Maybe something happened the previous night, or the rain is falling too hard and I know I won't be able to go out. Or a bad dream I haven't stopped thinking about.

Sometimes, I just think for no reason: "When is it going to get better?" It wasn't as if anything happened to me. I just happened to stand for three seconds with my hands on my waist, and that thought came flying.

And then, like that, hope is gone.

But hope? It's also quick to come back.

Someone compliments you, and suddenly, you feel strongly within yourself that you're going to have everything you've ever wished for. Because a man paid your transport fare and was extremely kind to you, you believe the world is going to be a better place. You, who thought of jumping into the river yesterday. Or because you just listened to a really great song you've never listened to before, or you have your favourite artist on repeat, you suddenly know and feel you can achieve all your dreams, including ones you may have buried.

I think hope is everywhere.

The people we're with, the circumstances we find ourselves in, the environment, our body postures, the way we're received: they all determine how we hope and for how long. It may go away sometime, unconsciously or even forcefully, but embrace it again when it comes back, in good music, in kind gesture's, self-love, fresh air...

Don't push it away. ❤️

Hi, gorgeous bird,

I've searched the web countless times today, but I'm still not sure what to call you.

Wild scarlet tanager? Malimbe? Sunbird?

No, certainly not a violet turaco.

I just don't want to give you a name that's not as gorgeous as you.

Red and black. You really stand out.

But why do you like visiting our farm?

I saw you yesterday, like I do every once in a while. You stood out, perched on a corn stalk, while I sat down to take a good look at you.

I see you love corn. Or am I mistaken?

Because I saw you on a corn stalk a year ago, too.

Probably, you love its scent because you always stick to the leaves, not letting go.

Then again, it makes me wonder what the colour green has to do with you.

Green, red, and black? They contrast.

But where do you even come from?

The first day I saw you, I was merely running an errand, but I had to stop in my tracks.

You were in someone's farm, sitting on their plant. I can't remember if it was the same corn.

So I named you a "ladybird" under my breath. Just randomly. I thought your elegance was the kind that belonged to a female, and your colour was stunning.

But as I searched minutes ago, I realized I might have given you the name of an insect, which you are not. You are a bird!

I'd probably never get your actual name, or I might just keep guessing along the way. But that doesn't spoil the fact that, in a farm full of bushes, snakes, and debris, a beautiful being like you paid us a visit.

So I'll keep searching.

I'm sorry I made a mistake. I don't have a picture of you. Each time, I find you while trying to survive, so I just give you a long stare and pass by.

Yesterday, too, I was by the tap fetching water, looking like a fool in my old wrapper.

I'd love to show you a portrait of yourself captured through my lenses, along with this letter, if I can get through to you.

So I hope you pay us a visit soon.

Maybe then, you could tell me your name and rub off on me some of your elegance and grace.

Preferably, you should visit our house, not the farm.

The corn stalks would have dried up, and the bushes might have grown tall by then.

I would offer you any meal you wanted, drive you around on my hand in the hope that your colour would blind the eyes of those ugly bugs whose buzzes sound like noise.

I wonder if you sing beautiful melodies like the nightingale and the mockingbird. I bet I'd hear you when you pay us another visit.

Please do.

While I wake up every single day thinking things are the same, I remember that somewhere in this world, a black bird exists, a green bird exists, a yellow bird exists, a red bird exists, and a red-and-black bird exists, too.

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But the dilemma I'm about to explain, and more, was something I experienced in 2022. Or something similar, at least. Which makes me wonder if my habit of worrying about the future didn't begin recently. Maybe it began then.

I remember being newly introduced to a music group called BTS in 2022. I couldn't follow much about their music or the group itself because they were going away for military service.

I think that was going to happen in early 2023.

Meanwhile, here in Abuja, Nigeria, I had already done my post-screening and was waiting for admission into my choice of institution. Of course, as an aspirant, I knew almost everything about my school. From the courses they offered to the academic calendar that ran like it was being pursued.

Three semesters in a year, kwa? So I sat down to calculate everything.

As I said, I have a habit of worrying about the future. And I realized I was going to graduate in 2026. BTS would also be returning to their music careers around that time.

But I didn't let my calculations end there.

Suddenly, I started imagining what 2026 would be like for me. Mind you, I was only hoping. I hadn't even received an admission update yet, but I was already wondering:

So, I would have graduated by then. What would life after school be like?

Would I still love BTS as much as I did, or would life have made me lose interest in music altogether?

Would I have become more emotionally mature and financially independent by then?

How would my face look after those years in school? Would I still look like myself? Would I recognize my own face?

And would BTS still produce great music?

As I sat with those thoughts, I realized they were becoming more about me, even though music had triggered them in the first place.

Fast-forward to 2026, and I'm now living in the phase I pondered over that year.

I've graduated, but I'm not so sure about the financially independent and emotionally mature part. BTS are back, producing great music. And I love them even more than I did in 2022 because, back then, I was only just discovering their music.

This post certainly doesn't have all the answers to the questions I had in 2022.

But it amazes me whenever I remember that the place I wondered about four years ago is now where I am.

I thought about this version of my life before I knew what it would feel like to live it. I wondered who I would become, what I would still love, and whether I would recognize myself after all those years.

Some of those questions have answers now. Others, not so much.

And if you gave me a pen and paper, I'm not sure I'd have the courage to write a letter to the person I was four years ago.

What would I even tell her?

Maybe my worries in 2022 never really had an end.

Have you ever looked back and realized you were worrying about the season of life you're now living?

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Anyway, thank you for reading. ❤️

There have been so many nights in my life. Dark nights, hopeful nights, especially burdensome nights.

So, most times, I'm not happy about "nights" because I just want them to end quickly. Maybe it's because I'm anxious about the new day.

Is there a specific night I wish I could return to? I'm not sure. But I do remember a night when I was most satisfied with myself. I'm sure I slept soundly. I'm sure I didn't have a headache or think about money.

Because, for the first time in my life, I went out to buy a plate of rice, stew and fish that I'd never cooked for myself. For emphasis and clarity, I don't think I've ever had enough money to cook such delicious stew and fish myself.

But that night, I was so excited. I walked to a restaurant in the hostel with my food flask and bought a meal for ₦1,500. And I ate it too.

I was so happy that afterwards, I boasted to my mom about it. How I bought a meal with my hard-earned money. How I wish I could go back to that night and experience it all over again.

I'm very sure I'd be able to sleep soundly again.

Thank you for reading. See you soonest.❤️

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1. I love cars

I mean, I can just stand on the street and be staring at a fine car. My friends almost beat me up one time because someone drove a classy pink car into our faculty and I kept giggling. 😅 Maybe a Hyundai one day. Until then.

2. I love artworks.

You know, paintings and all. I thought I was just claiming to until I entered someone's art studio and didn't want to leave. It felt so strange and divine. 🥹 Wow!

3. I love taking screenshots of random people or random things.

I think this one happens because those pictures communicate the kind of person I want to be. I could take a screenshot of a random person smiling and post it on my status because I think the person's smile is beautiful. Omo! If not for storage space... 🥲

4. I love lyrics.

Most times, I can't listen to a song without singing along with the lyrics. Not only because I'll sing rubbish, but because it feels incomplete. For non-English songs, I have to know the translations. 😮‍💨

5. I love kulikuli.

A little too much, to the point that I don't drink garri with groundnuts. 🫡 I almost never do, except there is no kulikuli available. I prefer to break the kulikuli inside my garri. Like why?

6. I love thrillers.

Psychological thrillers oo. Mystery thrillers oo. 😌

I can easily not complete a romance series, but I'd never do that with a thriller series. I think it's because I'm always agitated and curious, and it kind of tasks my brain.

7. I love complete grammatical sentences.

Like, if I make a mistake or I feel my grammar isn't right, I don't mind editing the same message till I'm satisfied. For a GEN-Z, I almost don't know any abbreviations or acronyms. Omo! 😭

8. I love engineering, or engineers as a whole.

I feel like if I were told to study a science course, I'd choose engineering. I don't have a particular reason for this one oo. 😮‍💨

9. I love music.

I presently have 1,000+ liked songs on Spotify. 🎧 Since 2023. I don't know how my Spotify Wrapped this year would turn out, but I'm looking forward to a lot. Music is on another level for me. It reminds me of poetry, and it affects the kind of songs I listen to.

10. I love dance.

I watch dance videos like there's no tomorrow, but I can't throw one single step. Except I'm alone sha. I can try. 💃🏿

11. I love the violin.

If I'm to learn any musical instrument and the violin is part of the package, I'd choose it. 🎻

12. I love anime.

13. I love fangirling.

BTS made me a fangirl. Through them, I get to listen to K-pop partially. I love how they're able to communicate with millions in the world despite being a non-English group. They sing beautiful lyrics, and they are so "themselves" in front of the camera. I kind of resonate with their background, so they inspire me, and I'm sure I'm one of those who would be screaming their names at their concerts. 💜

14. I love nature.

I think a little too much. Flowers. Trees. Mountains. Stuff like that. 🌼 One day, I was just coming back from church in the evening, and despite being tired, I settled down to start taking pictures of the moon oo. Can you imagine?

15. I love photography.

16. I love cartoons.

I’d still watch PJ Masks if I'm opportune to. I've been so carried away that I haven't been able to watch Zootopia 2, which has been on my phone. I need recommendations, though. Please, if you have any, I'd appreciate you sharing. 🤗

17. I love my own space.

Not necessarily being alone, but being in a situation where I'm not crowded. Like my own room, or a room where it's just me, or maybe people are there too but they're in their own corner. Or maybe I'm somewhere and there's no one sitting around me. That's my space, and I feel comfortable. 🤍

18. I love face caps.

In fact, physically, many people know me for this. If I can, I'd get a face cap in all colours. Sometimes, even though my hair is new and tidy and beautiful, I just want that face cap on my head. 🧢

19. I love black and white.

I feel comfortable not being a colour person or not having a favourite colour. It just gives me security and... peace. 🕊️

20. I love designs.

Graphic design. Fashion design. Canva design..

Pencil craft. Whatever. Designs have a way of bringing ideas, passions and feelings to life. They just make me happy. 🤗

21. I love my faith.

I can't imagine not being a Christian because there are so many miracles in my life. They are so uncountable, writing a biography or something like that probably won't be enough. 🙏🏿

22. I love myself.

Genuinely, I do. But sometimes it doesn't feel that way, I know. The way I talk down to myself, the way I scold myself, the way I feel so afraid and uncertain about everything and nothing at all. But from the depth of my heart, I wish myself well.

I know I'd do great, sincerely. ❤️

If I'm asked what I love or the things I love, it's so easy to say, "I love writing" or "I love reading." As you can see, I even refused to add them. But when I started recording my voice, I just felt like talking about these things, and I did. I wasn't able to get a full list then.

But today, I compiled the list while playing some music alone in the house. And before you ask, there's nothing special about the number. It's just where the list of the things I love ran out.

Take your time reading. And yes, tell me which one relates with you.

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72 Hours

My head would pound for 48 hours like music, but terrific,

And reminded me that I wasn't meant to look at the future.

But I wanted to, even if I'd scream "my head" for days on a bed.

There were 48 opportunities scattered everywhere,

But I just had to pick the one that would raise me a 100,000, though I would lose my head.

It would pound on my left, and I would die, but I had to say yes.

Because this story if written would earn me a sign-out party.

That one? It was a future that guaranteed success.

But with it came a life's decision,

I should keep awake for 72 hours to write my destiny on paper.

Isn't it unfair?

How we have to lose some to have some.

With it came fears, shuddering thoughts that I won't have a beauty sleep for years.

"But I die here," I said. "If I can just hold out for these moments I dread."

Because God is my muse. I can write these 6 articles and still feel good.

And I began. And I did. And I believe my future would be more happier indeed.

But really, I'm sure my skull bled, it just couldn't tell.

A month after, when success came with a bubbly account balance and a fine print, the same head swelled.

Maybe it's just that I didn't know it could ever forget the pain it felt.

Looking back, it was a hard step I took with a God I've never physically known for a probability that I'd either win or lose.

I wrote this piece specifically for a poetry contest whose theme was something around the leap of faith. A step we took this year that required us to believe before we could see the outcome.

It wasn't an easy piece to write because I wrote from my own experiences and everything in-between. I didn't make the top ten.

But that isn't really the main thing. Being able to redirect this poem back to Substack is. I didn't want it to wither away in a document because it didn't find a home someplace else.

When that home is a place I built, ink and ink, with pen and paper, I think it deserves to live here. So this is me sharing a piece of my life here again.

Dear you, thank you for reading. ❤️

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Well, I've always known about the series, but a particular writer on Facebook made it a point of duty to draw my attention by writing a sweet review about it every four market days. Her reason being that it's recommendable. And her second-to-last reason always being that the villain is hot.

Really?

Anyway, recently, I was deciding on an action thriller to watch and I suddenly remembered it, typed the name "Trigger" on Movie Box, downloaded all the episodes and began to watch.

The first question I asked myself was: what would make an ordinary man want to shoot another man with a gun?

It's a funny question, and it's even funnier that I had to think of something silly when I had many things of mine to deal with.

But for a clear understanding of my question, I'd sum up the plot in a few sentences:

In a country that is known for a strict firearm ban, that is, only the military bears firearms in their possession, firearms become suddenly and widely available to everybody.

The scary thing was, guns. All types of guns were being delivered to citizens as packages, which began to lead to massive gun violence, massive shootings, illegal firearms trade, and any crime that involves a gun you can think of.

They didn't ask for it. They didn't pay for it.

Rifle, M1, M2, K1, K2...

They were given for free.

However, when you think of the word "trigger", you immediately think of a gun, right? But as I went deeper into the series, I thought that wasn't what the plot was about. At least, not entirely.

Because you can get a gun and choose not to use it.

You can have a person you badly want to kill, but then, because of your conscience, you choose not to do it.

So I decided to interpret "trigger" the way our so-called hot villain did.

He said it.

He saw that ugly reason and desire in a man that would make him want to use a gun, and he took advantage of it by sweeping guns into the same country that banned firearms.

A country that didn't see the boys who were being bullied by students and ignored by teachers.

A country that didn't see the greediness of a worker to take over his employer's business.

A country that didn't see a woman's grief and desperation to avenge her son's death.

A country that didn't see a student who had a mental disorder but wasn't confined to a psychiatric ward.

The villain. He saw those desires and simply used them to cause chaos.

Those were all desires in their hearts that were probably known to a few people around them, or didn't appear to be strong enough to be known to others. So the availability of those guns gave them an escape.

And you know that's one thing with vices: it fulfils desires. Virtues are often hard work; a product of discipline, but vices...

I thought about them a lot. You see, most times, people think the problem is the vice itself: alcoholism, fornication, lying... name them. I'm just giving an instance here. But those vices will always exist.

You can't get rid of them, because who are you to?

But the problem is mostly on you, and I, and us.

In Trigger, there was a woman who didn't use her gun. She returned it in the end.

But this poor woman was bullied at work. She could have shot with it, because even as a viewer, I was pissed and vengeful on her behalf, but she didn't. And I hink that's self-control.

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Just the way you have the urge to drink, but you don't; I choose to view the plot of this series that way. In the end, it's our self-control against these vices. It is us who decide if these vices are dominant or not, because just like the woman who killed the journalist with a gun because one of his articles ruined her family, there are many others who won't reason the consequences.

Hmmmm...

And I also wished we would think carefully about our desires before we pull the trigger. Whatever that is. It might not be a gun.

Think carefully; will I still pull the trigger? Should I?

By the way, it had an open ending. And I liked the villain too. I thought he had a cool vibe. And a really nice long hair.

A poem:

Trigger?

No. Don't think of a gun.

What of the disgusting feeling in your heart?

That has you choking at night.

Once blown, whose cover would hunt you right back?

Coup d'état—thus, many would die.

And you too, for not squeezing it in tight.

Presently, I have nothing to write about. Not because nothing significant is happening in my life. In fact, you could say too much is happening, and I can barely keep track of it long enough to find a story in any of it.

But there is this one.

It has been sitting somewhere in my mind for a while now, strangely asking to be written. Maybe because it was peculiar. Or maybe because I hadn't experienced such a beautiful kind of situation in a while.

A situation where, for once, it felt like my name had spoken for me.

Angel

When you hear that name, what comes to your mind?

Nothing, probably. It is just a name. Don't mind my question.

But two weeks ago, I went somewhere to get something important done. Before leaving home, I called the person in charge to make sure everything was ready. My plan was simple: get there, pay, collect my things and leave for the other place where I had an appointment.

I was trying not to waste time.

Then the man lied to me.

Over the phone, he kept telling me everything would be ready when it wasn't.

So I arrived and discovered that the bulk of my work was only just beginning.

You can imagine my disappointment.

My appointment would be delayed. The official I needed to meet might leave before I got there. And my house is far enough that the thought of making another trip because someone hadn't done what they promised was particularly irritating.

But I waited.

And waited.

Eventually, after I had pressured him enough, he took me to the place where the remaining part of my work was supposed to be completed.

Omo!

They hadn't even started.

That was when I discovered that the man wasn't actually doing everything himself. He handled one part of the work and collaborated with other people who had the expertise for the rest. He would collect the finished work, hand everything over to me as though he had done it all himself, and sort out their payment afterwards.

A very convenient arrangement. Fine.

Except that, in my case, everybody had disappointed everybody.

They had disappointed him.

He had disappointed me.

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At that point, though, I wasn't interested in understanding the arrangement anymore. I just wanted the people who had my work to do it fasttttt. So I entered the workshop with him. He explained my ordeal to the people inside, told them I had been waiting for a long time and asked them to hurry up.

Then he told them my name. And I think that was where everything changed.

“Angel?”

“Are you Angel?”

“Na Angel be dis oo.”

“We have an Angel in our midst.”

“Angel Gabriel or Michael?”

“Give Angel seat abeg.”

“Aah! Angel. Wow.”

“An Angel cannot be standing nau.”

“Na you suppose spread wings for us.”

There were four men actively working in the room. Two middle-aged men and two younger ones who were probably around my age. There were also other customers around my age waiting for their own work. People came in, checked on things, left and returned. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Yet somehow, these men began treating me as though I had arrived from somewhere they had been expecting me.

And, if I'm being honest, I felt a little special.

Maybe I was.

They found me a backless chair and placed it under the small fan that was blowing what could generously be called air.

But I was sweating profusely.

As an Angel, they decided I needed fresh breeze.

Fresh where? But I didn't say that out loud.

I was tired. I was anxious. Every passing minute was another minute closer to missing the person I was supposed to meet.

Still, I was grateful.

There is something disarming about being treated with kindness when you are already irritated.

I sat down.

Soon, my back began to ache because the chair had no proper support. The heat became unbearable. I could feel a headache threatening to arrive.

And each time I turned around to ask about my work, someone would reassure me.

“It will soon be ready.”

They showed me the files.

They showed me what they had already started. But I kept looking around at the amount of other people's work they had piled up.

Hehehe.

“I have to leave here by 3pm oo. I have to meet the man today. My place far. Ah no fit come back.”

And they would answer:

“No be Angel you be? You will meet the man today.”

Soon, the two younger men became my buddies.

They worked. And in between all of that, they kept hyping me for being the Angel who had decided to visit their workshop that day.

By mid-afternoon, I finally complained about the heat. SUFFOCATION!

The fan above me was mostly performing the role of a fan. It wasn't really increasing or decreasing anything.

And I knew they knew.

Still, I pointed it out.

A few minutes later, one of the guys bought pure water and groundnuts. For self. But they decided to share with me sha.

But I sulked.

“Na malt una suppose give me.”

But we ate from the same leather anyway.

Me wey dey hungry.

One of the younger men packed a generous amount of groundnuts into my hands.

I looked at it.

It was a lot.

Especially for someone who has never really understood the hype around cooked groundnuts.

Seriously. I still don't.

But I kept throwing them in my mouth.

When I finished one, I’d carefully put the shell in my bag. In shame, because I couldn't see a dustbin anywhere.

Then I realized that, at this rate, my bag was going to become a groundnut-shell storage facility.

So I asked oo.

“Throw am for floor,” they told me. “We go sweep after work.”

I said okay. And we went back to eating and gisting. The funny thing is, I can't remember what we talked about.

We made faces. We teased one another. We made jokes that were probably not funny enough to survive outside that particular workshop. Finish.

But I remember laughing.

I remember eating.

I remember feeling strangely comfortable.

I was tired, but I wasn't tired.

I was still anxious about the time, but I was also enjoying myself.

I was enjoying this grand treatment that, as far as I could tell, wasn't being given to the other customers. Soon, they handed me another sachet of chilled pure water to cool down the groundnuts.

I was just happy I wasn't going to suffocate to death.

Omo! I completely ignored the sports bottle I had brought from home, which was still full of water. And somewhere in the heavens, perhaps, someone decided I had eaten enough. Because soon after, one of the older men passed my work to the younger ones for the second and final part.

“We told you.”

“Na your own we dey do since.”

“Na Angel you be. Your work na sharp sharp we dey do am.”

And they started hyping me again.

About fifteen minutes later, with bits of groundnut still in my mouth, I collected my work. They still praised me again and thanked me for being patient.

One of the guys accused the other of giving me an unfair amount of groundnuts simply because I was an Angel.

I laughed. I walked out smiling actually. Laughing.

Saying goodbye with one hand, and using the other hand to hold my work.

I know I may have been slightly delusional to insist that I received princess treatment.

I also know that I still left their workshop after 3pm.

I didn't get any special discount for almost spending the all day there.

I didn't collect their contacts either.

And I honestly don't think I'll have a reason to need their services again, perhaps for many years. So we might never meet again.

But I wasn't angry when I left. Instead I was grateful.

I remember thinking that I wished I could have paid them myself.

But I had an arrangement with the other man, and he would eventually settle them.

So there was nothing left for me to do except remember them when I think of that work they did for me.

And every time they come to mind, I say a little prayer.

As an Angel,

I pray that they succeed. In the work that causes them to share such kindness in forms of groundnuts and water. ✨

1. Mom promised me Chicken Republic.

I heard cakes there are good too, but what do I do? My tongue is salivating and I don't have money.

So I want to be a fool and eat all of my mom's money.

2. I hate the way they look at me.

From the windows when I pass with wrinkled clothes. Not like they have an iron in their home, but they borrow and pose in front of Hyundais

Hypocrites!

They don't know I was once called "African Queen" among my peers.

Thrones and Kingdoms aside, all I need do is get a crown on my head.

3. When I close my eyes, I see dead men falling.

When they're open, I see fluorescent, flowers, and clear skies.

With my eyes, I play magic tricks on the streets, admire dragonflies, and dogs.

I think there are some hidden beautiful things I've not seen. Maybe Dubai tomorrow, Austria next.

I just want to keep my eyes open.

Who knows? I could have a life by day dreaming.

4. I know my friend can't survive without me.

She buys me noodles because my face inspires her hustle.

In her words, my face lights up her world, so I get paid for doing nothing.

Just smiling.

I thought of disappearing, then she would too. We would both disappear. And I'd never get to make her happy.

And I wouldn't get paid for nothing.

5. They say he gives and takes away as he pleases.

They say it is his will.

So I decided to my will too.

Which is to be like him. To have that power to give and takeaway, As I please.

I searched my poetry document but I couldn't find a poem for today, but I thought that what you needed to hear may not be "stay strong" or "you're enough."

We hear them all the time. So instead of searching, I started writing these because if I'm asked why I want to live a good long life, these are the reasons I'd give.

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I know there reasons are ridiculous, but maybe you and I can choose to live through the food we put in our stomach, our irritation and anger. Our love for friendship and beauty, ambition, and even God, would make us want to live longer.

You see, you wanting to live doesn't need a grand reason. You may not want to live because you want to be the future president of your country. You may want to live because you want to eat cake next time or because of the friend who loves your face.

All the same you chose to live, and that's all that matters.

So today, I hope you make the decision to live a very longgg life. Share this newsletter with someone who needs it today.

With love,

Angel. ❤️

I don't know what triggered it, but around that time, I had severe migraines that lasted for three days.

Like, when I thought I would be alright soon, it prolonged.

Three whole days.

I found myself taking paracetamol and ibuprofen at intervals, because I forget those things don't work anymore.

The worst part was that it stopped me. I couldn't attend classes, neither could I pick up my phone to inform my course rep or anybody would relate the information. Because I was still thinking of tests and assignments I would miss.

My friends, who were with me in the same hostel in the previous session, were now in another hostel that session.

It was difficult to reach them.

They are people who are barely online, so if I needed them urgently, I had to walk to their hostel or call.

Now, around that same time, we had back-to-back classes, assignments and this and that. Everybody was trying to submit one thing or the other. Like I said earlier. Everybody was just tense. Everybody was just busy. Some would rant on the group and disappear.

So I understood why my friends weren't active online. Calls weren't working either because of the bad network. Trust MTN and Airtel for that.

So I was in my room, suffering alone.

I didn't really tell any of my roommates because I didn't want anybody asking me, “Angel, what's doing you?” While some who noticed simply didn't care.

If anything, I wanted my friends to care for me because they knew my history. They have seen it happen to me before, and they cared for me.

But they weren't there. Until the third day.

I called my friend, one of the two, and she picked immediately. And just as I was narrating my ordeal, I heard her tell my other friend in the background to hasten up with some food and money because they would be coming to my room immediately.

I heard her clearly, and I was relieved that at least they were coming to my aid. Earlier, I had already another dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol with little food because I had none.

“At least I would eat something,” I thought.

And yes, within 30 minutes, they were in my corner of the room, preparing custard and buying bread for me. They still brought paracetamol though, which I drank after the food.

I've never felt so loved by my mates in such a long time. They helped me wash my unclean plates, cleared my corner and helped me with some money. Which I had to beg to pay back with time.

And soon, fortunately, I started getting myself again.

Then we started talking about it.

What I went through.

And that's when I realized my friends, the same ones who had just helped me, were angry with me. The first one I called just sat down while listening to the second one. She said she wanted to have a serious discussion with me regarding what just happened. So I layed on the bed while she talked.

They said I wasn't supposed to do that.

Despite the pain I was in, I was supposed to find a way to their hostel to find them. When they weren't picking my calls, I was supposed to find them at all costs. I shouldn't have stayed in my room like that with no help.

And that's when it occurred to me what they meant.

What if something had happened to me and nobody knew?

What would be my excuse?

That my mouth was sealed and I couldn't cry out for help?

Was my leg tied that I couldn't muster up the strength to walk to their hostel?

Was I too comfortable dying there that I couldn't beg for help?

I realized that no matter how bad my situation was, I still had no excuse. One part of me thought accusingly: so everything is still my fault?

Another part of me answered the question: yes, it is.

I had no excuse to give my friends.

So I just kept apologizing.

That conversation made me realize this. Sometimes, when things get really bad, we don't just lose strength. We also stop looking for a way out.

It could be because it has happened so many times, so it's basically not new. So we stay there with it. We stop asking and trying.

And somehow, we begin to accept the situation as if there is nothing else we can do.

But I had to find hope for myself. I had to find a solution, irrespective of what I was going through at that moment.

Because nothing was too small.

No, I didn't want to feel that pain.

But I had become comfortable in it without knowing.

Maybe if I had gone to meet them earlier, I would have treated the migraine attacks on time. Maybe it would have lasted two days instead of three. Or one day instead of two.

And maybe this is what happens to many of us. We complain, but we haven't taken that extra step.

We know something isn't working, but we give up before we've reached the end.

You see, there's always something we can do. There's always something extra we could try.

Sometimes, we just don't know it yet.

That time, I was dying and I didn't know I was the one killing myself.

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This is a temporary post because it's deeply personal to me, but I just thought to share because I wanted you to read this story, and if possible learn a few lessons in between.

Thank you for reading.

Please, check up on your loved ones.

And if you're the one struggling, please don't stay alone with it. You don't have to figure everything out by yourself. ❤️

I remember looking at my result and questioning my life's choices, and what all my studying amounted to. Studying is difficult. You would have to battle a million other things like health, environment, and money, just to get that one thing "studying,” done. It breaks my heart sometimes.

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That one time I had issues, and I felt like everything was against me, I began to wonder if I had a problem. Maybe the school had a problem with me? But when I began the process of solving the issue, I realized how much school and a good result mattered to me. I knew then that it was all for the best and that, at the end, I would be the one holding the certificates.

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Nowadays, people take academic certificates like it's child's play, but like I saw in a post one time, "let nobody deceive you. Academic validation is valid like mad." It's not even about the certificates now. It is the journey. It is the fight to attend lectures, and it is the fight to stay committed for the duration of four to six years. And guess what? It is often easier said than done.

I've sat in classrooms where the air was so suffocating because of the number of students in attendance. I've had to back down from assignments and tests and walk out of lectures because of terrible migraines. For those few days, I'd forget I was a student. Then, I had to think about myself and my comfort. But when those few days passed, I knew the journey to bagging a degree had to resume. Why? My coursemates were already ahead of me, and I felt burdened. Suddenly, the thought of getting an "F" screamed in my face. The thought of failing over and over again. Seriously, I think the thought of failure is scarier than failure itself.

In the community I live in, almost every household has an undergraduate, a graduate, or a university aspirant. So, some may think it is all the same, but students die, students drop out, students are expelled, students fail, and some are stuck in school for years.

So, yeah, outside the university gate, when coming in as a fresher, it might seem like your turn, a new environment for your dream lifestyle. A fresh start.

It is not.

It is a good fight that is worth giving your all. It is one that is worth winning. But you might not take it seriously at the beginning. It may even feel ordinary, like something you can handle without much thought. Because schooling is something you're used to.

Until those critical moments come.

Until you begin to feel like you're losing.

And then, perhaps, you realize that you've been a soldier all along.

Fighting a GOOD fight.

Just a few days ago, we were all clamouring for graduation, posting memes and all, saying "Class of 2026" and "graduate in a bit" every ten-ten seconds.

But graduation has come and passed.

Reality has dawned on everyone.

See, the thing is, in this university life, there would be pressure to be selfish, to do things alone. And it's alright. This is not to change anybody, but as I was reflecting sometime, I thought about a particular person, most likely an undergraduate, who would remember my name as I leave.

I remember a student who continuously thanked me for giving her an opportunity at spoken-word poetry, even though I only did what I could as an executive in a creative association.

Aah! My lecturer who started calling me out because he kept seeing my content on Facebook and realized I was his student. A never-ending and welcoming "Angel" on his lips whenever he lays his eyes on me.

What about the pages of journals published by my department that include my name?

Oh! You thought I would only mention human beings. You lie.

As an undergraduate picks up the journal in two years' time, what would they see?

But I hope they find peace in my words.

I also thought about my fellowship members and students who turned colleagues.

This particular one brings me to a project which led a few students and me to form a team. I haven't met them all; I've only met the lead once. But as I leave them behind, I could see joy in their eyes, aside from their many "congratulations." For impact, for relationship, for simply knowing.

And I cry.

Because I know "Class of 2026" would be mentioned in my department. Of course, they would make mention of us generally, as a warning or inspiration to the levels below.

But what about as a person?

Do you think someone out of them would say my full name on their lips?

Or remember the places I've been?

Because I don't think it's enough to have existed or to have made a physical presence. That's good too, but there should be something we leave behind.

And I did. Even just a little. I know I did.

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Thank you for reading. ❤️

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Up till this very moment, I don't know why those GST courses are compulsory, and if they are, why is such low-unit courses so exhausting?

These courses did me bad. And many others like me. On one occasion, in one of our GST courses, we were told that our test would be CBT.

You see... unnecessary stress?

And imagine the whole department having to write the test. With computer.

Okay, good and fine. We agreed, and a test timetable was drawn out for the whole school. Every student checked to know the exact date and time for their department to write the test, and like that, the D-day arrived.

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I stayed off food that morning, deciding not to eat because the test for our department was supposed to be at 8 a.m. I thought I could quickly rush there and get back home before I had breakfast. Omo! It was when I arrived at the venue that I realized my style was minimal. My friends and some of my coursemates in the hostel didn't even bathe.

But, you know, we simply made silly remarks at each other while we revised.

Thirty minutes passed, and we still weren't allowed in. One hour later, we were still being held back outside by the officials in charge, pressing us for whatever reason.

I feel like they derive joy in making students suffer.

Soon, everybody's time and the different departments' times began to overlap with each other. Some people hadn't written, and each department gathered outside like a crusade, or would I say, a crowd?

It wasn't funny at all. The sun was scorching hot. Plus, it was the Muslims' fasting period, Ramadan, so many Muslims hadn't eaten before coming.

You know, instead of letting us in, the officials resorted to pursuing us around, telling us not to gather here or there, to queue up here and there, while they had a cosy time inside the building with running fans and ACs.

The number of students was overwhelming.

Then, within a minute or two, a shout would be heard, and it would be declared that a student had fainted.

I think about five people, in their own order, fainted. The queue moved, but really slowly, and the heat...

And I began to feel an outburst from my head to my chest, down to my stomach.

All along, I kept reassuring myself that everything would be alright, that I would be able to write my exam. But, the huge discomfort continually dawned on me that I was hungry. Worse, I had no money, except for my transport fare back home.

Life of a broke Nigerian student.

And when I thought it wouldn't get any worse, my migraine hit, and I knew I couldn't bear it anymore. Oya! Time to go home.

“I'm not writing this test. I am going home. Anything that would happen, let it happen.” I remember saying something like this to my roommate, who was in a different department and was also waiting to write the exam.

In fact, she saved me.

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She had to call her dad to send us money after we stomped out of the exam-hall crowd, so we could get back home. He had to send it there and there, while facing the POS woman, and soon enough, we were able to get home.

Later in the day, we began to hear stories about the incident and how those who couldn't write should forget about it. In other words, no make-up test.

Tor! I blindly accepted my fate.

Those who were able to write were calm. Those who shared the same fate with me kept complaining, but I accepted my fate and came for class the next day.

Guess what? A written test for the supposed CBT GST test was conducted for everybody, my department by the lecturer herself.

Similar stories. And the thing is…

I've found myself in similar situations where my school almost ruined me, and when my only escape was really narrow. Sometimes, it was my hot-headedness and foolishness, and dragging of feet that would trouble me. But then, luck comes, and it seems everything is alright.

I won't fail after all.

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But I tell you that in the university, you'd need grace to speak for you. Sometimes, even for that small bill you were able to pay at the last minute, or the roommate who offered you food when you wouldn't have been able to attend lectures because of hunger.

• That's grace.

In all dimensions, I saw it take over my university life. There was a time I had a problem with a course, and within me, I was more scared of my department because they had a habit of dragging things for too long.

But by grace, the lecturer in charge was heavily eager to solve my problem all through. Atleast, I had reassurance. That's that too.

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But trouble? It would knock on your door and come in without you opening up. While on your bed, eating spaghetti, something could just go wrong on your portal. Maybe, you've suddenly been summoned to an office for a kind of trouble. Something could go wrong with your results in a blink of an eye. You could be told your result was withheld or something? Missing documents? Maybe, some kind of confrontation with a roommate? You'd realize that it just doesn't end, and in between it all, you're trying to stay sane as a good student and a proper human being. In between, you'd curse and express gratitude because luck, grace, and trouble is for the warriors at heart.

My hope is we all remain sane to embrace it all.

Luck. Grace. Trouble.

Thank you for reading. ❤️

I've had my share of both campuses: the off-campus and the “on-campus,” and I'd recommend living on the sky for your peace of mind. ☁️🕊️

Throughout my four years in school, my school didn't let me have a single space, even with my own money, so I had to do things my way by finding other alternatives.

I heard a lot of things.

People would say, “You can always live off campus,” and soon enough, I started to believe living on campus wasn't a do-or-die affair. Except that, in my case, at some point, it was.

My small flat was burgled. There was no steady water or electricity. Plus, I didn't like my landlord's children. In fact, we had beef before I left. The whole environment wasn't so peaceful to me anymore. 🙅🏿‍♀️

So, one way or the other, I paid some money, and I found myself staying in the hostel illegally. But I'll give it to you straight: illegal things come with a lot of discomfort. You can decide not to take my advice to heart.

Anyway, I was really happy because staying on campus took a huge burden off my shoulders. But realizing you'd be sharing a room with 16 others isn't something you prepare for. Or is it? Especially if it's your first time. Just seeing this crowd in the evenings made me suffocate sometimes. 😭

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But it was so easy to cover my discomfort with “student life.” However, it dawned on me every now and then, when there was someone interrupting my privacy. There was someone eavesdropping or staring at my face. There was someone looking out for the food I'd eat or the clothes I'd wear. And I certainly didn't prepare for the different shades of personality I'd be encountering in that small room. Omo!

The worst part is, the greatest mistake I made was thinking that I could keep to myself and keep my personality, keep my cool, without being influenced by my roommates. Without being influenced by 16 others in the same room? That was pride speaking because, with time, I was proved wrong.😔

I realized I wasn't who I was before I came into the room. In fact, I did inherit some bad traits. And I'd name some now. 🤧

I learned how to lie. Someone would ask me for a cup of water, but I'd say I hadn't fetched any. Meanwhile, I had two buckets stored behind, stocked somewhere.

I learned how to steal. On a table, I'd see a nice bangle that hadn't been claimed for days, and I'd wear it to class and automatically claim it as mine. Sometimes, I secretly used a roommate's power bank.

I learned how to sleep with the light on. A particular roommate and I hated it then, but most times, we had to shut our mouths for the sake of others.

I learned to be more protective and selfish. Most times, I don't offer help, neither do I ask, because I don't want to be taken for granted. As per “that roommate.”

I learned to accept things from my roommates, like food, Maggi, and water. I just had to if I didn't want to die.

I learned to be more secretive about my life. Before they carry my matter outside.

I learned to mind my business. This remains my greatest personality trait.

I learned not to advise anybody. Except you ask it of me. I believe the mindset of “people know what they're doing” started from here. Make nobody put me for talk.

There are so much more, but listing them isn't my point. It is that, unfortunately, I find it difficult to give up these traits despite not being in those rooms anymore.

You know the way Adam and Eve realized that they were naked in the Bible? Maybe it is my fear that times have changed and the people I interact with, in small and big ways, can affect my life's choices, my personality, and my mindset.

Anyway, as the title says, don't hold me responsible for this gibberish I wrote.

Still. Thank you for reading. ❤️

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You see, the truth is, I was nothing before I gained admission. I simply knew “university” was the next step for me. Nothing beyond. I know some people would tell me not to blame myself because I was rather a young teenager then. But I've seen young people dream from their small places. Maybe, a whole story for another day?

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But when I eventually entered the university as a fresher, sooner and gradually, it felt like the doors to dreams began opening for me. The possibility of surprising myself existed there. In other words, I became a meaningful human being because of the place called “university.” I discovered I could be pushed and push back, and take up something of my own and run with it.

So, when you check the certificates I've acquired, the places I've been, and the people who have called me out, they were all tied to the one place that some people, up until now, think is “scam.” But how can a place, or the people who made me discover writing, who showed me that writing can heal and can make a person, take a fretful young student from a fresher to a coach until I began this university journey? And I didn't know I could stretch and stretch and not, like elastic, break, until I felt the university walls enclose me. And I didn't know there were forces and situations that could challenge me and shift me from my comfort zone.

Yes, University surprised me.

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Unfortunately, a few months to my graduation, I wanted to get out of school so badly and be done with it. I wanted to think of the beyond. But it's so easy to say and think. And it's so easy to find comfort by deceiving ourselves. Because then, I could count my milestones, 1, 2, 3, 4... It is all tied to the academic journey I embarked on as I stepped inside the university gates.

So, while my coursemate and I laughed over her family's behaviour and reaction to her sign-out, I asked myself, what life could I possibly have after school that is ten times better than the one I had here?

What better life could change me and surprise me than the University carefully moulded me for?

And even as I'm writing this, after signing out as a graduate six days ago, the question doesn't go away. It stays. But I think, in about five years, I'd have the answer.

It's just a feeling.

Thank you for reading. ❤️

You know, we are too quick to throw blames at people when they hurt us. Yeah, it's true, they hurt us, and they deserve every punishment or scolding, but I feel we are so blinded by it that we fail to check ourselves too.

Because maybe there were signs that we ignored.

Maybe there were signs we left unchecked, or situations we didn't take notice of.

And that's exactly who I am.

I'm the kind of person who's quick to notice the hurt done to me, my innocence in the matter, and the other person's fault. And I just go on about me.

But never the things I permitted.

Now, let me tell you one thing I feel you should know about me: I dislike inconsiderate people. If you're someone who doesn't consider people's convenience when taking actions, I would consider you "careless" and "selfish," and I would certainly distance myself.

Things like borrowing people's stuff and returning it immediately.

Reading the room and behaving accordingly.

Not intruding on someone's private time or space.

Being mindful of my actions because the other person might get hurt...

This is how I define "considerate."

So, you might use the word "careful," or even "extremely careful," when describing me. But imagine when the opposite of this is what is being done to me. It stays in my heart for a long time.

This week is currently the FYB week for my faculty, and I've been having a great time the best way I can. But towards the end of yesterday, after a whole lot of fun activities, someone showed me what it meant to be inconsiderate, and I really felt bad.

I was calm, but hurting.

I was collected, but never acted.

Instead, I scolded and cursed this person in my heart until I was in a comfortable position to rant to ChatGPT. I guess I needed someone who would take my side and say the normal "It's okay. It's their fault." kind of sentence.

But ChatGPT didn't say that.

In the long paragraph it pasted, I never read any sentence where it directly condemned the person's actions. Instead, it addressed my response to their actions.

I let them hurt me.

I watched them hurt me, and I didn't say a word.

I should have said or done something.

I should have reacted.

At the end of the day, despite the hurt and regardless of who was at fault, the problem remains with me; my consideration for others comes at the expense of considering myself. And that I find so sad.

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Thanks for reading.

But it wasn't grand. I didn't go to the beach or the amusement park, neither did I visit ShopRite or anything. I simply posted a sticker saying, "I'm +1" and a few other photo collages I made with my pictures on Canva.

I posted past 12 a.m. on my WhatsApp status only. Then, a bit later, on Instagram and Facebook. I even forgot about LinkedIn. I posted on Substack Notes when 24 hours was almost gone.

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Though it was a happy day, I also found it exhausting as soon as the date turned to "Monday, June 1" because I knew I would be getting a lot of tags, mentions, reshares, comments, and messages. But while all that was to make my day special, I wished for one thing. I had been wishing for it for a long time. To get a birthday gift from someone. To feel like I mean something to a particular person.

There was a time I considered writing a birthday wishlist and posting it. It isn't something I would do, but there's this kind of pressure when you see your contacts, friends, or acquaintances, who are mostly youths, post about the numerous gifts they get on their birthdays.

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Some would post their wishlists, others would post photos of surprise parties done by their friends, or cakes and special clothes worn. On that day, I would scroll endlessly and mutter, "Awwwn," because I'm filled with admiration and envy.

You see, I've never considered myself to have friends. Maybe acquaintances or beautiful connections. The kind of friend who goes all out for you, buys you things, shares your work, takes photos with you, appreciates you.

I doubt.

I don't have, and I've never had, such a friend.

So, I've never gotten a gift on my birthday except well wishes and prayers.

Except I decide to include that one time in SS3 when I got a bottle of Fanta from a male friend as a birthday gift. That session was the most social session for me.

So, despite being an art student, I was always shuffling between the arts, commercial, and science classes. In each class, I had 10 people who would likely say "hi" to me, 5 who would like me to chat with them, and another 5 who would likely do both.

This guy was the latter. He was a science student who was well-versed in Mathematics. I don't think there was another like him who effortlessly solved mathematical equations regardless of the topic.

He was the only science student who taught himself Further Mathematics and wrote it in WAEC. That's how good he was.

I can't remember how he knew my birthday date, but on that day, he placed a bottle of Fanta in my hands and said, "Happy birthday, Angel." And it stuck in my memory.

We are not close anymore. And while I've begun to feel like I've lost his contact, he remains a big part of my secondary school days.

So, getting a birthday gift on the early morning of June 1st, 2026, was a big surprise to me. For the first time, I wanted to brag about how someone thought so highly of me, remembered me, and how I would be among those thanking people for their gifts and well wishes.

I bragged to my mom.

I bragged to my family.

However, one thing came to my mind after continuously replying to messages.

"Maybe, all I needed the most were prayers and wishes."

"Not receiving gifts or dramatic birthday surprises doesn't mean people don't love me."

"Maybe, I could pray all that for myself and not rely on others."

"And lastly, people who get to receive all those things are their own person, and I am me."

This realization doesn't mean I will no longer yearn for gifts or birthday celebrations. It is just a realization that I am loved, and with a moment's celebration or not, it's okay. And if it's just a bottle of Fanta that could be a heartfelt expression of someone's affection, I'd accept it gladly.

Sorry, I didn't write this post on my birthday. But you could still wish me by following me across my socials. First, here's a little about the creative work I do. ✨

If you've enjoyed reading my thoughts here, I'd love for us to stay connected beyond Substack. 🥹

Come say hello: 🤭

Instagram:

angels_catalogue

LinkedIn:

Angel Afemikhe

Facebook:

Afemikhe Angel

X/Twitter:

Angel Afemikhe

I'd be happy to have you along for the journey. Thank you for reading. ❤️

One time, I told someone that I'm really exhausted. I'm exhausted by school work. By the same thing all over again. The books, PDFs, the same lecturers... it feels like torture. It feels like I've been called to do something new, quite different from what I've been doing for the past 4 years in the University.

You know, I think this has also been part of my troubles. The reason why I appear to be out of it lately. Previously, anything academics would shake me to the bones, and I'd be worried. All over the place. Now, I really don't bother. It seems that way. My mind just keeps drifting to life after school.

Work. Money. Relationships. God.

After a while, MASTERS. When I want to.

In school, I have friends. I've had friends, more like a family. I mean friends that have been with me since the beginning of my academic journey. That is, we met when we were freshmen trying to complete our screening and understand our lecturers, and we have seen the best and worst of each other through these four years.

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However, I've had to question the meaning of our friendship. If what we had is worthy enough to be called “friendship” because there are times I doubted. At times, I've also struggled to define the word “friend,” and then I would give up and decide to accept what we share.

In this friendship, we have lived separately and independently. A week would pass, and we wouldn't hear from each other, and I feel we are simply okay knowing that each one of us is breathing. Not together. In our different places.

There are times when one friend is so occupied by a project that she is too frustrated for chitchats, or when one is dealing with health issues and is rarely bothered by resumption or school activities. As a result, everyone appears to be locked in their own world.

And then, when we get ourselves back, we come together to call ourselves “friends.” We are unapologetically firm in doing so.

We study together, fill the class attendance for an absent friend, eat from each other's pot, hold each other's hands like couples do, go to conferences together, walk on the streets together because that is what we can do. That's all we have ever done.

Nothing extraordinary. Nothing overly special.

And gradually, I've come to terms with it. That it can be just that and still be satisfying.

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Then, this week came with its restlessness. Most of the time, I was absent-minded. That kind where you don't understand your emotions even though nothing appears to be physically wrong.

I would be locked in my hostel room, doing something and nothing at all, toss about for a little bit, eat if there's food, shake my head, take pills in case of a headache, and take a nap which would end in the next thirty seconds.

And silently, I felt like my friends had moved on without me. I was the one stalling. I was the one stuck.

Then, they visited and decided to drag me out to the streets of my school. They said we should take a stroll. In other words, we should leave the comfort of the hostel building which held us. In my friend's voice, I should “wear something” and come out.

I still didn't wear the best cloth nor lip gloss.

But I did, reluctantly, and we stepped into a night of fresh air, streetlights, and shining cars. For the first time, we didn't really talk about academics, our lecturers, PDFs, projects, and whatnots.

We walked in a kind of way. There's a shape for it, but I don't remember. And while doing that, we talked about random things. Our experiences, backgrounds, encounters with people, life generally. Even relationships.

Including those who won't find the love of their life because of their bad attitude.

It was so nice swinging our hips, moving at a slow pace without a worry for class or assignment submission. You know, there's this hurry that comes with academics, and it drains energy gradually.

While we strolled, once in a while, I would look at the light emitting from our hostels. It was so bright it could blind the eyes. Then, I would look at the moon and the stars, paying attention to the sounds of crickets and frogs in-between.

It was blissful. Until it dawned on me that we had just little time to spend together as friends within the walls of the University.

I wondered if we would be able to take a stroll like that again before we officially signed out from the University.

All of a sudden, I thought about the future of our friendship after graduation. And within, I felt a bit of anger and fear. And within, I wished not to complain or ask for more, but treasure every time we share together from then henceforth.

Because maybe we may never cross paths again after graduation. Our houses may be too far to go for a visit. NYSC or a possible leap in our lives may take us far apart. We may soon forget what each other's faces look like.

Our friendship for these 4 years would be put to a test, and we may fail or pass.

So, for each moment we spend together, I want to think about it over and over again, like a memory that would soon fade. I want to treasure it because, out of everything I've achieved, this is one of the few things I'm grateful for.

Ichigo ichie is how I'm feeling today.

And this uncomfortable truth is one that people cry over, hurt themselves over, become sober over, and maybe avoid the world altogether because of, but I’ve just been...there.

There are times when I’ve thought about it, and I’ve asked questions to no one in particular, but that reaction you wouldn’t expect from any human, I haven’t portrayed that.

And while you would say it’s a good thing, I feel it’s a sign of danger. Like something dangerous is gradually building and would be exploding soon.

So, one of these days, I prompted ChatGPT. I described the situation, that is, the uncomfortable truth, and it described three feelings I might be having in regard to it, and among them was “strange calmness.”

This is what ChatGPT had to say:

That “strange calmness” can happen when someone receives big news. Not everyone reacts with panic or tears immediately. Sometimes the mind goes quiet first. Almost like it’s trying to process the weight of everything slowly instead of all at once.

And honestly, from what you said, it sounds like the part that hits you hardest isn’t only the...

And I picked that. Because maybe that is how I feel. Or maybe not.

Right now, I don’t understand this feeling or whatever name you could ascribe to it. I just want one thing: the peace of God. Though, I wonder if I have it or if, when it eventually comes, I’d be able to identify it as the “peace of God.”

Nevertheless, I want to get through this.

Keep rooting for me. ✨

John 14:27 (NIV):

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

Philippians 4:6–7 (NIV):

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding.

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It happened two weeks ago. I resumed school and arrived at the hostel for the first time this semester. I was so anxious because I was going to be meeting new faces and doing all the “getting to know your roommates” thing. But, oh well. I left home and arrived at the hostel.

I met some of my roommates going about their normal activities. And I met a sewing machine.

In my space.

I was surprised. And a bit anxious. Even, I thought it was owned by my bunkmate, but reading the room, I realized it was not.

I was already anxious about the whole idea of moving to a new place and trying to accept that I was going to be staying in a room of about eight people again. I just wanted the owner to move the sewing machine so I could arrange my stuff and settle down.

I didn’t see her, so I moved it a bit. Two hours later, when NEPA showed up, she showed up too.

I had seen her earlier but didn’t register her face, so seeing her take position at the sewing machine was a bit of a surprise to me.

Surprise? She had really long braids on. She had her nails fixed, with long lashes too.

However, she was in my space, in the dead of the night, in a hurry to complete a gown because NEPA could take their light at any time.

She sat down with the unfinished dress on the table. In her words, she had a deadline for the next day: a gown for a wedding. But there had been no light to finish it on time.

Because of my bags and other things in the space, she struggled with her work.

She had to squeeze her body on the floor to iron the dress as she sewed, and she would turn her hand here and there to get the right measurements.

She even ate her evening meal, a plate of Indomie, on the sewing wheel. It was amusing how she stood up once in a while too, to answer customers who came to buy peanuts.

While all these went on, I kept watching her.

Were you waiting for her so you could organize your bag? Partly, yes.

Simply watching? Still yes.

My roommates were really supportive, coming to cheer her up with random gossip and jokes, criticizing the customer’s taste, saying “well done,” and laying hard curses on NEPA.

I woke up at 12 a.m., and she was still on the machine, with her phone torchlight brightly turned on. Light had gone out for God knows how long, but she carried on steadily.

And I wondered if she was anxious too. Of not meeting the deadline. Of her hard work being ruined. Of losing money.

Then I thought of those who would see her on the streets, with all the Gen Z vibes, and wouldn’t know all the diligent work she did, or has been doing, to have the long braids standing on her head and the nails done.

They won’t remember that the hostel isn’t a fashion house, yet she brought in her sewing machine for that period of time to work for her money.

And they would judge her.

Because young people nowadays don’t want to work. Young people nowadays want fast money. And young ladies nowadays don’t work for their money.

I think hard workers are expected to look gloomy. Or have their work plastered hard on their faces.

I think they can wear long lashes, fix nails, and make long braids.

And slay.

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