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. Two ambitious young women trying to convince the world we knew exactly what we were doing.
Years later, neither of us is entirely sure that we do. Yet somehow we are still here, still talking, still showing up, and still reminding each other who we are when life becomes noisy.
Adaora finally visited today, almost two weeks after promising she would. I had begun to suspect she was deliberately avoiding me. Her explanation, however, was unfortunately reasonable.
Marriage.
Family.
Unexpected visitors.
An extended mother-in-law situation.
The usual.
She arrived just after noon carrying food, which was both unnecessary and entirely predictable.
I opened the door to find her standing there looking beautiful and exhausted in equal measure, a combination she has perfected over the years.
The moment she entered my apartment, she removed her shoes, dropped her handbag onto a chair and sighed dramatically. Not because anything had happened, simply because she had arrived.
“You have no idea how happy I am to be here.”
I laughed.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
She walked toward my kitchen, opened my refrigerator, and immediately froze.
“Your mother has been here.”
It was not a question.
“How do you know?”
She turned toward me.
“Zara.”
Then she pointed.
“The containers are labelled.”
A fair observation. My mother labels food the way corporations label confidential documents. Nothing is left to chance.
Adaora spent several minutes inspecting the contents of my refrigerator before announcing that she was jealous. Then she helped herself to a bottle of juice and made herself comfortable on my sofa. As though she paid rent, which, to be fair, is exactly how friendship should work.
We spent the first hour discussing ordinary things.
Work.
Family.
Traffic.
The cost of living.
The increasingly creative ways Lagos residents continue finding reasons to remain alive.
Then I made the mistake of asking how she was doing. Not how things were, how she was. A subtle but important difference. The answer took longer.
Adaora stared into her glass for several seconds before speaking.
“I’m tired.”
I waited.
She continued.
“I thought by now things would be different.”
There was no need to ask what she meant, I already knew.
Children.
The word hangs over her marriage like weather.
Present even when nobody mentions it.
Adaora and Lanre had been married for six years.
Six years built on genuine love.
Six years built on friendship.
Six years built on choice.
And yet, every passing month seemed to invite more questions.
More concern.
More advice.
More pressure.
From family.
From friends.
From people who somehow believed access to someone else’s marriage automatically granted access to their reproductive plans.
“It wasn’t like this before,” she said quietly.
“Before what?”
“Before everyone started paying attention.”
That stayed with me.
Everyone started paying attention.
The families.
The aunties.
The church women.
The neighbours.
The friends who meant well.
The relatives who did not.
Everybody watching.
Everybody waiting.
Everybody measuring time.
I listened as she spoke.
About the fertility appointments.
The awkward conversations.
The endless suggestions.
The prayers.
The remedies.
The recommendations from people who had absolutely no qualifications beyond confidence.
Then she spoke about something she rarely discussed.
Regret.
Not regret about marrying Lanre, that part was clear. She loved him, anyone with eyes could see it. No, her regret lived elsewhere.
“I miss working.”
The confession came softly, almost reluctantly, as though saying it aloud made it real.
She reminded me that she had graduated as a lawyer. A brilliant one, near the top of her class. She had practiced for only a year before leaving.
At the time it had felt like the right decision.
Lanre was building his business.
Marriage was new.
Life was exciting.
They planned to start a family quickly.
Everything seemed straightforward.
Until it wasn’t.
Six years later, she found herself in a position she never anticipated.
No career.
No children.
No clear path back to the version of herself she once imagined.
“My parents warned me.”
I looked at her.
“They didn’t dislike Lanre.”
She nodded.
“They just thought I was giving up too much.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything she had said before. Because some disappointments are painful, and some disappointments arrive carrying the possibility that somebody else’s warning might have been right. Those are worse.
I moved closer, not to solve anything. Mindfulness had taught me that not every problem requires immediate fixing. Sometimes people simply need space to tell the truth.
So I listened.
For a long time.
Eventually the conversation shifted. I told her about the market. A decision she found endlessly amusing.
“You entered a danfo?”
She looked genuinely delighted.
“Voluntarily.”
“Voluntarily.”
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. The image of me negotiating tomato prices apparently provided significant emotional relief, which I was happy to offer. Friendship occasionally requires sacrifice.
The afternoon became lighter after that.
We ate lunch.
Shared stories.
Remembered university.
Remembered people we once knew.
People we once thought would remain in our lives forever.
The strange thing about adulthood is how quietly time moves.
Then I mentioned the family event, the one taking place in Ikorodu over the weekend. Immediately her expression changed, interested.
“You are going?”
“I am considering it.”
Adaora sat upright.
“You?”
I ignored the insult. The truth was that family gatherings had never been easy for me. Not because I disliked my family, quite the opposite.
The difficulty came from familiarity. Family possesses a unique ability to reduce even the most accomplished adult back into a frustrated teenager. Every gathering eventually became the same conversation.
Why are you not married?
Why do you work so much?
Why are you always serious?
Why do you live alone?
Why are you like this?
And my personal favorite:
Mrs. Too-Know.
Mrs. Perfect.
Titles generously provided by relatives who interpreted preparation as arrogance.
For years I responded predictably, defensively, and sharply. Sometimes correctly but rarely productively.
But now I found myself wondering whether mindfulness offered another option. Not avoidance, not surrender, just observation.
The possibility that I could experience the gathering without becoming emotionally trapped inside it.
Adaora listened carefully, then smiled.
“I think you should go.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
She leaned back.
“Not because they’ve changed.”
A useful clarification.
“Because you have.”
That sat between us for a moment, unexpectedly profound. Then, just as the conversation was reaching a comfortable silence, her phone buzzed. I watched her face change instantly, a tiny shift, almost imperceptible.
She opened the message.
Read it.
Exhaled.
Then rubbed her forehead.
I didn’t need to ask.
“Lanre?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
“He wants efo riro.”
I waited, surely there was more.
There was.
“He wants efo riro tonight.”
I continued waiting.
“There is already food at home.”
She sighed.
“He specifically wants efo riro.”
The frustration was no longer about food, we both knew that.
“It feels like…” She stopped.
Then started again.
“It feels like I exist to keep everyone comfortable.”
The words emerged slowly, carefully, as though she had been carrying them for a long time.
“My husband.”
“My in-laws.”
“My family.”
“Everybody needs something.”
I remained quiet. She looked exhausted, not from one request, from years of requests. Then, unexpectedly, I heard myself saying something that sounded suspiciously mindful.
“Maybe today he just wants efo riro.”
She looked at me, confused.
I continued.
“Not because you’re failing.”
“Not because you’re only useful when you’re helping.”
I paused.
“Maybe he just wants efo riro.”
For a moment she stared at me. Then she laughed, a genuine laugh. The kind that releases pressure.“That sounds annoyingly reasonable.”
I considered that a compliment. Eventually she stood, collected her things, and prepared to leave. The afternoon sunlight had started fading, the city was preparing for evening. Before she reached the door, she turned around.
“You know,” she said, “you’re different.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Different how?”
She smiled.
“Softer.”
I immediately rejected this accusation. Yet after she left, the word remained.
Softer.
Not weaker.
Not less ambitious.
Not less capable.
Just softer.
The possibility felt unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. As evening settled over Lekki, I found myself thinking about Ikorodu.
About family.
About expectations.
About reactions.
About choice.
And for the first time in years, I felt curious instead of defensive. Perhaps that was progress, or perhaps I was simply spending too much time breathing. The distinction remains unclear.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
It has come to my attention that mindfulness may be slowly turning me into the kind of person who listens before speaking.
I intend to investigate this development carefully.