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 an architectural achievement. Every surface looked suspiciously clean. My mother had entered the apartment and launched a humanitarian intervention.
I dropped my handbag and slowly walked through the condo.
Two bedrooms.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Modern furniture.
A view of Lekki that becomes considerably more impressive when you are paying the rent yourself.
Then I opened the fridge and nearly laughed. The shelves were overflowing.
Containers of soups and stews.
Fruit.
Vegetables.
Enough food to survive a minor national emergency.
My mother has many love languages and feeding people is her favorite.
The second is worrying.
The third is worrying while feeding people.
I stood there staring at the fridge longer than necessary, unexpectedly touched. Naturally, I ignored the feeling. A lifelong skill.
I was still inspecting the damage when my phone rang.
Mr. Daniels.
My boss.
This usually means one of three things.
A crisis.
A client.
Or both.
I answered immediately. Professional instincts die hard.
“How are you feeling?”
A suspicious opening.
“Better.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then the real reason for the call.
“We’re giving you two weeks.”
I frowned.
“Two weeks?”
“Medical leave.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“That’s unnecessary.”
“It is.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your collapse in front of a client suggests otherwise.”
A rude but factually accurate statement. Before I could argue, he continued.
“No emails.”
“No calls.”
“No meetings.”
“No strategy reviews.”
“No client work.”
“No one is forwarding anything to you.”
I sat down slowly. Surely this violated several workplace regulations, possibly the constitutional law.“What if something urgent happens?”
“It will.”
“And?”
“We’ll survive.”
The confidence with which he said this was frankly insulting. Then he hung up, just like that.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
A prison sentence disguised as concern.
I spent the next twenty minutes walking around my apartment trying to understand what people actually do when they are not working. The results were inconclusive.
I considered reading. Then remembered I already read constantly.
I considered watching television. Then remembered most television characters make terrible decisions.
I considered sleeping. Then remembered it was 1:00 p.m.
Eventually I sat on the sofa and stared out the window, a surprisingly difficult activity. The city moved below.
Traffic.
Street vendors.
Dispatch riders.
Construction noise.
Lagos was continuing without me.
The realization felt oddly personal.
My phone vibrated.
Then again.
And again.
Messages.
Dozens of them.
I finally opened WhatsApp.
A mistake.
The family group had become a crisis management operation.
Prayers.
Verses.
Voice notes.
Medical advice from relatives with absolutely no medical training.
Photos.
Questions.
More prayers.
Then I found a message from my mother. Three paragraphs.
One – reminder to eat.
Two – reminders to rest.
The third – warning not to order junk food, with a list of food she had stocked in the fridge and a final update informing me that my cousins, uncles, and aunties were wishing me well.
I smiled despite myself.
Then came individual messages.
For a moment, I simply sat there.
Reading.
Scrolling.
Absorbing.
Feeling something I couldn’t immediately name.
Then deciding not to investigate.
Some emotions are better left undocumented.
The next message was a voice note from Adaora.
I played it and immediately regretted it.
She sounded exhausted and dramatic, a dangerous combination.
“Zara, please don’t judge me.”
A promising start.
“My mother-in-law just called.”
I laughed already.
“Apparently she’s coming tomorrow.”
A pause.
“Obviously she told everyone except me.”
Another pause.
“I now have twelve hours to transform my house into the home of a responsible married woman.”
I laughed.
Properly laughed.
For the first time all week.
Adaora continued, complaining about guest room, food preparation, invisible expectations, the politics of marriage, the politics of mothers-in-law, and the politics of mothers-in-law who arrive unannounced.
Then her voice softened slightly.
“I’ll come see you when I can.”
A beat.
“And before you roll your eyes, the mindfulness link is still in our chat.”
Another beat.
“I know you’re ignoring it.”
A third beat.
“You’re predictable.”
Then she ended the recording.
I stared at the phone.
The mindfulness link sat there.
Waiting.
Annoyingly patient.
Like all things that believe they are eventually going to be right.
I ignored it.
Then I made tea.
Walked around the apartment.
Watered plants I had previously forgotten existed.
Looked through my refrigerator again.
Opened Instagram.
Closed Instagram.
Opened LinkedIn.
Immediately regretted it.
I sat by the window.
Stood up again.
Checked the time.
Twenty-three minutes had passed.
An eternity.
Then came the silence.
Again.
No meetings.
No emails.
No emergencies.
No decisions.
No distractions.
Just me.
The city continued moving outside.
Cars.
Generators.
Music.
Lagos doing what Lagos does.
But inside my apartment there was only stillness.
And for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
My eyes drifted back to my phone, The mindfulness link remained exactly where I had left it.
Patient.
Unbothered.
Slightly smug.
I stared at it.
Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the phone.
This was not surrender.
It was research, an important distinction.
I clicked.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
If mindfulness changes my life, I will be extremely annoyed.