(This was written in June, shortly after reading Ifeanyichukwu Eze’s essay – link in essay.)

I am nothing without my writing. This seems like a dramatic thing to say if it wasn’t true, but I think I’ve found something to die for. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking of writing or music, and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Nigeria paralyzes you, weakens you until you take a seat on the couch of self-sabotage. You push and push, but Nigeria waves your efforts with a mindless swat and suddenly, your careful assemblage of dreams scatter. I’ve been trying to write and have blamed everything under the sun for my inability to do so: dying attention span, being stuck at home, electricity or the lack of it, capitalism, “Timbuktu”, Desmond Elliot.

Very recently, I’ve decided to be radical with my reading routine. I dissolved the WhatsApp group for Literary Denizens earlier in the year because I wanted to expand, but really, I’m tired. That app drains me and it’s where conversations go to die. But I had underestimated how much having a “closer” community helped my reading. So much depended on me and that meant, despite having multiple jobs and commitments, I had to read every book on our list. Now, it’s different. I’m not working half as hard as I did last year, yet the last time I finished a book was in February—my yearly Americanah and Purple Hibiscus read, Things Fall Apart and a poem collection by Oyindamola Shoola. This is not me. I’ve had bites of different books, but I merely start them looking for a reason to stop.

Doing everything—reading, writing, talking to my friends, social media-ing, living—on my phone does not help.

Essays are helping. I read an essay on the rise of anti-intellectualism and how it’s become cool to be stupid; it made me decide to be more intentional with what I consume. I read Ifeanyichukwu Eze’s essay on Finding Baldwin; it reminded me of the copy of Go Tell It On The Mountain compilation I never finished.

Eze reminded me of the power of language, of gentle words that made me start writing since I could hold a pencil. I don’t have any memory without a story attached to them. Now I’m thinking: how was I able to spend the whole night reading novels with a torchlight? I miss that. I want to do better. I thank those two essays for what they did for me. Now I’m trying to do better.

I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror reading words aloud because I don’t even get the chance to talk a lot these days. I’m not texting either. I’ve just been living from January to June, a hollow of what I could be, a shadow of what I used to be. I’m listening to TedTalks just to hear people speak well (because everyone sounds the same on TikTok), but tuning out because YouTube ads won’t let me have this one. I zone out with podcasts. I zone out mid-conversations. I. Zone. Out.

I've become a barrel of complaints. My friends know this (I worry that I burden them with my worries). I am dissatisfied. With myself. With my life. With the laborious trudge of living. I want more, so why can't I have more? Everything that could bring me closer to my dreams feel just out of reach, teasing me with their possibilities and taunting my inadequate Nigerian arms. It feels as though I am working hard to insist on my existence, to prove I am worthy of being. All these classes, all these commitments, all these rejections and deadlines; what if I just stopped? I keep putting things off on my to do list:

• Edit story and send to Prof X
• Apply for Z
• Submit story to C
• Register for
• Respond to

All of the things I have to do to make my year count, all of the things I have to do to put my life back in my hands.

The body listens. Yeah, she does. She hears my murmurs, feels my tiredness and assents with a dull percussion in my left temple, as if to say “We are tired.” My period plays jump rope with her timing and stays as long as she likes. It hurts to sing. My stomach hurts and refuses to be placated by food. The doctor says it’s gastritis and begs me to sleep better, too. My mother says it is an ulcer’s cousin. I should be eating wheat (instead of garri) and okra soup, and, for now, banned from pineapples. My pills are of every colour of the rainbow, still not enough to escape syrups and injections. My sedentary lifestyle is not the best, but I’m no longer worried about leaving home. Worrying over things is not helping and is a part of the reason I self-sabotage and have given up.

I just want to write. The last time I finished a story, I was only happy I met the word count and was relieved when the editor passed on it. I never want to write for money again. I have decided that I do not want to do creative writing for a living if that’s what it feels like. My life will not be reduced to word counts. God forbid. I want to write stories that warm my heart, that keep me up at night. The ideas come in trickles, not fully formed or clothed. I want to turn these sentences to thousands of words, but stories are selfish; they demand your full attention. I can’t just will them to existence and that’s what excites and bums me about writing—that I have to fight for it. I understand now that I am a sum of what I consume. I need to read more, watch more, listen more and write more, to write better. But I also need a break from this… this whateverness that stifles my creativity and steals my joy. I need something to happen to me.

This essay has become a string of complaints. I am tired. I am tired of dreaming, and not doing enough, and not being (mentally) strong to do enough.

Hii! Thanks for reading! Blogging wasn’t in my 2025 plans, hence the hiatus. I felt spent last year and barely struggled to meet my one-blog-a-month goal. I’m going to post more, but with less pressure; you’ll see me when you see me. Ha! 
I’ve created dedicated social media pages for my writing and academicking. Connect with me on Instagram and Twitter. BlueSky keeps bouncing me out :( I love to hear from readers, so feel free to shoot me a DM whenever. 
I’m going to writeabout the films I saw this year, here’s my Letterboxd if you’re a cinephile like moi (though it doesn’t contain everything I’ve watched this year): https://letterboxd.com/lavendercia/.

And yes, I’m in a better place now x

Written on November 20.

Burnout can take the shape of a physical illness. It’s what I feel lying here on my bed on my birthday, sweating, ill, but happy. I’ve realized that happiness, for me, is both some form of control of my narrative and unexpected surprises.

This month, I spent more money than I have in any month this year. I ate 4 burgers (my friend is only aware of 3). I bought skincare. Planned a photoshoot. I didn’t spend impulsively, yet I spent a lot. I try not to think too much about that.

I am happy.

It’s almost cliché at this point when I say every year is better than the last for me, but this year really is. I’ve realized that happiness is what you make it.

Today, happiness is writing myself a love note, looking through my 2023–2025 goals, marking my growth, observing my hesitancy to going all out, planning 2025 with more clarity and hope than I ever have, and racing to my junction to receive birthday packages from my friends.

Happiness, to me, is also letting go. I let go of a lot of things this year, but especially control. And this is hard for someone like me — first daughter, first child, writer, daydreamer, and Ginika-of-all-trades. It’s so much easier to just focus on what is within my control. Some things work out on their own, and others require time, a different strategy or just letting go.

I had different plans than my reality when this year started, but from January till now, different things I thought would never happen to me happened. Happiness is realizing and appreciating when these different things happen in a good way. Who knew I’d be accepted for a writing workshop this year, or get paid good money for my work? Who knew I’d be offered opportunities I didn’t know existed until they came my way? You can only control what you know or can predict.

Note to self: In planning for the new year, leave allowance for good things to happen to you.

I’ve been planning my year since the reality of the ending of 2024 dawned on me, and I’m proud of myself. Yes, there are places I need to touch up on, but I did so good and I’m proud of that.

I’m the happiest when I tick tasks off my to-do list — don’t be alarmed, I add hangout events to my to-do tasks — so I’m spending the rest of the year tying up loose ends and doing soft tasks in preparation for 2025.

I’m happy, and that’s one of the emotions I want to experience more.

May 2025 be better than this year. Amen.

Thanks for reading. Till next time…💜

I’m not a stranger to Simple products — having used their toner and face wash — but this was my first time purchasing the moisturizer. I’m particular about my face products not having any fragrance, and this is one of the things I love about the moisturizer.

Here’s a funny story: My skin was drying out four months ago. My moisturizer had finished for two weeks and I didn’t immediately link the change in my skin texture and glow to dehydration. I saw a cockroach on my bed and concluded that I was under “beauty attack” from cockroaches. So when anybody asked what was wrong with my face, I simply said “cockroach”. 💀 (Un)surprisingly, a week after I bought a moisturizer, my skin glow resurrected. I’m not even sure what lesson I learnt from there, because something has to give in this economy.

The Simple Replenishing Rich Moisturiser claims to last for 12 hours. While I can’t say exactly how long mine lasted, I was moisturized for the better part of the day. I have a normal skin, so I think for dry skin, you’ll need to apply more than two fingers. It’s also too thick for oily skin.

• Packaging and First Impressions

True to its brand name, Simple packages are always simple. Also I don’t have to dip my fingers in to apply, just squeeze the bottle.

• Texture, Scent and Application

No fragrance. Thick consistency. Squeeze to apply.

• Usage Experience
• Results and Overall Experience

Overall, I am very satisfied with this product and am on my second bottle. It’s also one of the most affordable moisturizers in the market currently.

• Pros and Cons

Pros:

1. Very affordable
2. Lightweight
3. Zero fragrance
4. Long lasting
5. Non-comedogenic

Cons:

1. Too light for dry skin
2. No active agents
3. Greasy for acne-prone skin
4. No SPF

• Who Would Benefit Most

Normal and dry skin girlies would enjoy this moisturizer the most. I recommend a lighter moisturizer (Simple also has one) for acne-prone skin.

Rating: 8/10

Tell me: What moisturizer are you currently using?

Read my review of Gavia Sunblock SPF 60 here.

(Written: January 10, 2024)

Someone suggested I review skincare products, and while that might be exhausting, I like the idea—even though I don’t enjoy giving bad reviews. So, here’s the first entry of my (Skin) So Far series.

Welcome to the So Far series! This is my space to talk about all things beauty—skincare, haircare and everything in between. I’ll be sharing my personal experiences, honest reviews and tips that I’ve picked up along the way. Plus, I want to hear from you! I’ll be taking suggestions on topics you want me to cover. I’ll be in the comments!

I won’t lie; I was biased against this product. My friends reassured me countless times, but I just did not like it, even though it was affordable. The Nigerian economy is changing, and I’m adjusting. So I got my first bottle, and let’s just say it was an experience.

At first, I did not like the consistency of the sunscreen. It appeared murky or improperly emulsified? Idk.

I applied it to my face, expecting it to sit on the surface, but it absorbed readily into my skin, which I liked. Since it’s a physical sunscreen, I anticipated it would feel like a glove on my face. LOL.

It felt a bit minty—tingly, even. The sensation lasted for about a minute, and then my face felt normal again. However, the effect intensified over the weeks. It would sting so badly that I had to wash it off, making me wonder if the shelf life isn’t great.

It made me sweat a lot, though not as much as my previous sunscreen. However, I didn’t go out much this time.

Overall, I didn’t feel my best with this sunscreen and won’t be repurchasing. I can’t shake off the thought that it might have expired before I bought it, but that’s it for me. I’m looking for something else and will keep you updated.

Rating: 5/10

Tell me: What sunscreen are you currently loving? 🧴

This is a blog about decision paralysis.

I’ve always known what I wanted to do. Lately, I find myself planning not just for months ahead, but years, and figuring out how to get there is almost as much work as doing. Planning your future is funny and illuminating — you find out that there are a million ways your life could end up, you also discover that there are many things you don’t know. So many. It doesn’t help if you’re a ‘multidimensional creative’ and would hate to have to choose between being a writer, singer, digital marketer or pro-women and sustainable beauty advocate.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from journaling everyday of my life since 2022, it’s that lofty dreams demand mundane days. If I’m going to be a big writer, I have to do the work of actually finishing my stories, editing, research, rejections. Did I say rejections? Oh my God! I’ve been through it. In the words of a tired girl “I dey chop rejection back to back.” Those mundane and long days begin to make sense when the acceptance letters (and cheques) come in.

I want to blame my not finishing up and submitting to some lit mags last month on the rejections, but I’ve been too tired. It seems like there’s always a lot to do and I have to constantly prioritize. It doesn’t help that I can’t choose when to do these things because ✨ life.✨ It’s easier, sometimes, to just take some off-screen time and sleep it off, or let Netflix steal my youth, than face what I have to do.

This month, I’m prioritizing writing, even though it seems like the month itself is prioritizing slipping through my fingers. I have a lot of stories and essays that I know would bang, but time and will elude me. I’m also not going to put pressure on myself to post every month on here; I write almost everyday anyway. It was easier to blog when it wasn’t a task.

Help me choose what to write about next. (Maybe that way, I’ll show up?)

• What music I’m currently listening to.
• How I plan my week/month.
• Any other thing. Tell me in the comment section. 👇🏽

Thanks for reading. I’ll see you with a new blog soon. Till next time…💜

This is August. The 8th month of 12. My friend told me we have four months left in the year, and I almost blocked her. Why would you send my heart racing like that when I trust you with it? I remember vividly, planning our goals for the year in January, but time passes when it wills. It’s left for you to run with it or wait for a better time.

I know (as I have no original experience) that you’re probably putting off a task because you think it will take too much of your time or focus to get done, and you “have a lot going on right now.” My dear reader, you don’t. Take it from me, The Grand Commander of the Procrastinator Battalion: you’ll get it done in no time if you just focus.

I’m not a very good ‘nonchalant-er’. In fact, pretending I don’t care means it’s really consuming me. This means that everything has to be well-thought out for me to feel confident enough to start, but truly, it’s always better to just start. Take a look at your goals for the year. Do you have a course you’ve not finished? (self-sub) Portfolio to arrange? (deep hypocritical sighs*) Content to create? (Screaming in LED light*) Applications to submit? (deep existential sigh*)
Just do it.

One thing that’s helped me is having accountability partners. Extra points if your goals are aligned. Another thing is self-imposed deadlines, but this only works if you have self-respect. I set alarms, reminders, ask my friends to remind me or help get me started, but ‘one last’ Netflix episode may be the bane of my 2024 goals.

If on the other hand, your problem is not procrastination but lack of resources to get started, I have a few ideas for you that I should probably implement myself.

• Get started anyway. Sometimes, the resources we have can get us to the point where we can get the resources we desire/need.
• Be willing to settle. Do you want to write for Zikoko but you don’t have a portfolio or an experience? Start a blog or write for magazines accepting interns or volunteers. Do you want to be a graphydesigner but can’t afford a laptop for Photoshop? Download Canva. You may not be where you want to be, but you’ll be on your way. Fun fact: I’ve wanted to start a blog since I read Americanah as a child. Why didn’t I do it sooner? ✨ I wanted my own website. ✨ Do I have a website now? No.
• Break that goal into sub-goals. Sometimes it looks like a lot because you’ve not started. Break goals to smaller bits leading up to your… main goal. This advice applies to procrastinators too.
• Breaks are okay. Some days, the motivation no just dey. That’s okay, but you need to survive it. When I take a break, I like to relax with things that spark creativity/joy. Mind-blowing movies. Great books. Music. Seafood mukbang videos on TikTok. Pinterest. Window-shop. You don’t have to do everyday; some days, just exist.

Have you identified why you’ve probably not gone far this year? I hope this inspires you to pick up where you left off.

Back to the point of this post — we have four months left in the 2024, what will you make of it? Me, I want to go back to April.

First things first, we just concluded the JUGA BESC Program. If you read my last post, you would know why this is a big deal. I’m grateful to the facilitators, tutors and participants for making this the best comeback for JUGA. 💙

Writer’s numb?

I’ve been writing and submitting more than ever. In fact, I have four poems coming out in The Kalahari Review on Wednesday (July 16th). The date of this article reads June 30th? Yeah, I’m coming to that.

After JUGA BESC ended on June 30th, I was so exhausted and excited, but I made a commitment to publish on Medium, at least, every month. That led me to writing a paragraph of this post and publishing it as unlisted, hoping to complete and make it public the next day. But the reality of holding a bootcamp that over 165 women signed up for and more than half saw through is that, you spend the next few days combining work with preparing certificates, thank-you notes to facilitators and tutors, and writing. I missed two major submission deadlines, thinking they were closing July 30th.

But what I’m really grateful for is the opportunity to do this, and the honour to do it with women and for women!

My numbness right now does not come from not knowing what to write, but from:

1. Finding a home for my work: Perhaps my gusto always comes in the second half of the year, trying to make up for lost times, but I’ve been writing everyday. There’s this paralysis that comes with decision making, when it’s time to submit. How do I know this is a perfect fit for this lit mag/journal? Just from the theme or previous published works?
2. Fiction taking my time: I know, firsthand, that good things take time. But why do I have to write it out? I’m someone that cannot wait until they’re done writing to edit. Editing as I write a blog post or poem may be relatively easy, but with fiction, it submerges me. I need to figure this out.
3. A small sense of uncertainty when my poem is about to be published: Suddenly, I’m not so sure if I should have sent it anywhere or if anyone would like it. My friend says it’s just nerves and it’s normal. I hope so.

Staying sane.

I want to disappear for a few months and come back taller. I’ve spent majority of the year lying on my back, staring at the ceiling and watching January morph into July. Where did all that time go? The rest of the year is looking like writing, singing and finishing incomplete tasks.

• I started an OpenWHO course in December. I will tryyyy to finish it.
• I wrote a few songs. I’m not sure about how to share them with a piano or something. I’ll figure it out.
• I got through the first stage for a major workshop I applied for!!!!!!!!!!!! This is the highlight of my year because they said my work is of “very great quality.” I hope this is not the end of the story.

If you read up till this point, thank you. I hope I write something for July. If I don’t, look out for my published works elsewhere.

I’ve been everywhere. I’ve never been as stressed as I was in May—maybe in my final year in school. I struggled to read two books, work, managed Literary Denizens, survived an emotional breakdown, enjoyed a week of outings with my friend, battled cold, co-hosted a Book DiscUSs on X space featuring Oluwapelumi A. Jegede, edited two newsletters and four blog posts, attended serial meetings, submitted to two publications, pitched to one org and wrote 2 short stories. I also started learning how to produce music on YouTube. I sleep off everytime, exhausted from life, but I try. I spent a lot of money on food. Shared a large tub of ice cream with Marilynomojemu. Took two days off social media. This is where I stopped in my drafts, until June 4th when I found out something more terrible that I’ve not survived yet.

In June, all I ask for is more money. I have a testimony of making more money every month than I did the last, since January. I’d like to keep it like that. I started three blog posts before May ended, but I really had nothing to say, or rather, didn’t know what to say. I’m trying to pitch/submit my more serious writings and overcome my fear of rejection &/ scrutiny. So most of the stuff in my drafts are being developed for submission, and I’ll definitely share here!

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, a lot of remembering. My younger brother said I “remember too much.” I guess that’s an 11-year old’s way of saying I dwell in the past most times. I talk to him a lot about our life before we had him, how much I loved carrying him on my back. I ask if that bothers him, he says no. I ask him a lot of existential questions. Do you like your life? What would you do if I disappeared? I ask because I take solace in the now-ness of his answers. “You won’t disappear,” he says. “Yes nau, I like my life, why not?”

So I send a poem out for submission because why not? I go back to songwriting, because why not? I won’t disappear. I am here. In the midst of all I’m going through, I really do like my life—not enough to be content, but I see the vision. <😂> I believe myself die and there’s nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it.

I told my friend Anyaanwu-ututu to help me with a proposal letter I’d send out to people I think would be a perfect fit for a bootcamp I’m planning. “I’m blank,” I told her. I wasn’t. I was scared. I want to go back to doing things with less thoughts, less what if they say nos. God knows that I’ve gotten a lot of nos in my life, but all I’m grateful for and have are things I persisted for until I got a yes. I don’t know why I’m scared of this particular project, but this was how I felt last year so nothing was done for JUGA.

This is a fuck you to my fears: Dear reader, JUGA is planning a three-day bootcamp for female undergraduates, recent graduates and NYSC members. We’ll be teaching women hard skills that increase their chances of getting and keeping a job. Three days is a short time to learn Excel, AI Prompt Engineering, Canva, Google Workspace etc, but we’ll provide resources and participants will be paired with mentors. There will also be mock interviews to access your composure and a certificate of attendance.

This is a lot, but I’ll figure it out. So tell your sister, friend, cousin, course mate: JUGA is coming. This is a 2023 project and it shouldn’t pass this month. Do it scared, abi how do they say it?

See you soon.

Till next time! 💜

Phew! It’s the weekend and Tems just dropped! It’s Saturday, 27th April and I finally get to listen to it.

One thing everyone knows about me is that I love good music. I also believe that while dancing and having fun are a big part of music, being able to reflect, bask in nostalgia and take history notes is central to music as a medium of storytelling. This is what Beyoncé does with Cowboy Carter (this is the second article I’m writing about this masterpiece btw). Tems does this in her new single, “Love Me JeJe,” at a time where almost everyone and their fathers are dissociating from the genre.

Before I delve into how this song has put me on research mode, let’s talk about what Tems’ new track off her much anticipated album, Born In The Wild, means for people like me. I didn’t grow up in a home that allowed us to listen to secular music. No matter how “clean” the song was, it was banned. So unsurprisingly, I didn’t know a lot of songs and artistes that my schoolmates were familiar with. I discovered Rihanna and Nicki Minaj in boarding school (please don’t ask how) and could barely differentiate between them. A lot of throwback Afrobeats songs I know now were either blasts from a neighbours flat, or passionate renditions by the kids at school. That’s how protected I was from the sound.

My journey to falling in love with Afrobeats is personal and intentional; I didn’t always feel this passionate about the sound like I do now and I’ve been taking my time with new releases and old music, trying to find my type of Afrobeats sound. When I saw the video of the original Love Me JeJe Tems posted, I was cheesing from ear to ear. This is good music and I wish a lot of artistes went back to their roots instead of running away from it. I’m not blind to the benefits(?) of the former, but I’m sure there’s some beauty to be found in making something new (modern?) with our history.

Following my zygomaticus major action this morning— and you must forgive my words for I moonlight as an anatomist— I’ve gone to look for old Afrobeat music. People (I) say music is the closest thing to time travel and I agree like mad. Listening to these songs, I’m convinced I can walk out to buy petrol and it’d be N20. 😂 I may have struck gold and I’m thinking about all the beautiful sounds possible with these masterpieces. Same thing Coco Jones’ did with Lenny Williams’ song in a preview of what sounds like something off a new album? 👀

Have you listened to Tems’ Love Me JeJe? Do you vibe with it? Let me know in the comment section. Also recommend throwback songs to heal my inner child. Thank you!

Till next time 💜…

I think I’ve lived seven lives in my few years on earth; I don’t even remember how I got here. But writing is a way to solidify things for me, to remind myself that I’m that girl. Always. Forever.

Pre-Kwale.

I remember pre-Kwale, my life before we moved towns. I remember wanting to turn 8 so bad so I would proceed to the next class and finally own a copy of Kola Onadipe’s Sugar Girl. I read that book with hungry eyes and vivid imaginations, consuming every line with a hunger only books could sate. I could recite the first chapter and I still know a few lines:
“Raila, Ralia, Ralia,” her mother called,
“Come home, I need you.” But Ralia did not hear.
She was in the village square playing with her friends.
“Raliaaaa,” this time, Ralia heard. She knew her mother’s voice and she obeyed her like a good girl. Ralia was a little girl of 9…

Or something like that.

I sang it like a song. I breathed it. I remember writing my name on the first page when my father bought my books. Those are some of my favourite memories— writing my name in new books.

Kwale.

We moved to Kwale and we had my sister. I remember going to a school where I was celebrated as the most intelligent person. I was in primary three and was the only one who could read Queen Premier fluently. It was weird to me because I came from competition, I thrived in competition, and this new school just… let me be.

There’s something about childhood (or trauma), that makes days blend into months and months into years, that turns time gray. I don’t know what happened, but we moved to branch II of that school. There, my primary four class was the apex class so I was the head girl. During this period, my family changed churches (again). I was old enough to protest. I hated it; the yearly migration to different Pentecostal churches like birds in seasons. I was mostly concerned about learning new songs, using new hymns, dressing differently, unlearning and relearning prayer patterns. In this church, we did not dance to drums, or clap after sermons, or flog satan with brooms, or send thunder to our enemies, pray with olive oil or watch Ben 10. During this period, my mum cut my hair. I wrote state and federal exams to go to boarding schools in Evwreni or Ibusa, but ended up going to a private boarding school in Ashaka. This is where my favourite part began.

Ashaka.

I started my new school as a day student. I made a few friends and ended up becoming a boarder in my second term. Looking back, I wonder, why did I feel so mature? Why did I think I could handle myself? I washed my own clothes, got nightmares, swapped fish breakfast meals for Wednesday Moin-Moin lunches, got bullied, practiced how to flog future students with my seat mate. I’m writing about my boarding school experience because somehow, my brain shuts down a chapter whenever it’s done and writing is my way of remembering.

Leaving Ashaka.

I left the school. I cried so bad, but my grades were falling (and by poor, I mean not top five anymore) and there was no time to have extra lessons after coming back from school from across town. At least this was what I told my friends. In reality, my siblings were growing and my school was expensive. My university school fees were almost equivalent to the fees my parents were paying for a JSSII girl then. Think about it. It didn’t matter to me because I loved my school, I built friendships, had a routine, three boys I was crushing on (what were their names?!) and a whole new life at school. So I vowed not to make new friends in my new school, so I don’t break my friends’ hearts. As God would have it (speaks in Nigerian-mother-testimon-ese*) some people from my old school that lived in Kwale came to my new school. Apart from the cost, many parents began considering distance and the safety of “travelling” to school everyday. My new school was budding when I arrived, but had impeccable standards. I took third position my first term there. People started to pay attention to me. I started going for competitions; winning some, getting thank-you-for-coming gifts for others. I wouldn’t take first position until JSIII mock exams. From there, I topped class till I graduated, and as overall best in science and art, an award created for me. I met my English teacher a few weeks after graduation and he told me he goes back to read my exam essays and short stories. I knew I was destined for great things. I was sure I’d be a doctor by 21.

Real Life: Part I

I left secondary school, taught in a small secondary for a while, deferred an admission to study anatomy, wrote jamb again and got anatomy, tried to transfer, got scammed, got an apartment, became depressed, started my literary community, Literary Denizens, then the lockdown happened.
At the beginning, I was writing short poems on my WPS app and sharing them on my WhatsApp status. I lost everything because they were not backed up. I started learning how to sew. Months passed and I went back to school hoping to graduate in 2 years. LOL

Real Life: Part II

I started reading for med school exams, because I was sure my transfer would happen. I told someone I wanted to do school politics but only after my transfer worked; he told me to do it anyway. “People will adjust,” he said. I met my departmental president, told him I wanted to buy a declaration form for the position of the Director of Information . “I have great ideas,” I told him. He said no. They had some persons already. They don’t think I can do it. Few weeks later, I found out that the faculty was preparing for elections. I applied for Director of Welfare. Nobody knew me. I mean people did, but I didn’t know to play the long game of visibility. I didn’t even tell my friends, they found out. Basically, people vote for who they see, not necessarily those with good intentions, and I lived in my head. I lost. I’d never lost anything I put my mind to. I went home that day because I had a scholarship exam to write that weekend. I lost that too. I went back to school deflated as fuck.

However, I got “pity connections”. A few people reached out to me after the election. “We like you,” they said. “Assuming you told me you were contesting, I’d have gathered my boys for you,” “Fine girl, so you like politics and you don’t greet me? Here, have my number,” “Come to ETF hall on campus, we’re having a meeting for future 2022 contestants.” I joined the House of Congress the year I lost. That made me happy. I tried to plan better for my “comeback”. I applied for Vice President of my faculty and Director of Information of Delta state students association, AAU chapter. That was the most chaotic and fun time of my school life. If I could do it again, I’d probably do politics more. I won both positions, uncontested, thanks to those that believed in me and those that were scared. 💀

Oh, my transfer didn’t work, if you didn’t already guess that. Thank God fr. Nothing worse than clarity after commitment.

Chronicles of a Doings Babe.

I did my JUGA project, got a consistent job, started the gym, got gigsss, bought lots of books, worked on my soon-to-be-published thesis, graduated, got another job, and another one, my department misplaced my project result and gave me a rubbish score, and here we are. In my childhood bedroom, wondering how we got here.

Right!

Someone asked how I stop myself from getting imposter syndrome. I don’t try to stop the feeling, it’s going to come. I immerse myself in multiple projects, do them audaciously, remember that my life is what I make it and that they are people doing what I do in bigger places with better pay. I go into projects/pitch for jobs/advertise my skills/demand better pay knowing I deserve to be there and I do my best. I probably should apply this to my writing and singing life. 🫠

That’s it. I came to rant but ended up reminiscing, and if I don’t get 500 claps for getting this personal, I’m deleting. 💀

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Missed you too. Ttyl. 💜