The diary of a woman learning that control and peace are not the same thing. A Lagos diary about ambition, burnout, relationships, and learning how to breathe again. For anyone who has ever been called “too much.”
There is a strange kind of silence that exists only after someone tells you they may have accidentally stolen eight hundred million naira. It is simply the silence that follows the realization that everyone in the room has begun calculating consequences…Mine included. I excused myself from the conference room before anyone could ask me what
Dear Diary,I returned to work today, which, surprisingly, did not feel like returning to war, it felt… nice. A month ago, I would have been counting down the days until I could get back to the office. I would have spent the entire drive from Chevron to Ikoyi mentally listing all the things that must
Dear Diary, There are moments when a Nigerian party stops being an event and becomes an ecosystem, today was one of those moments. As I am writing this, my feet hurt, my gele is somewhere in another room, someone’s child has claimed my phone charger, there are approximately seventeen coolers of food in circulation, and
Dear Diary, There are few things more dangerous than having too much time to think before attending a family gathering, particularly a Nigerian family gathering. Particularly one involving relatives who have known you since childhood and therefore feel permanently entitled to personal opinions about your life. For reasons I still do not fully understand, I
Dear Diary, There is a particular kind of friendship that survives without maintenance. The kind that does not require daily phone calls, or constant updates, or performative displays of affection. The kind that understands silence.The kind that understands absence.The kind that understands life. Adaora and I have that kind of friendship. We met in university.
Dear Diary, A surprising amount of healing apparently comes from eating food that did not originate from a delivery application. For the past week, I have been living almost entirely on meals prepared by my mother, who appears to have interpreted my hospital stay as evidence that I was incapable of feeding myself and therefore
I arrived home shortly after noon. For a brief and deeply optimistic moment, I believed life was returning to normal. Then I opened my front door. And immediately knew my mother had been there. There are signs. The throw pillows were arranged with military precision. The decorative blanket I normally ignore had been folded into
One of the more surprising discoveries of adulthood is that people continue caring about you even after you’ve made a deliberate effort to become difficult to reach. I spent most of my second day in hospital attempting to convince everyone that I was perfectly fine. This was complicated by the fact that I was in
Dear Diary, Apparently there are several hours missing from my day. I find this unacceptable. Not because I particularly wanted those hours. But because they belonged to me. And I have always been uncomfortable with losing access to things that belong to me. Time. Information. Control. Particularly control. The last thing I remember is standing in a boardroom