I have notes
I.
When I was 7 or 8, my dad went away on one of his work trips to Abuja. He left before the sun was out and returned days later. It was late in the evening when he got back, and I was already in my pajamas. He had just brought in his Mitsubishi Jeep. When I came outside and he opened the boot, sitting inside, wrapped in fresh nylon, was my first bike. It was purple. It had “Grace” printed in thick, blocky letters beneath the seat. By default, that was its name: Grace. My bike. The nylon stayed on for weeks. I refused to tear it off because I didn’t want to deface Grace, but it had to come off at some point.
Learning to ride Grace was another story. Our neighbor, Mr. Segun Mande, became my unofficial coach. My parents had hired him from the bungalow opposite where we lived and he came over every Sunday after church, dressed in his crisp Ankara shirt and trousers, smelling faintly of whatever hair cream men used in those days.
He was patient, so, at first, the training wheels stayed on. Mr. Segun Mande would take them off sometimes, holding the bike steady, one hand on the handlebars and the other gripping the seat, while I clung to the pedals with my legs stiff with fear. He’d murmur encouragements, his voice firm, and tell me to “just pedal,” but I couldn’t. It wasn’t the pedaling that scared me, it was the thought of falling, of scraping my knees and feeling that sharp sting that makes your eyes well up even when you’re determined not to cry.
One Sunday, after another failed attempt, he sighed and let go of the bike. He sighed, deeply this time, and without a word, he walked over to the steps leading into our house, sat down, and buried his face in his hands. Disappointment hung in the air like smoke. I hated it. I hated that I had made him feel like that, that I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t meeting the goal we had both set for me. I looked at his face and looked down at the pedals and just started pedaling Grace. I pushed like my life depended on it.
And I rode. Anything, really, to get that disappointed look off his face.
It wasn’t smooth, I nearly tipped over, but I was moving. When I stopped and turned around, Mr. Segun Mande was grinning. I think that was the first time I understood how much I hated not meeting expectations.
2024 reminds me of Mr. SegunMande’s disappointed face, and I hate it all over again.
That’s why 2025 has to be different.
II.
2025 has been good, and I want to tell you about it.
Last Wednesday, I graduated. I didn’t invite many people. I didn’t invite anyone at all, save for my family. I wanted it to be quiet, intimate. It felt personal, like something I should hold close without the weight of too many eyes. It’s been a long road to this point. I started university in 2018/2019 with a diploma program. Back then, my days were a blur of exhaustion. I’d travel from Ketu to school every morning, sometimes standing the entire way on a packed BRT bus. By the time I arrived, I would have already lost the fight against fatigue. Some days, I’d sleep through the first two classes, go through the rest of the day very confused, not understanding much that was being taught till the end of the day and run from the Faculty of Science to the gate to beat the 9-5ers during the evening rush. On the bus ride home, I cried quietly, overwhelmed by how tired I was.
When I got into the College of Medicine, things shifted but didn’t necessarily get easier. The COVID lockdown came, followed by endless strikes. School became a constant push and pull with work and it always felt like school would never end, but now it’s done. Second class upper. I think about that tired girl on the bus, and I’m grateful. She kept going, even when it felt like she couldn’t.
III.
It’s just the beginning of the year and I’m already learning lessons like how important it is to charge what you’re worth. The last few days of December 2024 came with an offer to work for a company. Someone had referred me for the gig, and while they’d already told me they couldn’t afford what I was charging, I went in to speak with the MD anyway because of the insistence of the lady who had referred me. I met with the MD, and we had a good talk, up until we got to payment.
He asked if I’d done NYSC, and when I said I was fresh out of uni,he told me, matter-of-factly, that I’d be considered an intern.
An intern. For a job I didn’t even apply for.
So he said my “intern pay” would be 100k. For context, the last time I earned 100k for such a gig was two, maybe three years ago. It was almost laughable, but I stayed polite, thanked him for his time, and left. Then, on the second day of the year, I got another offer paying me more than three times what the intern job would have, and I don’t even have to leave my house for said gig. It was a reminder that sometimes you just need to be very comfortable with letting go of situations that don’t pay you. And I didn’t even have to convince anyone to take me seriously. It’s crazy how things work out like that.
Iv.
I finished Things Fall Apart yesterday. It’s funny how long it took me to read a Chinua Achebe book. (I hide my face in shame for the delay!) But I really liked it, and I’ve been itching to talk about it.
“When we gather together in the moonlit village ground it is not because of the moon. Every man can see it in his own compound.We come together because it is good for kinsmen to do so.”
Okonkwo’s story really stuck with me. It was also a very patriarchal society where men ruled the household and women did their bidding. Although Okonkwo was very brave, I didn’t like his character as a person. He was quick to anger and abused his family whenever they slipped up. I pity him in a way—I think about all the things that could have been different for him if only he could’ve let go of the weight he carried. I haven’t read a lot of books set in the pre-colonial times but this definitely made me interested in reading more books set in that era. I’m quite aware this is fiction but it makes me wonder how much of our history and culture (however problematic) have been erased and replaced by western beliefs and traditions. The missionary arrived at the village and claimed they not only brought a religion but also a government. That part made me question how far one can go in thinking they have the right to govern someone else’s people, especially when it comes with such a heavy hand. The District Commissioner arrests the six prominent men, and when the villagers try to meet to talk about it, the messengers barge in and tell them to end the meeting. Did the missionary have the right to do that? It’s almost tragic, how it all unfolded. Okonkwo beheaded one of the messengers and then hung himself. There’s something so haunting about it. One thing I did like was Okonkwo and Obierika’s friendship. Even though Obierika and Okonkwo have very different personalities, their friendship remained strong. Obierika offers Okonkwo comfort during his grief over Ikemefuna'sdeath, even though he disapproves of Okonkwo's involvement in the boy’s killing. When Okonkwo is exiled, Obierika helps him by selling his yams and seed-yams, and made sure the profits reached him. Unlike Okonkwo, who rigidly upholds their Igbo traditions, Obierika questions the customs, rituals, and laws of their society. He believes change could bring improvement to the Igbo community. While Okonkwo fought change with his fists, Obierika understood the inevitability of it. And maybe that’s the heart of the story: how people react to a world that refuses to stay the same. Some adapt, some resist, and some, like Okonkwo, break.
IV.
I’d like to make new friends, but I’m not sure I remember how to make them. You know, it’s one of those things no one ever really teaches you how to do. You go through school, work, and life, and suddenly you realize that the friendships you’ve had for years—those deep, steady ones—are the only ones you’ve really kept. This year, though, feels like a good time to build. There’s so much I want to do, so many goals I’ve set, and I’m holding myself to some seriously high standards. I’ve been building habits, and even though I slip out of them sometimes, what matters is that I’m still building them back. The start of this year has felt like a mix of urgency and patience, like I’m running but reminding myself to pace. I want to show up for myself this year in ways I haven’t before, and write a happy Substack piece when it’s over.
Bisola more!!!
you write so well, this piece was insightful. looking forward to more to cone in the future