It’s about 20 minutes to 7:00 PM. I’m sitting on a chair in my room, just in front of my desk. My younger sister is sitting on the bed, crocheting while listening to Asake’s M$NEY. I have my AirPods in my ears, but I’m not listening to anything yet. The weather is bitterly cold. The rainy season started over a week ago. My curtains are drawn, but the cold still finds me.

I’m rummaging through ideas on what to write and publish tomorrow — it’s Children’s Day. A day meant for celebration, for noise and colour and the particular joy that belongs only to children. A day that, in a just world, every child would wake up to without fear.

But we do not always live in a just world, and some children will not celebrate tomorrow. Some children have not celebrated anything in weeks.

I already know it’s not going to be a feel-good article, and I know it’s about the children abducted in Oyo State, Nigeria. Children as little as 2 years old, as young as 16. I sit with that for a moment. Two years old. A child who still needs to be carried. A child who does not yet have the words to ask where their mother is.

I reach for last year’s article instinctively — it’s the closest thing I have to the headspace I need.

Asa’s Eye Adaba is now playing. I put it on repeat. (You should do the same.)

I read the article, and now my cheeks are damp with tears. I realise I was — and am — privileged, as I measure my childhood and entire existence against the lives of the children in Oyo State. Right now, I want you to do the same. Maybe a little empathy will move you to say a prayer or two for them.

I’m no longer a child, and I cannot fathom being taken hostage by frightening men. I cannot fathom being lashed, being starved, having hot molten plastic poured on my skin — and perhaps even worse. I cannot fathom it happening on a day I’m supposed to be celebrated. One of the days I counted down to from the beginning of the term, because it’s a public holiday — I’d either be at home with my family, or the school might organise an excursion, or maybe mummy and daddy would take me out.

But instead I’m out in the open — naked, exposed to the sun and the cold rain, to insects and pests. I haven’t seen mummy and daddy in 12 days. I haven’t had mummy or daddy bathe me, feed me, or put me to bed. I haven’t played with my siblings or friends since I got here. I’ve been holding back my tears; if I don’t, that wicked man will flog me. My whole body is aching. I can’t sleep — I’m afraid of the dark. I’m hungry and thirsty. My schoolmates and I are miserable all the time. I can’t remember how to smile or even laugh. Nobody else has, except those wicked men. I wonder what we did wrong. I just want mummy and daddy. I’m exhausted, and this place terrifies me.

As I tried to imagine what it must feel like, the thought sent shivers through my body. I am warm. I am fed. I am safe in my room while my sister crochets and Asa sings softly into my ears. And somewhere in Oyo State, a child is counting the days in the dark.

We talk about these things and then we move on. The news cycle turns, our timelines fill with something else, and the children remain where they are. I don’t want that to happen this time. I don’t want you to read this, feel something briefly, and then scroll away. These children did nothing. And they are enduring a life no one should ever have to imagine.

27th May, 2026.

Today is Children’s Day. If you have a child, hold them a little longer. If you were once a child who was loved and safe and celebrated — and I hope you were — remember that. And then remember that not every child has that. Not today. Not these ones.

Say a prayer or two. It’s the least you can do.

—From somewherein the mind of Aggy.

Nigerians have been fooled and bullied from their very existence, and it’s appalling. It shouldn’t be heard of, but here we are, wallowing in a shame 112 years old.

They’ve been fooled so many times, it’s become their way of life.

Again, I come on here to write about Nigeria’s situation. This wasn’t my preferred niche, but I’ve found myself here, and it seems like I’m going to remain here for a very long time.

To the matter at hand.

Nigerians have adapted so much, they’ve lost empathy. Nigerians are numb.

Death is the order of the day.

Now, we don’t mind trampling on dead bodies to survive. In fact, we don’t mind making these bodies dead.

A society like this takes a deeper toll on the average mind.

A friend of mine told me about a recent incident in Nigeria, where a fuel tanker was caught up in an accident. This accident killed quite a number of people. The scene he painted was gruesome to my imagination — dead bodies and the injured lying helpless on the ground.

Now, citizens of Nigeria — children and adults — went to that same scene to harvest the fuel that leaked from the tanker. They avoided, or even trampled on, the bodies of the casualties. Unconcerned about the lives lost and injured. Even unconcerned about their own lives, because it’s fuel we were talking about here.

Moral of the story?

Fuel is of more value to the average Nigerian than a person’s life.

If that didn’t scare you, I don’t know what will.

A child who grew up seeing his father hit his mother while their neighbours watched will come to see it as the norm.

We as Nigerians should be scared of ourselves. A person who can sit comfortably in the midst of sorrow will definitely cause sorrow.

So yes, someday, I’ll leave Nigeria and never look back. Why? Nigeria is uninhabitable for a girl like me. I’m not selfish, I have self-love.

The little faith I have in Nigeria shrinks every day. I used to think a good number of us have seen what a government like this is capable of doing, and would, in turn, not support the so-called government. But no — these people are going back to their vomit.

It’s not just that; we’ve become the exact things we preached against, worse even. We saw corruption and adapted it into our systems and organisations. We prey on the poor without remorse. We kill ourselves just to survive. We’ve put quantity ahead of quality.

Giant of Africa now has kwashiorkor, darling. This giant doesn’t need a David to fall.

I’m not unpatriotic. I’ve realised that being Nigerian isn’t my only identity. I’m not letting her problems swallow me whole, although it’s easier said than done. Lest I turn into salt. I’m not going to lie to you, there’s a strong tie to Nigeria with me, and I’m always going to advocate for better stances, but for now, that faith is fading. It’s only a matter of time till there’s nothing left.

—From the reckoning mind of Aggy?

GIANT OF AFRICA NOW HAS KWASHIORKOR

I come here every time to write about Nigeria, Nigerians, and its dirty government and politics, but this time it’s different. Today, I mourn — we mourn — but in anger. This is about the death of a teacher who was kidnapped during the line of duty, alongside toddlers who were in school.

Are we really going to sit, pretend this is normal, and move on? Do we not get it? It probably hasn’t sunk into the hearts of many Nigerians, but Nigeria is a state under war. We don’t realise it because we aren’t affected by it personally yet. It’s coming. A year ago, those of us in the south felt some sort of covering, but it’s creeping in — slowly, yet loudly.

We have cried before, countless times, but our wails fall on the deafest of ears. We are like children who have cried their last tears until they are finally exhausted to sleep.

A teacher got slaughtered, Nigeria. Little children are being held in the custody of bandits. They are scarred forever.

It wouldn’t have crossed the minds of these citizens that they would become victims. It’s the same way we hope it will never get to us.

sigh

We go to church or mosque, or say a little prayer at home, asking God for mercy. That’s alright. But one thing is clear to me now — it can be anyone. You’re not too righteous. You’re not too filthy. You’re not exempted because you’re a prayer warrior. And you’re definitely not too young.

It’s Russian roulette, darling.

It’s not because you live in Lagos either.

What did Nigeria do to deserve such brutality? What did we do that we don’t deserve answers — not to talk about solutions?

We are stripped of our rights as citizens and forced to watch the innocent blood of our own spill on our grounds. We’ve become immune to loss and disappointment. We stare at headlines, shake our heads, and put those same heads to sleep without a trace of remorse or pain.

Nigerians are the walking dead — intentionally numb and oblivious. Waiting for the next bad thing to happen, shaking our heads for a second, then moving on within the next. We don’t cry anymore. We don’t mourn those the country has failed to protect. We’ve accepted it as our norm and scrolled on to the next headline.

Are we not cursed? Can we not see that this is abnormality and barbarism at its peak? Are we afraid to think about this? Do we fear depth?

Again — we live in a state of war. The government is as good as non-existent. Taking matters into our own hands is our best bet. Stop being numb. Staying mute is being a coward.

A man is innocently beheaded in cold blood, and the government is offering rehabilitation to the perpetrators?

Rehabilitation is for individuals with addiction, disabilities, and impairments. These people are terrorists. Mercy should not be an option.

What in the world? I’m asking myself if this is even up for discussion. It is a bloody insult to the loved ones of the victims and to Nigerians everywhere. This is a reiteration that the government sees Nigerians as fools — that their lives mean nothing. Nothing.

A state of war is a state of anarchy. It’s time we acted like it.

—From the dirged mind of Aggy.

Share the word if you agree.

A few days ago, I was on public transport, and two people were having an altercation. In fact, “altercation” is a mild description for what was happening. Let’s call it a heated argument. Two strangers to each other — man and woman. The cause of the argument was none of their business, but it happened anyway. For more context, the cause of the argument had nothing to do with appearance, but that was what the man narrowed it down to — how the lady looked. He mentioned she had acne and how she looks nothing like a woman, and she responded by calling him an illiterate, saying he knows nothing about hormonal imbalance. He didn’t raise points from the basis of the argument; he went straight to her looks.

sigh

The day after that event, I was on Instagram, trying to distract myself from my problems by drowning in reels. Then, I came across one of those quick interviews where random people are asked a particular question — basically, a social experiment. The question was: what’s one red flag you can’t stand in the opposite gender? The women mentioned things like being unhygienic, alpha male behaviour, being shady, and whatever. The men mentioned things like being fat, having a big forehead, having “yam” legs, using makeup. One went ahead to call women who use makeup “fools.”

sigh

Do I really have to say so much? I mean, after the stories I just told. It’s clear — women have been reduced to their appearances. A clear form of objectification. It shows up in arguments. It shows up in interviews. It shows up in compliments.

“Beauty with brains”

Before I understood what this meant, I used this phrase, and I’ve received it too. Till one day, I thought about it. “Beauty with brains” — are there beauties with no brains? And are brains so exclusive that beautiful women usually don’t have them?

Some people might come at me and say I’m overthinking the statement. “It’s just a common saying.” I agree, it’s a common statement, and that’s exactly why we’ve been desensitised to its meaning. Think about it. It basically says beautiful women don’t offer intelligence, just aesthetics. If it didn’t mean that, “with brains” wouldn’t be an addition. In fact, there wouldn’t be a need for an addition at all.

“You’re smart” does just fine. Just like every other adjectival phrase used to describe the opposite gender — plain, and without implications.

Playing Girl, Get Up — Doechii, SZA

I understand that women are a work of art, but we’re not just that. We’re not an art piece, or an object of entertainment and pleasure. We’re not a piece to be collected and discarded. We’re not bodies to be abused and mutilated. We don’t care about your specifications and preferences. We’re not your award or a conquest. We’re human, with a soul, and definitely a brain too. We’re complete — we don’t need owners. We’re not objects for certain standards to be built around — too thin, too fat, big bum, small breasts, small bum, big breasts, large forehead, too dark, too light, too short, too tall, no makeup, lots of makeup, curly hair, straight hair.

The standards are worthless — or rather, they should be. Discard them. Their standards say nothing about us. We’ve always been enough.

This piece is short. Intentionally so. The nail doesn’t need a longer hammer.

—From the mind of Aggy.

Today, we speak about Nigerians, again. My last two newsletters have featured Nigeria and her people, and I always get overwhelmed when I dive into matters concerning her and them respectively.

The average Nigerian misplaces the true meaning of “luxury.” There’s been a recession of quality, and a scarceness of maintenance, such that when we experience or even see systems that work flawlessly, we tag them as luxury. When we see things we don’t usually have access to, they’re termed luxury. But luxury doesn’t mean scarceness in this context.

According to the Oxford Dictionary of English, luxury is a state of great comfort or elegance, especially when involving great expense.

Let me give a common example: the housing system in Nigeria. The average Nigerian landlord or house agent would proudly state that the house to be rented or sold is fenced, has water, is tiled, is connected to electricity, or even has POP. But can we be serious for a minute? Are these supposed to be scarce? On a grand scale, it’s not the direct fault of these housing agents — it’s what we’ve been subjected to as citizens of Nigeria. What do you mean your house has water and electricity? What’s it a house for?

Let’s compare the public systems in Nigeria to the ones in the glorified Americas. Public schools, for example, are seen as an alternative rather than an option. The demographics of people who attend public schools in Nigeria skew lower class, but students in American public schools come from every class and background. The same goes for public hospitals and public transportation.

I’m not sure which it is — whether these systems were designed for the poor, or whether the masses were conditioned for these systems. Because we just live with it, like it’s normal. This is me saying it’s not normal. Rewire your brains to believe you deserve more. We scramble for the basics. Beg the government for something as basic, yet sacrosanct, as water. Potable water. It is the role of the government to provide these things. Now, almost every house has a well or a borehole. Don’t get me started on the roads, or the impecunious security.

The problem is how quickly we adjust to these issues. For a brief moment, we’re angered, but we settle after. There is a kind of numbness that has settled into the bones of Nigerians, and that numbness is just as dangerous as the failure itself. The numbness is a result of consistent incompetence. This so-called incompetence is rooted in oppression. Basic necessities cannot be luxury — they are your right. Demand them. Not ask, not beg — demand.

It starts by knowing your rights. It’s like we’re orphaned children begging our stepmother for food, meanwhile our father left us a whopping inheritance. Sophia Baek wouldn’t have been a maid if she knew she had an inheritance. IFYKYK.

The first act of resistance is refusing to be grateful for what was always yours. Stop celebrating water. Stop celebrating electricity. Stop celebrating roads that don't swallow you whole. These are not gifts — they are debts the government owes you. Collect.

You were not born to scramble. Act like it.

And get your PVC, so scrambling won’t even be an option.

— From the indignant mind of Aggy.

With huge Lagos parties, movies featuring veteran actors, showing off wealth, and corrupt political systems and government agencies. Good movies, good plots, but not great.

They’re the realities of Nigerians, but not the majority of Nigerians. Not all Nigerians will relate to the huge houses on Lagos Island. It’s their dream, but not their reality.

I posted that note, and the reactions I got were a little controversial, and I completely understood those that said Nollywood lacked depth. Nigerians are funny people, and I think we’re funny because it’s our coping mechanism—not by default. We just have to be funny, or depression will eat us alive. We live under terrible conditions, but we come online, make jokes and memes out of our dire, do-or-die situations, and that’s exactly how our movies portray it, neglecting true emotion and depth.

Emotion and Depth…

My Father’s Shadow. One of the most thought-out movies I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you why. The movie portrays two young brothers who explore Lagos with their alienated father.

Simple plot. Very simple. Not consuming, not melodramatic. The simplicity of the plot gave room for the details to be attended to meticulously. I had goosebumps watching the movie. Not because of crazy plot twists that left me in awe, but because it brought up memories, and it made me think. There was an immense feeling of nostalgia and reminiscence — a movie based in the 1990s, and I, a Gen Z, could feel included and seen.

The characters of the young boys reminded me of being a kid, and not just a kid, but a sibling and a child. It made me remember my relationship with my parents and my siblings. The banters, the scoldings, the instructions, the consideration and vulnerability.

The movie portrayed reality, and history all at the same time. It backdropped the 1993 Nigerian election. If you have an idea of that election, you’d know it changed the hope of Nigeria and Nigerians in a very short period of time. “Hope”, probably sounds fresh—recent and familiar.

There were issues that till this day still exist. In fact, they’re probably worse, and like then, Nigerians were governed and ruled by forces that made everyday living hard. I’m diverting—the things Nigeria’s issues will do to you.

I’m sure I’ve established that the storytelling and script were superb. Now, the cinematography and videography.

The meticulousness could bring tears to your eyes, and I’m not exaggerating. The videography doesn’t just show, it makes you feel, think and travel. It’s a movie that inspires you to do the unconventional. It tells you meticulousness isn’t obsessive behaviour if it’s birthed from consciousness. Simplicity doesn’t mean minimalism; simplicity doesn’t put you in a box, it doesn’t contain you. It lets you focus on what matters, on what should matter. My Father’s Shadow is a creative masterpiece.

If you’re a creative looking for the exceptional, or just looking to get inspired, you should give it a watch. And even if you aren’t a creative, but you’re looking for unconventional Nollywood, My Father’s Shadow is for you.

—From the evoked mind of Aggy.

Those are the exact words of the President of Nigeria to the people of Jos after the killings of innocent Christians on Palm Sunday.

I always say that old age and wisdom do not naturally coexist. Because if they did, this supposed “74-year-old man on paper,” who, about a week ago, celebrated his birthday while the country he is expected to lead was in turmoil, would not have uttered those words. Better still, these killings would not be happening in the first place.

Those statements are nothing short of blatant foolery. My condolences go out to the Christians who have been persecuted, tortured, and abandoned by a so-called government with deeply misplaced priorities.

There is so much going on in Nigeria that I feel overwhelmed by the mere thought of it. For over half of my life, I have watched the government fail its own people. And when I say government, I do not mean one man. I mean an entire system—presidents, governors, local government chairmen, security agencies—all existing within a structure that protects itself before it protects the people. The failure is not accidental; it is patterned, repeated, and sustained.

I do not believe the words that come out of their mouths. They lie as though the devil personally writes their speeches. They have no souls because they lack even an iota of empathy for the people they were supposedly elected to govern.

“You have no light at the airport, and I have to fly back within the next ten minutes.”

Your skin must have crawled reading that statement. Now imagine how the people of Jos, to whom it was directed, must have felt.

First of all, they are not the ones without light—you are. You, sir, failed to do what was necessary to provide them with electricity. The entire country suffers from inadequate power supply. People are scrambling, draining their wallets because they need to purchase fuel. In a country that produces crude oil, several refineries lie idle and abandoned. Only one refinery works, and it is owned by a private individual.

Nigeria has failed its people. It is every man for himself in this exhausting reality of a country. And perhaps the most dangerous part is what it has done to us mentally. We are becoming used to it. Violence shocks us for a moment, then we move on. Bad governance angers us briefly, then we adjust. We laugh, we tweet, we complain—and then we continue. There is a kind of numbness that has settled into the bones of Nigerians, and that numbness is just as dangerous as the failure itself.

Meanwhile, the Aso Rock Villa runs on solar power. They are aware of their own shortcomings and irresponsibility, so they put systems in place for themselves to remain unaffected. This is corruption.

Recently, Dubai has been affected by tensions involving the USA, Iran, and Israel. I have a friend in Dubai, so I texted to check on her. We had a conversation, and she casually mentioned that the government was keeping them safe.

That is what governance is supposed to mean—safety, stability, responsibility. Not excuses. Not deflection. Not empty promises. And it is no surprise that many Nigerians are leaving, searching for systems that at least attempt to protect their lives and dignity. When a country cannot guarantee your safety, it slowly loses its people—not just physically, but mentally too.

When I read that, I put my phone down and shook my head in shame, because the Nigerian government is disgraceful. Which Nigerian can say that boldly? Not even with shame—talk less of confidence. Well, except delusional loyalists like Daniel Bwala, who go on international television to lie confidently while facts sit plainly before them. The disgrace that Nigeria has become.

But even in all of this, we must ask ourselves uncomfortable questions. How often do we enable the same system we complain about? How often do we defend incompetence because it benefits us, our tribe, or our pockets? The truth is, corruption in Nigeria is not only a leadership problem—it is a societal one.

Elections are a stone’s throw away, and the state of the country can either motivate or discourage Nigerians from voting. One side is foolishness; the other is wisdom. Being politically apathetic may seem like the safer, wiser choice, but in all honesty, it is the opposite.

If the entire country decides not to vote, we have zero chance of getting a government that works. But if we involve ourselves in the right way, there is a better chance of building one that does, because change will not come from silence, and it certainly will not come from disengagement. It will come—if at all—from intentional, informed, and disciplined participation.

I say “involve ourselves in the right way” because involvement can also take the form of thuggery, ballot snatching, or being bribed and bought over with a 5kg bag of rice or ₦10,000—money that cannot even buy 8 litres of fuel.

It is easy to speak from a place of comfort, knowing that some people depend on these handouts to survive. But who says you cannot take the bribe and still keep your vote intact?

Wisdom is profitable to direct.

From Aggy, a failed citizen of Nigeria.

I go out to the balcony and the rain dramatically increases its intensity. I look over the neighbourhood and sight school kids going home, trying to avoid the flood caused by the rain. They didn’t have umbrellas. I, watching them from the comfort of a covering over my head, feel bad. I look at them and feel pity — it was cold, they were wet, but they had smiles on their faces. It was lovely to see the rain making them happy, even if their moms would make sure they took hot steaming baths and had them eating and drinking something hot when they got home.

As I looked at them, remembered the memories I had of rain as a kid.

The first, and not so happy one, was when I was in SSS3.

It was a Monday, it was a fast Monday, one of the good ones. School time ended, my sister and I left school immediately the bell rang — a rare happening, because we spent a few minutes waiting for each other or friends.

It was clear it was about to rain, but we decided to take the risk because our home was about five streets away from school. We did all we could to get home as fast as we could, and we succeeded. We had just gotten to the gate when the rain started falling. And it didn’t have a preamble — it went straight to body. Anyways, we were at the gate already, and it was time to open it. I asked my sister to bring out the key; she told me it wasn’t with her.

“Stop joking,” I said. We both did things like that.

Without the expected smirk on her wet face, she said, “I should stop joking.” It was then I knew our plans of having a nice warm bath, drinking tea, eating junk and eventually sleeping had been truncated.

We hadn’t taken our keys. We were stuck outside.

Two teenage girls, out in the rain on a quiet, cloudy street, their school uniforms drenched with cold water dropping from the sky. Goosebumps on their skin and gnashing teeth from the unmerciful freezing wind, rumbling stomachs, aching legs and backs from the simple act of existing as a student — and of course, drenched books and heavy bags.

After much deliberation on when our mum, siblings, or dad would be back from school and work respectively, we figured out a way to get into the compound without a key.

We got to the balcony and decided to camp there, but the cold was terrible. We were shivering like newly hatched chicks. After a while of contemplating whether we should or should not die of pneumonia, we decided to stay in the gatehouse — which was pretty much abandoned, we used it to store all sorts — but at least it was enclosed.

After what felt like eternity (about 2 hours), my mum got back first. We got in, got hit by warmth, and I went straight for my bed.

I learned three things that day:

People without shelter are in real danger. They don’t have it easy.

Things won’t always go as planned.

Always remember to take your keys.

I’m having a hard time remembering every memory I made as a kid, but I’ll always remember the days when my siblings and I were on school holidays. We’d be home, and we’d build ourselves fortresses with duvets taken from my parents’ bedroom and our rooms, finding a particular spot in the living room to begin the architecture of our cosy little home. Our mum’s wrappers were not spared. I enjoyed wearing sweaters and hoodies, then proceeding to drink steaming Richoco tea.

We made kites and paper boats with our mum when it rained. We rode bicycles in the compound. We danced, sang, and performed concerts in the rain.

And when we were lucky, NEPA didn’t pull its usual trick. We’d watch Disney Junior, Cartoon Network, or Nickelodeon.

The days when the lightning and thunder and already horrible sounds of the wind would battle with the windows to birth scary whistles were horrible — especially when we were home alone. It was worse at night: utter darkness, sudden lightning, loud thunderclaps, chilling breeze, and the shadows of trees and flowers staring and peeking into the room. The fear of even standing up to shut the window so the rain doesn’t get in.

I have never understood why people claim to enjoy the smell of rain though. To me, it smells like dust, and nobody likes to inhale dust, but what do I know?

These days though, I enjoy the rain. It soothes and relaxes. Ironically, it brings a certain warmth. Makes me happy, gives me hope. And most especially, it SOMETIMES reduces the hell-like temperature we seem to be trapped in here in Nigeria.

—From the wandering mind of Aggy.

I’m Brenda, a 28-year-old, self-acclaimed feminist. I got married about three years ago to what most women would describe as their dream man. Imagine him yourself.

Playing SZA’s Normal Girl.

It’s a random Wednesday, and I’m home alone again, idle. We don’t have kids yet, for reasons I’m no longer sure of. I have friends, but I’m lazily introverted, and I’m not that desperate for company. I’m not lonely — I’m just whiling away alone.

I had dreams of being useful, at least to myself and to what I thought I stood for, but I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck.

Every day, I wake up — thank God — and just exist. I’m not living.

Seven years ago, when I had just gotten my first degree (B.Sc), I was pumped about making a difference in every world I imagined myself in. My mother was a housewife, and I sincerely watched her dreams die with every meal she cooked, with every chore she did, with every instruction she had to follow. She lost herself, and I swore never to let that happen to me. She always told stories of how she had wanted to be a lawyer, and every time she said so, I found it harder to picture her as one.

Then I would put myself in her shoes, imagining I had to give up everything I grew up looking forward to. It sickened me, and I let it sink — but I guess it didn’t sink enough.

I dusted my mother’s shoes and put them on. What a shame.

It’s Monday today, my husband has left for work, and I’m home alone. Again.

I want to be so much more than a society-glorified homebody and a companion. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy being my husband’s companion, and I’m grateful for it, but I want to create value for myself.

My husband gives me everything, and I have a business that brings in just enough passive income to keep me comfortable. And that’s exactly where the problem lies — I’m relaxed. For the first time in my life, there isn’t any real pressure to prove myself anymore.

I studied Law — for myself, and for my mother too. I knew I had made her proud when I graduated. Then I went on to law school, and immediately after, pursued a Master’s degree.

I was terribly stressed and pressured — mostly by my mother — and that’s how I lost the passion I thought I had for Law. Her pressure broke me, but I still had to go on. I couldn’t imagine disappointing her, or myself.

I had other siblings, so it wasn’t as though the baton had been handed to me specially. I put most of the pressure on myself.

Right now, I’m three weeks pregnant, and only God and I know this — well, and now you. I can’t tell my husband. I can’t tell him because it’ll make everything real — the reality that I am, in fact, a housewife. Worse, it’ll mean I have a valid reason to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. I can’t let that happen.

I’m overwhelmed with fear — fear of the death of my girlhood dreams, fear of truly becoming my mother.

So what was my dream, really?

It’s clearer now: I never wanted to become my mother. I wanted to be who she couldn’t. And here I am, directionless. I spent almost eight peak years of my life chasing a borrowed dream under choking pressure. I didn’t build close friendships; I told myself I was too busy to socialise or have hobbies. Looking back, I was a nerd. I first met my husband during my Master’s programme — he did most of the pursuing, and that remains one of the things I’m genuinely grateful for.

This baby is going to take whatever hope I have left of finding myself, and I really can’t let that happen. I’m at a loss for what to do with my life.

My options are keeping my baby or finding myself.

I know they aren't mutually exclusive — I know that. I just need to do this on my own terms, without the weight of a tiny human depending on me before I've figured out who I am. But I also know I can't lose this baby. Three years, and this is the first time my body has said yes.

So maybe the real question isn't what I choose — it's whether I'm brave enough to stop pretending I have a choice at all.

Because somewhere along the way, while I was busy running from my mother’s life, I dusted off her shoes and slipped into them anyway.

This story has been sitting in my drafts for almost two months now. I doubted its worth, so I let it gather dust. But here it is now—out in the open.

Writing this piece made me imagine what life as Brenda might feel like. I was empathetic toward this character because it’s a story many women out there can relate to in one way or another. I enjoyed writing it, but it tested me emotionally. It made me feel. It made me think.

I hope you enjoyed it.

I’m still contemplating developing this into something bigger than a single Substack publication, so keep your eyes open.

Again, utterly fictional.

—From the imaginative and empathetic mind of Aggy.

I’m not chastising you; I’m chastising us. Our parents were right. It’s the damn phone. We spend time scrolling through reels and posts with the initial intention of “just 10 minutes.” It escalates to 30, then an hour, then hours. We absorb a whirlwind of emotions from every piece of short-form content we consume. One minute it’s a compilation of kids doing the darndest things; the next, it’s Philip Olubakin preaching, then girls’-night-out content, then news on the Electoral Act, then some dark-humour reels — the options are endless.

These platforms are designed to keep us hooked. Creators are deliberate about evoking emotion, strategising not just to make you feel, but to make you feel at the extreme. That way, it feels relatable and real — not censored or manufactured. This is what pulls us in. We always want more of that high. We swipe and swipe and swipe — until our network provider warns us about data usage, until our phone battery dies, until sleep overtakes us, or until we can no longer avoid reality.

Short-form content does a lot of damage to our brains, and we don’t even realise how bad it is. Our attention spans are at an all-time low. We can’t read books anymore because it takes longer and requires more effort to reach that dopamine hit, and we’re too impatient with the plot to keep going. Watching a film without opening TikTok. Holding a conversation without the urge to scroll. These things now feel like a challenge.

If you can’t see it yet, I’ll spell it out. This is what addiction looks like.

You find something to relax with, reward yourself with, or use to escape reality. It works so well — or feels so good — that you just have to keep going. You return to it again and again, until a voice in your head starts warning you about overdependence and overuse. You begin to notice signs that maybe that voice is right. So you try to stop.

You stop. But life hits, or boredom sets in, and you tell yourself, “Oh, just 10 minutes.” Again, it escalates into hours. You feel bad afterward, but that doesn’t stop you from going back.

Doomscrolling delivers cheap dopamine. It gets you high and giddy, but the feeling doesn’t last long — which is exactly why you keep going back. Addiction is a neuropsychological disorder. It sounds serious because it is.

I was about to dive into a conspiracy theory about how the designers of these platforms want to turn our brains to mush so they can execute their other sinister plans, but we’re not ready for that. I’m not ready for it either. So let’s focus on reducing screen time significantly and engaging more with long-form content that has lasting value. I strongly recommend podcasts, books, and films — especially the old ones, the real classics.

Because, to be frank, most short-form content doesn’t provoke meaningful thought. There are endless GRWMs, OOTDs, and other personal-brand content. Before you come across one Ibukun Awosika video, you’d have scrolled past 10 GRWMs, skits, and memes. The traffic and engagement this type of content generates is what’s pushing everyone to become a creator — which is, honestly, a wise move. Very wise. But if you’re on these platforms purely for consumption and not creation, you need to rethink everything raised in this article.

If you genuinely want to reduce your screen time and intake of short-form content, I suggest setting app limits. It’s been over two weeks since I set limits on Instagram and YouTube (I’m not on TikTok, hehehe) — an hour and thirty minutes a day each — and it has been great so far. I can’t say too much because it’s still early, but the difference has been subtle yet noticeable.

I’ll write about podcasts, books, and films — especially older ones — that will draw you in from the very start, so you won’t struggle as much with boredom or staying engaged.

Also, I recommend spending time with people in real life — without screens, texts, or phones. It might be costly, but I still recommend it.

So yes. It’s called DOOMscrolling. The name was always the warning.

Put the phone down. Not forever, just for now. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Probably.

— From the not-so-mushy mind of Aggy.

These two sides were at loggerheads, questioning each other’s values and hot takes.

I, Aggy, chose to speak up in support of and in pursuit of justice for this young woman because, quite frankly, I am particular about issues like this.

The lady’s story eventually turned out to be false, and those who had spoken up in support of her were labeled “fools” by the other side. It was upsetting — it still is. But honestly, just because she lied does not mean it doesn’t happen on a regular basis. It is simply unfortunate that one person decided to make a mockery of an issue as dire as rape by being dishonest.

Real victims suffer stigma and trauma. Real victims avoid the topic to escape triggers. And the few who are courageous enough to speak up are accused of lying because of similar recent events.

I was in church on Sunday when the pastor decided to pray for people who had been sexually abused in one way or another. The number of people who came forward shocked me. Over one-third of the congregation stepped out for prayers. It was honestly heartbreaking and shocking. People are clearly being abused daily, and the first reaction some expect us to have is to question the validity of their stories? Not with the current statistics — we cannot. It is truly foolish and unfortunate for anyone, in their right senses, to come forward with a false allegation and make a mockery of sexual assault.

When it comes to rape, justice is limited. Only about 10–15% of sexual violence incidents are reported to the police, and approximately 2–3% of recorded rape cases result in convictions.

Global prevalence statistics show that 1 in 5 women has been violated, and 1 in 11 men experienced sexual assault in childhood.

Let’s dissect that.

We’ll start with the men. Many males who report assault were abused as boys — as children. Why? Because childhood is the most vulnerable stage, where coercion and exploitation are easier. It is a sick and deranged mindset to prey on innocent children to satisfy destructive urges. A 2025 study on child sexual abuse victims found that 54.9% of perpetrators were women, while 35.3% were men — a statistic that complicates common narratives and reminds us that abuse is not confined to one gender or stereotype.

However, the prevalence among women is significantly higher and often more brutal. It spans all age groups, not just girl children.

As a woman, I would not dare enter public transport filled only with men. I dare not walk alone at night. A man is unlikely to say he cannot enter a bus full of women because he fears assault. That contrast tells a significant story. Worldwide, 1 in 3 women has experienced sexual or physical violence from an intimate partner. Additionally, 81% of women have experienced some form of sexual harassment or assault in their lifetime. That means your mother, sister, aunt, best friend, or girlfriend has likely been assaulted — or may be at risk.

A victim finally gathers the courage to speak up. Others defend them. Yet some of the comments you see and the things you hear make you wonder whether cruelty is becoming normalized.

I don’t know, but the world truly feels unhinged at times.

Actual victims of sexual harassment often remain silent because of the hostility and skepticism that greet their stories. But we can do better. We must raise our sons and daughters better. If there is no mutual consent, go about your day.Do not exploit a broken system or hide behind stereotypes. Think. Try to be empathetic before speaking. And most importantly, keep your judgments to yourself. If you are not part of the justice system, leave those judgments within the four corners of your mind.

This particular article forced me to read, research, gather facts, and empathy — then cook them all in one pot. It is both a logical and emotional piece. If you have counterarguments, kindly publish your own article.

—From the firm yet empathetic mind of Aggy

Just a little context before the main event: it wasn’t funny at the time it happened. It could have been the beginning of my villain origin story, but I’m a Powerpuff Girl, so I let it slide.

I had just gotten into secondary school. I was in an entirely new school, and really, the only person I knew was my twin sister. But I didn’t see her much, because the dickhead of a principal thought it was a good idea to put us in different classes—JSS 1A and JSS 1B, respectively.

I was shy as a kid. I was only nine years old, and my social skills were limited to my family and church—all thanks to my mum and dad. We weren’t allowed to leave the four walls of our house unless it was for church, family outings, or when mummy sent you on an errand.

Anyway, the point is, I didn’t exactly have friends at school at the time. But I did have people I recognised in class. I knew them from my neighbourhood, so we sort of left school together. Among these people was Gabriel (let’s call him that).

It was a regular school day—the day it happened. We were idle; a free period, as we usually called it. I was seated all by myself, most likely talking to myself, when Gabriel came and asked me to grind chalk. Yes, white chalk.

A little context: in the secondary school I attended, we had both whiteboards and blackboards, but they made use of the whiteboards far more often, rendering the blackboards almost useless. As a result, there was a heap of white chalk at the back of the classroom.

I agreed to grind the chalk. I was completely oblivious to what he needed it for. I was just happy to be occupied and involved.

I began grinding the chalk. Gabriel would come and “transport” it to his desk—using one hand as a broom and the other as a packer. He came for a few packages before he began to use it (or not). All I knew was that he had chalk powder on his nose, and for some reason, everyone in the class thought it was funny, while I was just happy to be, in some way, noticed.

Gabriel was going for another round when Mrs Jade (we’re calling her that) walked into the classroom and caught Gabriel in the act.

Damn. Damn. DAMN.

“Gabriel, what are you doing?!”

He started stuttering.

“Ma ma ma, I—I’m, I’m j-just…”

Before I knew it, her hand was on his face.

The entire class fell into an ultra-silent hush after that thud.

She immediately asked where he got it from.

With one hand on his left cheek, he raised his right hand and pointed at me.

Jesus.

I wondered if I had a slap coming my way too.

Turns out, I didn’t (I did, but it just wasn’t that day—another storytime).

She immediately waltzed out of the class, and before I knew it, she was back—she had reported us to the principal.

She asked us to kneel in front of the principal’s office.

It didn’t take long before his assistant called us in. No dialogue was exchanged. I watched him reach for a long, flexible, rope-like object—it was a flippin’ fan belt.

It landed on my back, and immediately, I felt goosebumps. I didn’t even have enough time to process whatever it was I was feeling before it came again—and again—and againnnnn. I lost count.

He asked me to leave. I did. I went back into the classroom and rested my head on my desk.

I didn’t cry, strangely enough, but I knew I was experiencing a new kind of pain. I just wanted to leave school immediately to explore what this was. LMAO.

Gabriel walked into the class with his eye as red as someone who had just smoked a blunt, with snort travelling down to his lips.

I left school that day immediately the bell rang. I was livid. I honestly can’t remember what was going on in my head, but I know I was embarrassed.

I had never been hit like that before, and I didn’t fully understand the gravity of what Gabriel and I had done.

I didn’t tell my parents because I thought they’d be disappointed as well.

Fast forward to the weekend after I was beaten: I was in my parents’ room, shirtless, standing in front of the dresser, playing with the creams, make up, and perfume bottles, while my mum lay on the bed. My twin sister was also in the room.

My mum glanced at my back and spotted the marks.

She shouted.

I froze. I thought something terrible had happened. Then she pulled me closer, and it was only then that I realised she had seen the marks that even I haven’t seen.

“How careless of me,” I thought, foolishly.

She asked me how I got them, and I told her. When I looked at her face afterward, I knew she wasn’t happy. She was also disappointed that I hadn’t told her.

“Rejoice, why didn’t you tell me?” she asked—concern, disappointment, and pity all tangled together.

She told my dad that same day, and furious would be an understatement to describe how he felt. Everyone felt sorry for me, and more reassuringly, no one blamed me or said I deserved it—because I really didn’t. I was too meek to know better. And truly, no one deserves that kind of animalistic treatment—not even an animal.

Mr Taiwo—that’s the principal’s name; we’re not hoarding it. I hate you so much, by the way.

The next Monday, my mum and my uncle who was in the military came with me to see the principal, and I remember what my mum wore that day vividly.

Her long hair was straightened and worn down. She had on a black blouse, a grey pencil skirt, black heels, and very lovely makeup. I remember so much detail because when my classmates saw her, they were blushing like they’d just seen J. Lo. They said my daddy was a lucky man. LMAO.

I was happy because it gave them an avenue to finally talk to me—and for once, I was noticed for something good.

They saw the bandit, and warned him, of course.

The enddd.

I started writing this story as a joke, but somewhere along the line, I realised I hadn’t healed from it at all. Now that I’m much older, I understand that what Mr Taiwo did was physical abuse—plain and simple. Both Gabriel and I were abused.

There were other options: counselling, explanation, even discipline that didn’t involve violence or the regular cane. But instead, he chose brutality. He chose humiliation. He chose to treat children like animals.

Again, I hate you. And fuck you.

—From the scarred mind of Aggy.

My genuine condolences go out to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and her family. No one deserves to bear such pain. I pray that comfort finds you.

To everyone who has lost a loved one—or anyone at all—to the incompetence of the Nigerian healthcare system, I hope justice is served. And even with the full knowledge that justice will not bring your loved ones back, I hope your grief is met with healing, strength, and peace in whatever form it can come.

To the health workers: you are fully aware of the value of a life. That is why you chose a profession centered on saving lives. The value of a life is immeasurable, and the pain of losing one is just as profound. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

Mistakes are human, yes, but when it comes to matters of life, there is no room for carelessness. You have undergone the training. You know this.

As I write this, deep down I know I am putting down words that have been said many times before, especially during moments like this. This is one of the reasons we say, “Pray Nigeria doesn’t happen to you,” because even money and fame cannot fully protect you from Nigeria.

The incompetence in Nigeria does not stop at the government; it permeates every sector—security, the economy, healthcare, and even education.

People say they want to japa, and some silly minds respond with judgmental frowns, accusing them of being unpatriotic. Wisdom truly needs to pay such people a visit, for they are ignorant of Nigeria’s many woes. Nigeria has not just one problem, but far too many. So many that I am already overwhelmed by the little I can bring myself to remember.

We all come into this world with just one life. Yes, life is short, and spending it in a failing society will only shorten it further.

Life may be inevitable, sudden, and uncontrollable, but it is only wise to live it where the most basic needs are adequately and thoughtfully catered for.

The churches in Nigeria are filled with people begging God for the most basic necessities and calling them miracles. It’s sad—truly, deeply sad. Most Nigerians are in church seeking answers to prayers that would have been unnecessary in a functional society. Imagine if Christians in Nigeria invested those same resources into building an actual relationship with Christ. This brings tears to my eyes, because Nigerians, and Nigeria itself, have been robbed.

The littlest comfort or advancement excites and amuses us.

We can pray, fast, and do everything in between while asking God for mercy and protection from Nigeria, but the truth remains: Nigerians are Nigeria’s problem. Everyone—the government, civilians, and all in between—has a role to play. If only we all had a little more compassion for the person next to us, the same compassion we reserve for ourselves and our families, things would begin to change, gradually.

—From the aggrieved mind of Aggy.

I know this is a detour from my usual newsletter. Stay with me.

Mr. Osaigbovo, a 5-foot-7-inch, round-bellied man with a skin tone reminiscent of an ashy, dull Harmattan day, was wearing a laundered white senator that looked like it had been sheltering him for at least a decade. He fraudulently, but successfully—called me aside one fateful day after I had innocently greeted him and his friends while making my way into the hall I had an event to attend.

Yes, that was my mistake. I accept it. I take the hit.

I just didn’t know that a man old enough to father a 40-year-old would call me aside by pretending my face was familiar—an old-fashioned and completely useless tactic.

“My dear, your pretty face looks familiar. I think I know your father.”

I smiled awkwardly at the low-effort pickup line, thinking to myself that my father could call this man daddy. I swallowed the thought and replied,
“I don’t think so, sir. My dad doesn’t stay around here.”

He laughed loudly while stretching out his hand for a handshake. I took it, bending slightly to show respect. Unfortunately, the old man took this as a cue to lead me away from his mates and place a hand over my shoulder.

Why was his hand on my shoulder?!

He asked for my name.
“Rejoice, sir,” I replied, without forgetting to acknowledge the decades between us.

“Joyce?”
An already frustrated me rolled my eyes and shouted, “Rejoice!”

Good.
Now the whole place knew I was telling him my name.
Even worse, they were seeing me with an old man they could all confidently swear I had zero family ties with.
Good. Good. Good.

While I was doing all that math in my head, I saw his mouth move. I heard his disturbing voice. I felt uncomfortable. And then I realised—he was still holding my hand.

Warm.
Moist.

I promised myself not to touch my face and to take a very good bath when I got home.

His hand was still on my shoulder. It felt uncomfortably heavy, and I could already feel an ache.
Why was this man’s hand still on my shoulder?

“So, my dear, what are you doing here?”

I explained that I was attending an event with my friends.
And my department.
Yes—the entire Architecture department.

The crowd around us consisted of my junior colleagues, my coursemates, and—unfortunately—my lecturers.

He proceeded to ask the usual questions:
Was I a student?
Which school did I attend?
And all the other tired clichés you can imagine.

I found out he was an alumnus of my school. I also found out—without my consent—that he hated the school.

While this unsolicited talking stage was ongoing, my friends stared at me. So did half the Architecture department. I wished I could stop time or better fling this man away without implications.

When he learned I was a final-year student, he became proud. Too proud. Too happy. So happy that I almost smiled—until he blurted he was going to throw me a party after I graduated and that he liked me very much.

The almost-smile vanished.

I looked down and saw his wedding ring. Then I noticed the time on his wristwatch.

I just stared.

Because what exactly are you supposed to say when an old, married man you met ten minutes ago tells you he wants to throw you a party and that he likes you?
Another confirmation of my long-standing theory that old age and wisdom do not naturally co-exist.

If he had appeared even slightly different, I might have doubted myself. But he didn’t seem well-to-do enough—mentally or financially.

While I was desperately trying to find words to dish out to this grandpa, a friend came over to announce that the event was about to start. That interruption was my escape route.

Long story short, he didn’t let me leave until I gave him my contact. Right there and then, he called the number immediately to confirm it.

Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.
He’s a little clever.

I gave him a working number, though—with full plans of blocking his existence.

I eventually walked away in the company of my friend, his voice echoing behind me:

“I’ll chat you up on WhatsApp, my dear.”

That was when I genuinely felt like throwing myself into the interlocking pavement. I kept walking, pretending like nobody was speaking to me.

We finally got into the hall after years—years—of gossiping about what had just happened while waiting outside.

Only to discover that Mr. Osaigbovo was some sort of MC-adjacent figure for the event.

I prayed instantly for God to shield me from his uncomfortable gaze.

God did.

But I still left the party with three missed calls and a handful of texts asking me to see him before I left—or better yet, to go on a date with him.

I blocked him there and then.

Who exactly does this man want to put in trouble? He definitely has children I’d respectfully refer to as “ma” or “sir.” And I definitely do not want anybody pouring acid on my face. I’m a fine girl, and I have a long way to go.

It’s 10:00 a.m. the next morning.

I’m already frustrated from trying to decode what outfit to wear to class when my phone rings. An unsaved number. I ignore it the first time. Then the second. I hate phone calls—especially from unknown numbers.

By the third ring, I answer.

I place the phone to my ear and hear the disturbing voice.

It’s Mr. Osaigbovo.

I freeze.

Jesus, Jesus—in the voice of that guy who was asking for hair cream that restores privileges.

Osalobua, what does this old man want from me?

I hear him asking how I am. I don’t respond.
“Hello? Hello?” he says.

Still nothing.

I end the call. Immediately.

I fumble for a moment trying to find the block button, locate it, and use it before he can call back.

At this point, he should get the message.

He doesn’t.

Because another call came in—later that day while I was in my classroom—from another number.

After confirming it’s still him, I finally speak.

Calmly. Clearly. Matter-of-factly.

I tell him I am not interested in whatever it is he thinks he’s offering.

I end the call. No reply needed. That was the end of Mr. Osaigbovo in my life.

That was a long read, I know. If you made it this far, we’re officially friends.

The story is based on true events. Plus a few necessary arithemetics—storytelling deserves drama.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing this, and yes, I plan to continue.

Thank you for reading. Suscribe if you haven’t, darling.

Please, share my words.

Share

—From somewhere in the mind of Aggy.

The only word that perfectly fits today is resumption.

After a ton of celebrations, events, activities, outings, spending, travelling, and thanksgiving, the seriousness of life resumes. School. Work. Life in general hits the play button again. It’s heartbreaking, a little sad—but it’s a given, and that inevitability is the saddest part.

After spending time with friends and family over the holidays, it can be hard to let go and accept the idea of “this same time next year.” Sometimes, we get so caught up in the moments that we forget to remind ourselves that they aren’t forever, because life feels so full while we’re in them. But now, it’s clear: we have to say our goodbyes.

You’ve travelled back home to sit behind your office desk again.
You’ve packed your luggage and returned to school.
You’ve waved your kids or siblings goodbye.
You’ve opened your store for the first time this year.
You’ve resumed the gym, maybe for the first time ever, or just the first time this year.
You’ve posted your first content of the year, or even your first content ever.

And now, it’s straight into optimism and intentionality.

Because resumption isn’t just about returning, it’s about restarting. About taking everything the holidays gave us—rest, laughter, love, clarity—and carrying it into the seriousness of life. It’s about showing up again, even when it feels heavy, even when we’d rather stay in the warmth of what just ended.

So here’s to resumption!
To beginnings disguised as endings.
To choosing hope, discipline, and purpose, one resumed day at a time.

—From the resilient mind of Aggy.

There’s a bunch of medication lying on the table beside my laptop as I write. I look at them and sigh, “NOT THE PLAN.” I’m coughing, sneezing, picking up awful scents, nursing body pains, feeling dizzy—and worse off, my head doesn’t just feel heavy; it aches without any remorse for me.

I’m not finding anything funny, and every question sounds rhetorical. I feel like I’m losing my spark to this new year’s illness. What a shame. Again—NOT THE PLAN.

But what was the plan, though?

The plan was to be happy and grateful.

THE PLAN

Playing Dr. Dog’s Where’d All the Time Go?

It’s officially my birthday, and I’m elated! I’ve officially spent two decades on planet Earth with my family and friends, and it’s been wonderful.

There’s a lot to be grateful for, and I truly am grateful—for being alive, for having my needs catered for, for family beside me, for bagging a B.Sc. degree, for being creative, for being Aggy.

Since the beginning of maturing and self-realisation, I haven’t exactly had the courage—or rather, the wisdom—to celebrate myself. Over the past five to six years, I either sulk, get overwhelmed, get underwhelmed, or find a reason to be depressed for the whole day.

But this year, I’m consciously choosing to be happy, grateful, celebrated, and loved—regardless of anything that happens.

I’m taking a huge step by putting out my first podcast to celebrate myself, and I’m genuinely excited about this new phase.

“ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS”

On the very first day of the year, I fell ill. I didn’t think much of it until I woke up barely an hour after falling asleep on the morning of the 2nd. I couldn’t sleep—my throat felt itchy and ashy, my head felt like it was trying to replace my heart by beating so hard, my nose was runny, and every slight movement of my body rebelled by shooting sharp pain at me.

That night, I was lucky to have the company of a friend, though it didn’t last very long. Eventually, I went on X, Instagram, Pinterest, and—of course—Substack.

Somehow, I ended up on Substack’s website. I clicked on the podcast tab, and there I was, recording my first podcast—excited. I spoke about how impulsive it was, how perfect it felt to put it out on my birthday, and how I was choosing happiness in this new year of my life.

I finished the masterpiece… only to realise I hadn’t hit the record button.

Meh.

I wasn’t too bothered. I enjoyed it so much that I was eager to do a second one. This time, I pressed record, spoke and spoke for about 25 minutes, hit stop—and was rewarded with five minutes and twenty-two seconds of my yapping.

Definitely NOT THE PLAN.

I resolved to try again within the next 24 hours. I did—but this time, I sounded like a “senior man.” I sniffed and coughed endlessly, overthought everything, and just didn’t feel like myself.

That’s why you’re reading instead of listening.

And the cherry on top of the sundae? My tailor ruined my dress for my thanksgiving service for church. Pure perfection.

Am I still happy and grateful?

I am. I really am. But I wish I could express myself differently. I wish everything went according to plan, but I’m sticking to the plan—even if life isn’t—because still, I’m turning 20 in good health (could be better, but at least, it’s not worse), with great humour, a sound mind, a caring family, and good friends.

I don’t know what today holds—let alone the whole year—but I’m choosing to be joyful, celebrated and truly loved.

Cheers to me and my twin! We’ve come a long way. And gratitude is really the only valid thing today.

Manifesting a ton of credit alerts, a day at the beach, a job with Zikoko, a stronger immune system, peace and confidence.

—From the mind of an older and grateful Aggy.

A truly happy birthday to me. ❤️

2025 happened so fast, and now 2026 is already here. Just like that, resolutions are becoming reviews. We’re sharing experiences and lessons, and giving gratitude where it’s due. We’re setting new goals, making new plans, cutting people off, strengthening bonds, writing newsletters, drafting prayer-point lists, clearing and cleaning, creating mood boards, looking forward to a new start—hoping we’ll be part of that new start, praying we can celebrate it with the ones we love beside us.

The first day of 2026 is not just another day. That concept is BS to me, anyway.

01/01/2026 represents a perfect beginning—something 13/04/2026 will never offer you.

2026 is less than 12 hours away, and that thought scares me because, really, what’s the plan for 2026? I definitely have plans—big plans—but life comes with plot twists. We never know what the next second holds, not to talk of a whole year. You can look back at the plans you had for 2025: the optimism you felt in January, the surprises that caught you unaware, the events that left you shaken, the wins you didn’t prepare for, the losses that left you embarrassed—even to yourself—and the news you didn’t think you’d recover from.

All in all, you’re here, reading this. That tells me more than I need to know.

We’re not entirely sure what to expect from the new year, but we know what we got in 2025. That knowledge alone is enough to keep us going—to keep us hopeful and grateful.

Speaking of gratitude, I’m grateful for family and friends in particular. And more importantly, all gratitude goes to God—for everything, literally. Every move I made, every breath I took, every thought that crossed my mind; for the endless guidance, protection, provision, grace, favour, and yes, the love He showed. Thank you, Jesus.

2026 is going to be a good year. There will be a ton of workload, but the results will but the results will be more than worth it. There will be days of exhaustion, moments of doubt, and pauses where I’ll need to remind myself why I started in the first place. Still, I’m choosing to believe that effort will meet grace somewhere in between.

I don’t have every detail figured out, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe 2026 isn’t about having a perfect plan, but about showing up—consistently, honestly, intentionally. About doing the work, unlearning what no longer serves me, and leaving room for growth, joy, and rest.

So what’s the plan for 2026? To try. To fail forward. To learn loudly. To love better. To trust God deeper. To give my best where I can, and grace where I can’t.

Here’s to beginnings—imperfect, terrifying, but full of possibilities and wins.

Wishing you a new year that feels intentional, hopeful, and true to you. Happy New Year! And have a seamless 2026.

—From the optimistic mind of Aggy.

Like most people, I look back at the year, do a little review, plan some resolutions, thank God, and come on here to say a closing remark. But this year, I wanted to be more intentional.

2025, for me, was a landmark year. I experienced a lot of emotions and adventures. I dared to do things I still can’t believe I did, and for the most part, it liberated me. I’m probably talking like it was a good year—and yeah, you’re right, it was a good year—but it was also a mind-boggling one.
2025 showed me exactly what people mean when they describe their lives as rollercoasters. It was an unstable year that tested my mental limits.

Omo, 2025 taught me lessons. It handed me my real ones, discarded the trash I refused to take out because I thought it was vintage, served me premium tears every other day, gave me literal scars, made me question myself and my abilities, and opened my eyes to how humans can be inhumane.
2025 showed me true friendships—in both good and bad ways. I learned hard lessons and accepted tougher truths. There were days I cried to God for healing, and days I thanked Him for His companionship.
2024 showed me a glimpse of adulting, but 2025 fully welcomed me into it.

Looking back at the year, I can confidently say I lived 2025. The year didn’t pass over my head at all.

But mehn, I cried oo. I cried like a hungry baby. I felt lonely for most of the year, even when I wasn’t. I’d smile during the day, crack jokes with friends, then return home to cry my big eyes out. It was tough—but here I am now, smiling at my screen. On a few of those days, I had a shoulder to lean on, and I’ll be forever grateful for that.

I also graduated this year. I have a degree to my name, and honestly, that has been one of the most relieving and gratitude-inducing things ever.

I didn’t meet many people this year though. I can barely remember more than five new people I met. So yes, there’s definitely a need for me to be more intentional about networking.

I remember writing myself a letter—saying goodbye to 2023 and welcoming 2024—and this was what I said:

Looking back, I don’t think I INTENTIONALLY tried new things this year. I stayed well within my comfort zone. I planned my days, although life had other plans. Despite this, I still planned my days, which usually left me dumbfounded and almost mad, but oh well, it all worked out for my good.

I quoted that because, I evolved. I grew intentionally. I stayed outside my four walls of comfort, and explored what I thought could be mine. It didn’t kill me, the memories and experiences are within me, and I feel really good about it.

Self-love was a battle this year, though. I can’t say too much about that yet—but yes, it was a battle, and now it’s a resolution.

I also had a lot of people tell me I needed to start a podcast.

People who had no idea I was a writer would randomly bring it up, saying things like, “Your voice would be so lovely to listen to,” “You talk so well,” and “You should start a podcast.”
So yeah—by the grace of God, I’ll be doing that in 2026. I’m typing these words with something I believe is Fear, but yeah, I’m doing it, still.

I’ve said a lot in this newsletter, and it’s not your typical “Wrapped”, but here you go.

It’s currently 1:59 a.m., and now I’m wondering what I’ll even discuss in my usual last newsletter of the year, seeing as I’ve yapped this much already. Anyways, we’ll get to that in due time.

—From the grateful mind of Aggy.

Please like, comment, and SHARE (the “SHARE” is in caps for a reason, please).

Thank you! And please, I’d genuinely love to know your thoughts about my upcoming podcast—and what YOU’D love to hear.

Here’s a little something from The Cavemen:

I speak on behalf of the Nigerian youths when I say that imagining a future in this country is becoming painfully difficult.

I’ll be 20 in less than two months, and ever since I can remember, we have always prayed for Nigeria. There have always been dire reasons to pray for the country—and today, in 2025, we’re still praying. We’re praying against bad governance, begging God to take away corrupt leaders, crying because of terrorism, and arguing about religion and politics in the same rooms.

Every morning, when we wake up in our homes, go online, turn on the news, or hear from people, there’s always news—HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE NEWS. News that reminds you that the world is truly vanity. News that snaps you back into the reality that life is unpredictable. News that can force tears out of your eyes without warning. News that gets you talking to God within seconds. News that drags heavy sighs out of your nostrils. News that makes you forget you have a dream—news that makes life itself feel worthless.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m writing from a place of fear. Fear of being murdered or kidnapped. Fear of losing someone I love. Fear of letting go of my dreams. And inside this room of fears, the space is cramped—there’s barely any room to breathe.

I’ve always been hopeful. I’ve always had faith in a better Nigeria. But now, I think I’ve accepted that Nigeria may never get better. The country is fucked.

I’m losing faith, but all I can still bring myself to say is, “It is well,” and “Lord, please help.” Maybe that’s what this truly is—the illusion of helplessness wrapped around the reality of fear.

Yes, my faith is dying, but it isn’t dead yet.

Do I believe Nigeria is going to get better? I honestly don’t know. What exactly is the essence of this newsletter? I don’t know either. Life feels unbearably uncertain right now.

I’m not calling out pastors, imams, or other religious leaders. I’m also not calling out the President or the governors of the recently victimised states, because they don’t need to be called out—everyone sees what is happening in Nigeria. We are sane and sound enough to understand the weight of the violence and injustice that takes place here every day. They aren’t children. Even a toddler in diapers can sense the tension, yet our leaders remain quiet. The masses have been crying, speaking, begging, tweeting, reposting, sharing memes—doing everything possible—yet nothing is being done to ease the suffering of the people.

When you think about these things, taking the law into your own hands begins to feel like the only option. But again, what can the masses really do besides wait in fear or hope—for a miracle or a tragedy?

Here’s the strange thing about fear: it doesn’t stop life from moving. Even in the middle of chaos, mornings still come. We still wake up, brush our teeth, think about breakfast, pick outfits, go to class, go to work, scroll through our phones, laugh at memes, reply messages, worry about money, dream about soft life, and try not to lose ourselves.

Life keeps happening — even when we feel like we’re standing still.

And in all of this, there’s a quiet question that I don’t think many of us are brave enough to say out loud:
“What if I don’t make it?”
Not because we’re lazy or unserious. Not because we lack ambition. But because the environment is actively fighting us. Because the country we’re supposed to call home feels more like a battlefield — one where we’re both the soldier and the target.

Some days, it feels like we’re building our futures on quicksand.

But I’ve learned something these past few weeks: fear is loud, but hope is stubborn. It doesn’t shout like fear does — it whispers. It whispers through the friends who check on you at midnight. Through that person who believes in you. Through the dreams that refuse to die, no matter how many times the country tries to choke them. Through the little joys — a good meal, sunlight on your face, a moment of laughter, a day without bad news.

Hope is quiet, but it’s still alive.

I won’t lie and say I’m suddenly confident. I’m not. I’m still scared. I’m still tired. I’m still unsure of the future. But maybe the point is not to pretend that everything is fine. Maybe the point is to feel the fear and still hold on to the tiny fragments of hope that remain.

Maybe that’s what surviving looks like.

I fear I don’t have a future in Nigeria.
But I also know that fear is not the end of my story.
My faith is dying — yes.
But dying is not the same as dead.

And until it completely burns out, I’ll keep holding on to whatever spark I can find. Because even in a country like this, even in a season like this, I still want to believe that God has not forgotten us. I still want to believe that we will not all sink. I still want to believe that somehow, somewhere, in ways I can’t yet see, things will shift.

Maybe slowly.
Maybe suddenly.
Maybe painfully.
Maybe beautifully.

But someday, I pray we look back and discover that what felt like the death of our faith was actually the beginning of something new — something stronger.

Until then… we keep breathing. We keep hoping. We keep living. Even when it hurts.

—From the contemplative mind of Aggy.

IF THIS RESONATED WITH YOU, PLEASE LIKE, SHARE, AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK IN THE COMMENTS.

“What is she about to say again?”

Right?

I’m not about to tell you I’m special — I’m sure you already knew that. I’m here to speak it into my future, or rather, write it into it.

Deep sighs.

It might not make sense — not to me, not to you. But its incomprehensibility won’t stop it from happening. I just have to keep breathing, keep writing, keep speaking, keep thinking, keep talking to Him, keep searching for answers. And when it all happens — when the little dots start connecting — we’ll finally see the full picture: God’s masterpiece.

I’m lying on my bed, idle and alone in my room, afraid and overwhelmed with anxiety. I had just finished a series by Apostle Femi Lazarus titled God’s Justice System. You’d think I’d be feeling fired up and optimistic, but instead, I feel sober — stripped of my over-comfortability. Anxious about wasting away. Guilty for hiding. Consumed by my own timidity. Afraid of mismanaging this season because I know I’m wrong for staying still — for excusing myself in the name of waiting for the “right time.”

But I’m waking up to the reality that there is no right time. There never will be. I’m not fully ready for whatever it is yet, but the lessons are en route — not found in stillness, but in movement. I’m honestly, honestly, honestly imperfect… but I’m letting Jesus take me by the hand. He’s the whole point.

The journey may not always be rosy. Frustration might sneak in. And sometimes, it may even get too rosy — so much that I forget the beginning, the essence of the embarkment. I pray this serves as my reminder, my nudge in the ribs to get back on track. And most importantly, I hope I’m not writing this for myself alone.

If you can feel it — even faintly — it’s okay if the picture’s still blurry. Just start by tracing the silhouette. You don’t have to stare too hard. Go with what you can see, with what you think you feel. Start with the little steps Jesus is planting under your feet.

I might not be making complete sense — trust me, I know. Do I know what I’m doing? Nope. Was any of this the plan? Sike. Is it set in stone for me? We’ll see. Do I have doubts? Oh, absolutely — they loom large. But what I feel is stronger than my doubts. The things I perceive aren’t void; they carry weight.

—From the faith-restored mind of Aggy.

P.S. I’ve had this in my drafts for months. I lost the faith I wrote about here, but someone helped me out of that dark hole. Shout-out to you, “someone.”