Dear Diary,
I have always believed that most crises are avoidable.
Not all. Just most.
The problem is that people confuse preparation with pessimism. When you ask difficult questions before something goes wrong, people call you negative.
When the thing eventually goes wrong, those same people schedule emergency meetings and suddenly discover the value of planning.
Human beings are fascinating. Mostly because they insist on learning lessons the expensive way.
Which brings me to Tuesday.
Tuesday began exactly as I like my days.
Structured. Predictable. Useful.
I arrived at the office at 7:15 a.m. Before the noise. Before the requests.
Before people started forwarding problems with messages like: “Please advise urgently.”
My favorite kind of urgency.
The avoidable kind.
Blackstone Strategy Group occupies several floors of a glass building overlooking Victoria Island. The type of building designed to convince investors that competence lives there.
To be fair, sometimes it does.
The receptionist greeted me. The security guards greeted me. Three people attempted small talk before I reached my office.
A surprisingly aggressive way to start the morning.
By 7:23 a.m., I was seated behind my desk reviewing crisis reports and pretending not to notice that I had become the unofficial adult in several million-naira situations.
Again.
A politician whose comments had become tomorrow’s scandal.
An executive who believed emails could not be forwarded.
A celebrity whose private life had somehow become public property.
The usual.
I fixed what could be fixed.
Flagged what could not.
Sent fourteen emails.
Ignored six.
Corrected a strategy document that should never have survived internal review. Then drank half a cup of coffee before it became cold.
A successful morning by any reasonable standard.
Around 9:30 a.m., my assistant reminded me about the board meeting. As though forgetting was an option.
The client was important. The stakes were high. The expectations were unreasonable.
In other words: Tuesday.
By 9:55 a.m., I was standing outside one of the most expensive boardrooms in Lagos.
The room had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic.
Marble floors. Imported furniture. A view expensive enough to distract people from bad decisions.
Inside sat executives, lawyers, investors, communications directors, and one man whose primary contribution to every meeting was confidence unsupported by evidence.
I took my place at the head of the table.
The presentation began.
And for the next forty minutes, everything unfolded exactly as it should. The client was engaged. The partners were impressed. Questions were answered before they were fully asked. Objections were addressed before they became problems.
Several people nodded while pretending they had already reached the same conclusions.
A common corporate survival strategy. I approved.
The presentation screen reflected against the glass walls.
Graphs. Forecasts. Media projections. Timelines. Narrative positioning. Risk analysis.
All the things people suddenly care about once a crisis starts costing money.
I clicked through the slides effortlessly. Years of experience make difficult things look easy. One of the unfortunate side effects of competence. People rarely see the effort. Only the outcome.
At some point, I became aware that the room was completely silent.
Attentive silent.
The kind of silence professionals create when they trust the person speaking.
I remember looking around the room. Watching people take notes. Watching them listen. Watching them rely on me. A dangerous amount of responsibility for one human being.
Though admittedly, I had spent years convincing everyone I could handle it.
Including myself.
Especially myself.
Then I made a mistake.
A small one.
A completely harmless one.
I had a thought.
The thought was: This is going well.
Life heard me. And apparently took that personally.
I clicked to the next slide. Opened my mouth to continue. Then something strange happened.
The room changed. Like someone had adjusted the focus on reality. The screen became softer. The lights became brighter. The edges of the room felt less certain.
I blinked. Continued speaking.
Because that is what professionals do.
We continue.
The air felt heavier. I ignored it.
The room felt warmer. I ignored that too.
My heart started racing. Which was inconvenient. But manageable.
Probably.
I continued speaking. The presentation continued. The meeting continued. Everything continued.
Except me.
A strange pressure began building behind my eyes. The kind of sensation that feels important. The kind people should probably pay attention to.
I did not.
Another poor decision.
Someone across the room asked a question. I heard the words. But they arrived late. As though they had travelled a long distance to reach me.
Odd.
I answered anyway.
Or at least I believe I did.
The details become unreliable after that. I remember gripping the edge of the table. Not because I was afraid. Because I was trying to remain standing.
A useful distinction.
I remember someone saying my name.
Then again.
This time louder. Concerned. Which felt unnecessary.
I was fine.
At least I was deeply committed to the idea that I was fine.
The room tilted.
Slightly.
Then more.
The skyline beyond the windows shifted.
The floor disappeared.
Or maybe I did. It’s difficult to know.
The final thing I remember is the expression on everyone’s faces.
Concern.
Confusion.
Alarm.
The sort of reaction people reserve for situations they cannot control.
Then darkness.
Complete darkness.
Which, if we’re being honest, felt slightly dramatic.
Still.
Not my finest professional moment.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
If your body ever starts sending warning signs, I recommend paying attention.
Mine apparently escalated to a formal presentation.
Continue reading Zara’s Journal here
https://naijadiaries.com/category/zara-lagos-mindfully/