JUNE 4.

Today is my birthday. Strangely, I feel so excited. It’s an unusual feeling. Birthdays have never held any sacred meaning to me. They always felt like rituals of distraction. The world burns, the country is in chaos, people die every day, and yet, once a year, we pause and pretend like permanence exists. I never truly believed in it. I’ve often dismissed birthdays as one of those frivolities that keeps us from confronting ‘real life.’ But today just feels so different. There’s a mindset shift, and for the first time, I sat down to reflect on my life so far. I thought about how far I’ve come. Where I am now. And most importantly, where the fvck I am going.

Today, I won’t be celebrating by lighting candles and singing. No dancing. No drinking. Instead, I’ll just sit like I’ve been doing since June 1st, and allow this nostalgia to take me without resistance.

I recently read about childhood amnesia and as normal as it sounds, I couldn’t relate to any of it. I tend to remember everything. I found out there has been some back and forth over a century of research about whether memories of our early years are tucked away in some part of our brains and need only a cue to be recovered, but as crazy as this may sound, I remember almost all the important and random events in my life, and this stretches to when I was a kid. I remember moments no one else would care about.

Like Bello.

He was the guy who used to take me to kindergarten. I must have been three maybe four or whatever. The number doesn’t really matter. The moment does. And that’s the strange thing about memories — some things refuse to fade. But i was young, yet I remember the clothes I wore on this particular day; a white shirt with lines weaved across it. And a trouser too big for my small leg. Bello carried me on his shoulder, and i remember crying profusely, struggling to jump off his shoulder and run to my mum. Bello, I later understood was her pupil. It had become his job to carry me from her office to my school. It’s been over a decade now, or should I say decades? But it doesn’t matter. I saw Bello two years ago for the first time since then and I still recognised his face. We greeted and talked for more than hours like we were pals.

FAMILY.

I think our families set the tone for our moral compass. Not just in the obvious ways, like what we believe or how we behave, but in the quieter stuff too. Like the way we respond to the world, what feels like “right” and “wrong,” even the way we love. Even when I don’t hold hundred percent of the same views as the rest of my family, they shape my worldview.

I grew up too early. I don’t think there was ever a time when i acted reckless during my early teenage years. I think I carried responsibility before I knew what responsibility was. Maybe that’s how our house works. My parents weren’t overly strict so it wasn’t fear-based but there was a quiet line we knew not to cross. Unspoken rules. A structure. You could always feel it. I think the principles that define me were built at this age.

We did crazy stuff with my siblings. Like when me and my older brother decided we were going to invent a new language. We created a few words and I still remember almost all of them. Well, the language faded as we got older. And now this makes me wonder. Nothing really lasts forever. If anything, it makes them sacred. Temporary things carry the most weight. I think that’s part of growing up too. You start realising that most of life isn’t built out of the big things. Little things are what make up a beautiful life.

Another beautiful childhood memory I still remember vividly was the first day I met my Mallam. I can’t remember my exact age, but I was really small. Small enough that he lifted me onto his lap like, may God rest his soul; he died last month. The day we first met, he held the Qur’an gently, opened it, and read the first text, asking me to repeat after him. And I did. And somehow, that moment rooted itself deep in me.

I can still see the chair we sat on. You see, It’s strange how the mind holds on to the quiet details. I still remember the cadence of his voice. And I still think he’s the world’s best Mallam.

Finishing the Qur’an years later felt like standing on top of a mountain I didn’t realize I had been climbing. I was eleven. My dad cried. Burst into tears of joy, and it caught me off guard. My mum didn’t cry. She’s strong in that quiet, silent way. Not the kind to show emotion easily, but I know she felt it deeply. You can always tell, even if they don’t say a word.

LOVE.

I think about love sometimes. Not the dramatic version, but the actual thing. The slow, awkward, terrifying, beautiful thing. The one that sneaks up on you when you aren’t even looking — one time you’re talking to someone, and the next thing you find yourself loving them. It’s just too beautiful if you think about it.

I’ve fallen in love twice. Both times deeply, and both times, it didn’t happen. But the weird thing is, it still meant something. You know that feeling when you just know something about someone? Like some part of you sees them, and without asking permission, your heart just decides, “Yeah, it’s them?” That’s what it was like. Both times.

The first one was a quiet love. The kind that doesn’t demand to be spoken. She was the kind of girl who made the world feel peaceful, just by being in it. I never told her. I watched her from the corners of classrooms. Wrote many poems she didn’t get to read. and now that I think about it, it was cute. My love was unannounced, tender, and sacred. Sometimes I wonder if that’s better. To love in silence is to preserve the feeling in its purest form. No expectations. No disappointments. Just beauty, untouched.

The second time I fell in love, it felt real. I told her. We would talk for hours. I think she gave the first signal. Then I asked her out. She said she liked me but was “scared” and would want us to be only friends. I understood. We just happened to be so different in many ways. I never asked again. We planned to meet to talk about it, but I stood her up. Not out of cruelty, I think it’s fear, masked as pride or whatever. I don’t chase. It’s just not in me.

But still, it felt good. Not the heartbreak part. But the knowing. The fact that I could love someone like that. That my heart could go that deep. That I could care without needing to be owed anything in return.

It just feels kind of amazing, actually — knowing you can love someone even when there’s no reward at the end. Even when they don’t love you back the way you hoped. You realize: it wasn’t a waste. It wasn’t for nothing. Because love, real love, isn’t about owning or winning. It’s not a transaction. Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone, and feeling seen in return, even if only for a moment. Sometimes it’s about becoming a softer, braver version of yourself just because you felt something. That’s what I mean when I say it’s beautiful and terrifying. Because you don’t get to control how it turns out. You just get to feel it. And if you’re lucky, you let it change you even if it doesn’t stay. And I don’t know, man… that feels kind of like a fvcking miracle to me. Okay, this was supposed to be a formal writing. Lol.

Later, there was someone else. A girl I did date, briefly. It didn’t last. We had something, but not everything. Sometimes, love is more about timing than intention. And sometimes, people arrive just to teach you what you’re not ready to learn. She thinks I am a wicked person, and I still feel sad for how things eventually turned out. Lol. People talk about breakups, yet no one talks about what a break up does to the one who broke the heart. But I love love, and would be happy to fall in love once again.

23.

It feels weird writing this down. Some people think I look older than my age while others think I look younger and that’s just so funny. But I think I am finally starting to understand time. How it stretches, how it demands that you carry your past into your future without apology. I used to think age was just a number. But today, it feels like a mirror. A quiet, haunting mirror that reflects not just who I am, but who I’ve been, and who I might still become.

I’ve lived enough to know that life doesn’t follow a script. And if it does, mine is being written in real-time. I feel like I’m on the edge of something. A becoming. Maybe that’s what this year will be about: becoming.

I love writing. I want to create things that last. I want to write things that make people feel seen. I want to build a life that feels honest. I want to be the kind of person who stays curious, who listens more, who gives more, who forgives faster. Especially myself. I want to be brave. I want an adventurous life. And I want a simple life too. A quiet, meaningful life of purpose.

But right now, if I’m being honest, I feel trapped. stuck. And don’t get me wrong, I’m doing well for my age but that’s not the point. I want to follow my passion, which is writing. Not just making money off it like I currently do, but living through it. Letting it be the thing that breathes life into my days.

Talking about money, I don’t even care that much about it. Someone once told me I’m “so crazy about money.” But I laughed when I heard that. Because if only she knew. I give out more than 60% of what I earn, and I am not even joking. To my family, to friends, to random people who need it. I don’t chase money for the greed of it. I chase it because I want to live well, and more than that, I want to help others live well too. That’s always been the goal. Always will be.

I want to fall in love again, not just with a person, but with moments. With myself. With my purpose. I want to be a better person. A better son. A better friend. A better writer. A better human. That’s it.

So yes, I turned 23 today, and I am grateful for the past that shaped me. The heartbreaks that made me softer. The unrequited love. To the family that raised me, the badass little kid I used to be, and the man I’m still becoming. To the passion I’m learning to trust. And to the future. An unpredictable one, but still mine.

Your birthday was earlier this week, and out of the numerous good wishes you received, which you knew you didn’t deserve — one call stood your heart out. You are a very emotional person with a fragile heart, but you’re strong and not susceptible to emotional blackmailing and guilt-tripping. But you’re not a fool to not distinguish between a voice of sincerity and deception.

You know of your damaged demeanor with everyone, so it was an expected call when Miss Exx called you on your birthday to pour her displeasure at your constant vacillating attitude towards her. She was blunt, and this held you so greatly that you couldn’t utter a word. So you only said, “I’m sorry,” in a tone so genuine than you ever were. The call ended on a good note, but it was your first realization. The realization that you’ve always been a d!ckhead.

Communication is pivotal to every healthy relationship — a pedestal that holds every other thing. But you’re a d!ckhead, and you never really gave a fvck. You’ve had one million people coming and going out of your life, and you never cared to ask WHY. You’ve lost touch with several friends and relatives, but you think you’re so good at the Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fvck. But you finally realized how selfish you are; people deserve an ounce of respect, and love and friendship have to be reciprocated, but it is too late.

You are broken. Smitten by the realization of how others might have felt, you are enraged with anger and self-loathe. Filled with remorse. So most of the days, you just sit and think of ways to mend your mistakes. But it is late, and you know it is too late. But can it ever be earlier than this? You ask yourself.

Questions are crucial in the journey of securing an everlasting solution to problems. Every answer begins with a question, and for every question, several answers exist; there are options, and you often go for the ones you are so much comfortable with — It’s either YES or NO; no middle ground. So when you asked yourself if it’s too late to mend your mistakes, it comes almost rhetorical. You already knew the answer. And the answer is so obvious but hard: Firstly, you’d never forgive yourself knowing you’ve hurt a lot of people, and secondly, apologizing is so daring. The last option demands that you sit and wallow in your regrets. You are a d!ckhead, and the realization is more painful than the act itself. How much remorseful can it get when you just sit and let it slide?

So you told yourself it is not over for you. You can’t be a pathetic piece of sh!t, so followed your heart — where everything lies.