or it reminded them of something in their own life.

Which means maybe — just maybe — writing is the thing I can build into something bigger.

Because when you really think about it, writing exists everywhere.

Books.

Blogs.

Scripts.

Brand storytelling.

Articles.

Content.

The entire internet is basically powered by people who know how to put words together.

So maybe my version of that “money tree” doesn’t have to be a viral song or a blockbuster movie.

Maybe it can simply be words.

Words that people enjoy reading.

Words that people share.

Words that live on the internet long after the day I typed them.

And if you’re reading this and you know platforms that pay writers, brands that need storytellers, editors who are looking for contributors, or literally anyone who needs someone that can write and make people laugh at the same time — please feel free to remember me.

This is the part where I shamelessly say put me on.

I promise I will not embarrass you.

At the end of the day, generational wealth is something people talk about like it’s a magical concept. But when you look closely at the people who actually build it, a lot of it starts with one simple thing:

Someone building something that continues to exist long after the work is done.

Maybe that thing is music.

Maybe it’s movies.

Maybe it’s tech.

And maybe for me, it’s simply writing things that people enjoy reading.

Who knows.

Maybe one day someone will randomly discover one of these blog posts years from now, laugh at something I wrote, and somewhere in the background a tiny bit of money will quietly enter my account.

And honestly?

That would be a very beautiful start to my own little money tree.

The Dott.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

It’s 7:29am and I’m currently on the train to work. Before we go into more details — Happy New Year to all 392 of you that read my last blog post. I see you and I love you. To the people who write back to me, I’m especially grateful. Your opinions often give me insight I didn’t even know I needed. Thank you.

Honestly, for the past month, I’ve had friends ask me why I haven’t posted on my blog and the only thing I could tell them was, “There’s no inspo.” Well, it’s currently 7:33am, I have “Toh Bad” by Niyola playing through my AirPods, and for now that’s all the inspiration I need.

Fortunately and unfortunately, today is one of those days I have to go into work. My workplace is three hours away from where I live, so I had to leave my house around 5am. Technically, I should’ve left earlier because the train station is an 18-minute walk from my place, but I decided to book an Uber because I was too tired to walk. Side note: sleeping at 2am when you need to be up at 4am is never a good idea.

Booked the Uber and on the way to the station, the driver started making small talk. He told me the car he was using wasn’t his — his own car was faulty and apparently very expensive to fix. It’s draining him financially and emotionally. He said it so casually, but there was weight in his voice.

I wanted to ask if he had insurance. I wanted to ask if he had help. I wanted to ask if he was okay.

But I was already running late.

And then I wondered — is he always this open? Do his friends know? Does his family know he’s struggling? Or am I just another early morning stranger he felt safe confessing to?

There’s something about 5am that makes people honest.

I missed my first train.

And honestly, I was so upset. The disappointment was written all over my face. It felt dramatic, but missing that train felt like it had ruined my entire plan for the day.

A random man saw me frown and said, “Oh don’t be sad, you’ll get the next one.”

I don’t know if it was his British accent or his ridiculously bright smile, but something about a stranger telling me not to be sad steadied me. It shifted my perspective instantly.

I told him thank you.

Then I started wondering — who is he? What shaped him into someone who reassures strangers at train stations? What part of his childhood made him gentle enough to notice a frown at 6am?

The train finally came and even though I was technically late, I wasn’t as bothered anymore.

On the train, I noticed a white man staring at me. At first it was uncomfortable. The train was packed so I couldn’t even change seats. I just continued pressing my phone, pretending not to notice. I started making a couple of Snap videos and he was still staring.

Then he smiled and called me pretty.

And while I was still uncomfortable, his compliment slightly eased the tension. It made me think about the strange space between discomfort and validation. How someone can make you uneasy and still make you feel seen at the same time.

After that, I assumed he’d try to make small talk. I plugged my AirPods back in and increased the volume to the highest.

Boundary set.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and before you call me a hater, I just want you to know — I’ve always been a hater. No be today e start.

While changing trains, I saw this couple being all kissy at the station. If looks could kill, they would’ve entered the ground immediately. But even in my silent hatred, I was curious.

How did they meet?

Who made the first move?

Were they friends first?

Are they each other’s first love or fifth?

They were standing beside me, so I got accidental front row seats to their conversation. They were discussing a friend who had just had a baby and wondering what gift to buy.

I wanted to suggest something. I didn’t. I just listened.

I didn’t see a ring on either of their fingers, so I started wondering — is he going to propose tomorrow? Do they even want marriage? Or are they just happy as they are?

We never know how far into a story we’re stepping when we stand beside people.

On the next train, I saw a young man help an elderly woman lift her bags onboard. After helping her, he walked away to another platform. I couldn’t tell if they knew each other or if he simply decided to be kind.

While seated, I noticed the woman murmuring. My natural amebo instincts made me lower the volume of my AirPods.

She was praying.

In Yoruba.

It was 6:32am and this elderly woman was quietly thanking God for everything. Hearing Yoruba on a London train at sunrise felt grounding. It reminded me that Nigerians carry faith everywhere. Into buses. Into trains. Into foreign lands.

Home is sometimes just a language overheard.

By the time I got to Euston for my final train, I realised I had missed another one. The irony was painful because I booked an Uber specifically to avoid missing trains.

While mentally complaining, I saw a very fine man in construction gear.

He was the type of fine that would make me consider making pounded yam with a food processor for a man.

He walked past too quickly for me to check his ring finger, but that didn’t stop my imagination.

Is he married?

Does he have children?

What’s he doing for Valentine’s Day?

Is he in love?

Has he ever had his heart broken?

Does he pray like the elderly woman?

Is someone waiting for him at home?

And then — while waiting — I saw a Nigerian TikTok influencer I recognise. She was filming a TikTok at the station, propping her phone up, adjusting her angles, speaking into the camera like nobody was watching.

Which is funny, because everybody was.

I sat beside her and told her I recognised her from TikTok. I also told her she was pretty. She smiled and said thank you, very polite, very calm. Then she asked me for directions.

After she went back to filming, I started wondering about her too.

Did she think I was strange for recognising her?

How long has she been in the UK?

Does she like it here?

Does she get tired of being perceived?

Does she ever wish she could just exist without a camera?

And then it hit me.

To her, I’m also just another stranger she met at a train station. A girl who said hi. A face she might forget by tomorrow.

Maybe that Uber driver will forget me.

Maybe the reassuring man already has.

Maybe the couple won’t remember the quiet girl eavesdropping beside them.

Maybe the construction worker never even noticed me looking.

Maybe the elderly woman won’t remember the girl smiling at her prayers.

And that’s the thing about mornings.

You step into people’s lives for five minutes.

You borrow fragments of their story.

You imagine the rest.

And then you disappear from each other forever.

We are constantly surrounded by people we will never fully know.

People carrying financial stress.

People in love.

People praying.

People filming.

People helping.

People staring.

People hoping.

And sometimes, we are one of them.

Just passing through someone else’s morning.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for starting new journeys with me.

I started writing this with Lese by Sewa playing in the background. You should listen to it if you haven’t — it’s the kind of song that makes you stare at the ceiling and rethink your life choices. It was about 2:26am, and I was on the phone with a friend who was going through heartbreak. Proper heartbreak. The kind where your chest feels heavy and your voice sounds shaky even when you’re trying to act normal.

And while she was talking, I realised something strange.

I don’t remember what heartbreak feels like anymore.

Not because my love life is amazing — please, let’s all relax — but because I genuinely can’t remember the feeling. I tried to think about it. The pain. The heaviness. That tight feeling in your chest. Nothing came up. My brain was blank.

And that scared me a little.

Because heartbreak used to be very familiar to me.

I experienced my first real heartbreak when I was in junior school. I was in JSS1, in boarding school, and there were also day students. One time, the school took both boarding and day students on a trip to Porto-Novo. It was supposed to be an innocent school trip, but that was actually the summer I fell in love.

I don’t remember a lot about my childhood — my brain has a habit of deleting memories that were probably too emotional — but I remember falling in love very clearly. It was the first time in my “child life” that something exciting was happening to me. I remember the stolen glances. I remember how shy he was. He didn’t talk much, but he wrote love letters. He gave me two blue pens once and I loved them like my life depended on it. Two blue pens. That was romance to me.

He was also the kind of shy boy that made me realise butterflies in the stomach were very real. I don’t remember how many of us went on that trip — maybe about forty students — but in Porto-Novo, it felt like it was just the two of us. Like we were on our own little vacation. We talked a lot, held hands, shared food, and acted like everyone else didn’t exist. In today’s economy, Deji was a spender because he used to give me his snacks freely. We were just two kids doing nonsense, knowing our parents would have finished us if they found out, but we didn’t care.

Then the trip ended.

When we got back to Nigeria, he asked for a number he could call me on. I told him I didn’t have one, so he wrote his dad’s number on a piece of paper and told me to call him when I got home.

I lost the paper.

I cried for days. I couldn’t eat. I prayed serious prayers. I promised God I would be a good girl, that I would never lie again, just so I could find that paper. I didn’t. So I told myself I’d wait until school resumed and I’d see him again.

Then my mum changed my school.

That was the beginning of my villain origin story.

I was angry. I cried a lot. I acted out. I held a grudge against my mum for a long time. It didn’t even help that I was bullied in the new school — and yes, I was bullied in the old one too, but at least Deji was there. Without him, everything felt heavier.

I was sad for months. I stopped eating properly. I got sick. I walked around with this permanent ache in my chest. It took a long time before I felt okay again, and when I finally did, it felt like I had survived something serious.

I really used to be a lover girl.

I loved loudly. I believed words. I believed effort meant something. I fell in love easily and without shame.

Now? I barely recognise that girl.

Somewhere between growing up and trying to survive, something changed. Bills started shouting. Work became stressful. Life stopped giving me time to sit with my feelings.

Love stopped being loud.

These days, I don’t even have the emotional capacity for heartbreak. Feelings need maintenance and I barely have enough energy for myself. I used to fall in love in two days — two. Now it takes me four days and even then I’m asking myself, do I actually like this person or am I just bored and they reply fast?

The funny thing is, the last time someone “broke my heart,” it took me three or four days to recover.

Me.

The same girl who once cried for months over a boy with two blue pens.

And that’s when I realised something.

So no, I don’t remember what heartbreak feels like anymore.

Not because I’m healed.

Not because I’m wise.

But because life distracted me.

Between work, bills, and trying to keep myself together, heartbreak doesn’t really stand a chance. I don’t have the energy to spiral anymore. If something hurts, I’ll feel it, complain about it briefly, and move on — because life is not waiting for me to process emotions properly.

I used to cry for months.

Now I cry for maybe 24 hours.

Sometimes less if I’m busy.

Maybe that’s growth.

Maybe that’s emotional exhaustion.

Either way, heartbreak has been quietly demoted in my life.

And honestly?

It had a good run.

Also — before anyone gets ideas — no Yoruba man should take this as a challenge. Please. I’m begging. Pity my mental health. I’m the first child. Life is already dealing with me. Let me rest.

The Dott signifies the end, but thank you for always starting new journeys.

This particular blog post… honestly, it’s a sub for everyone. You, you, and most especially you. One thing Nigerians have mastered is the constant need to show their neighbour, friends, or even partner that they are suffering more. And as much as I want to blame us, I actually can’t. Because whether we like to admit it or not, a lot of us inherited this behaviour from home. We copied it the same way we copied accents from Disney Channel.

Growing up, my dad would always tell my siblings and I stories about how he suffered to go to school — trekking, hunger, the full Nollywood package. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good tale, but these stories only came out whenever we complained about anything. If we said, “Daddy I’m tired,” he’d say, “Tired? When I was your age I used to walk from Oyo to Lagos to buy kerosene.”

My mum didn’t miss her own cue. She’d always remind us that there were no computers when she was in school. No internet. No enjoyment. And according to her, that automatically means our generation is “lucky.” And guess when she would remind us? Exactly — whenever we expressed even 0.2% discomfort.

So honestly, can we fully blame ourselves? Suffering was the language we grew up speaking at home. It was practically a family tradition.

A couple of months back, a friend and I un-added each other on socials. I’m not about to come here and call her evil — she was a good friend, and I genuinely believe that our friendship had simply run its course. But during the time we were close, I remember opening up to her about something that made me really sad. I told her I felt like my life was falling apart. Instead of comforting me or even pretending to understand, she immediately jumped into how her own life was harder and how I should be grateful.

Please. Grateful for what exactly? Stress? Chaos? Tears?

It was crazy because it sent me into a deeper wave of sadness and honestly, I resented her for that moment. I understand that everybody is going through something — truly, I do. But why is the first reaction to invalidate someone else’s feelings just to prove that your own suffering “counts”?

Why is suffering a competition?
Why do people hear “I’m struggling” and respond with “You think that one is struggle?”
Why do Nigerians treat pain like bragging rights?

No one gets an award. No medal for “Most Traumatic Childhood.” No certificate for “Longest Time Without Enjoyment.” Yet somehow, we speak about hardship like it’s our national ID card.

And this Olympics is everywhere — even abroad. Nigerians in London will turn casual gist into trauma comparison. If you say you worked one shift, someone else worked 12. If you say you moved to the UK with £200, someone else moved with £20 and two sachets of Milo. If you say, “It’s cold,” someone will say, “Cold? This is summer in my village.”

Meanwhile, nobody asked you people to compete.

And then there’s social media — where struggle has somehow become content. People will record themselves after crying, post it, and Nigerians will comment “More strength dear” instead of “Are you okay?” We hype suffering as if it’s a goal. We give standing ovations to hardship. Some people even get offended when you say your life is peaceful. Like how dare you enjoy softness? Where is your character development?

But here’s the truth: a lot of this behaviour isn’t wickedness. It’s conditioning. Many of our parents lived harsh lives. They survived, not because they wanted to be strong, but because they had no choice. And without realising it, they passed that mentality on to us.

Still, something in me knows our generation is different. We’re the first ones to say, “Actually, I don’t want to struggle.” We’re the ones choosing ease without guilt. We don’t see suffering as a badge of honour. We don’t want to win anything. If anything, we want to retire from the entire competition.

I think that’s the thing: Nigerians have normalised suffering so much that comfort now feels like rebellion. When you choose convenience, people look at you like you’re lazy. When you express discomfort, they act like you’re dramatic. But honestly? We’re allowed to feel things without someone topping our trauma.

And honestly, that’s really the heart of it. People should be allowed to feel things without someone rushing to tell them they “have it easy.” Not every moment of vulnerability needs to become a comparison chart. Sometimes someone is simply sad, or overwhelmed, or tired — and all they need is a little understanding, not a reminder that somebody somewhere supposedly has it worse.

Everyone is carrying something. Some people are carrying too much. You don’t lighten anyone’s load by adding yours on top of theirs. You don’t comfort anyone by telling them their hurt doesn’t count. You don’t become stronger by proving you’ve suffered more.

There is no reward for it. No certificate. No badge. No special treatment in heaven or on earth. So why are we competing? Why are we trying to win an experience that has never benefitted anyone?

If someone trusts you enough to share their struggle, let them. Listen. Be gentle. You don’t have to agree, you don’t have to solve it — just allow them the space to feel their own feelings without interruption.

Because we all know life can be hard. We don’t need a reminder. What we need — what we’ve always needed — is kindness. And sometimes the simplest kindness is letting someone speak without turning their pain into a debate.

The Dott signifies the end, but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

According to Google, marriage is “a culturally and legally recognised union between two people that establishes rights and obligations. It can be defined as a formal, legal, and social contract that unites their lives, creating a partnership with responsibilities toward each other and their children. Beyond the legal and social aspects, it is also understood by many as a personal and emotional commitment of lifelong companionship, support, and love.”

But imagine my confusion when my mum tried to matchmake me with someone and I said no because I wasn’t attracted to him — and she calmly said, “You don’t have to be attracted to him.” Sorry? Am I applying for a mortgage or a marriage? That’s when I realised marriage means different things to different people. For some, it’s a milestone. For others, it’s a finish line. And for me? It’s still a concept that feels… adult. I know I’m grown , bills have reminded me daily — but marriage? That still feels like something people do when they’re ready to share the last slice of plantain without resentment. I’m not there yet.

I’ve always told myself that I’m just a girl. Marriage, to me, has always sounded like an adult concept — one that requires emotional taxes I haven’t budgeted for yet. So, anytime my mum, aunty or even a coworker brings up marriage in conversation, I find it hilarious. I’ve moved from awkwardly laughing when they talk about “settling down” to boldly saying, “Okay, bring him then.” The problem is, sometimes they actually do. One of my coworkers once gave my number to a man who texted, “Good evening dear, how was work?” and that was the last message I ever saw. I may or may not have ghosted him. Repeatedly.

The thing is, it’s not that I don’t want love or marriage. I just don’t see it as something I need to rush into. If it happens, bismillah — and if it doesn’t, then nothing spoil. I’ve only recently learned how to love myself fully, and the idea of shrinking myself to fit into someone else’s idea of “wife material” sounds like emotional bankruptcy. I can’t lose myself in the name of companionship.

What’s funny is how society treats marriage like a finish line. You could be thriving, independent, well-dressed, moisturised, and unproblematic — but if your ring finger is empty, you’re suddenly seen as incomplete. It’s wild. I once told someone I was focusing on myself and they said, “That’s what people who don’t have options say.” Like peace and personal growth are consolation prizes. The pressure to marry young is exhausting, especially for women. You can have a whole degree, career, and credit score, and someone’s aunty will still ask, “When are we eating your rice?”

And it’s not always out of malice. Sometimes it’s cultural. For many of our mums and aunties, marriage equates to stability and safety — and in their time, it often was. But things are different now. Women are allowed to want more — peace, independence, and emotional safety — not just a wedding hashtag and matching pyjamas.

The older I get, the more I realise that maybe it’s not that I don’t want marriage — it’s that I’ve seen too many examples that make me pause. Growing up, half of us didn’t see love; we saw survival partnerships. We saw couples who looked more like business partners than best friends. We saw mums who cooked, cleaned, prayed, and cried quietly in kitchens because “that’s just how men are.” We saw dads who came home angry, tired, or simply absent — and somehow, everyone just adjusted. That was love, or at least that’s what we were told it looked like.

Now, social media has turned those quiet stories into full-blown horror films. Every week there’s a new podcast, a viral wedding gone wrong, or a man confidently explaining why women shouldn’t breathe too loudly in marriage. One man said, “My wife doesn’t need friends, I’m her everything.” Sir, you are not even washing your own plates. Please, allow me to take notes before I apply.

It’s not that I’m scared of marriage — I’m scared of the excuses people make for suffering. I’ve seen women stay in abusive relationships and be told to “pray harder” instead of “pack your things.” I’ve seen cheating turned into a spiritual test. “That’s how men are,” they’ll say, as if accountability is a foreign language. Some people treat marriage like endurance training — how much pain can you survive while smiling for the family photo?

So no, it’s not that I’m running from marriage. I just don’t want to enter one that requires fasting, prayer, and police intervention every two weeks. I want laughter, not a prayer request. I want a husband, not a handler.

The truth is, our generation has seen too much. We’ve seen brides crying on their wedding day — and not from joy. We’ve seen screenshots, confession pages, and “my husband said I can’t have friends anymore” stories. Even the “happy couples” online start to look like brand deals — everything is filtered, rehearsed, and hashtagged. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real anymore, and it’s enough to make any sane person cautious.

But I still believe in love. I believe in soft laughter in the kitchen, shared playlists, and inside jokes that last for years. I believe in the kind of love that makes you feel lighter, not smaller. I want someone who prays with me, not preys on me. Someone who communicates, listens, and knows that love is a partnership, not a performance.

I also believe in background checks, therapy before vows, and conversations that start with “What do you believe in?” instead of “What’s your body count?” Because marriage isn’t just romance — it’s management. It’s crisis control. It’s choosing peace, even on days when love feels like work.

So when I say I’m taking my time, it’s not because I’m anti-men. It’s because I’m pro-peace — and I want to get it right. I don’t need a perfect love story; I just don’t want a tragic one. I don’t need a wedding that trends online; I want a marriage that feels like home, not hard labour.

The Dott signifies the end, but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

One of my favorite adverts ever is that old Indomie ad. In it, a girl is having her birthday party and asks her mom if the food is ready. Mom says no, and while waiting, the girl sees a man on the street playing guitar. She calls her friends, and suddenly they’re singing: “To me, To you, it’s up to us to make the world a better place…” Before you know it, people from all over join in, dancing, singing, and the whole street turns into one big block party.

That advert shaped my worldview as a child. To me, life itself was one big party, and you just had to choose to make it interesting. And as a child who didn’t go out much, I clung to that ad like gospel truth. Even now, years later, whenever I feel low, I remember it and remind myself that I can still choose joy.

But let’s be honest — not every advert gave us joy. Growing up in Nigeria, adverts weren’t just jingles and happy children with bright teeth. They carried heavy stereotypes. Especially food ads. Like those Royco ads: father comes home angry, scowling like the world offended him, and what’s the magic solution? Madam enters kitchen, boils stew, and suddenly oga is smiling like he just won the lottery. If Nigerian ads were honest, the slogan would’ve been: “Food — curing men’s bad moods since 1960.”

And it wasn’t just Royco. Think about Omo — every single ad showed a woman scrubbing uniforms, smiling like laundry is her love language. Maggi showed women sweating over pots, serving steaming plates while smiling like Miss Nigeria. Peak milk often portrayed mothers as the eternal givers of strength, pouring energy into kids while daddy sat on the couch reading newspaper, nodding like he contributed by existing. The pattern was loud: women in the kitchen or cleaning; men either providing or relaxing.

Honestly, if you believed Nigerian adverts, you’d think women were born with spatulas in their hands and men were allergic to kitchens. Fathers vanished in every domestic scene, only to reappear at the dinner table. Meanwhile, women were always smiling, never tired, never stressed, their whole identity wrapped around service to others.

And that’s the thing about adverts: they don’t just sell products. They sell ideas. They tell us what a “good woman” looks like and what a “real man” is supposed to be. They don’t just mirror culture — they reinforce it. They whisper into kids’ ears: “Girls, your job is to cook and clean. Boys, your job is to provide and decide.”

The impact is bigger than we think. Those jingles shape how boys and girls see themselves growing up. A girl watching her mother on screen being celebrated for cooking thinks, “Okay, that’s my lane.” A boy sees his father served hand and foot and thinks, “That’s my destiny.” Then we wonder why, 20 years later, men act like entering the kitchen is an Olympic sport they didn’t sign up for.

Even outside food ads, the stereotypes creep in. Beauty ads tell women their worth is in having light skin, straight hair, and slim figures. Alcohol ads tell men that masculinity = strength, dominance, and sometimes even aggression. Telecom ads tell us men are hustlers making big decisions while women gossip or manage the home. These narratives sneak into our subconscious, and before you know it, they shape reality.

Now, things are shifting — but slowly. Every now and then, a brand will try to “break the mold.” We’ve seen the occasional ad with a man cooking or washing dishes, but half the time the framing feels off — like it’s some kind of miracle that Daddy boiled rice. Brands want applause for showing men doing basic human tasks. Telecom and banking ads are beginning to show women as professionals or leaders, which is refreshing, but then they’ll end the story with her still rushing home to cook dinner for oga. Progress, but still wrapped in stereotypes.

Social media has changed the game, though. People now call out brands when they release sexist ads, and that public pressure is forcing companies to rethink. Nigerians on Twitter and Instagram don’t let things slide anymore — and thank God for that. Because honestly, if adverts can convince millions to buy seasoning cubes, then they can also convince millions to imagine new gender roles.

I don’t think anyone is saying women shouldn’t appear in kitchens in ads. Cooking is real life. But balance matters. Show men cooking. Show women making financial decisions. Show families sharing responsibilities instead of pretending that only one gender does the work while the other just exists. Representation matters, and media is powerful enough to help rewrite the script.

At the end of the day, I’ll always have love for those old jingles. They remind me of childhood, of innocence, of a time when life was simple. But looking back as an adult, I can’t ignore how much they boxed us in. The sexism in Nigerian adverts is not always loud or aggressive — it’s subtle. It’s served with a smile, hidden under the jingle, and that’s why it works so well.

We don’t need ads that sell us gender stereotypes. We need ads that sell us possibility.

The Dott.

The Dott reminds me of the end, but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

Today, I want to talk about my friend. Let’s call her Aisha. To be fair, she’s one of the people that made me realize that good friendships exist. You know those people that show up in your life and suddenly you’re like, “Ah, so this is what it feels like to be understood?” That’s Aisha. But this gist is not really about our friendship. It’s about her “almost love story,” and how it made me think about all the ways we hold on to people… and then lose them.

So, a couple of weeks ago, Aisha met a boy. Well, technically, she didn’t meet him. They had been talking online for a while — texting every day, voice calls, late-night banter. She told me sometimes her day didn’t actually start until she got that “good morning” text from him. See, me, I found it intense. But for her, it was special. Then the day finally came for them to meet in person, and the boy canceled. He said he had a “family emergency.”

Aisha cried. And when I say cried, I don’t mean cute one-tear-drop-like-in-a-movie cry. I mean full-on, heart-shattering, “my world is ending” cry. Honestly, I didn’t get it at first. How do you cry that much over somebody you’ve never physically met? But the more I listened, the more I realized that for her, the bond was real. Sometimes, the idea of someone can be just as powerful as the person themselves.

When I asked her if there were warning signs, she shook her head. According to her, it was fine until one day he just didn’t text “good morning.” That was the beginning of the end. And isn’t it crazy how something so small can change everything? One day you’re smiling at your phone like an idiot, the next day you’re staring at the same phone like it betrayed you.

Now let me confess: I hate talking stages. HATE. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You will never see me clapping for “what’s your favorite color?” conversations. If there’s a protest against talking stages, I’ll be in the front holding placards. And it’s not just the small talk — I think I also hate the vulnerability. Meeting someone new means showing them your layers. And I’ve always felt like I’m “too much.” Too loud, too dramatic, too soft, too ambitious, too emotional. There’s always that quiet fear that if someone gets close enough, they’ll decide I’m not worth the trouble.

So, I get Aisha. I get how you can pour yourself into someone, even someone you’ve never met, and then feel crushed when it suddenly ends. Because in a way, it’s not just the person you’re missing — it’s the version of yourself that existed when they were around.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned: not every fallout comes with drama. Sometimes it’s just silence. No fight, no betrayal, just… nothing. Life happens. People get busy. Priorities shift. One day you’re inseparable, the next you’re strangers with shared memories. And as painful as that is, it’s also very normal.

I used to think silence meant rejection. Like if someone didn’t call, if they didn’t fight to keep me in their life, it must mean I wasn’t enough. But now I know that’s not always true. Some people are not meant to stay. They’re meant to teach us something, to show us a mirror, to give us joy in that moment — and then exit. Their leaving doesn’t erase the laughter you shared. It doesn’t cancel the memories. It just means the chapter ended.

And chapters are supposed to end.

When I think about Aisha now, I don’t judge her for crying. I admire her for feeling. In a world that tells us to be strong and unbothered, I love that she allowed herself to break down. Because letting yourself grieve, even over an “almost relationship,” is a kind of strength. It means you were present, you were vulnerable, you cared.

So yes, sometimes we don’t talk anymore. With friends, with lovers, even with people who once felt like home. And that’s okay. It doesn’t make the connection fake. It doesn’t mean you wasted your time. It just means life moved on — and so did you.

So here’s to every Aisha in our lives. To the friends who drifted, to the lovers who vanished, to the group chats that died slow, painful deaths. Thank you for the chaos, the joy, the late-night calls, the “good mornings” that lit up our days. Even though you’re not here anymore, you mattered. And that’s enough.

We don’t talk anymore. And that’s okay.

Dear Secret Lover,

The Dott signifies the end — but thank you for starting this new journey with me.

I started writing this post with “We Belong Together” by Mariah Carey playing in the background. I need you to listen to it. The whole thing. Every beat, every breath, every desperate note she holds. Because that song is everything I want to say to you without fumbling over the words. I want you to feel what I feel — the yearning, the ache, the soft insistence of love that doesn’t leave quietly.

A couple of days ago, you called me, and the first thing you asked was, “How did your 30 minutes of weird dancing go?” I started laughing, because not only was that question so specific and random — it was scarily accurate. I had just finished dancing in front of my mirror, the way I do when I’m home alone and bored of scrolling through TV shows I never finish. I asked you how you knew, and you said, “You once told me that’s what you do when you're restless. You’re home alone. Bored. It’s either dancing or falling asleep with the TV watching you.”

I swear my heart did a backflip.

How do you know me like that? Not just the big things — the things I say out loud — but the small ones too. The things I don’t even notice about myself until you mirror them back to me. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. For the first time in a long time, I found myself calling someone home, and it didn’t feel scary or premature. It just… made sense.

Being in love with you doesn’t feel like fireworks. It feels like that moment when the lights go out, and someone lights a candle. Quiet. Safe. Soft. It feels like warmth before you even realise you were cold. Like knowing someone will save the last slice of cake for you without asking. It’s the ordinary things that feel extraordinary because they came from you — the way you say “hmmm” when you’re thinking, how you type “lol” but you’re actually smiling, not laughing. The way you remember things I forgot I told you. The way you tell me “you’re not funny” while laughing so hard at my jokes. That’s what love is to me now. Not noise, not drama. Just presence. Just you.

And I need to say this, too — because you’ve asked me, and I’ve avoided it with jokes and "let's talk later": I’m scared. Being this soft with someone is terrifying. I’ve been the girl who got too excited too quickly. The one who loved out loud and then sat quietly with the disappointment when it wasn’t returned. I’ve known love that felt like performance. Like waiting for someone to finally choose me. So when you say my name like it’s something you want to protect, it makes my throat tighten. I’ve waited so long to be loved like this that I almost don’t know how to accept it.

But I’m trying. And with you, it doesn’t feel like trying too hard.

You feel like the late-night phone call I didn’t know I needed. Like the voice note that makes me press replay because hearing you say “I miss you” in your sleepy voice feels better than hearing a crowd cheer. Like the kind of intimacy that makes even silence feel full.

And no, it’s not perfect. Some days I want to be selfish and clingy. Some days I second-guess what I said, or reread our chats looking for signs you’re pulling away. Love is messy. But the thing is — you make it worth navigating the mess. You don’t ask me to be less. You meet me where I am.

If you’re reading this and thinking this post is about you — you’re right. But it’s also for everyone who’s ever loved someone quietly. Who’s ever looked at someone and thought, If I could just put this feeling into words… Maybe these are the words you couldn’t say.

Our love does have a label — it’s real. It’s intentional. It’s ours. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t hide behind ambiguity or pretend to be casual. It’s the feeling of being chosen out loud. Of knowing that someone sees every corner of you and still says, “Yes, that’s mine.” It’s being safe, wanted, understood — even the parts of me I thought were too much or too weird. Even my mirror dancing makes sense to you.

So thank you — for seeing me. For staying soft with me. For choosing me in all the small ways that matter.

With all my heart,
Dot.

P.S: I know you’re done reading and you’re probably thinking “Dot is in love”, no I’m not, just realized that I haven’t been in love in a long time and I needed to write a blog on love so that it would remind me of the feeling.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

This whole “nepo baby” thing has been trending on Twitter for days now. Everyone’s dragging them with fire and fury — and honestly, I get it. But me? I’m only upset because I’m not one of them. It’s not hate, it’s envy wrapped in awareness.

Anyway, while having a conversation with a friend about nepo privilege, I suddenly remembered something that had been buried deep in my mental archive: the time in 2022 when a rich guy slid into my DMs and, for a brief moment, made me feel like I was starring in a parody of Pretty Woman.

Let me start by saying this: yes, we met on Twitter. And before anyone tries to judge me for catching feelings on that chaotic app, know this — a small part of me genuinely believes I’ll meet my soulmate on there. So mind your own love story and let me tell mine.

It was 2022. I was in what I now call my “hustler hot babe” era. I was selling perfume oils, chicken, and even bags at one point. While doing all that, I was still posting cute pictures of myself because, duh, balance.

One day, this guy DMs me saying he’d like to get to know me. I was probably 22 at the time, and the vibes were almost suspiciously good. After a few conversations, we moved from Twitter to Snapchat and exchanged numbers. Day three? Phone calls.

It was during one of those calls that he told me his surname — and honestly, I should’ve known then. The name rang a little too familiar. Not “famous-familiar,” but “old-money-familiar.” You know those names that sound like they’ve been on property deeds since the 1800s? Yeah. That.

I asked him where he was born, and he casually said, “Oh, I was born in America but moved to the UK when I was younger.”
I don’t usually feel small, but in that moment, something in me twitched. My first thought was, “Why is he bragging?”But then I checked myself:
If he’d said he was born in Ikorodu, would I have felt the same? Probably not. That’s when I realized the issue wasn’t what he said — it was what it revealed: our realities were not the same.

As we kept talking, the differences only grew louder. He told me he used to be a DJ, then sent me videos of himself spinning at events with actual celebrities in the crowd. I asked why he stopped, and he said he fell seriously ill, and that God told him to quit — so he did.

Another time, he asked me what country I wanted to visit. I said France, because I’ve always dreamed of seeing the Eiffel Tower in person. He smiled (through the phone) and replied, “Oh, I spent a summer in France. Lived there for a few months. I actually speak French.”
I think I just said, “Oh wow.” Because what else was I supposed to say?

Meanwhile, me? My travel history was a triangle: Ilorin – Lagos – Ibadan. And I was still saving up from selling perfume oils just to buy a new phone. He was listing cities I’d only seen on Pinterest boards, talking about meals I couldn’t pronounce. That whole talking stage started feeling like a live-streamed TED Talk on generational wealth — and I was watching it from my moms’ kitchen.

People love to say, “Date a rich man so all your financial problems will disappear.” But let me be honest: I disagree, heavily. Dating someone rich when you’re still figuring life out is not a romantic fantasy — it’s a constant reminder that you’re not where they are.

It wasn’t even about money-money. It was the little things — like how he thought “getting an internship” was as easy as just applying online. He constantly told me to gain experience in my dream field. So one day, I asked him to help me find one, since it was obvious from everything he’d said that he had connections.

He paused, then said the dreaded sentence: “I’ll see what I can do.”
Spoiler: he didn’t see anything.

Instead, I got motivational speeches about working hard, starting small, and how he had “tried different businesses” and “built himself up.” He completely missed the point. He didn’t understand that he had a net — and I was still climbing without a ladder.

I wasn’t lazy. I was just limited. He had opportunities. I had obligations.

Looking back, he wasn’t a bad person. He just didn’t understand what it means to start from scratch without a surname that opens doors before you even knock. He couldn’t see the invisible tax of poverty — how every step forward costs more when you don’t have anyone cushioning your fall.

And it made me feel… small. Not just broke, but invisible. I couldn’t relate to his stories, his world, or his language. Every conversation reminded me of what I hadn’t experienced. I wasn’t intimidated by his money — I was overwhelmed by how little he knew about not having it.

So no, I didn’t date a nepo baby. But I almost did. And what it taught me was simple: sometimes the fantasy isn’t worth the reality check.

Love doesn’t need matching bank accounts, but it does need mutual understanding. And when your world feels like a side quest to someone else’s main storyline, the connection starts to crack.

I used to think dating a rich guy would make me feel secure. But all it did was make me feel behind — like I was constantly auditioning for a role I wasn’t born into.

So here’s to my future — to earning my passport stamps, my soft life, my Eiffel Tower moment — all on my terms. Not from someone else’s pocket (I don’t mind it being someone else’s pocket Biko, adulting is a scam), but from my own plot twist.

Because yeah, he had wealth. But I had drive. And someday, I’ll be the one telling stories that sound like flexes — not because I was born into them, but because I built them.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

It’s 12:12 a.m., and I’m stuck at work. Not the worst situation in the world, I know, but not exactly where I imagined I’d be at this age either. Out of boredom, and perhaps a bit of masochism, I opened TikTok — and almost instantly regretted it. The first video on my feed was someone my age living the life I desperately want: sipping cocktails on a boat, glowing skin, soft life captions, vacation aesthetics. The whole thing. And just like that, my mood shifted.

I tried to escape the feeling by picking up a romance novel. Something light to distract me. But the book turned out to be about a 24-year-old who gets whisked away on a month-long trip across four countries. I slammed it shut. This wasn’t escapism — this was taunting.

Now, before anyone comes with the comforting “Dott, you’ve got time, don’t panic,” please tell me why it feels like I don’t? Because it genuinely feels like I’m behind. Like life is a race and everyone else has a map I wasn’t given.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this. In fact, these feelings visit me so often they practically have a spare key. Recently, I told someone I was feeling bored at work and wanted to try something new. Her response? She sighed and said, “At least you have work. I haven’t had a shift in weeks and I’m behind on rent.” Instantly, the guilt kicked in. I felt ungrateful. Spoiled, even.

The truth is, I do know I’m lucky in many ways. I know I have privileges others may not. And often, when I’m down, I tell myself, “Some people have it worse.” But here’s what I’ve realized: that logic doesn’t always bring comfort. Sometimes, it just invalidates your feelings. It’s possible to be grateful and still feel stuck. It’s possible to have it “good” and still feel lost.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve been learning or struggling to accept is that life is not a group project. We are not meant to move in sync. We’re all walking different paths, with different privileges, resources, traumas, and starting points. Some people are thriving, yes. But others are just surviving — and most of us are doing a confusing mix of both.

The problem is, we don't see that mix. What we do see — especially on social media — is the carefully curated, perfectly filtered version of other people’s lives. We see highlight reels, not behind-the-scenes. We compare our messy middle to someone else's polished trailer.

And comparison? It steals everything. Joy. Motivation. Gratitude. Confidence. When you spend too much time watching someone else’s timeline, you start to question your own. You start to think you’re not doing enough, not being enough, not moving fast enough. You start to forget your own growth.

Because truthfully, growth isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with aesthetics or achievements. Sometimes, it looks like showing up to work when you want to quit. Sometimes it’s walking away from a toxic situation. Sometimes, growth is just choosing peace, again and again, even when chaos is more familiar.

In the moments I remember this, I try to mute the noise — literally and emotionally. I mute accounts that trigger feelings of inadequacy. I journal to remind myself of how far I’ve come. I celebrate the little wins, like waking up early or choosing not to spiral over something I can't control. And I remind myself constantly: you can admire without comparing.

Yes, maybe my “soft life” hasn’t fully loaded yet. Maybe I haven’t gone to Bali, or worn silk robes on a rooftop with a mimosa in hand. But I’ve healed from things I never thought I’d survive. I’ve laughed through exhaustion. I’ve kept going when I wanted to stop. That counts. That’s valid. That’s enough.

So next time I feel like I’m falling behind, I’ll try to remember that there is no universal timeline. No one is “ahead” of me — they’re just living their own story. I’m living mine.

And even though comparison has Wi-Fi and posts 3–5 times a day, peace? Peace lives offline.

P.S I wrote this blog just to motivate myself.

The Dott signifies the end but thank you for always starting new journeys with me.

I started this blog post with “Gentility by Melvitto & Wande Coal” playing through my speakers, you should listen to it to.

A few days ago, I went out to dinner with a friend. When it was time to order, I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I asked him to choose for me. Harmless, right? Well, not really. This man, in all confidence, ordered me a bowl of pasta—drenched in pepper. Not tomato sauce. Not arrabbiata. Just pure, fire-breathing pepper.

Now, while that might sound like heaven to some people, to me it was a clear assault on my peace. I asked him, “Why would you order something so spicy for me?” and his reply was, “Because I know you like pepper.” In that moment, my inner Yoruba auntie rose up with a full “as how?” I asked when I ever told him that I liked pepper. Of course, he couldn’t give an answer. Then I asked if he assumed I liked pepper simply because I’m Yoruba—and that’s when he realised the error of his ways and burst into laughter.

While the whole thing was funny in the moment, it also made me realise just how often this kind of assumption gets made. There seems to be this unspoken (and very unserious) cultural contract that if you’re Yoruba, you must also enjoy setting your mouth on fire every time you eat. But when exactly did taste buds become part of tribal identity? How did “liking pepper” become a core requirement for being Yoruba?

Of course, I understand where the stereotype comes from. Yoruba cuisine has its signature dishes—efo riro, ayamase, ofada stew, and the ever-dramatic asaro elepo—and they often require a serious level of heat to reach their full potential. For many, the enjoyment of these meals is directly tied to how much you can sweat and survive through them. But let’s be clear: not all of us signed up for that. Some of us want to enjoy our food in peace. Some of us do not believe that every meal should feel like a test of spiritual and physical endurance. Personally, I’ve always been a strong advocate for not suffering in silence—or in spice.

I even know people who force themselves to eat hyper-spicy meals just to prove a point. They sit there, sweating through their clothes, eyes red, gulping water like it’s a race—all in the name of “I’m Yoruba, I gat this.” No, you don’t. And you look ridiculous. Let it go.

This brings me to a larger issue: the way we cling to stereotypes under the guise of banter. It’s always “Yoruba people like pepper,” “Yoruba people are loud,” “Yoruba demons”—on and on, without pause. And it’s exhausting. We live in a generation that prides itself on being progressive, reflective, and “unlearning” toxic traditions. Yet, we’re quick to fall back on these tired clichés, most of which don’t hold water if you actually stop and think about them.

Take the “Yoruba people are loud” narrative, for instance. Yes, I have a loud voice. But is that because I’m Yoruba, or because that’s just how my vocal cords work? Loudness is not culturally exclusive. I’ve met loud white people, loud Asians, loud everyone. Volume is not a tribal trait—it’s a personality quirk. Blaming Yoruba culture for natural decibels is lazy.

And then there’s the infamous “Yoruba demon” label. This one is tricky. I would love to defend Yoruba men in full, but honesty won’t let me. That said, branding an entire group of men as emotionally unavailable heartbreakers just because a few of them played someone dirty is wild. Yoruba men are still getting married every weekend. Surely not all of them are out to break hearts and vanish. (Although, let’s be real—some of you are still dodgy. Let’s not lie.)

Jokes aside, stereotypes can be genuinely harmful. They shrink people down to caricatures, limiting how we’re seen and often how we see ourselves. It’s easy to brush it off as humour, but when people constantly assume things about you—what you eat, how you speak, how you love—just because of your tribe, it becomes tiring. You can’t define someone’s entire identity just because they happen to come from Oduduwa’s bloodline. It’s not only incorrect, it’s also very unserious behaviour.

For the record, I love being Yoruba. Deeply. I love the language, the richness of our history, the proverbs, the cultural pride, the food (yes, including pepper in moderation), the fashion, the community. There’s so much beauty in our identity. But there’s also a lot more to being Yoruba than agbadas, high volume, and chili peppers. Our culture is layered, thoughtful, poetic, and powerful. It deserves more than shallow soundbites and generalisations.

In conclusion, I’m Yoruba—but that doesn’t mean I enjoy meals that double as a tongue workout. Next time you meet someone Yoruba, ask them what they actually like instead of assuming they want their taste buds annihilated.

Let people be Yoruba in peace. Let them enjoy small pepper or no pepper at all. Let them be soft-spoken, emotionally intelligent, and drama-free (yes, it exists). And above all, let’s retire these lazy stereotypes that do nothing but flatten the fullness of our identities.

Because truly? Being Yoruba is deeper than pepper.

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Once again, I need you guys to actually start commenting on my blog, stop viewing and passing.😭🤲🏾

The Dott signifies the end but thank you all for always starting new journeys with me.

I started this particular blog post with “Mind Games” by Ejoya & BNXN blasting through my speakers — you should listen to it too.

Growing up, one of the lessons that stuck with me the most was: “Don’t talk to strangers.” I remember the endless stories — someone’s cousin got kidnapped by a Facebook boyfriend; someone else was nearly trafficked after meeting a random man in a BBM group. The warnings were everywhere. Adults would literally throw the phrase “stranger danger” at you like confetti at a wedding. And now that I think about it, I really should’ve listened.

But here we are — it’s 2025, and while I don’t randomly link up with strangers off the internet (anymore), the truth is: some of us don’t even need to meet in person to fall too deep. We just need Wi-Fi and an active imagination. Because the truth is, in today’s world, connection is one text away. Sometimes it starts with a meme reply, a reaction to an Instagram story, a “wyd” at 2:14 a.m., and the next thing you know, your whole mood depends on someone who doesn’t even know your middle name.

Boy meets girl online — maybe Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, or Hinge. They start talking about random things: music, childhood trauma, which type of Indomie slaps the hardest. Eventually, the conversation flows into what we now call the “talking stage” — that very unserious yet emotionally charged period where you believe you’re “getting to know each other,” but really, you’re just telling your business to someone who hasn’t even earned access to your mind, let alone your heart.

It’s cute at first. Girl starts waking up excited to see if boy replied. Boy’s name starts appearing more in her screen time than her prayer points. They add each other into their daily routines — the quick texts before bed, the morning updates, the random voice notes that feel a little too intimate for strangers. The world starts to feel soft, like maybe something real is happening. And then, slowly but surely, the vibe shifts. Boy starts taking longer to reply. He goes from full-text essays to “lol.” He starts ignoring calls. He stops laughing at your voice notes. Girl starts checking her phone more. Refreshing his page. Wondering if she said too much, did too much, felt too much. And before you know it, she’s spiralling, wondering if she’s the problem… or if maybe her village people are back in business again.

As someone whose greatest fear is the unknown, I’ve realised that one of the scariest things about love isn’t falling — it’s falling and not being caught. It’s caring more than the other person does. It’s investing emotionally in someone who was only emotionally available for five business days. It’s wondering how something that felt so real could disappear so quickly. It’s giving the best parts of yourself to someone who didn’t even ask for them — or worse, someone who did ask, only to ghost you like you’re in a Nollywood plot twist.

The thing is, feelings sneak up on you. One minute you’re just chatting, and the next you’re on Pinterest looking at couple matching tattoos ideas. You start imagining them in your future, even though you barely know what their real voice sounds like in person. And as a semi-retired love bomber, I know how easy it is to project your needs onto someone new. When I start talking to someone, I go blind. Red flags? I’m colourblind. I will overlook everything. Because in my mind, love is supposed to be messy. Love knows no flaws. But eventually, I do start to notice the flaws — and when that happens, it’s downhill from there. The problem is, I almost never see them until it’s too late. By the time I do, I’ve already built a castle out of a situationship with no foundation. And what hurts the most isn’t that they leave — it’s that I knew better, and still jumped anyway.

I’ve had to convince myself, many times, that the feelings I catch online aren’t even real. That they’re just a form of emotional escapism. I wasn’t really in love — I was just lonely. I was just tired. I was just looking for someone to pour into, even if they were empty to begin with. And before anyone starts judging me, I’ll say this: having that mindset has actually made detaching easier. If I never fully believed the connection was real, then I don’t have to mourn it when it ends.

Now, what’s a blog post without dragging one of my friends? Let me talk about Seun. She met a guy online. He messaged her saying he just wanted to be friends. They started talking — a lot. Daily, deeply, consistently. The friendship blurred. Feelings were caught. Seun was excited. She was smiling at her phone like an idiot. But there was a twist: because he came in under the label of “friend,” she had already shown him parts of herself that she’d normally hide from someone she wanted to impress. The messy bits. The fear. The overthinking. The unfiltered chaos. Now she’s panicking — what if he doesn’t like the real her? What if he leaves the moment he realises she’s not the dream girl she pretended to be?

And honestly, I get it. Because that’s the problem with love in this generation: everyone’s pretending. Everyone’s wearing a mask. People be shapeshifting just to be chosen. We all want to be seen, but we’re scared of being fully known. So we curate. We filter. We perform. And when someone finally sees past all of that, we freeze. Because love requires honesty — and honesty is terrifying when you’ve built your personality on performance.

Let’s be real: the internet is a mad place to fall in love. Everyone’s performing, whether it’s on Instagram stories, WhatsApp voice notes, or FaceTime with the lights off. People will say what you want to hear because it’s easy to lie through a screen. You’re not falling in love with a person — you’re falling for their highlight reel. And most of the time, you’re just filler until their actual crush replies. Some people don’t even like you — they’re just bored. And that’s the most painful part. You gave your time, your trust, maybe even your body, to someone who just needed company for the week.

Falling in love with a stranger feels intense because it’s filled with fantasy. It’s projection. It’s the idea of someone. You’re not falling for who they are — you’re falling for who you hoped they’d be. And when it ends — or worse, fades away silently — it leaves you breathless. You overthink. You question your worth. You wonder if you were too much or not enough. But the truth is, it wasn’t always you. Sometimes the connection just wasn’t real to begin with. Sometimes you were the only one who felt it deeply.

So here’s my unsolicited advice: don’t give your heart to someone who hasn’t even given you consistency. Don’t plan a future with someone you’ve only ever known through Wi-Fi. Don’t let a sweet voice and a decent playlist fool you into thinking you’ve met your person. And please — for your own sanity — stop confusing vibes for values.

If it feels like you can’t breathe, maybe it’s not love. Maybe it’s anxiety. Maybe it’s your body reminding you that this isn’t peace, this is panic. Some people are meant to stay in your DMs. And honestly? That’s exactly where they should’ve stayed.

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