I think we were having a conversation about intentionality in friendships, and I said that. I think I didn’t think that through before I answered.

Thinking about it now, I’ve fallen out with a lot of people I once called friends. Not in the crazy way, the “we had a messy fight followed by a big fallout” kind of way, but in the “I once knew your dreams, your fears, the guy/girl who makes your heart skip when he/she walks past, and now I can’t even remember your favourite colour or your birthday, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter; it would just be another day” kind of way.

MW, I’ve written an entire article about him because he was my absolute favourite, probably the greatest friend I’ve had. Or maybe not, because if he was such a great friend, we would still be friends.

One day, I was in his DM telling him my plans and the most random things, and the next, I found out from his WhatsApp status or a mutual friend that he had moved abroad. I think we lost our spark a little before that, not long before, but just a little before.

Now that I think about it, I think the friendship was one-sided, not in the sense that I was his friend and he wasn’t mine, but in the sense that the privileges of the friendship served me better and more. I can’t tell how exactly our bond severed; we just stopped talking. But he’ll forever rank at the top of the list of friends I’ve had.

MN, this one is totally different from the first one (MW), but one crazy fact is that they were both my friends and friends with each other, more like partners.

MN was a great guy and a good friend. Our friendship ended because things became awkward on my part after he told me he liked me. And the craziest part is, there were once rumours that I liked him, and I only found out way after our friendship ended.

We are acquaintances now.

LK, the issue with this one was that I always thought she was my friend, but I eventually realised that I was never hers. I was just her classmate, a friend of a friend, and eventually, a roommate.

LK is a kind person, an amazing roommate, but the problem was that I always misunderstood our relationship. I realised much later. I saw it in the way she wasn’t expressive towards me. She never hugged me (I don’t like hugs, though), but she used to hug our other roommate, who was her closest friend then, a lot.

LK wasn’t and isn’t a bad person. In fact, she’s as good as a normal person can be. We still talk once in a while, and I’m cool.

M, AF, and another, these were my “friends” from junior secondary school. Then, with them, I always felt out of place, like the mismatched white piece in a colourful puzzle. And I said white piece and colourful puzzle because I was peace and they were chaos.

I was so different from them. They were too loud for my quiet nature, too chaotic for my peace, too troublesome for my gentleness.

We stopped being close friends right after we resumed senior secondary school and they went to science class, while I went to art.

I eventually realised that I was the friend, but they were never mine.

I remember a teacher telling me not to trust people because M had gone around their hostel telling people not to vote for me in the Head Girl elections, even though she had never been friends with me and had no reason to support my opponent.

Or was it how AF attended the same university as me and somehow ended up being friends with my friend’s flatmate? She then told my friend not to trust me if I told her I hadn’t read before an exam, and my friend told her I actually study last minute.

Imagine an old friend meeting a new friend of yours, and the first thing they tell them is a horrible lie about you, and the new friend is the one who defends you.

Thinking about it now, I was the girl they were lowkey jealous of because I put in minimal effort and had maximum results. I had always stood in front of the assembly every other day since JSS 1. I was known for being a model student. There was something to be jealous of.

I’m super glad I fell off with these ones.

NO was my best friend for the longest time, but I think I became her best friend way long after she was mine.

We were extremely close towards the end of senior secondary school and even before uni. She knew a lot about me and me about her.

Later, we fell out a bit because of distance, because I resumed university and she didn’t. We aren’t the best of friends now, but we’re still friends, and I’m proud of how much we’ve evolved.

K & A are cousins, and we used to walk home together from school every day. We talked a lot and have a lot of memories.

Now, I won’t even know where or how they are.

GAN was my (our) friend out of convenience for her.

We were good friends, and our group used to hang out at her house a lot after school. But somehow, years later, I started thinking about how she never wanted to and always avoided showing up in our group pictures or videos.

Years after secondary school, I still wished her happy birthday and reached out once in a while to check in, like I do with our other friends, but I stopped this year.

I confused convenience for connection.

It was really great while it lasted.

ST, was one of the most unexpected friends I’ve had. And I say that because we never attended the same secondary school, and we stopped being friends long before we attended the same university.

Also, because we were polar opposites, but that made our friendship fun, until it wasn’t.

Now, we are practically strangers.

A and J, we met on our pre-resumption group, and we were close. J and I were even supposed to stay together. But somehow, we resumed and our connection fell apart.

I think it was meant to happen. They, particularly J, just wanted to attend classes and graduate, and I was different. I fell in with the popular kids, and J went in the complete opposite direction. A was somewhere in between.

A and I still talk, though, once in 6–8 months, but as for J, I forgot she existed until I started to write this.

TJ, my friendship with him is—not was (because I refuse to agree that it’s over)—one of the greatest I’ve experienced. I think I’d forever mourn what we would be, how we would be, and where we would be if we hadn’t ruined it. Forever grateful for the gift of this one, regardless of how it went.

Looking back at my relationships with all the friends I’ve fallen out with, I was right when I said I never fell off with any friend.

Because the fall never happened from my end. I kept on holding on for as long as I could.

All because a twisted, empathetic part of me always feared that a friend would be going through the worst part of their lives and I wouldn’t know, and I wouldn’t be able to do something, and they would do something terrible.

But I never thought about me. About whether they ever thought about me going through something that made me need someone to lean on, while I was holding on and they were drawing back. So, what about me.

I miss what I had with some of these old friends. I’m grateful for what I lost with others.

But most importantly, I’m glad about the friends I have now. I’m grateful to be surrounded by so much love.

And if, at any time in the future, I fall out with any of my current friends, I hope their memories are like the ones I have of MW, never like the ones I have of M and AF.

I hope they’d be the ones I tell my grandchildren about while they smile and laugh at our memories, not the ones my first granddaughter wishes she could meet so she can teach them the lesson of their lives.

I think I’m finally learning that losing a friend doesn’t always mean I failed to keep them. Some people are better as memories, preserved exactly where they belong: in the museum of who we used to be.

In the voices of those who bow.
In bent knees.
In the sound of gratitude
flowing from grateful mouths.

Testimonies.

Ope.

Shukr.

Alhamdulillah.

They say,

I thank God that I came out unscathed

from the accident

that claimed many lives,

and many more limbs.

Ope fún Olúwa pé mo bí ọmọ ní ayọ̀ àti àlàáfíà.

Alhamdulillah, I got an A

in the course

half the class failed.

God has been faithful to me.

God loves me.

God is wonderful.

As if the one who failed,

the one who miscarried,

the one who never survived the accident, were not also held in His mercy

For every job someone gets,
someone else watches their dream slip away.

For every competition won,
someone loses.

For every child carried to term
and placed into waiting arms,
countless others never draw their first breath.

For every opportunity seized,
another pair of hands lets go.

And it goes on.

And on.

And on.

Someone loses
when someone else wins.

So are the winners
God’s favourites?

Because on some days,
it does feels like God has favourites.

Maybe it only looks that way
from where I stand.

Perhaps triumph
has never been proof
of being chosen.

Or am I too blind to see,

too forgetful to remember,

that there were days

I was the testimony

someone else struggled to understand.

I think the worst part of this for me is that everyone believed I could do it, but I don’t think I’m doing it. Not well. Not right. Not even up to my standards.

Growing up, I once thought maybe I was a genius. Don’t laugh at me, please. 😂😭

Well, that was before I fully understood the concept. I thought so because I watched the Korean drama Playful Kiss, where the lead male character was a genius. He studied less, or not at all, but was still leading the class. The genius guy fell in love with one of the dullest students in their school. She wasn’t book smart in any way, and I always saw myself as the genius guy.

I was like him growing up. Little effort, but an overachiever.

It got to a point that my mom came for an open day in my school and asked my teacher if I had ever been involved in examination malpractice. She said all I did at home was watch movies and read novels. I was obsessed with reading novels, nothing academic or motivational, just love, love, and love. I used to read until it was pitch black. Even with the tiniest ray of light, I could still read.

That’s by the way.

All through secondary school, I never read at home. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t have to. I used to skim through my notes on the assembly ground a few minutes before an exam without any prior reading.

Even during my JAMB period, I never studied for JAMB at all. I read the summary of the literature text my classmate, God bless him, gave me on my way to the JAMB center. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. I used to read over 500 pages of my romance novels in two days, but I couldn’t finish even one of our recommended literature texts all through secondary school. I knew their content and structure well enough to get As in Literature from the pages we read in class, the summaries in the textbook, and the gist I heard from my friends.

I didn’t even read other subjects until the night before my exams. My mom and I went from Lagos to Olabisi Onabanjo University for me to write my exam then. I can still remember my mom’s frustrated and sad reaction when she noticed I had just started reading for an exam I had in a few hours.

But WAEC came, and I did the same thing. Same old habit.

I can remember how my classmates used to gossip behind my back that I lied about not reading at home. It was obvious they talked about it a lot because once, a transfer student told me she didn’t like me to my face in her first week in school. We were doing “Truth Day” when she said she didn’t like me because I lied about not reading at home.

Then I remembered my first year in university. My friend told me her flatmate’s friend, who happened to be my classmate in secondary school, warned her not to trust me whenever I talked about my reading, or rather, my lack of reading culture. My friend then told her, “That’s just how she is. She has no clue until a day before the exam, and she barely talks on the morning of an exam because she pulled an all nighter on a course that took others three days or more to read.”

Somehow, I think I lost myself. No, my brain.

Same thing.

I used to be crazily, naturally smart. Mad brain. A little bit of stage fright, but I still held it down.

I killed school debates, killed pageantries, killed appearing in front of the assembly all through secondary school. I read the school news. I was the major anchor of the Press Society. I acted in dramas, co directed one too, performed my handwritten poems, debated, participated in cultural dance, and I even ran as part of the running team in SS3, even though I was the slowest runner, all because I wanted something in the sports section of my testimonial. I led the school assembly countless times.

My God, I was an all rounder. I had mad audacity. I had a crazily strong spine.

I remember when we were being interviewed for prefect positions. They asked us one important question:

“What position do you think you are most suitable for?”

I said the Head Girl position.

When we all finished the interview, we discussed the questions and our answers. I was the only one who had the audacity to mention what I actually wanted.

I even won an award after SS3 for being a distinction student from JSS1 to SS3.

Somewhere between graduating from secondary school and finishing university, I kind of lost my touch.

I lost me.

I mean, my brain.

I lost my spine.

Or maybe I didn’t.

Or did I?

I used to be an overachiever, always willing to do things that were hard and uncomfortable as long as they were good for me. I was so smart.

Now, I neither feel smart nor do I feel like I’m achieving enough, let alone overachieving.

Now, I’m interning at a company I love. I’ve made great friends with my colleagues. I love my bosses too. I even have a book club with one of my bosses and a colleague turned friend.

But somehow, I feel so inadequate, like I’m never doing enough. As if, if there were to be a layoff tomorrow, I’d be the first to be thrown out. I feel like I’m stuck, like I go to work every day but I’m not progressing. I’m not adding value at all.

And it’s crazy because value was all I used to add. It was all I knew how to add.

So I’m asking myself, the universe, and anyone to please tell me: where, when, and why exactly did the overachiever stop achieving?

Where, when, and why exactly did the golden girl fall off and just to become an ordinary woman?

I’m a young adult, and most times I feel like I just slept through the end of my teenage-hood and woke up as a young adult. It feels unrealistic, like a dream, scenes out of a movie, not particularly comedy, romance, horror, or tragedy. Just something in the middle of it all, like a RomComHorroGedy.

A mix of comedy, because I definitely have my happy moments; tragedy, because I’ve had my fair share of despair; romance, because I’ve tasted what it feels like to love and be loved; and horror, because it’s truly horrific to be a young adult in today’s Nigeria.

You wake up to a “Have a wonderful week” text from your partner, but you don’t feel delighted, because what could be wonderful about waking up to heavy rain and a flooded street on a Monday morning? You instantly remember that you have a desk at work and unattended files waiting for you, so your perfect breakfast of toast and hot tea, which should normally make your day, fails woefully to improve your mood. Neither does a “Good morning, Princess” message from your love do the magic.

The hustle for a bus to work, with the rain pouring down on you on a Monday morning, makes it worse. You know that if you were to wail, not cry out but wail out, like ugly, loud wailing, the tears in you would be heavier and louder than the rain currently falling. But you don’t. You can’t. You just stay expressionless as you sit in the bus, with no reaction when the man beside you pushes you to create more space to manspread like he owns the bus.

Over the weekend, you hang out with friends, but their jokes don’t sound funny to you. Not because they’re not funny, but because the drama in your personal life is enough comedy. Your life has become enough of a joke to crack you up. You can’t devour the pizza and ice cream in peace because all you can think of is the cost of your transport fare, the price of the pizza and ice cream, and the debts hanging over your head.

As you and your friends talk about life, or more like they talk and you listen, you remember that you used to be the one who talked, the one who had a lot of stories, funny and crazy experiences that could crack steel into laughter. They talk about what’s going on in their lives, but you have no tales to tell. You’ve not been living, just surviving.

And surviving doesn’t go hand in hand with happiness, or so you thought. It’s those who live through life that are the happy ones, not people like you who are surviving. People who are surviving aren’t usually happy. Happiness is for those who have all they want, or at least what they need, those in happy homes, not a home that’s barely hanging on like yours, and definitely not for those struggling through life.

But that’s where you’re wrong. We often assume happiness chooses the people it comes to, most times through big blessings, answered prayers, granted wishes, requited love, huge houses, luxury cars, and expensive clothes.

But that’s one big lie. Happiness doesn’t choose people. People choose happiness. Happiness is a choice. You choose to be happy or not. That’s the most important lesson I learnt recently.

You choose whether you’d rather be happier about the new month well wishes you got from a busy friend or sadder about the uncomfortable seat you got in the public bus. It’s up to you to choose between the joy of getting your favourite snacks and the sadness from the heavy rain that spoilt your mood.

Of course, there will be some sad moments that make you feel like you don’t exist, but they will come and go.

Adulthood is all about finding joy in the little things as you go through the pressures and expectations of this life.

The question is, which is it going to be for you? Choosing happiness, or allowing sadness to choose you? Which will it be?

Always remember that your happiness is a YOUR choice.

It sounds funny, right. 😂🤡

I want the kind of man that holds my hands, holds my bags, and holds on to my heart. Yeah, that type. The type that practices the roadside rule with me; he walks by the roadside while I walk beside him, protected by him.

We would walk a lot, not because we don’t have cars, but because walking would be our peace, our quiet time when we connect and breathe out carbon dioxide but breathe in a lot of love.

We would go on early morning walks and late evening walks too. And when you’re asked about your favourite sport, you’d say walking with my wife, and yeah that would be me. Yeah, me as your wife, the absolute love of your life.

On our walks, we would talk a lot, like a whole lot. Talk about our day, our past, our memories, our future too. I’d tell you about the book I’m currently reading, and you’d listen and ask questions. You’d ask, “So, after she walked out on him, what happened next?” and I’d say, “Oko mi, I won’t tell you joor, go and read it too.” But you’d know that I’m lying, that I’d eventually tell you the full story. It won’t be the first or the last; I’ve been telling you these stories for more than five years.

On our evening walks, sometimes we’d stop at a point and book a ride to the cinema to watch the new Marvel movie. Of course, I don’t enjoy action or thriller movies, but I’d sit through the movie, holding your arm and leaning into you, occasionally stealing from your popcorn and asking questions like, “What happened before this scene?” even though we were both watching it together.

I want the type of man that’s soft and calm.

You’d be soft-spoken; you would be the kind of man that makes his point confidently without raising his voice unnecessarily. The kind that knows what to say to make me cooperate. One minute I’m annoyed, and the next I’m laughing uncontrollably because my husband said something. He’d use endearment a lot with me: my wife, my love, my heart, my soul, Mi Amor, Qalbi, Ife mi, Ayo mi—they would be countless.

I want the kind of man that’s effortlessly funny with and to me. We’d have inside jokes that no one else would get. I’d give him premium gists, and he’d listen with rapt attention, giving one or two sound effects every other minute: “Ahh, Ehn Ehn, omo, O ga o, wow, amazing…”

My love would be kind, so kind that he’d be the kindest person I’ve ever known, even kinder than my mother.

My babe would be calm, the kind that’s not scared of stupid but confident and courageous.

My husband would be soft in speech, in spirit, in character, and in love.

The kind that’s patient, that comes with peace even in times of turmoil.

The kind of man that loves loudly, deeply, and genuinely, leaving no room to second guess.

Handwritten notes, tight hugs, thoughtful gifts, kind words, kisses just because, soft carefree laughter in quiet rooms, and silence that doesn’t feel empty but full. The kind of love that notices the little things, remembers the details, and shows up gently, even when words are not enough.

I crave a soft love badly. Too bad.

Is that too much to ask for as a hard girl, an Indaboski Bahose like me?

Am I still me?

Or am I becoming too soft for craving the softest kind of love?

It wasn’t great, but it was way better. I miss the old Nigeria where mothers could leave their kids with their neighbours and go to work, go to the market, or even travel interstate with no fear or panic that something would happen to their kids. I miss the era of Gbomogbomo (not because it was good, but it was better), the ones that carried only babies. The times when the locals didn’t know what kidnapping meant. No one knew about ransom payments, school invasions. They didn’t need to know. All they cared about was protecting their children from Gbomogbomo. The times when all they worried about was their child not going near the house of the man who suddenly became rich. “Owo ojiji,” they called it. The man they all called a ritualist behind his back, but still received money from.

I miss the Nigeria where my mom was overly fearless, not this one that makes her panic over small things like someone calling her name from outside or two missed calls from one of us. The one where my mom could travel to any geopolitical zone from Lagos because a friend, a family member, or a family friend had a wedding or a burial. She must have travelled to at least one state in every geopolitical zone. The one where she could go to Ekiti for her friend’s (the one I didn’t like) mother’s burial, and to Edo for the wedding of the younger sister of someone from her mosque because she’s an intentional friend, member of the mosque, and neighbour.

I miss the Nigeria where we were not too cautious, too careful, and too scared to go out, stay indoors, board buses, or even walk on the road. The one where we weren’t scared of everything and everyone. The one where drivers weren’t scared of passengers, and passengers weren’t scared of drivers. The one where you didn’t have to look up, down, left, right, forward, and backward because you had to be cautious, “Ija wa, ija o si, always guarding,” meaning, “war or no war, always on alert.”

I miss the old Nigeria. Not the one that’s old old, but the one where my neighbour, whom I have been nothing but good and kind to, would never say to my face, “All Hausa people are wicked. They don’t deserve to be part of us anymore.” Not this current one where my friend, who used to say I’m the kindest and gentlest person she has met, posts on her WhatsApp status, “Muslims are terrorists,” all because the man who slaughtered the teacher on a livestream said “Allahu Akbar” before killing him. Forgetting that her kindest and gentlest friend is one too, so his could all Muslims be terrorists.

Not the one where it takes everything in me not to join in the conversation that happened in the public bus on my way to work, the one about how Muslims are trying to Islamize Nigeria, which was an obvious attempt to rage bait me since I was the only obvious Muslim in my hijab.

I miss the Nigeria where everything was normal, or at least as normal as it could be. Not this terrible. Not this scary. Not this depressing. Not this insecure. Not great, but not this bad.

I miss the kind Nigeria I was born in. Not this traumafilleddepressionsoakedpovertystrickeninsecurityridden one.

Goodddd!!! 😭😭

But sometimes, like this morning when everything seems to be orchestrating against me, I almost hesitated in front of the speeding car while crossing the road. But that wasn’t the first time. When my day started terrible because I felt so sick, but I still had to get up early to prepare for work even though I was still drowsy.

A new kind of sadness has enveloped me, or maybe it’s not new. Maybe it has always been there and it just became more pronounced. More pronounced because I have now eliminated all kinds of possible distractions that could protect me from it, even if temporarily. The crushes, because stupid love and daydreaming don’t do it for me anymore. School, because I finally graduated. Gisting with friends, because I really am not interested in knowing what is going on with anyone anymore. I don’t exactly care.

I didn’t even apply lip gloss today and I didn’t notice until late afternoon. That’s highly unusual. I usually apply my lip gloss so frequently that those around me picked up the habit. In fact, on a normal day by now I would have applied it at least ten times. I forgot my hand fan at home too, my daily dosage of artificial breeze against Lagos traffic and its heat. That already meant that my day started terribly.

To think I felt like this week was going to go well because a random man who definitely wasn’t interested in me paid my transport fare without requesting anything in return, just a nod in response to my elongated “thank you very muchhhhhh, sir.” And that I didn’t have to hurriedly jump out of the korope in my wonder woman in loafers style, as I usually do to avoid the time and energy it takes to shift the seat by the door so I could go out, all because a kind person did that for me. And yes, it rained that day, but I was already at work before it started raining. I also left the house with my friend that was over for visiting that weekend, and we left home late but there was a mild traffic on a Monday morning. To me, that was a miracle. That was a perfect way to start my week, so I felt like the week was going to be perfect.

Or maybe I’m just sad, not depressed. Or it’s just that I’m broke that’s making me sad. But everything is draining my spark and my soul. Being broke in my early twenties. Second guessing the course I studied because it has already taken almost a quarter of my lifetime, and it hasn’t even ended. I don’t even feel comfortable with the idea of hanging out with anyone outside my comfort zone. I can’t afford the courses and training I want to take. I miss my old friend sometimes. I miss my old life too a bit.

I constantly feel like time is running out. I always worry about how I’m running out of time to get the bag, to get the degrees, to bag the dream man. Sometimes, I fear that if my life isn’t the way I want it to be now, what’s the possibility it will be the way I planned in the next few years? Big 25 feels so close now, too close for my liking. And I changed in size. Some of my clothes won’t fit unless I amend them. I feel like I belong nowhere on most days. I don’t have a favourite person anymore. No best friends. And I’m sure I’m no one’s favourite person or best friend.

Everything has changed. Everything is changing. And I hate that because I hate change so much. I don’t feel like me anymore.

So it wouldn’t be right for you to judge me if I say that I wish suicide wasn’t haram. Wouldn’t it be better if I could eat my cake and have it? Wouldn’t it be great if I could end everything and still enter Paradise? I believe the dead wouldn’t care that they are dead after death, if they die when Allah is most pleased with them. Not like I’m saying I’m guaranteed paradise. But let’s just say if I had been living a righteous life.

I wish suicide was halal, permissible. I wouldn’t still be here to see all this. I would have taken the easiest option out.

But there is no easy way out.

No escape.

So I am still here, waiting, hoping, praying that something changes for good.

I swore off men, and it wasn’t because I hated men. I just felt like I needed to get my life in order, get the degreessss, get that high paying job, secure the bagsss before securing the ring and the man.

And I felt like I’d had enough love drama to last me a lifetime.

So, no, I’m not interested in getting to know you. Yes, I’d rather not know that you have feelings for me. No, I don’t want to talk to you. No, I don’t think we’d be the wedding that trended of the Muslim couple who met on Instagram and started talking. We won’t be the friends to lovers trope, nor would we be enemies to lovers. We can’t be the he fell first but she fell harder kind of love story, at least not now.

Yeah, I find you funny, really really funny in fact, and that’s great because I don’t find people funny usually. I think you’re handsome too, dark and tallll. Just exactly my type. It doesn’t matter that you’re a Muslim, a little bit older but not too old, exactly the way I like it.

Unfortunately, I like you, and I say unfortunately because it’s quite unfortunate for me to love anyone at this stage of my life. And fortunately, I would do nothing about it. No, I do not want to know if you like me too, or if your heart skips when I walk past. I don’t care if you notice the little things about me, like how I wear blue more than black nowadays, or how I always have opinions when it concerns women or children. I hope you do not think I’m too opinionated. It would matter if you did, but it wouldn’t change me. It would probably change what I feel for you, but that is not the point.

The point is that love isn’t my focus now. It shouldn’t be. I am not looking to love anyone. I am not even looking to be loved.

I want more important and pressing things now, like the money for the course I want to take, the training fee for the course I want to take, the money I need for law school expenses, money for regular skincare.

I want the time, money, and resources to go for my master’s abroad. A car I really love. My dream house. A walk-in closet filled with gorgeous outfits and accessories at my service. A high paying job that doesn’t really stress me. A modest clothing chain store owned by me.

I want my parents to enjoy their lives without worrying about the next bill, my siblings to be wealthy and successful, my friends to get their dream lives.

I want to go to Hajj with my family and travel the world without breaking the bank because the bank accounts and assets overflow. Destination dinner dates with my friends because we are bored.

I want so much that I feel like I shouldn’t be yearning for love right now. And I’m trying my best not to be in love.

But I think I lie. I lie. I really do.

I want to be loved. I want to love. I yearn to be loved, to be in love. I yearn for intimacy, to be someone’s number one person, to be cared for. I yearn to matter, to be remembered, to be treated like I am a priority, not an afterthought. I yearn to be treated right, to be loved intentionally, to be respected with no qualifications. I yearn to be chosen, to be picked, to receive intentional gifts without asking, to be showed off a little too much. I yearn to have someone I go to with my wins and my losses, someone to share my joys and sorrows with, and that I share his. I yearn for hugs from my beloved, and all this mushy mushy stuff.

I yearn for all of these, but in reality, I do not want them now.

I’m no longer afraid to admit that I crave love, the attention from being loved, to be loved properly, to be cared for and considered without asking, to be gifted without expectation of something in exchange, to be prioritized, to be chosen, to be the first choice, to be treated right.

I realized that tonight.

I yearn for a love that feels perfect, or almost perfect.

So, my Prince Charming in shining armour, I need you not to come now, but when I’m ready.

See you when I am ready for love.

I’ve lived in Lagos all my life, in fact I was born in, originally from, schooled from primary to university in Lagos. Lagos is all I know. So, I know there are two kinds of lives to live in Lagos.

I can still remember the last days of my internship, also the last days of December. The early morning in VI, right in front of Eko Hotel. The crazy traffic that wasn’t there two weeks ago, not at that hour, and certainly not on a Monday morning.

The faces. The expensive cars. The luxury outfits. The boys running after cars to get their own share (they call it) of the rich people’s wealth. The men and women right in front of Eko Hotel.

Me, sitting in a white danfo bus, cramped in the same spot I had been in for over an hour since I boarded from Ikorodu. You might be thinking why a white instead of a yellow bus; that’s the colour of buses on the island (I don’t know who made the rule, and I don’t care).

I try not to let my long black gown rumple, holding the ends in my hands. I look out the window and I see them. Their cars look so expensive, the kind of expensive that feels like it could change the story of my life. Their outfits are not my style, but they look good. They look expensive.

The contrast between our lives is loud.

The rich are leaving after partying all night. The hustlers are heading to work after less than five hours of sleep. Somehow, we got home late the night before. Somehow, we still had to wake up very early the next day. All of it because it’s the season of celebration, Dirty December. More like Frustrating December for us.

They are going home after a night of drinking and dancing, probably talking about where the next spot will be.

We are going to work. Tired. Frustrated. Stuck in traffic. Hoping the work holiday starts today, not next week as scheduled.

That’s the thing about Lagos.

You keep seeing the life you want. The tall buildings. The fast cars. The luxury outfits. The ease. It is all there, visible, but unreachable.

It feels like watching beauty through glass while standing in another world.

It is an unfortunate place to exist in. To see it. To hear it. To smell it. But never fully touch it. Never fully have it.

And when you get close enough, your mind starts to shift. You start to wish. To imagine. To hope.

For a moment, you are in the Range Rover’s passenger seat. Sipping freshly made orange and lemon juice from an original Stanley cup. Wearing Alo Yoga, the real one, not the one from some Yaba store. On your way to the gym on a Monday morning.

Not the version of you walking to work in a corporate gown sewn by Iya Ope down your street. Your slippers are slapping the ground with every step. Not heels. How would you wear heels when you have to jump buses from Iyana Iba to Ikoyi?

And sometimes, the difference between those worlds is obvious even before they see you. It appears the moment you tell people where you live. Say Ikoyi and watch their faces soften a little, like they have already decided the kind of life you must have. Say Ikorodu and suddenly the surprise slips out before they can hide it. “You come all the way from Ikorodu every day?”

The difference between Ikorodu and Ikoyi clear from the reaction of people when you tell them where you live.

You look so out to place next to the tall building you and the entirety of your family couldn’t afford even if you joined hands.

You wish, for a second, that you are Boss the one the Agberos are clearing traffic for. Driving out of a club at dawn in a shiny black sports car on a Wednesday morning.

Not the one doing the chasing. In a worn-out okrika shirt and faded jeans that have seen better days. In slides that have flattened over time, still hanging on since your birthday two years ago. The black thread showing how many times the shoemaker has stitched them back together.

A night drive in the secured and nicely tiled roads of your estate is so different from a night drive at Agege.

The duality of Lagos makes you feel a little unsteady. Or maybe a lot.

The gap between Ikoyi and Ikorodu. Between a child in Mushin Senior High School and one in British International School. Between a healthy sandwich and concoction rice made with palm oil and seasoning (condition rice). Between London vacations and holidays in your grandmother’s village. Between secured estates and your hood.

Just a few miles apart. But entirely different worlds.

Side by side. Yet never the same. Close, made of the same flesh and blood, meeting but never touching, like the Atlantic and the Pacific

Maybe even more than it did last year

when I tried growing my fingernails out

and they all broke.

But it wasn’t the breaking
that broke me.

It was the effort.
The resilience.
The nail-eating fast.
The hunger I kept in check.
The anxiety I controlled
just to let something fragile grow.

That was what really broke me.

But not like leaving you did.

That one shattered me.
It reached the core of me
with a bulldozer
and tore down all that mattered.

But even then,
it wasn’t leaving you that broke me.

What broke me
was breaking you.

Breaking you
when I wanted to hold on
with all I was
and all I had.

I wished I could tie your stars
together with mine,
but I couldn’t.

Our hopes were different.
Our wishes differed.
Our dreams were miles apart.

And our faith in God
was like the tribes in Nigeria:
Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba…
Same nation,
different people.

That didn’t matter to you,
but it was all to me.
It still is.

And I would hold on
to my side of faith,
because having my God without you
is incomparable
to being with you
but losing my Lord.

But the pain of my nail breaking
is nothing compared
to letting go of you
with both hands trembling.

never uttered the words

“I love you,”

but I knew she did.

It was clear as day,

as certain as New Year

arriving on January first,

not like the shaky feet of February 29.

Her love appeared in simple ways.

At PTA meetings in secondary school,

at every graduation ceremony.

It never mattered

that her purse was almost empty,

her child had to be there.

In the heavy bags of food she carried

from Ikorodu to Ojo,

plastic bags pressing into her palms

in the early unsafe Lagos dawn.

Even when her legs lacked strength,

she carried them both.

In the raw pap she packed

inside that plastic bowl with cover,

because she knew how much I loved it.

Every morning she escorted me

to the bus stop for my internship

and waited until I entered the bus.

Every holiday since 2023,

till last week Wednesday.

Now the agberos there

have a nickname for me:

“Alhaja omo mummy.”

She put us before herself.

She came to pick me, “an adult,”

from the school clinic

while she was sick too.

She complained about my habit

of overeating bread,

yet still kept it for me anyway.

When I returned from work

too tired to function,

she quietly added extra protein

to my food so I would eat.

She is a prayer warrior.

Her prayers never fail to arrive.

Every Jumu’ah.

Every new month.

She prays for our success

even before her own deteriorating health.

Growing up, I was called a daddy’s girl,

but now I know

I am a mummy’s girl.

I speak about her

to almost everyone I know.

My mother is not perfect.

No one is.

But my mummy is wonderful.

When I was younger,

All I could see

was her imperfections.

Now that I am older,

I see the quiet weight she carries,

the sacrifices resting quietly

on her shoulders.

Now I understand

that my mother is also just a girl

trying to figure out life

while figuring out ours too.

But my mother is more

than her sacrifices.

She is the woman

who wears white lace

and a blue iborun to her Asalatu

on Wednesdays and Sundays.

She loves to dance

and she is always the first to stand

when the music begins,

moving like joy recognizes her.

She is a storyteller,

smiling as she talks about her childhood,

her Oshodi market days,

laughing as she shows her eji.

She loves clothes

and beautiful accessories.

I see my own eyes in hers

when she pauses on an abaya she saw on TikTok,

looking at it like it already belongs to her.

She is courageous,

the kind of woman

who speaks up for others

even when that feels like walking on hot coal.

She is kindhearted,

a woman who says a prayer

when she hears the sound of an ambulance,

or when she sees a pregnant woman passing by.

She is the woman who has ulcer

but still fasts often,

holding onto her faith

even when her body complains.

She is also her obsession with tea.

To her, it is oxygen.

Just like I live and breathe in bread,

she inhales and survives on tea.

She is the woman

who would have made a fine nurse

if her father believed in gender equality.

My mother walked

so I could not only run,

but fly.

My biggest goal in life

is to make my mother proud,

happy,

and finally free from worry.

I wish to be her kind of woman,

to hold the kind of power

she would have held

if the universe had been kinder.

I hope my mother never feels

like she failed as my mother.

She gave all she had for me,

and when there was no gift left,

she would sacrifice the giver.

Herself.

We were made to cut corners. Our childhood shapes us, and we were all made to cut corners. We were trained to buy our way out, like loose change pressed into waiting palms.

You’re two. And you see your mother giving your class teacher an extra tip of “treat my child right.”

At ten, on your way to school on a chaotic Monday morning, in your dad’s car as he heads to work, the traffic is terrible. Then you see your dad turn and pass one way. After all, he says everyone is using the BRT lane. He seems more afraid of LASTMA and the police catching him than he is sorry for cheating the system.

At 13, you’re writing your Junior WAEC. The external invigilator who seemed too strict, “too wicked,” you called her, is suddenly so mellow after a short conversation with your principal. The conversation did involve a transaction, money in exchange for her integrity.

At 15, you’re on your way to school. You’ve been on the queue for so long, and you just saw someone cut the line and go scot-free. But you’re not surprised. You’ve seen this countless times.

At 16, you write JAMB and score 270, but you’re told you won’t get admission to study Law in LASU if you don’t know someone, because you’re not from Lagos.

At 19, you’re in 300 level. You just saw your result, and you have B’s in courses you could have sworn you’d bag an A. You heard that your classmate, who barely wrote anything, had an A. You’re now in the system. Now you remember what that senior told you and your friend in 100 level: “Go and meet so-so lecturer and befriend him; you’ll graduate with a first class.” It’s now clear to you that you have to cut corners to get what you even deserve.

At 21, you’re preparing for NYSC. You’ve just been advised by a senior to pay for direct posting so you can be posted to your desired state.

At 22, you’ve applied for countless jobs and attended multiple interviews. You’ve seen the darker side of trying to get into the corporate world. You’ve applied for vacancies that were already preassigned. You’ve gone for interviews for positions that had already been filled internally.

So, at 30, you become the monster the system created. You bypass traffic. You drive one way. You tip the LASTMA official to get away with what you’ve done.

At 40, you pay your first child’s way into the university.

At 50, you’re now the ringleader of bribe collectors.

You are a product of a system built on cutting corners. And yet, who is to blame? The system or YOU who made the system.

But at the end of the day, we made the corners we were taught to cut. We created the system, and the system creates us.

So when the danfo you board on a busy Monday morning, stuck in standstill traffic, is given the privilege to pass through the BRT lane, you thank God for His mercy. You feel lucky. Or when you know someone who makes it easier for you to sign your clearance on NYSC CDS day, you whisper a silent Alhamdulillah.

When you somehow find yourself among those “fortunate enough” to see the exam questions before the exam, you don’t blame the system. You appreciate it.

When your family member is in politics and you benefit from a share of the national cake, you bless the day that government came into power.

Or the day a single phone call gets you into a room you have no business being in, you praise the system.

But we are hypocrites.

We only complain about privilege, about “corruption,” when we are on the other side, the unfavoured side of the coin. But the moment we find ourselves on the privileged side, we suddenly decide the system is perfect, that everything is good.

The same system we made is making us.

So let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

And I doubt any of us is without this sin.

We can’t only blame the system, we must blame ourselves who created it.

But we are not just victims of the system.

We are its evidence.

One day you were there, and the next you weren’t.

I can’t remember what you even look like anymore.

It has been more than 5 years since I last saw you or heard from you. And that hurts.

Sometimes I wonder how life would be with you now. If we would still be friends, or acquaintances, or strangers with friendship history.

I can’t remember when we met, when I first saw you, or when you first saw me.

All I remember is that you were the cool senior that came a year to your finals. The one that ran on the running team, played basketball, was the leader of a dance team, and had an amazing voice. You gave the vibe of the cool new student that joins a new school in the first episode of a Korean series.

I never really gave you a thought at first. You were just the new student that joined a class above mine in SS2 third term, which I found weird because our school didn’t use to admit new students at that point then. They do now, though.

But I remember the first time we spoke, and what we spoke about.

I remember a lot…

I remember the day Daniel, the one that stayed in the boy’s hostel with you, said to me in front of Timothy’s mom at her food stand, the woman that sold bread and egg, indomie, and spaghetti in our school. It was either break time or after school when he said I walk in a funny and weird way, and you told him I don’t walk in a funny way, that I catwalk like models on runways, and he would know if he watched fashion shows.

I remember the MTN Pulse event at Megalite Hall, the hall owned by the owner of our school. You and your dance crew performed a dance drama to “We Plenti,” and I enjoyed it too much. But that day stayed with me because of what happened after. Your long traditional red necklace, ileke, broke, then you, Jenyo, and I picked it from the floor.

I remember the day you ran for “Hits,” our school’s pre inter-house sports competition, and you had an asthma attack right after. Your friend who had your inhaler was nowhere to be found, and the commentator had to shout his name on the microphone like five times before he came. I couldn’t come close because you were surrounded by your group of friends, but I was scared.

I remember the conversation we had on the school bus going to the event center, how you were surprised I liked and listened to Fireboy, as I sang along to “Jealous” playing from someone’s music box. He was one of your favorites then. But you loved Burna Boy too, maybe a bit too much, and now every time I hear “On the Low” by Burna Boy playing, it takes me right back to 2019, to you.

You commented on my novel reading habit while the popular Yoruba school rhymes like “Ise agbe, Ise ile awa…” played from the bus radio in the background.

I remember when we came back to school and we were a few steps from the gate. Someone commented on my flat stomach and said it looked like I had no womb, and you said it looked so good on me. Funny how I don’t have my flat stomach anymore. I miss it though.

The way you knew about all my firsts, my first love and my first heartbreak, my first dream job and the one I eventually chose, my biggest fear and my softest regret then.

Even five years later, you’re still the one I’ve had the best conversations with. The most emotionally intelligent person I’ve ever met, the one who understands me the most, and somehow, that hasn’t changed.

Now that I think about it, you weren’t just a friend. You took the role of an elder brother in my life.

It’s ironic that almost all the friends I made later know you, but they never met you or the version of my life that had you in it.

I talk about you a lot sometimes, like you never really left. You’re still here.

And I remember your graduation. I was in SS2 then. I dressed prettily that day, but I was sad a lot.

That was the last day I saw you physically.

But I saw you after that, in the background of Cardinal’s picture, a senior turned friend that I made in uni. The day he posted that picture, I was spellbound. I just kept staring into the background as if looking at you for too long would make you magically appear.

Now, I think you’re better as a good memory. Maybe it’s a good thing that what we became never got the chance to taint what we were.

Maybe unfinished stories are the best because they give the best ending. No heartbreaks, no drama, no regrets, no painful memories, just good memories and a great end.

Just a long pause that became a stop.

I miss you. But I always wonder if I ever cross your mind, if you remember me even if it’s for a split second.

The last I heard, you joined the US Army. Wherever you are, I hope you are good, and truly happy. I hope life is not too heavy on your shoulders.

I don’t know where you are now, or what life has turned you into. I only know I never got an ending from you. No explanation, no goodbye, no final words. Just silence where a person used to be.

And maybe that is what stays with me the most. Not losing you, but never really knowing what happened to you.

In an alternate universe, we still talk, we still vibe, we are still connected, and we are what we are. Friends. You know this version of me in my early twenties, not the one you last knew as 16.

Before I speak, you have already decided who I am.

I have seen the circulating videos of hijabis being forced to remove their hijabs at JAMB centres before being allowed to write their exams. It is sincerely heartbreaking. It is 2026, and a Muslim girl in Nigeria, a secular state, is being conditioned to either forfeit writing her JAMB exam or remove her hijab. My heart breaks at this.

But this isn’t news, and it’s not new. It has happened over the years.

The Muslim law student who studied law for five years and attended the Nigerian Law School, yet was prohibited from being called to the Bar because of her hijab. She went to court and eventually won. Alhamdulillah.

What about the HR officer who asks during an interview if, after getting the job, you could wear caps instead of the “long thing” on your head?

Or when you are in a mixed secondary school and, as a young Muslim girl, your proprietress asks you to remove your hijab for a school photograph, as if your hijab were a stain, a shame, something that should not be seen on the school uniform.

What of the day you entered a bus from VI to Ikorodu, and the woman sitting beside you kept pushing you to create more space for herself? You stayed quiet, not because you had nothing to say, but because you knew that if you spoke, your reaction would not just be yours. It would become a reflection of every hijabi. You have seen it before, the judgment that comes the moment you are seen, even before you speak.

Sometimes, silence feels safer than being misunderstood.

Or the reminder from your Islamic Studies teacher before exams, warning you not to engage in malpractice. Not just because it is wrong, but because your actions would reflect on all Muslims, the same way Nigerians are labelled fraudsters because of a few.

Or when a lecturer assumes you are less intelligent because you wear a hijab, as though the fabric on your head is somehow covering the largest part of your brain.

I have felt it too. I remember thinking I should not contest for the position of Vice President of my faculty because I felt like I didn’t deserve to, all because I wore long skirts, long sleeved shirts, and a hijab. It was not that I was unqualified. I was afraid people would not support me because of how I looked. And my fear came true. Some people I was sure were for me told me to my face that they would not vote for me because I was a Muslim, a serious one at that.

But I still won. And I did well. Alhamdulillah.

So don’t say we are overdoing it when we celebrate hijabis that excel. It’s difficult to do so in a system that’s built against us.

Now, before I apply for any job or internship, I look at their website to see if there is a Muslim woman there, especially one who wears the hijab. One of my close friends and I usually do this. You cannot blame us. We have seen and heard of workplaces that refuse to employ hijabis, or create environments that make them uncomfortable for choosing to cover.

It is 2026, and you still see my hijab as a problem, as a weapon, as a limitation.

So forgive me if I choose to play safe by working in Islamic or Muslim owned organisations.

Do not blame me for not always wanting to be the one to break barriers. I do not think I am always strong enough for that. These barriers might break me into unrecognizable pieces first.

Do not crucify me for being afraid of being placed in a position where I must choose between my dream job and my identity.

Do not feel sorry for me if I tell you that my dream country used to be France, Paris to be precise, because of my love for fashion and French. But now, I do not have that dream anymore. Maybe I dream of going to places like Qatar or the UAE. All because I realized that the rate of Islamophobia is high in France, and I saw how the hijab was banned on the news. So how can I dream of a place that hates what I represent? How can my dream country be a place that rejects my identity?

I am simply trying to protect myself. My identity. My values.

Maybe this is a rant. Or a vivid explanation of what Muslim women go through. Or a recollection of some of all I have experienced, seen, and heard.

Or maybe this is me choosing to write, instead of going to a bus stop and screaming at the top of my lungs that we are tired of our identity being treated as a problem, as a weapon.

As a Muslim woman, your limitation should not become your limit. It is not your destination. Let it be your reason.

You either accept me, Wasilat, with my hijab and my way of dressing, or you reject me completely.

My hijab is my identity. It is not just a piece of fabric. It is a part of me. Without it, I am incomplete. And I will not shrink myself for your comfort, nor dilute who I am to become digestible for you.

I am a Muslim woman, and my existence is not conditional, and my identity is not negotiable. EVER.

We are constantly fed motivational talks meant to save us from comparison, to make us feel better about our failures, our slow progress, our stillness. You hear statements like the grass is probably greener on the other side because it’s fake, that you shouldn’t compare your day 1 to someone else’s day 100.

You’re told not to compare your progress with that one person who has support. That no one tells you about the one call that changed everything for them, or the uncle that sent them to his friend, the sister that spoke to her uni friend who knew someone that could help, the friend that showed your business plan to their rich parents, the lotto they won that funded their business.

The connections, the help, the networking that gave them a way to fly high and took them straight to the top, or close, instead of the ladder with 100 steps that you’ve been climbing for years but you aren’t even halfway. They tell you all this to motivate you, to make you feel better, to relieve a bit of the unrealistic (they call it, but I beg to differ) expectations you place on yourself.

I am here to tell you that you’re not doing well. I am not here to tell you that some people don’t have the easy way out through all the ways I’ve mentioned. The reality is some people have a way out through “being different.”

So if there are 10 spots left out of 100 for people who really deserve a position, or a job, or an opportunity, they’d get one out of the ten. If there are 5, they’d get one too. If there is just one, it would be for them. If there are none left, they’d get a spot, because they’d be an exception — the one that must be included.

I have always been filled with a type of anger I’d call lack of privilege anger. I hated that I lacked the straight ticket to get me into the places I wanted, fast and easy. I hated that I didn’t have and didn’t know anyone who had the key to open the doors to the places I badly wanted to be in. I was livid a few days after I resumed an internship at a firm I had applied to more than two months ago and had secured the spot, only to resume on the first and be sent back home because my spot had been taken by someone else. But before I experienced anger a few days later, I was first extremely sad, and embarrassed. The same way I got angry when I found that a fellow student who had the same score, “70,” as me had an A, but I had a B because the A’s couldn’t be too many, and I lacked privilege.

But then one day, I had a wake-up call: there are two ways to get to the top — privilege and exceptionalism. You could get angry at privilege all you want, but you can’t get angry at exceptionalism. I was angry about getting a “B” even though I had the same 70 someone got an A for. But I forgot that someone else got an A with a score of 82/100. I was livid about the experience I had at that tier 2 law firm, but I forgot that someone got an automatic internship at a tier one law firm because they were the best graduating student.

If the privileged take 99 out of 100 spots at the top, make sure you’re the remaining one. It’s up to you to enter rooms where the privileged exist by being exceptional.

Oh you dreamer from a humble background, you have no choice but to stand out.

You only have one way out — being exceptional. Be exceptional or just be prepared to be average. The ball is in your court.

It’s unfair, I know, that you are forced to choose between privilege and exceptionalism to reach the top.

Life is unfair like that. It never promised fairness to anyone.

So, if you were born into rooms where no one has the key to the doors that matter, then you must become the person that cannot be ignored, even when the doors are closed.

If the privileged take 99 out of 100 spots, make sure you’re the one they cannot take from — the line placed on I that makes it T.

You don’t have the luxury of being ordinary; you have so much at stake.

So what will it be?

Will you settle… or will you become undeniable?

Another I in a room full of it, or the line that crosses an I and makes it a T?

Will you remain an I, or become the line that makes it T?

I become your friend, the reliable one. The one that becomes your safe space in the space of three months. You wouldn’t be able to explain how it happened. One day we meet at an event and you say hi, and in what feels like three days later, you would be telling me how your boss shouted at you today at work for a minor typographical error. You don’t think he shouted because of your error, you think it was because he had another fight with his wife.

Two days after, you’d tell me about the Uber you ordered to work, and how the driver was a chatterbox. You would have entertained him on some other days, but today was different. It was a hectic Monday morning, and you were trying to complete the task you promised to complete over the weekend. I’d ask you why you couldn’t complete it over the weekend. You’d hesitate, but I’d press for it, fake my anger just to get it out. You’d finally say it was because you were busy, then it would click in my head that you spent most of the weekend with me on a video call. I’d tell you I feel really bad, that it is my fault you have to deal with this level of stress on a Monday morning. You’d tell me it’s fine, those are the things we do for love. I’d tell you that you look so handsome even when you are stressed. You’d smile, almost blushing.

On a random Thursday morning, we are both off work because it’s a public holiday. You call me on a voice call, and I ask you to switch to a video call because I badly want to see your handsome face. You switch on your camera, and I smile, telling you you’re such a cute sleepyhead. I can see the tiredness in your eyes, and I tell you you look stressed. You explain that your boss overworked you yesterday because today was going to be a public holiday, and you still have a lot of work to do tomorrow. You also remind me about your distant cousin’s wedding in Ilorin on Saturday.

I tell you to sleep and let your body recover from yesterday, to prepare for Friday and the journey ahead. You say I shouldn’t worry, that you’ll end the call in ten minutes, but ten minutes stretch into one hour. I remind you again to sleep, and you keep saying just ten more minutes until hours pass and I fall asleep while you’re still talking.

You would act weird after coming back from the wedding. I’d ask you what’s wrong, you’d say it’s fine. I’d ask again and again. You’d finally tell me it’s because the party felt different without your mom. You’d tell me how you lost her, and I’d say I could be your mummy as a joke, but you’d laugh and call me mummy. I’d smile.

A few days later, on a Friday evening, you’d tell me you’re going out clubbing with your guys. I’d tell you to stay safe and not to let any woman touch you. You would laugh it off, saying you’re a free and single man. I’d get angry low key, but I wouldn’t comment.

I would wait till Saturday afternoon. I’d tell you on our call that you know what you’re doing to me. You know how much I love you, and you are doing this to me. You’d say you love me back, and I’d tell you that’s the most amazing thing that has happened to me. But you’d say you’re scared that I’d break your heart, that I’m like other girls. I’d assure you that I’d love you with every fiber of my being. I’d tell you that I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, that I’d choose you before I choose myself, that I’d stand with you.

But I lie. I would love you and show you love. I would get angry about you briefly hugging your female friend, but my office seat partner would dance with me at an office party and I wouldn’t mind. After all, we are both unmarried. You’d complain about how I raise my voice at you, and I would send you an apology money, but I wouldn’t change.

I would do almost everything you hate, but I would love you so much at the same time. I would leave you questioning your worth with the mixed signals I shower on you. You’d feel like you don’t matter one minute and feel like my world revolves around you the next. You would complain to my best friend that you think I’m cheating. She’d vouch for me, saying you’re just being paranoid, that you’re the most important person in my life.

You would go through my phone one day and you’d see the chat of Ola, the one I claimed was my best friend’s brother, and he’s like a brother to me.  You’d say you could take anything but a cheating partner. You’d break up, but I would beg you with words, with gifts, with the intentionality that was on a year long vacation when we were together. My friends would text you, my sister would call to beg you, telling you how I’ve not been eating, begging you to forgive me because I cannot live without you. You’d forgive me, and I’d thank you for taking me back in tears. But I wouldn’t stop all I did. I’d just become smarter, very discreet.

I’d build you, take you to the climax, only to break you. Then I wouldn’t stay away after. I’d stay around, not too close and not too far. I’d act like your saviour.

I would make you angry, sad, frustrated, and even almost depressed, but one phone call, one apology, one hello babe, and I’d have you wrapped around my fingers like you were never set free.

One day you’d say one wrong thing and I would get very angry. You’d beg me for days before I finally claim to forgive you. But the vibe would change. I’d begin to prefer calls over texts. I’d be comfortable with going a whole day without hearing from you. One day you’d ask me if everything is fine. You’d ask if you did anything wrong. You’d say the vibe is off, but I’d say you’re just overthinking it and my work is stressing me. You’d say “I love you” more than you did before. You’d show up even when you shouldn’t. You’d try to fill the void that is in us.

Until one day, I’d text you to tell you we should break up. I’d tell you it’s me, not you. I’d assure you that you did nothing wrong. I’d mention that my parents said I can’t marry someone from Ilorin, that it’s probably for the best that we end now before it becomes too deep. But it’s deep already.

You’d try to call me, but my number would be busy. You’d think I have my DND on as usual. You wouldn’t know it’s not that. I’m just on a call with the man I met two weeks ago at the tech event I told you I attended. The one you asked how it went, but I told you it was just there because I was too busy chatting with the dark skinned man I had just met.

You’d realize there’s no way for us to get back together, but I would assure you that we could remain friends. I’d reach out occasionally with my hey I hope you’re good and happy birthdays and congratulations. I would mention random information in our conversations to let you remember that I know you more than anyone else.

Then you’d get my wedding invitation on a random Thursday. You’d attend my wedding, so would Ola. Yes, the Ola, the ones I dated before you and the ones I met after. You all would see who I finally took home.

You would want to hate me, but you wouldn’t be able to. Because I stayed even though I left.

I’d keep you around not because I love you, but because I love that you love me. I love being loved. By you. Or by anyone, still.

I did nothing men haven’t already taught the world to forgive. And I’m no better than a man.

I’ve always been termed optimistic by the people on the outside, and a little bit pessimistic by those on the inside (or maybe more than a little). Those that are not close to me see me as the person that encourages people and has it all together. They think I’ve my breakdowns under control, my failures in check, and fears are under my wings, not above, clipping me from flying.

While those that are close to me perceive me to be the one that somehow always sees the bad side of things as much as I see the good in them. They would say I’m the one that shakes so much when she’s anxious, the one that lets her fear of failure clip her wings and bury her potential, not seeing failure as a “try again later,” but always as a “you are done for, and this is your cue to give up” signal.

Yet, between these two perceptions, there exists something in between, something that refuses to be labeled as either light or dark.

Let’s say there’s a 60cl glass, and you pour in 30cl of water. If you were to call 100 people and ask them about the state of the glass, some would say it’s half full, and others would say it’s half empty. And that’s how life is. If you were looking to pay your tuition fee, which costs 300k, and you already have 150k, you are asked if you have your complete tuition fee—you’d either say you have 150k already or you need 150k. The two aren’t the same. One part sees light (the 150k you have). The other sees the bad (the 150k you need).

This relates to every other part of our lives. You have a family, but you’re struggling to sustain them—your glass is half full and half empty. Someone who is wealthy but lacks companionship, part light and part emptiness. You just saw your result; you didn’t get your desired grades, but you didn’t fail. Your glass is both light and lack. You got the job, but it wasn’t the pay you expected—both full and not enough at the same time. I could go on and on with several examples.

The concept of seeing the glass half full instead of half empty is focusing on the good part of everything instead of the bad. It is optimism and gratitude mixed together. It is realizing that you’re lucky to have a family and a home to go back to. It is being grateful for your wealth even without a family. It is being happy that you passed your exams even if you didn’t get your desired grades. It is being thankful and excited that you got the job even if it is not the pay you were expecting. Seeing the glass or cup half full is looking for the light in everything, even in the darkest of tunnels and the saddest of all times.

Optimism is part of faith, so what does it mean when you see both the light and the shadow at the same time?

I think I’m neither pessimistic nor optimistic. I’m realistic. In good times, I also take notice of the bad. In good people, I try to sight the imperfections. In good places, I search for the dents. In bad times, I console myself with present goodness, no matter how little. In bad people, I try to find their kindness, and in imperfect places, I sight the beauty, no matter how insignificant.

I see the glass both light and lack.

I don’t think that makes me an optimistic or pessimistic person. It makes me what I like to describe myself as most: a paradox.

Scratch what I said from the beginning about sides of a coin…

There are actually three sides of a coin: the head, the tail, and the tip that sits right between the head and tail. Three sides to life: the good, the bad, and somewhere in between. Three types of people: the optimistic, the pessimistic, and people like me, the realistic ones.

I belong in the in-between. I am the tip of a coin, the space between good and bad, the one who sits on the fence between seeing the light and seeing the shadow—never fully one, never fully the other. The one who sees both, and still stands within them.

I am a paradox.

And perhaps that is the real answer. The glass is not half full or half empty—it is refillable, because it is not meant to stay half anything. That is where the paradox lives.

Fiha khayr!

Fiha khayr!!!!!!!

I have always been addicted to my phone. It was my stress ball for my anxiety. My best friend. My Quran. My journal. My camera. My computer. My textbook. My notebook. My novel. My alarm. My phone is one, but it wears so many caps.

So when I misplaced it or it was stolen, I’m not even sure, all I know is I couldn’t find it between when I finished praying and when I had just boarded the bus to go to work early on a Monday morning. I didn’t shout, I didn’t scream, I didn’t even panic. I just walked back home to check, and when I didn’t find it, I removed my clothes and went to sleep. I just kept repeating to anyone that got to know “Olohun lo mu wa, ki ni mo fe ba olohun fa, olohun lo mo nkan ti o fi se” meaning “God brought this, I can’t fight with Him, He knows why He did it.”

I was proud of myself in that moment. You wouldn’t understand the pride. I went from crashing out and crying over little things like a little burn on my cloth, to accepting Allah’s test of losing my only phone unexpectedly on my way to work on a Monday morning.

For days, I was without my phone. Fortunately, I was able to log into my email on my mom’s phone and continue my Substack Ramadan notes, even posting them on Instagram. I couldn’t post them on WhatsApp, which was my primary social media. I lost my Duolingo streaks for the second time because of my phone. It was really painful, but I thought of how it wasn’t more important than whatever God was trying to teach me.

During those days, just a friend put a call through. It was a heartbreaking moment for me because I’ve always felt like I was important in people’s lives. I had thought my community of people was as intentional as I was or at least they knew how much I valued intentionality. Then it occurred to me, what if I had died in those days, or I was seriously bedridden, or going through a loss that caused me to withdraw from people? Who was I to rely on?

It was really difficult, but I tried my best to think of what this test was trying to teach me. A few days later, I was sitting with my mom and sister when it came. I remember telling them that God is the most important in one’s life. He is the only one that doesn’t get tired of listening, responding, forgiving, and giving. He is the one that would never abandon you. He is the one that doesn’t forget you. The one that has a lot of His creations calling upon Him but somehow, in His marvelous way, remembers all we need and want, what is good and bad for us individually. He is the only one that is happy that you call upon Him no matter how many times, in what moment, or at what time you call upon Him. It’s only Allah you can completely rely on. He is Al-Wakeel (The Trustee), the one you can place your reliance on.

I fell in love with the phrase Fiha Khayr I’ve always seen it, and I liked the concept that there is goodness present in everything and everyone. I fell in love with it recently because I got to understand it in a different way. Fiha khayr means there’s goodness in everything, in the good and in the bad, in happiness and in sorrow, in abundance and in scarcity, in fortunate moments and in unfortunate circumstances.

This reminded me of the class we had on Suratul Falaq and Nas. I was taking a Qur’an course, majorly tafsir, from the Islamic Studies department, even though I was a law student. It was compulsory for us because of Islamic law. The lecturer always gave tafsir explanations of the Qur’an that resonated with me a lot. Apart from the stress of leaving my faculty, my comfort zone, and having to sometimes stand in class, I really enjoyed attending.

The day he started with Suratul Falaq and Nas, the two Surahs called “Al-Mu’awwidhatayn” (The Two Protectors) which are usually recited for protection against evil, he said something that always plays in my mind. He said that those who say “Olorun ko ki n se ika” meaning “God doesn’t do evil” are wrong. They forget that Allah is the one that has power over everything. He has control over all, both the good and the evil. Saying He doesn’t do evil is saying there is another God that does evil. It means that if a calamity befalls you, it’s not in Allah’s knowledge or control, so there must be another being that has knowledge and control of calamities. That is untrue. It is all Allah, both the good and the bad, what seems like enjoyment and suffering.

When Prophet Ayubb went through great losses of wealth, children, and everything he had, it was all Allah. When Prophet Ibrahim was thrown into the fire, it was His Khaliq (The Creator). When the Prophet Yusuf was thrown into the deep, dark well and when he was jailed, it was Al-Hakim (The Wise). When Prophet Zakariyyah was childless for years, it was all Allah, him Al-Qadir (The Omnipotent). When Prophet Muhammad lost his son Ibrahim on Eid day, when Muslims lost the battle of Uhud and many lives were lost, when he went through the Year of Sorrow losing his wife Khadijah and uncle Abu Talib, it was all His Rabb that sent him on the path of prophethood.

So it’s wrong to say Allah never does evil. The right thing to say is Allah never brings a calamity upon His creation without wisdom behind it. The loss might be to bring you closer to your Creator, the one who loves you, Al-Wadud (The Loving), in every state.

The delay might be better for you. It might be a protection from a greater evil all orchestrated by Al-Muḥaymin (The Protector), the one who protects and watches over you. Quran 2:216 says “It may well be that you dislike a thing even though it is good for you, and it may well be that you like a thing even though it is bad for you. Allah knows and you do not know.”

The disappointment might have to remove your sins in this world. The Prophet said “No fatigue, nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness, nor hurt, nor distress befalls a Muslim, even if it were the prick he receives from a thorn, but that Allah expiates some of his sins for that.”

In those quiet moments, I remembered that there’s goodness in everything, and a part of it was visible to me, alhamdulillah, by Allah’s grace. It taught me that Allah should be my best friend, the one I always run to whether I’m happy or sad, when I have good news or experience loss, the one I should talk to when I have a crush, or when the bus driver shouts at me unexpectedly. He is the one I should tell the good and the bad, my dreams and my fears, my hope and my prayers.

Allah has many beautiful names and wonderful qualities. He is The Most Merciful (Ar-Rahman), The Especially Merciful (Ar-Raheem), The Source of Peace (As-Salām), The Forgiver (Al-Afuw), The Restorer (Al-Jabbār), The Guide (Al-Hādī), The All-Knowing (Al-‘Alīm), The Strong (Al-Qawwiy), The Near (Al-Qarib), The Provider (Al-Razzāq), The Creator (Al-Khāliq), The Fashioner (Al-Mussawir), The Appreciative (As-Shakur), The Trustee (Al-Wakil), The Powerful (Al-Muqtadir), The Omnipotent (Al-Qadir), The Opener (Al-Fattah), The Patient (As-Sabur), The Light (An-Nur), The Enricher (Al-Mugniy), The Responsive (Al-Mujeeb), The Generous (Al-Karim), The Loving (Al-Wadud), The Just (Al-Adl), The Protector (Al-Hafeez), The Gentle (Al-Lateef), The Sufficient (Al-Hasib), The All-Seeing (Al-Basir), The All-Hearing (As-Sami‘). To Him belongs many more beautiful names.

He is your Lord, and there’s goodness in everything He does. Fiha Khayr.

I’m a just girl attempting to Fiha Khayr my way through life. I know it won’t be easy, but I hope Allah gives me a heart that sees goodness in all and trusts in His plans. May He guide me to rely on Him in every moment, to find lessons in every test, and to remember that in all things (big or small) there is goodness by His decree.

Humans crave love even more than we admit. We need love. We want to love and be loved. We desire to be loved by our parents, siblings, spouse, children, and friends. So much that we get hurt if we realize that those we love do not love us back, or at least not in the same way we do.

My current favorite name of Allah is Al-Wadud, the Most Loving. Why it’s my favorite name and quality of His has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a big lover girl and I think love is the most beautiful thing (or maybe it does). The major reason it’s my most loved name and quality of His is because His love is vast and all-encompassing.

He forgives you because He loves you: Al-Ghaffur, Al-Ghaffar.

He hears and sees even the things you hide but hope someone would see: As-Sami, Al-Basir.

He responds when you call upon Him with sincerity, no matter where you are or who you are: Al-Mujeeb.

He is merciful to you because He is loving: Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem, Ar-Rauf.

He protects you because He loves you: Al-Hafiz.

He guides you because He loves you: Al-Hadi.

I could go on and on about the ways He shows His love for you.

Allah loves you more than anyone will ever love you. He loves you more than your mom or dad, more than your brother or sister, even more than your husband or wife, and more than your daughter or son.

He is very intentional with His love. Allah never gets tired of loving you. He loves you even in your weakest and most broken form. You know the way your parents sometimes do not give you some things because they think it’s not the best for you. Allah doesn’t give you what you want because He knows what is beneficial and what is not beneficial.

Allah’s love would never betray you. It would never leave you hanging. His love can never abandon you.

This is a quality that we as humans should embrace, loving people sincerely and for the sake of Allah, not just for what they can offer us. Loving people for the sake of Allah is a pure and selfless kind of love, one that is not tied to conditions or expectations.

The Prophet said:

“Allah will say on the Day of Resurrection: Where are those who loved one another for My sake? Today I will shade them in My shade on a day when there is no shade but Mine.”(Muslim)

Allah loves you so much that He makes it so easy for you to go to Him and be close to Him.

The Prophet told us:

“Whoever intends to do a good deed but does not do it, Allah records it with Himself as a complete good deed. But if he intends it and does it, Allah records it with Himself as ten good deeds, up to seven hundred times or more than that. But if he intends to do an evil deed and does not do it, Allah records it with Himself as a complete good deed. But if he intends it and does it, Allah records it down as one single evil deed.” (Bukhari and Muslim)

He loves you, that’s why He wants you to turn back to Him. That’s why your good deeds are multiplied before they are recorded, and your bad deeds are recorded as only one sin.

That’s why good deeds are recorded immediately, but bad deeds are recorded after giving you time to repent.

Allah is so intentional with the way He loves you. He gives you what you need even before you ask. He gives you even when you do not ask. He gives you even when it is not what you asked for.

Allah loves you so much that He wants you to be close to Him, and He wants to be close to you. Allah says in a Hadith Qudsi:

“If My servant comes closer to Me a hand span, I come closer to him an arm’s length. And if he comes to Me walking, I come to him at speed.” (Bukhari)

Your Khaliq (Creator) says if you (the ordinary and imperfect human) comes to him walking, He multiplies your effort and comes to you running.

If we love Allah and He does not reciprocate, there is nothing we can do. We can’t get angry. We can’t even attempt to harm Him. And if He doesn’t love us at all, we cannot hate Him or resent Him. Our love or hatred has no effect on His might. It won’t reduce His power. Even if not a single one of His creations loved Him, it would not have the effect of even a drop of water in the Pacific Ocean.

Allah tests His servants, and although the trials may seem too tough. His tests are not a sign that He doesn’t love you; in fact, it’s a sign that He does love you.

The Prophet said:

“When Allah loves a people, He tests them. Whoever is patient will have patience, and whoever is impatient will have impatience.”Jami‘ at-Tirmidhi (2396)

Although Allah loves all His creations because He is Loving, there is a certain level of love reserved for the categories of people mentioned in the Qur’an. These categories are discussed in the book Reflecting on the Names of Allah by Jinan Yousef:

• Al-Muḥsinīn: the doers of good

• Al-Muttaqīn: those who are mindful of Him

• Al-Muqsiṭīn: the equitable and just

• Al-Mutaṭahhirīn: those who purify themselves

• At-Tawwābīn: those who return to Him

• Al-Mutawakkilīn: those who put their trust in Him

• Aṣ-Ṣābirīn: the steadfast and patient

Which one of these are you? Which do you want to be? And which are you striving to be?

Allah, the Most Powerful, loves us ordinary humans. Can you see how magnificent He is?

The question is not whether Allah loves you. The question is whether you are willing to return that love by remaining steadfast upon His commands.

Allah loves you already. It is up to you to be worthy and deserving of His love.

that in the 21st century

we still hear of

the first woman,

the best woman,

the only woman,

the exceptional woman.

There is an office

for the First Lady,

but none

for the First Gentleman.

In 2026,

after countless women

have walked paths of greatness

in boardrooms, on campaign stages,

in classrooms, on podiums,

topping billboards

and winning awards

there still lingers

a backward thought

that women are not made for greatness,

that women are not fit to lead.

So you hire women

to underpay them.

A man becomes

more deserving of promotion

because he has a family to feed.

Women are not fit

to run for presidency,

yet somehow

fit enough

to campaign

for a male candidate.

I do not want

to be an exceptional woman.

Exceptional means

standing apart

from a crowd

of women deemed

normal, average, mid.

I do not want

to be the first woman,

the only woman,

in a room filled with greatness.

I do not want to break gender barriers.

Breaking barriers means

a barrier existed to begin with.

I do not want to raise the bar alone.

I want women to keep lifting the bar.

I never want my daughter to ask me

if we’ve never had a female President

because women are not meant to lead.

I want her to enter rooms and go places

without carrying

the burden of being another barrier breaker.

Gender inequality will persist

for as long as history

keeps announcing

the first woman,

the only woman,

the exceptional woman

as though our greatness

is still a surprise…

and as long as I keep walking

into rooms of success

and quietly

counting the number of women.

All I want

is to be a woman of greatness,

not the first,

not the one,

not the exceptional,

not the last.

Just one great woman

in a generation of great women.

Happy International Women’s Day.

Women move mountains, and we deserve to rule the world, and to sit at the head of the table. ❤️ & 💡