She reached for her phone.

6:17 a.m.

Yemi usually woke her before the alarm. Sometimes with a tap on her shoulder,Sometimes just by saying her name until she opened her eyes.

She lay there listening to the water.

When he came out, he was already dressed.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He walked past her and stopped.

“You have work at eight, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I made coffee.”

She looked at him.

“Okay. Thank you.”

He nodded and left the room.

Kemi stayed in bed for another few minutes.

When she came downstairs, the coffee was sitting on the counter.

Two sugars.

A little milk.

Exactly how she liked it.

She picked up the mug and stood there.

It was strange how someone could know exactly how you liked your coffee and still somehow feel so far away.

She took a sip.

It was already getting cold.

At work, she found herself reaching for her phone several times.

Not because Yemi had texted.

Because she wanted to text him.

She saw a woman in the parking lot struggling to carry three takeaway coffees and thought of him.

Last year, he had dropped an entire tray of coffees outside their building and spent ten minutes blaming the wind.

She smiled.

Then opened their chat.

The last message was from that morning.

Yemi: I made coffee.

She typed:

Kemi: You still blame the wind for those coffees?

She stared at it.

Then deleted it.

She put her phone face down.

A few minutes later, it buzzed.

Yemi: Did you eat?

She looked at the message.

Kemi: Yeah.

The typing bubble appeared.

Yemi: What did you eat?

She smiled despite herself.

Kemi: Why are you interrogating me?

Yemi: Because I know you.

She looked at that for a while.

Then:

Kemi: Sandwich.

Yemi: That’s not lunch.

Kemi: It is if you eat it at lunch.

He didn’t reply.

She put her phone away.

For the rest of the afternoon, she kept thinking about his last message.

Because I know you.

She wondered when knowing each other had become something they only did in practical ways.

He knew she liked two sugars.

He knew she hated onions in her eggs.

He knew she would forget to eat when she was busy.

He knew what time she liked to sleep.

But did he know she had been thinking about quitting her job?

Did he know she had been worried about money?

Did he know she had been feeling lonely?

She wasn’t sure she knew those things about him either.

When Kemi got home, Yemi was already in the kitchen.

She dropped her bag on the chair.

“You’re home early.”

“Yeah.”

He was cutting vegetables.

“What are you making?”

“I’m trying something.”

She looked into the pot.

“Should I be worried?”

He laughed.

“Very funny.”

She stood beside him.

For a moment, neither said anything.

Then she noticed the counter.

Three yams.

Still there.

She pointed at them.

“You know those are still here.”

Yemi looked over.

“I see that.”

“Thought we were going to finish them.”

“We’re trying.”

She laughed.

He looked at her.

It wasn’t a big laugh.

Just a small one.

But it was the first time all day she’d heard him laugh.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me.”

“I can look at my wife.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re only calling me that because you want me to help you cook.”

“Maybe.”

She shook her head.

“Give me the knife.”

He handed it to her.

They stood side by side.

She cut the vegetables.

He stirred the pot.

It was familiar.

Almost too familiar.

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything.

Then Yemi said, “I didn’t mean what I said about the yam.”

“I know.”

“I really didn’t.”

“I know.”

He nodded.

She kept cutting.

After a moment, she said, “I think I was already annoyed before you said it.”

He stopped stirring.

She looked down at the vegetables.

“I think that’s why it got to me.”

Yemi turned off the stove.

“Why were you annoyed?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

She looked at him.

He wasn’t pushing.

He was just waiting.

She put the knife down.

“I think I’m tired.”

“From work?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

He waited.

She looked around the kitchen.

At the half-cut vegetables.

The yams.

The pot on the stove.

Everything looked ordinary.

“I don’t know when we stopped talking.”

Yemi looked at her.

“We talked last night.”

“About not talking.”

He smiled faintly.

“Fair.”

She smiled too.

Then it disappeared.

“I don’t want us to become those people.”

“What people?”

“The people who live together and know each other’s routines but don’t really know each other anymore.”

Yemi leaned against the counter.

“Are we those people?”

Kemi looked at him.

“I don’t know.”

That answer seemed to stay in the room.

Yemi reached for the knife and started cutting the vegetables she’d left unfinished.

Kemi watched him.

Neither of them said anything else.

But this time, the silence felt different.

Not fixed.

Just less lonely.

The stew simmered between them.

Three yams remained on the counter.

And for the first time in a while, neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave the kitchen.

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For many African communities, survival has always been a central part of the story.

The ability to endure difficult circumstances.

The ability to make something out of very little.

The ability to keep moving forward even when life feels uncertain.

But there is a difference between surviving and healing.

And sometimes, when survival becomes the priority for generations, emotional wellbeing becomes something people postpone.

Something to address later.

Something to think about when everything else is finally stable.

But what happens when stability feels far away?

In 1943, psychologist Abraham Maslow introduced his theory of human motivation, later known as Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

The theory suggests that human beings are motivated by different levels of needs, beginning with basic physiological needs such as food, water, and shelter, followed by safety, belonging, esteem, and finally self-actualization which is the the process of personal growth and becoming the fullest version of yourself.

At its core, Maslow’s theory recognizes something important about human nature:

It is difficult to focus on higher needs when basic needs feel uncertain.

Mental health is often discussed as if it exists separately from the realities of everyday life.

But emotional wellbeing is deeply connected to whether people feel safe, stable, supported, and secure.

A person’s mental state does not exist in isolation from their environment.

Stress is affected by financial insecurity.

Anxiety can be intensified by uncertainty.

Emotional exhaustion can come from carrying responsibilities for too long.

When someone is constantly focused on survival, their mind naturally focuses on immediate needs.

And this creates an important question:

How do we ask people to focus on emotional healing when they are still fighting to meet their basic needs?

When someone is carrying these realities, emotional struggles can become something they learn to place at the bottom of the list.

There is always something more urgent.

A bill that needs to be paid.

A family member who needs support.

A problem that needs solving.

Mental health becomes something they will deal with “when things get better.”

But sometimes things do not become better immediately.

Sometimes people spend years waiting for the perfect moment to finally acknowledge their own pain.

The reality is that healing requires space.

It requires time to reflect.

It requires safety.

And when survival demands constant movement, slowing down can feel impossible.

Many people grow up hearing:

“Be strong.”

“God will handle it.”

“Others have it worse.”

“Don’t expose family problems.”

“You’ll be fine.”

These statements often come from love.

They come from people who have also experienced hardship and learned to cope with the resources available to them.

Previous generations often did not have access to mental health education, therapy, or the language to describe emotional struggles.

They survived by pushing through.

They survived by keeping things private.

They survived by focusing on what needed

But sometimes the ability to endure becomes confused with the absence of pain.

A person can be strong and still be struggling.

A person can be grateful and still be overwhelmed.

A person can have faith and still need support.

Pain does not disappear simply because someone is capable of carrying it.

One of the biggest challenges surrounding mental health is access.

Mental health care requires more than awareness.

It requires resources.

Therapy requires money.

It requires time.

It requires privacy.

It requires trained professionals.

It requires systems that make care available to people who need it.

For someone working multiple jobs, supporting an extended family, or struggling financially, therapy may feel impossible.

Not because their mental health does not matter.

Because their immediate circumstances require their attention.

This is where Maslow’s hierarchy becomes especially relevant.

It is difficult to focus on self-actualization when basic security feels uncertain.

It is difficult to focus on personal growth when someone is constantly trying to solve immediate problems.

Mental health is not separate from economic conditions.

It is connected to them.

Maybe the question is not why Africans do not take mental health seriously.

Maybe the right question is:

What happens when generations of people have been taught to survive before they have been given the opportunity to heal?

It’s one of those traits people claim easily like being “nice” or “a good person.” Nobody really questions it. You feel bad when someone is going through something, you say a few comforting words, and that’s enough to believe you’re empathetic.

I used to think that too.

I genuinely believed I was an empathetic person. If someone was sad, I felt bad for them. If something terrible happened, I could recognize that it was terrible. I thought that awareness alone meant I understood people deeply.

But I didn’t.

What I had was sympathy.and sympathy is not the same thing as empathy, no matter how often we mix them up.

Sympathy stands at a distance. It says, that’s really sad , Omo life sha , everyone dey go through one or two. It might even sound kind and well-meaning. But there’s a separation in it. You are here, they are there, and their pain is something you’re observing.

Empathy closes that distance.

Empathy is not just recognizing pain it’s stepping into it, even when you can’t fully understand it. It’s choosing to sit in that space with someone instead of trying to explain it away, fix it, or move past it.

That difference sounds small, but it changes everything.

For example, if someone loses their mum sympathy might sound like:
“That’s life. That’s her destined time “

It’s not wrong. It’s factual. But it doesn’t meet the person where they are. Empathy doesn’t rush to logic.

Empathy says: “I can’t fully understand what you’re feeling, but I’m here with you.”

Sometimes, empathy doesn’t even say anything at all.

It looks like sitting beside someone in silence because you know words won’t fix it.
It looks like resisting the urge to give advice.
It looks like allowing someone to feel what they’re feeling without trying to make it smaller or more acceptable.

That’s where I had to unlearn a lot.

I realized that a lot of what I thought was empathy was actually discomfort. I didn’t like seeing people in pain, so I would try to soften it, explain it, or move them out of it quickly. I thought I was helping, but really, I was avoiding.

Real empathy is uncomfortable.

It requires you to stay present when there’s nothing to solve. It asks you to feel with someone instead of just about them. And that’s harder than it sounds, because it demands emotional effort.

You have to slow down and listen properly
You have to stop centering yourself and your need to “fix” things. No need to restore order .

A lot of people don’t do that.

Not because they’re bad people, but because empathy takes intention. It’s an active choice.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough: empathy is active.

It’s not just a personality trait you either have or don’t have. It’s something you practice. You decide, in that moment, whether you’re going to stand at a distance or step closer.

That’s why so many people think they’re empathetic when they’re actually just sympathetic. They acknowledge pain, but they don’t enter it. They feel bad, but they don’t stay.

Empathy stays.

It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t correct. It doesn’t reduce someone’s experience to something easier to digest.And it doesn’t shrink what they’re feeling into something more comfortable, just so the conversation feels lighter. It lets things be exactly as heavy as they are.

And no, empathy doesn’t fix what’s broken. It doesn’t bring people back, undo loss, or erase pain. But it does something just as important it makes that pain less isolating.

It reminds someone they’re not carrying it alone.

That’s the part I understand now in a way I didn’t before.

Empathy isn’t about having the right words.
It’s not about being “nice.”
It’s not even about fully understanding.

It’s about presence.

And once you really see that, you start to notice the difference everywhere in conversations, in relationships, in yourself.

You start to ask a better question:

Am I just observing this person’s pain, or am I actually willing to sit with them in it?

Because only one of those is empathy.

Okafor’s yams were stacked in the corner. Still plenty left. She stared at them, then reached for one. Cooking felt easier than thinking.

By the time Yemi got back, the yam was already boiling. He greeted her from the doorway.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” nothing else.

He washed his hands, changed out of his work clothes, and came back to the kitchen. They moved around each other easily. That part hadn’t changed. They didn’t bump into each other. They didn’t talk either.

Dinner was ready not long after.

She served him boiled yam and corned beef stew.

Yemi looked at the plate, then up at her.

“I thought we had boiled yam yesterday too.”

The irritation hit her instantly.

seriously ?

She kept her voice even. “Is that a problem?”

He saw it then the slight tightening of her face, the way her mouth pressed together. He knew that look.

In her head:
Yesterday was yam and fish stew. Today is yam and corned beef stew. Is yam not allowed to repeat? Am I meant to cook a different dinner every day?

She added, “Besides, Okafor brought a lot of yams. I figured we should use them.”

Yemi shook his head quickly. “No, no. That’s not what I meant.”

“I was just saying,” he continued. “It’s fine.”

He took a bite to prove it.

They ate quietly.

She watched him chew too fast. He watched her barely touch her food.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was worse than that. It was practiced.

Kemi cleared her throat. “Did you notice there was no Harmattan in December?”

Yemi paused. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“It’s like it skipped,” she said. “Now it’s coming back all of a sudden.”

“The weather is confused,” he replied.

She nodded. “Very confused.”

They nodded like that meant something.

Why are we talking about this? she thought.
Because it’s safer than asking what’s wrong.

They finished eating without another real sentence. When she stood to clear the table, he stayed seated, scrolling through his phone.

At the sink, she washed the plates slowly. Water running, plates clinking.

Yemi eventually joined her.

“I can help,” he said.

I’ve got it.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just closed.

He grabbed a towel anyway and started drying the plates she handed him. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to. This part was automatic.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier,” he tried again.

“I know,” she replied.

But she didn’t turn around.

That’s when he felt it not anger, not a fight just distance. The kind you don’t know how to shorten.

They moved to the living room. Sat on opposite ends of the couch. The TV was on, volume low, suits played in the background.

Yemi rested his arm on the back of the couch. Not around her. Just there.

Kemi noticed. She stayed where she was.

He dropped his arm after a while.

“I feel like we don’t really talk anymore,” she said suddenly.

He stiffened. “We talk.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

She hesitated. “It feels like we only talk about things we already know. So we don’t have to talk about things we don’t.”

He looked at her now.

“And what don’t we want to talk about?”

She shook her head. “I don’t even know how to start.”

Yemi leaned back. “I feel like I’m always saying the wrong thing.”

“And I feel like I’m always swallowing mine,” she replied.

That shut him up.

Later, in bed, they lay facing opposite directions. Close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Too far to touch.

Kemi stared at the wall.

When did we get here?

Yemi closed his eyes.

When did loving her start feeling this careful?

Neither of them moved.

Morning would come. Work would happen. Okafor Yam would still be left.

And whatever sat between them would still be there too

Ps: Osayi is a figment of my imagination :)

Osayi wasn’t wildly attractive. He wasn’t the kind of man that stopped conversations when he walked into a room. He was handsome in a quieter way the kind that made you adjust your hair before opening FaceTime, not because you were nervous, but because you suddenly cared. The kind of handsome that crept up on you after the third conversation. After the fourth laugh. After you noticed that his eyes softened when he listened, like he was actually there with you and not already thinking about what to say next.

He was an idealist. A serious one. The dangerous kind. He believed the world could change if people just tried harder. He believed effort mattered more than systems. That goodness could override structure. That individual action could outpace centuries of damage. He recycled religiously. He donated in small but frequent amounts. My email was constantly flooded with NGO newsletters I didn’t remember signing up for, all forwarded from him with captions like “This one is really doing good work” or “We should support causes like this.”

He wanted to save everything. The planet. Strangers. Ideas. Me.

And the thing about being with someone like that is that you start to feel guilty for existing normally. For being tired. For choosing convenience. For throwing away a plastic bottle without rinsing it first. For wanting things without a moral justification attached. For wanting a new iPhone even when your phone works perfectly well.He didn’t mean to do it, but he had this way of making you feel like every choice you made was being quietly evaluated -not judged, just… weighed.

He switched off lights, but never for the mood.

There was this one day I remember it too clearly. I had spent the evening in the living room watching a drama, emotionally invested, wrapped in a blanket, fully in my feelings. When it ended, I went into the bedroom to join him, expecting softness, warmth, that quiet intimacy that settles in at night. I slid into bed, still half-lost in the story I’d just finished, and before anything else could happen, he sat up slightly and said, very gently, “You didn’t turn off the lights in the living room.”

That was it. That was the moment. The mood didn’t disappear dramatically. It didn’t shatter. It just… deflated. Like a balloon losing air slowly while you’re still holding it.

He was right, of course. He was always right in that way. But I didn’t want to be right. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be pulled closer, not reminded of electricity consumption.

Still, Osayi was a genuinely good man. Annoyingly good. He called me randomly just to tell me I was beautiful, not because he wanted anything, not because he was trying to set a tone just because the thought had crossed his mind and he didn’t see a reason to keep it to himself. He was gentle with me in ways that didn’t demand repayment. He listened without interrupting. He remembered details I forgot I’d shared. He loved me for myself, not for who I could become or what I represented.

He was the kind of man you married.

The kind you introduce to your parents without anxiety. The kind your friends would nod approvingly at. The kind whose flaws were reasonable and whose values aligned neatly with the kind of life people said they wanted. He cooked. He cleaned as he went. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t disappear. He didn’t play games. He didn’t make me doubt where I stood.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because I didn’t love him.

I liked him deeply. I respected him instinctively. I admired him constantly. But love ;the messy, irrational, chest-tightening thing never arrived. And I started turning the question inward. What kind of person doesn’t fall in love with someone this good? Was I broken? Addicted to chaos? Too used to inconsistency to recognize peace when it sat right in front of me?

Osayi hated wasted food. Like, viscerally. He would stare too long at half-eaten plates. Make comments that weren’t accusations but felt like them anyway. “Someone could have eaten that,” he’d say quietly, and suddenly chewing felt immoral. He was gentle, always gentle, but his gentleness carried expectations.

Even lovemaking with him reflected who he was. It was slow. Careful. Intentional. Every movement deliberate, like he was afraid of rushing something sacred. Sometimes it was so calm I’d find my mind wandering, counting strokes per minute just to stay present. Not because it was bad ,it wasn’t—but because it lacked urgency. Fire. That reckless strokes that makes you forget your own name.

Sometimes I wanted to grab him and say, Please, rearrange my guts. Sometimes I wanted to feel undone. Instead, I felt… held.

And being held is beautiful. But it isn’t always enough.

The relationship started to feel like a calm silence instead of a symphony. Like a well-written sentence that never turned into a story. Like standing in a perfectly clean room and realizing you missed the mess.

One night, I said it. No buildup. No drama. Just honesty placed gently between us.

“Osayi, I don’t think I love you the way you love me.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to convince me otherwise. He looked at me the way he always did soft, understanding, already a step ahead emotionally.

“I know,” he said.

And that was the most devastating part.

Because even in letting me go, he was good.

I donated plasma in the morning one of those “I’m being productive and altruistic” decisions you make before your body has time to object. I felt fine after. Normal. Capable. So naturally, I went straight to work.

I worked at a coffee shop, Tim Hortons. Six-hour shift. On my feet the entire time. Smiling. Moving. Lifting things. Pretending my body wasn’t quietly keeping receipts. I finished my work, clocked out, and decided to be responsible again by going grocery shopping. Because why not stack productivity on top of productivity like a Jenga tower?

That’s when it hit.

This sudden, dramatic wave of fatigue. Not tired—weak. The kind where your limbs start feeling like suggestions instead of facts. I was standing in No Frills supermarket with , carts rattling, people living their lives, and I genuinely thought, Is this the end of the journey for you Lase ? Is this how it ends? In a grocery store?

I bent over gently, right there between aisles, trying to convince my body to cooperate. Trying to breathe. Trying not to panic. And what really messed with me wasn’t even how bad I felt it was the realization that I was lowkey fighting for my life while life itself was absolutely uninterested.

Beside me, a mother was telling her kid to put something back on the rack. Not even whispering. Just normal parenting. Ordinary. Casual. As if I wasn’t one minor inconvenience away from collapsing into a pile of groceries and existential dread.

That’s when it clicked.

Life does not pause.

It doesn’t slow down because you’re dizzy in a supermarket. It doesn’t dim the lights or hush the soundtrack. Everyone is still piloting their own ship. Their own errands. Their own stress. Their own small dramas. And you? You’re on your own deck, trying to keep yours from tipping over.

I abandoned my cart. I sat on the bench outside the store. Even finding my phone to order an Uber felt like a Herculean task. My fingers were heavy. My brain was foggy. But I did it. I got home. Drank water. Rested. Slowly came back into myself.

My dad called. We talked. I told him what happened. He told me to take care of myself and sent money for medication. I appreciated it—deeply. Then I checked his status.

Food specifically salmon.

Hot, comforting, lovingly made salmon And I laughed loudly for a long time.Because while I was outside No Frills contemplating my mortality, my father was seasoning salmon.

That didn’t make him a bad father. Not even close. It just taught me something brutally simple: life goes on, even for the people who love you.

Everyone is the sailor of their own ship. Ship here meaning life, obviously. And even if your ship is sinking, no one is jumping overboard to stabilize it for you. They might throw you lifelines. Floaters. Resources. Advice. Money. Love. But they’re not abandoning their vessel. And that’s not cruelty it’s survival.

That day really sealed a mantra for me: live for yourself.

We all have our vices. Some people smoke. Some drink. Some party until their body begs for mercy. Mine is piercings. I love them. The idea of intentional holes in my body fascinates me. It feels like ownership. My grandmother hates them. Every video call, without fail: “You think you’re doing me? You’re doing yourself.”

And she’s right. She always was.

After the supermarket incident, I stopped hiding them. I wore them anyway. Eventually, she got used to them. Life went on. Again.

Honestly, I should’ve learned this lesson earlier—at my grandfather’s burial.

I thought I would cry uncontrollably. I thought grief would knock the wind out of me as he was lowered into the earth. But that’s not what happened.

I was glammed up. Full aso ebi—blue, sparkly, beautiful, and actively attacking my skin. Stones pricking me everywhere. The sun was violently hot. The road to my grandfather’s house was so eroded we had to walk from the junction( Governor Dapo Abiodun, I have no words for you 😭). My gele was tied so tight I swear it was restricting blood flow to my brain. I was in silver heels—very high heels and by the time we reached the burial site, my calves were trembling from exhaustion and my toes were begging for mercy.

I was overstimulated. Irritable. Uncomfortable in every possible way.

So I didn’t cry.

Not because I didn’t love him. I did and still do. Grief came later. Quietly. Months after. But in that moment, my body was screaming louder than my emotions. And I had to listen.

Even in grief, life goes on. Even in loss, you still have to exist inside your body.

So this is my long, roundabout way of saying: put yourself first. Not selfishly. Not cruelly. Just honestly. Because no one is living inside your body but you. No one else is managing your fatigue, your pain, your limits, your quiet moments of fear in a grocery store aisle.

Whether you like it or not

c’est la vie.

And life will go on.

So you might as well live it for yourself.

Human writing actually has a pulse. It’s not clean or perfect. it stumbles, it remembers things it had no business remembering.Humans are messy storytellers, with AI there are no rough edges, no side comments, no random stories slipping in. Tiny details jump out in human writing like the way someone’s jaw clenches when they’re mad or the way sunlight hits the corner of a room at a certain hour and before you know it, the whole story develops from that tiny detail.

AI? AI loves vibes it can't actually feel. And it betrays itself every time.

The first giveaway is the contrast obsession. It’s always doing that thing where it tries to deepen a line by flipping it. “it’s not just this, it’s that” ."'“It’s more than friendship, it’s vulnerability,memories,shared food”. You see one of those? just know the machine is speaking .It is constantly negating itself, acting as if you wont get the point unless it flips the sentence twice. Formula to watch out for

“It’s not just X, its Y”

• “Its more than A, it’s also B”

This back and forth structure is basically its signature dance move - predictable, overused and so painfully symmetrical to the point where it stops feeling human. People don't write like that except they are being poetic on purpose. Real people just let ideas exist as they are, we dont package them in the perfect opposite. Chatgpt’s negation’s tic makes everything sound rehearsed and over-edited. Once you notice you can’t unsee it. You start spotting the predictable pivot in sentences.

Then there’s the generic tone, the same overused phrases, predictable structures and preffered lexicon showing up again and again, like a linguistic pattern I’ve learned to recognize . “In this highly digitalized world, Let’s delve into the complexities/intricacies, tapestery “ are structures I have recognized. It wants to sound profound ,but it can’t think in the way we do, those oddly specific metaphors that hit close to home. I read Achebe’s “No longer At Ease” in the summer of 2024 and I was in awe of his use of descriptive imagery , when Obi came across women in damask and velvet"swiveling their waists as effortlessly as oiled ball bearings”. AI would never reach for something that beautifully specific because it simply does not know the feeling behind it, it’s just guessing.Humans write from memory, from lived experiences and ache. AI writes from a database and large language models (LLMs) that's not as diverse as human emotions.

And here’s another thing; perfection gives it away.

AI never slips. No typos, no weird commas, No lowercase letter you forgot to fix. Everything is clean. Too clean. Like a mansion with many rooms that looks lived-in but nobody has stayed there for months. Humans mess up .Even the best writers and especially the best writers. AI is so perfect the writing comes out surgical-neat, correct and painfully bloodless.

Let's talk about depth . Or the lack thereof.

AI writing feels like someone skimming the surface of a lake, refusing to get wet. It stays one one idea and circles on and on. Humans do not write like that. When we dig into an idea, we go under. AI can’t do that, not because it is dumb. but it lacks experience. No childhood, No heartbreak, No embarrassment from something that happened in JSS2 that still haunts you randomly. It has no guilty pleasures or grief it can talk about. So it writes in parallels, line after line that looks meaningful but never really goes anywhere. It’s shallow by design. You finish reading and feel nothing. Like drinking lukewarm water when you were craving champagne.

And thats why the writing feels empty, even when the vocabulary is big.

Lastly, Cultural context is where AI fully embarrasses itself

I asked ChatGPT what americanah and it’s reply honestly cracked me up

Americanah in the Nigerian context is basically an individual who has spent a better part of their life in diaspora that they forget the nuances of being Nigerian.

And that’s why it translates so pidgin so off, because it does not know pidgin bends depending on where you’re from, who you’re talking to and what mood you are in. it is always stiff, off-beat and not landing the way it should.

We understand when a phrase is playful, when it’s shade,when it’s sarcasm, when it’s endearment disguised as an insult. AI just translates literally with no texture.

So when I read something that tries to use cultural expressions but feels like it was ironed flat by google translate ? Yeah , I know who wrote that.

Ps; Can you tell I got demotivated towards the end ?

I’m always like… yes. That’s it. That’s the energy I want in my life.

Because lately, it feels like everything is getting labeled cringe. Sharing your feelings? Cringe. Making TikToks for fun? Cringe. Singing out loud in public? Double cringe. Posting quotes that actually helped you through something? Triple cringe. Like… okay? What do y’all want people to do? Be emotionally numb, move in silence, dress in neutrals, only express joy with a smirk and a shrug?

It’s exhausting how self-conscious we’ve become. How so many people move through the world like they’re under constant surveillance. Like someone’s always watching and silently judging. But here’s the plot twist: no one’s paying that much attention to you. They’re literally too busy figuring out their own life, spiraling about their own overthinking, trying not to look weird themselves.

Once you really get that, a lot of the pressure lifts.

I’m so over the hyper-awareness The need to act like everything is beneath you. Some things are just fun. Some things are a little messy and awkward and beautiful. Who cares?

Wear the outfit that makes you feel hot even if it’s “too much.” Take 37 selfies just because you look good. Talk about your interests even if no one else gets them. Get excited. Be loud. Post the corny quote. Sing off-key. Use the glittery stickers. Romanticize your boring little life because you only get one. Why would you spend it trying to make sure nobody thinks you’re trying too hard?

Trying is cute. Being passionate is cute. Caring is cute.

There’s something so magnetic about people who let themselves feel things in full colour. The ones who cry easily, laugh loudly, dance even when they’re off-beat, love openly. People who don’t wait for permission to enjoy stuff. People who aren’t afraid to cringe a little because that’s what happens when you’re actually living.

And honestly? I’d rather be a little cringe than a little empty.

Because being alive isn’t always aesthetic. It’s messy and layered and awkward and soft. You trip over your words sometimes. You love people who don’t love you back. You post stuff that doesn’t match your “brand.” You write long captions. You try something new and flop. You care too much. You’re visible.

And that’s exactly the point.

So here’s your permission slip to stop worrying about how you’re being perceived and just be. Do the thing. Say what you feel. Start before you’re ready. Make it weird. Make it loud. Make it yours. Life isn’t an audition. It’s already your role. You don’t have to earn your right to take up space.

Not everything has to be polished. Not everything has to be subtle. Some of the best things in life happen when you forget to be self-conscious and just let go.

So no, you’re not cringe.

You’re free.

What started as a tool has become our master.

We used to hunt and gather. Trade and barter. Then came coins. Then paper. Then digital currencies. And with every evolution, money became more abstract  but its power grew even more concrete. It went from being about exchanging value to assigning value. Suddenly, your worth as a person could be measured by how much you have in your account, the kind of car you drive, or the neighborhood you live in. Suddenly, your dreams weren’t about what you wanted to do with your life they were about how much you could earn from doing it.

Now, everywhere I look, it’s money. The world is loud with it. Social media is saturated with it  people flaunting wealth, chasing the next hustle, turning every passion into a side gig. The message is clear: if it doesn’t make money, it’s not worth doing. We don’t even ask ourselves what we like anymore. We ask, “Can this make me rich?” Capitalism has seeped into our bones, our timelines, our relationships. And the thing is, I’m not above it either.

I’m watching money too. Thinking about it. Worrying about it. Obsessing over how to make more of it, how to save it, how to invest it, how to not let it slip through my fingers. I never imagined I’d be this preoccupied with finances at my age. But the world doesn’t give you much of a choice does it?

It forces you to consider money before every decision  where to live, what to study, who to date, when to have kids, if you can even have kids. And that’s the part that hits me the hardest. I think about my future, and I think about my future children, and I don’t want this for them. I don’t want them waking up with anxiety about rent, debt, or bills before they’ve even finished school. I don’t want them measuring their happiness by their salary or defining success by how expensive their shoes are.

But how do we even begin to change this when the system is so entrenched? When even basic human rights  food, water, shelter, healthcare  have been monetized? When billionaires hoard more than entire nations, while others can’t afford to eat? The disparity is so large and so dizzying, that it starts to feel normal. And that’s what scares me how numb we’ve all become to the madness of it.People are chasing money at the expense of joy, peace, connection and real love . Burnout is now worn like a badge of honor. If you’re not hustling, you’re “lazy.” If you’re content, you’re “lacking ambition.” We glorify stress and grind culture, and in doing so, we rob ourselves of the very things money was supposed to help us enjoy rest,

How did we let our lives be dictated by a currency we created? Why does this system feel like a trap rather than a tool? And more importantly  what’s the way out?

. I’m not here with a motivational speech or a financial freedom plan. I’m just here with questions. With confusion. With the ache of realizing that we’ve made money the center of our world, and we’re all suffering under the weight of it.

I was having lunch recently with a friend, and she couldn’t seem to put her phone down. Every few seconds, she’d glance at the screen, scrolling, typing, laughing at something I wasn’t in on. Our conversation was dragging, filled with half-hearted hmms and delayed reactions. I found it really disrespectful. Like hello? I got dressed, left my house, came all the way here, and you can’t even be present? But then it hit me.

I do this too.

Maybe not at lunch (at least, I hope not), but Ive caught myself checking my phone mid-movie, refreshing Twitter even though I just closed it, mindlessly scrolling while listening to a song I swear I love. I can’t even make it through a YouTube video without skimming through the comments. My attention span is shot. And I know Im not the only one. We’re overstimulated to the point that real-life moments feels dull. Silence is unbearable. Boredom is a crisis. Everything has to be layered music while showering, a podcast while cleaning, TV in the background while scrolling TikTok. Its like our brains are running ten different tabs at once, and none of them ever fully load.

And whats wild is that we know this. We joke about it all the time. I have no attention span anymore. I can’t focus for shit .But acknowledging it doesn't stop it. If anything, it makes it feel inevitable, like something we just have to live with. But do we?

I dont have a grand solution. I wish I did. But lately, Ive been thinking about what it would feel like to actually retrain my brain to just sit and exist without filling every quiet moment with noise. Maybe I should try it. Maybe we all should.But first, let me check my notifications real quick.

This year started off so good. I entered it with so much hope, feeling like it was a clean slate. I thought, This is the year I fix everything ,right my wrongs, make things happen. I was genuinely happy about what was to come. But honestly, as the months went by, I started feeling so unmotivated.

It’s like something in me just switched off. The tasks I used to do with ease now feel impossible. Reading, cleaning, doing the little things I used to enjoy ,all of it became so exhausting. I had no energy, no drive, no excitement for life. It was like I was just existing, going through the motions, but feeling so stuck.

And the worst part? I knew I couldn’t keep living like that. It felt like I was setting myself up for failure, and I hated that. I’d have these moments where I’d sit and think, What am I even doing? Why is everything so hard?

Then, it hit me one day, out of nowhere: I’m crushed by the weight of my own dreams. I’m a perfectionist to a fault. I care so much about getting things right that it paralyzes me. I want everything to go exactly as planned, and when it doesn’t, I feel like I’ve failed—even when I haven’t even started yet.

The pressure I was putting on myself was the real problem. I got so overwhelmed by my own expectations that I didn’t leave room to just live, to just try and mess up and figure things out along the way.

If you’ve been feeling like this, too, I just want you to know you’re not alone. Sometimes, the drive we’re looking for comes back when we take a step back, breathe, and stop being so hard on ourselves. Life isn’t a race. You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.

I’m learning that it’s okay to slow down and take things one day at a time. Some days will be better than others, and that’s fine. The important thing is to keep going, even if it’s just small steps. You’re not failing because you feel tired or stuck. You’re just human.

So, this is me trying to let go of that weight and reminding myself (and you) that it’s okay to not be perfect. We’ll figure it out eventually.