‎Earlier this year, I had this unfamiliar feeling: the urge to document my thoughts and ideas.

‎And you might be asking, “I thought this feeling started last year.” Well, last year, the feeling was more like an introduction to a new phase. I opened Substack, started writing, gained over 100 followers, and then just stopped.

‎Why? Let's just say I didn't feel safe writing.

‎But February 2026 came with an entirely different emotion, the urge to write. Not on a notepad, Substack, or even my to-do-list app, but in a journal. Something I could hold, feel, and even hit on my head as a cautionary method when I'm going nuts. In fact, as a teenager still navigating the concept of growth, my only birthday wishes were a pair of earbuds and a journal.

‎And in case you find this funny, remember that a boy must plug his ears when trying to read to stay focused and express his thoughts in writing when he's breaking.

‎Luckily for this boy, intentional friends got him both at different times.

‎So, did he get his gifts? Yes.

Was he happy? Definitely.

‎How does he feel about them now? Funny.

‎Why? The earbuds got stolen, which, in his own dictionary, is the same as saying he lost them and I hardly use my journal anymore.

‎So wait. Did he not really care about getting those things? Did he just want them because adrenaline was rushing through his veins throughout that period?

‎Hell. Life is unfair.

‎I remember the day this picture was taken. I was so happy to get the journal that I ran in circles many times. Taiwo, the amazing soul who gifted it to me, began to wonder whether the journal came with one million naira that she wasn't aware of.

‎But to me, the intentionality behind gifting me something I wanted, months after my birthday, was enough to make me believe I could fly. I ran to the classroom, met two friends, and unboxed the gift before them like a little child who had just received a present from Santa on Christmas morning.

‎Somewhere between being surprised on a Monday morning and foreseeing how much I would begin putting my thoughts into writing, this picture was taken.

‎And no, that isn't my beautiful hand. A friend held the journal and I just stood very close to another friend as she became the photographer for one minute.

‎Now? I wish I were the one holding the journal, taking the picture, and still standing beside myself.  I wish I carried all the burden myself. Maybe if I did, I'd skip the part about being very excited and remember the kind of stress it took for me to do everything by myself.

‎Maybe if I remembered that stress, I'd never stop writing. Maybe it would even make me want to write more.

‎In truth, I can't remember when last I wrote.

‎Not the conventional academic or classroom assignments. I mean carelessly writing words from my unfiltered self.

‎I remember the last thing I wrote in this journal—something about public speaking, debating, or a competition.

‎Turns out, I have only occupied about four pages in the journal, three of which are either about my speaking skills, a speaking competition, or steps to becoming a good speaker. Definitely something about speaking. Definitely.

‎It's becoming less of an addiction and more about recognizing my identity. Or maybe that's simply what I would rather tell myself.

‎So maybe the feeling I had earlier this year was a lie. Maybe it was all a ploy to get me a journal that I'd hardly use. Maybe it's one of those wants of "teenagehood" that gets confused with a need. Or maybe I have been so attentive to my speaking that I have forgotten how much I love writing. Or maybe I haven't.

‎Maybe I'm just aiming for something beyond what I can currently do with writing, and while I'm waiting for time to get me there, I am spending my time speaking.

‎Or maybe it really is about speaking because, truthfully, since I started writing this piece, my thoughts have been constantly interrupted by the public speaking challenge streak I just finished.

‎Too much maybes in one work. But the reality is, I envy people who have given themselves to writing.

‎

I think every intentional writer is a god

‎There's a way they make people feel what they feel with the right words.

‎Yes, to speak is to be free.

‎But even as someone who loves to speak, I'd rather be a better writer. Okay, maybe I didn't mean that. But I'm sure you get the height of my aspiration.

‎I have always wanted to learn the art of writing. I mean proper punctuation, essential grammar, composition, structure, and all that.

‎In fact, I might be one of those people who have actively taken steps towards developing this skill. But somewhere in between that development, I started winning speaking competitions.

‎It's like trying to get better at baseball while somehow winning medals in football.

‎And you know what happens when humans feel appreciated in a particular setting: they begin to go there more often. So while I'm on this quest to read more books, polish my grammar, and become a better writer, it's like I'm getting recognized for speaking with little or no effort.

‎

‎And I think that's the issue: becoming too familiar and comfortable with something that you'd rather stay stuck there than explore other things.

‎So it's like my body is in pieces.

‎The greater part is at the door that requires my mouth to sing, while the rest is at the door that requires my hands to dance.

‎But I'm learning to live in both beyond merely existing in them. I'll keep testing and stretching them until they become what I want.

‎Because the truth is, hardly will they ever be at the same level. But then again, the fight was never about putting both at the same level.

‎Honestly, that would be a blatant lie to myself. The fight is actually about being globally recognized for one without losing excellence in the other.

‎As Hugh Blair would rather put it

‎“To speak or to write perspicuously and agreeably with purity, with grace and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence to all who purpose, either by speech or writing, to address the Public."

‎One step taken.

‎9,999 to go.

‎

Let's talk.

I had already decided to dismiss these thoughts and all that came with them. But guess what? The camel came back to spit into the well—whatever this means.

Let's talk about people of influence. And I'm not speaking about the politician you had long resented, or the teacher in your school that you wish never existed. Again, I am not addressing the woman on your street who believes she must be respected, or that man in the hallway who demands that you honor him. I'm talking about that friend, family member, or relative—the ones who sit with you daily, mixing the love in your heart into a part-time hatred for them. Or maybe not hate—I mean a feeling that makes you question why you loved them that much, or why you will keep loving them even this much.

Just a few days ago, I observed all that went on in a family that lives very close to my house. The mother had shouted at her son over something he believed he was entitled to. The conversation, in clarity, went like this:

"You already bought this for my sister; where is my own?"

She said, "I will get yours for you tomorrow."

The son knew this was another way to begin a promise that would go unfulfilled. He knew the number of times she had said this but never acted correctly. She said, but never did. And since the boy knew this, he asked her again:

"What difference is it if you give me the money so I can get it tomorrow?"

What did she do? She shouted—acted like he had threatened to steal the money from her. The boy, in anger, knew what was going on and decided to go into another room—a coping mechanism he had used for years to ensure there would be no issue or problem between him and his mother.

Guess what? When she realized he had gone, she fueled her anger and began cursing him.

Okay, let's talk about his sister:

She never stops hanging around the mother. A good thing, right? Until you realize it is her way of pleasing her and making sure everything is already aligned between her and her mother, even if it means saying the most unbearable things about her brother. Luckily for her, she's older, so when she speaks, the mother hearkens to her more.

Now this, right here, is what I mean by people of influence—people who consistently make you regret why you have to speak, feel, or talk. People who make you worry about why you worry, yet make it seem like you are never worried but always careless.

So what has the son done to keep his sanity alive? He has gone away.

So far away that he has developed a sense of belonging around himself

So far away that he now believes he needs no other addition to help him find himself. So far away that his company is only those who aren't the reason he had to be far away. So far away that he only breathes in an environment where only he exists. Why? He has grown to feel unsafe, unhappy, and unheard when he is around those who should be a safe house—those who should be his comfort. I hope you can sense how much these words are restrictive and restrained. It’s simple: his feelings are so locked that no one has been able to properly define them. So even if he had to write this, you wouldn't get a full fragment of his expression.

And you know the truth? This is how he lives. This is how he laughs. This is what joy is to him: not being around those he was predestined to be with. To enjoy the joy of selfness by restraint. He hardly discusses anything with them—not in this world, or maybe even in a world to come. So he runs madly on his own, wins through his conduct, and fails through his thoughts. Every victory and loss is his. He leans on himself and falls on his back when the world seems very scary. He dies and wakes in his own accord. He governs his life through his own principles. He doesn't know if he will last, if he will continue to exist, but at least he gets to avoid remaining in the cage of family. He's himself, and as it is, in years to come, life can only be about him.

Pause.

Too much repetition. It’s clear that I’m starting to lose words for description. Why? There is a change in feeling, and I'm finding it hard to feel what the boy feels.

But I’m sure this writing will come back again, better and clearer. Until then, champagne 🍾 or fruit drink 🍹 ?

I was once asked why it feels so weird to see a masterpiece of yours and wonder why and how you were able to create such work. My reply centered around the fact that the difference between the then and now isn’t the work, but the state of mind—the erosion of thoughts that flooded your feelings into something you could write. Something raw, plain, yet beyond ordinary. Something unfiltered, untouched, and undisturbed by your logic that is capable of sieving and redefining your feelings to meet social standards

But what I didn’t tell him was how these feelings could automatically determine mind postures and actions; how these things are capable of leading you to your worst—or your hidden best that you never knew existed. What I didn’t tell him was how, at a point in time, I want to write because the feelings are already imprinted on my heart, and my mind wallows in their strength. But when I don’t feel, I don’t write.

It’s like the knock on a door only comes when a person approaches it, and not when I want to hear the sound of a knock. I cannot approach the door to make the sound regardless of any push—any motivation, any reason to feel, any event to remind me of why I should feel. What I didn’t tell him was that this issue has restrained the best of me in the past because I can’t feel enough in the present to let it out.

A few days ago, I thought: why don’t guys create a challenge where they have to record every day of their life and post it on social media for at least thirty days? My intention was never to disrespect or cause discomfort to souls who have found solemnity as the best way to feed their feels—who believe it’s better to watch and reply with laughter or silence than to speak, express, let it be known, or say something. Hell, I think I mistakenly wrote cry, because do they?

But I thought of this with the perception that every man is funny—abnormally funny. And everything we do, even the weirdest of things, if paid attention to, can amuse and entertain. It was just a random thought, and I discarded it after the exact feelings at that point paused in their momentum.

A few days before those few days, I thought of posting a work here on Substack with respect to my forthcoming birthday. I just wanted to talk, express, and let you know how I feel about the life I have lived for years now. I thought: should I title it A New Year, or A New Me, or 18 Years of Us, or 18 Years of Me, or 18 Years of Everything, or Better Days Ahead—or I don’t know, just something. At least a title that could best capture the essence of the work.

But yeah, I haven’t posted it because I haven’t written it. And I haven’t written it because I don’t feel it. I don’t feel the feelings that made me feel like writing. And guess what? This feeling can come up again tomorrow morning while I do the dishes, clean the room, or sit alone—but they never make it to this space. Because when I want to, I don’t feel like it; and when I feel like it, I don’t want to. Kinda strange words put together, right?

And then, earlier today, I thought: why don’t I begin a series here on Substack—one that would mean I let you know about the random things that happen to me, the things I think are abnormal but, in truth, aren’t really? The things that only an informed one would count as another step of teenagehood, or something to feel once in a while. I thought I’d name it Self-Doctor, or something kinda about me.

Why? I don’t speak. I mean, I talk, definitely, I do, but I don’t just express. I don’t let you know because I don’t think you should. And I’m grateful for the few people ready to listen, but I just find it unnecessary to let you know how I feel. This is a story for another day—probably one of the episodes in the series, if actualized.

So I’d rather bottle up, sit by myself, and talk to the One I believe hears me. I hardly cry, because my mood would live the moment of an hour’s tears for a day’s sadness. So yeah, that’s how I cope.

If I ever let it out here on Substack, it would mean that everybody on here would share a character in my story. Active intentionality would be hidden in conscious pretense—as you provide solutions and talk to me on the most random things, like you’re out here doing your job as a therapist, friend, doctor, lawyer, engineer—whatever profession it is. You’re out here reading my work and talking to me like you’re completing a plot that needs finishing, while I’m out here being me, you, and everyone at the same time.

Well, I think I should be grateful that I was able to write this down. Honestly, something else happened tonight that sparked the feeling, and I immediately chose to channel it. I think this is why I have always craved a book, a big one. It just feels real to pick up something and write on it as tears drop from your eyes, causing an unstained but visible difference on refined wood—paper.

Okay, time’s up. And I think I’m beginning to dread this writing. I should post it quickly before I wish it was never written and delete it from this device.

Yeah. Pardon my attitude. Happy New Year.

Sit tight—but not too close, because there’s so much to discuss with you this year, and I don’t want you all over me asking why I don’t want to speak when you can clearly see the feelings are on vacation.

So, coffee or tea?☕

A piece of the future.

Let me tell you a story of an ambitious boy—the feelings that coursed through his veins as he steadily grew in knowledge and purpose.

It was the 25th of December, 1653. The school was filled with individuals of different kinds, many of whom had come for one reason: to celebrate. He had no obvious reason to be in school, yet he knew deeply that he had to be there.

From the school gate to his point of destination, gowns moved in quiet elegance, worn by people who saw gratitude as their only form of testimony. In the hall were chairs adorned with ribbons, tables lined with different drinks, and all the necessities of a party-like event. But most importantly, there were students—people dressed in glamour, for the day was meant for honour. Gowns were paired with caps tilted in different directions across the hall.

Simply put, the people reflected the essence of the day: the end of an academic journey. To some, it was an end to a part; to others, a path toward the end.

But as for the boy, his eyes were fixed elsewhere. His mind was in chaos—not the kind that distracts, but the kind that breeds impatience while still preaching comfort to anyone he encounters. Thoughts wandered endlessly through his mind, each searching for justification of his purpose. He sought peace within chaos, yet it felt as though his peace could not exist without it.

He was reminded that he could not live this day in years to come without fully living it now. There was an expectation,.no, a conviction that a difference must be made. A growing realization that his unending wish was to write his name on walls long after men sang the lyrics of his works. A sense of completeness that came with the refusal to ever truly end the journey—that even if it concluded in deeds and works, time would perpetually secure his name in the air breathed and the water drank.

Yet a question troubled his mind.

Is it possible?

No, not that.

Will I be able?

No, not this either.

The right question emerged at last:

Do I have what it takes?

A feeling he would never forget. A feeling that consistently overshadowed his mind whenever he encountered people who reminded him of his essence. He knew how far he needed to go, how far he would go. He felt it.

And before anyone could argue that feelings are not enough, he would remind them that emotions occupy a vital space in the human puzzle. He would insist that wholeness is built upon emotions. Even when one claims to suppress them, emotions remain the very tools we use.

He would argue that emotions are only ever battled by emotions, so at the end of the day, one is always a step deep into them. Logic? Yes. It plays a role. But every logic ultimately finds its seat within emotion. The difference lies in the kind of emotion one chooses to channel—one that contributes to one’s being.

So if you were to ask this boy, “Why do you fear?”

He would answer:

I do not fear. Or perhaps I do. Either way, one truth is evident—I am deeply conscious of what is and what is to be. What I believe is excessive consciousness is merely a fragment of the whole.

This is what unsettles me: that I can see what is coming, yet wonder whether I am enough for it. That I desire what I am unsure I can attain—yet I hope relentlessly. That I believe there is so much to accomplish, yet I fear that what I long to achieve might ultimately undo me.

Help me!

When we were us.

I remember when we used to hope for the next day — in anticipation, we built our day before they began. With sand and water, we foresaw our futures into life as our clothes found peace within the mud. We ran after each other out of the tiniest joy from the present, as we walked into homes disturbing and destroying the boredom of their quiet. To them, we were lost — undisciplined, immature. But to us, we were seen, understood, alive.

I remember when we watched the passers-by live their lives and play their roles in our story. With stones and sticks, we welcomed them to a world of us — one where they acted as pawns in our game of gossip. I remember when we pursued the little kitten till its mother wished we never existed. When we called for a meeting of eggs, and we gathered every mother hen's child that we could find in our place of destruction. I remember when the tap was a toy and the water was another resource of nature to waste — when we fetched not to drink, but to sink. I remember when we had one enemy — the girl who could buy us with a penny. The one who never knew life because she was born in death — the inability to see that freedom is in recklessness.

I remember when we stared at the stars. Not because of their beauty, but because of the hope that one day the stars might do our bidding — to bear kids, our folly. I remember when the sun was our greatest friend and the moon our accomplice: for the former, our time to be seen, and for the latter, our time to be unseen , both to properly carry out our sins. I remember when the rain married our brains. How we came out in the storm to go against societal norms, as we reformed the world with our words. Our witty, insane, unthinkable fantasies found comfort through spoken letters.

I remember when we were alone; in our arms we were our own. Times when our joy was loaned to the tiresome nature of human responsibilities. Our parents' instructions served as a pause to our joyful noise. Societal expectations that a human must be educated made us re-educated — of the things we knew, accepted, and lived. Or perhaps, it was the pressuring need to match the dynamism of the world that evicted us from our world. Gradually, our blissful life married the word void.

And now, all we see is a rod that consistently reminds us to meet up with another us — a better us, the Homo sapiens call it.

Did we ask for this?

Did we ask to be ripped of ourselves? Did we ask to grow? Did we ask to be “better”? Did we ask to see beyond us? Were we enough? Being woven into perfection, we were already better. Now, we’re no more. Society, and the curse of evolution, has stolen our freedom — our essence. Men now pretend to think without using their brains just so they can meet unnecessary standards. We cannot throw stones on ourselves for fear that we may spend eternity in prison because they will hit cars. The girl we hated is now the talk of the town — everyone wants to be our horror. A man's house is guarded by men who are trained animals. There’s no way we could disturb the man that lives next door. The blessing called change is our curse. It has cunningly stolen our course. A man is either at work or at home , why not in the dirty mud?

We’re lost, and as it is, we might never be found.

A pity to those who never saw the world for what it is — who came into it when everyone has turned mad. A pity to those who think they live in luxury. For luxury once existed, not in materialism but in love — in us.

I look at what the world is becoming, and I remember when we were us. When the world was us. And only one thing can I say:

The world has lost its essence — us.

And the world will never find it again.

What is left isn’t the world — it’s the den of incompleteness, the home of imperfections and ingenuity. For when we were us, the world was alive. But now, the world only strives to live, and will forever remain a symphony of tragedy.

I want to be sane again.

Take me to a home—one that’s dark,

with closed entrances.

Bring me to a kingdom of my own — one I can rule with just a blink of an eye.

I need to be safe again.

By safety, I mean to be far away,

so far that all I see is me.

Give me a space of my own.

Whether built on stone or borrowed with a loan,

just make sure there’s no phone.

No pattern to follow, no past to swallow,

a place not just of solitude, but free.

Free from you, me, and I.

A place that exists in me,

where I don’t have to worry about how I’m seen

or who I’m trying to be.

A place where the fire feels cold

and the storm feels complete.

Not just a place — I mean a home,

one that completes.

Have you ever tried to speak

on days when they think you’re too quick —

too quick to think,

so even when you wink they pray you sink?

You drown in their town,

one that keeps you around

just to make you lost, never found.

And then you tell yourself —

not because you’re the one who needs to know,

but because only you want to know.

You repeat the words again and again,

hoping to at least reign in your own mind.

You say:

“Maybe what I oppose

isn’t the conflicting views

or the hateful words that never sound new.

Maybe what I need is acceptance and repentance.

To know that you did wrong,

To accept it.

And to turn away from it.

Maybe what I need isn’t a fight,

but the chance to claim my right —

my right to speak,

to be heard,

and to be felt.

Is it too much?”

And I know.

I’m not ignorant of your kind,

the veil that covers your eyes from what is seen,

because it is you.

Everything that doesn’t appeal to you is unseen.

You don’t bring it to your screen,

and when you do, you make it a scene —

one that casts you as the victim in my story,

my story where my visibility

has always been blurry.

So I wonder why I’m asked

why I despise staying around,

when my comfort disappears

wherever you’re found.

My race loses its pace

as my peace loses its piece.

The passion to remain

is like a chain that drives me insane,

because every attempt to be sane

leaves me never the same.

So I’d rather leave,

because to me, this is how I live.

I’d rather stay far away

to give my existence an essence to live for.

But then again, I’m reminded

that whether I stay far away

or remain in your way —

only you have a say.

It’s like I’m entangled,

and I can’t cut myself loose.

Still, I hope with the faintest faith

that one day I’ll be sane again.

Not just away,

but able to control every day —

my day.

One day, I know,

I’ll be sane again.

I don’t want to grow. Or maybe that’s not even the right way to say it. I don’t want to change—not the way the world insists I should. It sounds contradictory, but that’s exactly how it feels. I want to stay inside the same feeling, face the same small storms, enjoy the same familiar victories. I don’t want to drift from the present, yet I’m curious about the taste of the future.

Is it fear? I don’t think so. It feels more like a kind of self-belief I’m scared might sour if I change too much—though yes, maybe a little fear hides inside it.

I want the noise, the echoes of past victories, to keep ringing—the ones that put me at the center of my own world. I’m not afraid of moving; I’m afraid of moving before I’m ready. The future holds challenges just as the past did—only sharper now. And the hardest part? Change doesn’t change. It keeps coming.

I don’t want to drop the past that shaped the future I dream of. But how do I reach for a better future while clutching an unchanged past? I want to stay the same, yet my passion thrashes and pulls, wanting everything all at once. How do I ask for more without leaving where I stand?

Who do I even tell? You’d assume I’m always fine. Someone else would say I’m exaggerating. So, in the end, I sit with my feelings before a mirror and let them look at themselves. Maybe time will rebuild them, smooth their edges, and urge them forward again.

I don’t want to leave, yet I want to grow. I don’t want to remain the same, yet I’m not ready for another refining—one that strengthens, yes, but tests me deep before it lets me breathe again. Still, this much I know: I am like the sun made for day and the moon for night. I can only be what I’m meant to be.

So I hope I’m safe. I hope things unfold gently. My mind is ready in its unreadiness, and I hope that’s enough to carry me through the harder days—so I don’t stumble before the journey even begins.

Why I want to die again.

Disclaimer: This piece is purely a work of fiction and creative expression. It explores dark themes metaphorically and does not reflect the author’s personal experiences or intentions.

It feels so ordinary—so ordinary that I’d rather live in it for years than watch it live in me. The difference now is the kind of comfort I find in it. I’m overwhelmed by life, or maybe it’s the desire to die again that burdens my conscience.

Let’s talk about this boy.

He wakes up at 4:30 a.m. every morning to say a prayer that, at night, he wishes was never said—let alone answered. In the day he’s seen, though vaguely, but still unseen. At night he’s unseen, though vaguely, but still seen. Those who think they see him in the day see only a clothed version—one he unconsciously wears when he meets them. But at night, when his mind is open, the rottenness of his thoughts pollutes the environment. Who sees it? No one. Not even you.

He wonders whether the difference he seeks is unreachable because of his lost passion. A boy who would kill to eat now prefers to hunger, even in death. Sometimes he wishes he could find his way back to his mother’s womb—maybe then he could put an end to himself before it even started. But then he remembers: he’s already dead. His addictions cover his thoughts so completely that they start to look like they complete him. And when he thinks of who he was, he’s convinced this was who he always was—his present only an amplified version of his past.

But a part of him still twitches on both sides, like a bulb with light that might soon lose its spark. At least now he’s the reason others can see; another reason why he cannot. Weirdly, he still thinks the preservation of his person depends on his duty—one he’s bound to fulfill even in his last breath.

Let’s talk about the girl with two minds.

There’s an unending war in her innermost being. One part calls out to the other for salvation. The other believes that the whole body seeks only the conviction that nothing is wrong—that if they can give in, the basis of their existence will be preserved. So the girl keeps going, ignorant of the decisions of these minds, walking in faith. She believes a choice cannot be made without her approval. But little does she know: they are her approval—they make her; she does not make them.

If time gives them time, the result is certain: a girl under two rulers—death and life. Yet she wishes to die again.

Yes, she died once—the day she allowed her mind to split. That was her death: when, though naive, she gave up her being to sin. Now both the girl and the boy are slaves to their own bodies.

So they both wish to die again. Maybe this time, they would consciously monitor how they control their bodies. Maybe this time, they could preside over the decisions of their minds. Maybe this time, they could lead themselves to life and death—but with the assurance that they are in control.

So when you ask them, Why do you want to die again?

They answer—separately, but as one:

To watch my death become one and life become the other. To watch the sequence of my growth from death to life and take courage in my decisions—that this course is the result of my cause. To take pride in failure and fear because I engineered them. To hope and doubt because I knew when and how I decided. To own my being as I kill my being—not with ignorance, but with a conscious conscience.

This is why I want to die again: To be the head of my tail.

DEARTH

In a world where what you have done is honored more than how you did it, you look at yourself in the mirror and wish you had never existed.

Why?

Society has made you think that what you lack is your weakness, not an inevitable trait of the imperfect human. So you place yourself on a scale of growth, and to you: until you can show an acceptable achievement, no one cares what you went through to get it done.

This is the death of man: Dearth.

It shouldn’t have been a problem, because perfection is the greatest enemy of man. But now that everyone has chosen silence over the noise of struggle and pain in becoming the best, what we shouldn’t fear, we now hate—because of the fear of disapproval.

We undress authenticity and rebrand it with clothes of lies—all to make it look desirable. We spend our time discussing more about what we have achieved than what it took to achieve it. So when the little ones try to recreate their innocent self from your growth guide, they fail. They keep circling the same route without change or difference, and if any occurs, it happens without authenticity. Everyone is afraid of expressing the dearth that led to the rebirth of a new self, because when they do, others won’t value it as much as they would certificates, medals, and awards.

Why have we traded reality for a fictionalized story of growth?

Sometimes, what young enthusiasts need isn’t words of encouragement, but stories that might discourage them—stories that prepare their hearts for the worst to come. They are prepared for the beast called failure that antagonizes success. They marry this beast to beat the beast. Through constant attempts, success is not only found but lived.

Let he who has ears listen:

The results of growth empower the little. But the process of growth empowers and enlightens the youth—showing them that success isn’t a mansion in the middle of solid ground, but one built in the midst of testing grounds.

So, to the one who is human:

It’s okay to lack ability.

It’s human not to understand everything.

It’s realistic to want to grow.

It’s genuine to look for help.

It’s brave to approach the testing grounds.

But in all these: authenticity is simply identifying the process and acknowledging the results.

Don’t trade one for the other.

Let’s talk about what it means to not be understood. Too direct? Fine. Let’s reframe it.

Let’s talk about what it means to stand in a room of ten thousand people — and still not be seen. Not because you’re invisible, but because all they recognize is what you’ve done, not who you are.

There’s something about being odd — the consequence of being different, not “bad-different,” but good-different. The kind of different that comes from climbing mountains and returning with medals. The kind of different that makes people clap when you enter a room and assume you’ll win before you even start.

Sounds flattering, right?Until the moment you ask for help and no one listens, because “you’re always fine.”Until the moment you make a mistake and they refuse to believe it was one, because “you’re the smart one.”Until the consequences hit, and suddenly you’re the villain for asuggestion they turned to a decision.

Let’s shift the focus.

Let’s talk about the gatherings that feel incomplete to you.They say friends are safe houses, yet every room you enter feels like a mirror placed too close to your face. A reminder of who they think you are.

You try to share a perspective — a flawed one, a human one — but no one sees the flaw. They only see your reputation. And when the result goes wrong, you’re held responsible for the crown you never asked to wear.

And this is only the surface.

Just a fragment of what you carry daily because of the things you’ve survived — things that nearly destroyed you, things that still stalk your mind in quiet hours. Scars no one sees, but you feel them like echoes of your almost-death.

These are the odds of being odd.

We’re not talking about the beauty of being different today. Forget that. We’re unraveling the broken parts of you that the world mistakes for perfection — so you remember this truth:

What you’ve done is not your essence. Your essence is your presence.

So when you walk into rooms where they only see your accomplishments, speak up. Correct their assumptions. Remind them that you’re human — flawed, learning, evolving.

Don’t shrink under the weight of their expectations. Let them see you through your own eyes, not theirs.

You are enough!

Your achievements complement you — they do not define you. So show up with a voice ready to express, to correct, to redefine. You are who you say you are. The opinions of people are suggestions. You are the decision-maker.

You sit before a door with two locks, a key in your hand. You try to open both locks with just one key — your hands grieve the lack of strength. You’ve been consistent, trying different ways to insert the key. "Maybe it’s how I hold it. Maybe it’s the timing between attempts. Maybe the locks are faulty, and no matter how I try, the key will never meet its purpose."

In all of this, you might forget one possibility: maybe it’s neither the locks nor the key — maybe it's you. Maybe it’s your misdirected effort. Surely, there must be an explanation.

The truth is: success has a door with two locks and two keys — preparation and experience. You might never see the best of yourself until you meet the worst of yourself. You might never truly win until you’ve experienced failure.

So, when you look in the mirror and summon the courage to face your fears, be not just ready to fight; be mindfully prepared. If you fail, consider it a ticket to another battle — one you will approach not only with readiness but also with experience.

In life, certain challenges cannot be conquered until you’ve faced them. It’s from this past of unattainment that you painfully — yet surely become the greater you.

So go for that adventure. Run after the impossible. Dive into the deepest seas where even the best swimmers have drowned. Fight with the strongest. Push harder at the hardest tasks. Don’t treat anything as small — whether big or small, put all of you into it.

The goal may not always be to win, but to learn. You may not be the best at every table. But to others, you are a test — a challenge that gradually brings out their best as you evolve to become your own.

The answer to this question is plainly written defined by the picture you see. So, what do you see? Nothing? A white paper on a white background? Or maybe a reflection of something that isn’t visible but exists?

The picture isn’t just a white paper; it’s what completes my essence. It’s another part of what I make whole through my part.

In fact, if it were not plain, it would have lost its essence. If, at one glance, you saw something, its meaning might lose its beauty. So yes, I beg to differ if you think there’s no meaning in it. I disagree with your view if you think the only thing here is a white paper on a white background — that the only thing to be seen is what can be immediately seen.

Understand that your sight is dependent on your mind. If you think, after reaching a certain depth, that you can only see comfort and peace in this picture, then so be it. But if you think all that’s here is what’s immediately visible, then you’re wrong.

So, what do I see?

I see life — a life that gives me the chance to be a pen. I do not see an ordinary paper; I see the chance to tell a story — an opportunity to tell my story. To me, the paper represents life, and I am the pen. I see a reason to write — to be the author of my story.

So, why do I write? To be the pen that writes who I am. To be the reason I write for a reason.

Again, what do you see?

It doesn't have to be fully relatable. This is because at the end, the key to your fully express your emotions is you. So, don't see what you have to see, see what you want to see—yet not what should be seen.

We all write for a reason, why do write?

Love does not always end when two people part ways; sometimes, it merely changes its tone, or to better put it—it merely retreats into silence, not becoming inexistent, but becoming a plant not in its bloom.

Even though we’ve gone our separate ways, a part of me still smiles when I think of us. The mind is propelled to have recollections. Memories playing of moments where the essence of the world was met in the expression of mutual affection.

Time has a way of softening even the hardest parts of us. What once felt unbearable begins to fade into something almost tender — a scar that no longer stings, but the brain remembers. The heart, though once heavy with loss, learns to breathe again.

Love is curious like that — it leaves, and somehow, it finds its way back. Maybe not always in the same form, not always in the same face, but in familiar warmths, in echoes of laughter, in the way the evening light falls gently on the skin. It awakens and becomes pure and new again, like how it all began.

That is how it is, the vicious cycle of love, lovers separate from themselves for reasons they understand themselves not to be able to put up with the love anymore, this is because in matters of love, the least of the requisite is the love itself. Therefore, they cannot continue, not because they love each other no more, but that the consideration is more than the love itself, love doesn't go blind totally, it is partial.

In the heat of the emotional frustration, lovers then express their decision to sever themselves of the veils of the love keeping them together, what sustains this decision is the effectiveness of the emotion to continue to support the decision, on the negative side, where this emotion backing this decision begins to fade, lovers tend to fall back into the love they so expressed to not be a part of, all this is a working within the mind.

It is even easier to recollect memories of the love where the lovers in question are on speaking terms, in the minds of one another, seeds are replanted. But things will end as they begin if the reasons for the severments are not fixed before the reignition of the love. The World Gets beautiful too, and Love is one of its beautifying ingredients.

It was on the 25th of May, 2002. John recited his poem again and again. The audience were already cheering. They'd seen a lot of performers earlier that day, but they hungered for more.

"You can do this," said Ayo to John as they exchanged pleasantries. John’s eyes were already teary — an unusual effect of his anxiety. He knew this was all he had hoped for, even within the walls of Agege, where he lived. Regardless, he wasn't sure if he was ready. He only had a few days to practice because the news that he'd be participating in the interschool spoken word poetry competition got to him just three days ago. So he wasn't sure his first time on stage would set the pace for a greater future — especially now that he was showing up unprepared. He was still processing how being a winner would feel when he heard, "Let's welcome John Durojaye for his spoken word poetry!"

He was startled!

"So soon?" he asked.

"Here goes nothing..." his little faith whispered as John proceeded to the stage.

Now, eyes were fixed. Emotions were awakened. Faith and fear had their way in the hearts of the audience. Those who trusted and those who doubted — all waiting to be fed with their expectations. It was like everyone came for something: to either cheer or to instil fear. John began reciting his poem. The first stanza gone!

The second bus stop arrived at! The third mainland bridge reached! The mimers perfectly miming every word. The tension gradually becoming convenient. John gradually becoming unburdened. The audience gradually wading in the waters of good faith. “He might survive,” many thought. John was beginning to reside in the stillness and calmness of the atmosphere. It felt like heaven.

Suddenly, everywhere became silent! Every breath became a noise. The sound of a pen caught the attention of even the unbothered. Everyone could hear the sound of someone's heart — beating and racing faster toward its death. The house of John’s thoughts was demolished. He consciously ran through his head but found nothing. It was like a broom had been used to sweep his head clean, leaving the mimers struck with stagnancy. "What's the next stanza?" a part of him asked the whole. He had no answer. The dawn of another failure.

Lost in this perplexity, he heard a shout — one that was coupled with a clap. Gradually, more shouts, then claps. The audience raised a loud cheer. John was surprised. "Is this good or bad? Should this be added to one of those scenes where the audience cheers you so that you can leave the stage, or where the audience cheers you because they genuinely loved your performance?" he thought to himself. He was so embarrassed. He couldn't move... until Bayo, one of the mimers, came to walk him out of the stage. John, realizing that he had failed, placed his hands on his head. He walked to the corner of the backstage saying, "Mogbe! Mogbe! Mogbe!" as tears found their way from his eyes. His friends and enemies consoled. At least, it is a kind gesture to a failure.

The day passed, months and years came — all leading to one thing: the inability of John to remember those stanzas he forgot on stage. This effect haunted him. Whenever John remembered what happened, he'd remind himself of the shame he felt. To him, he didn't just fail; he failed woefully. He said to himself, "My first appearance was my last. Never will I appear on stage again. I have failed. What hope is there for me? Let my flags of courage remain in the mud. I'm a failure — and this, I will never forget."