My mom was a teacher. Still is, in a way, even though she retired a year ago. Or maybe it’s been three. Could be five, depending on when you’re reading this. Time moves funny like that. It’s always been said that being a teacher is a lifetime sentence job, so I think I’m well within my rights to call her one. We lived just a stone’s throw away from her school, so after being dropped home from school, I’d often race there so I could catch her in the middle of action. Sure enough, I’d find her in her physics lab, surrounded by students, breaking down the mysteries of the universe. The irony is when I got to high school, physics was the thorn in my flesh. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, I’d wander off to the back office, poking around whatever papers or trinkets I could find, or sometimes head to the dining hall to play the piano, which, let’s just say, had seen better days. That was my after-school life: messy, curious, and full of little moments that I carry with me even now.
Before she left each day, my mom would pass by Caro’s desk, the principal’s secretary and one of her oldest friends to date. What was meant to be a quick goodbye always turned into an hour of laughter and banter, and I’d be left to my own devices. One day, I found myself walking into the small room to the left of Caro’s desk. It was always quiet, almost forgotten, except for a few objects that seemed to hold onto time. A typewriter placed neatly at the far end of the room, perfectly framed by the soft light filtering through the window drapes. There was a door on the opposite end, which I wasn’t too keen on.
From then on, my routine took shape. Every evening, I’d make my way to her school to “pick her up”, a task that was, of course, entirely redundant since she drove herself to work each day. But that was the charm of it: the pretense. She was always busy, and she’d inevitably pass by her best friend’s desk before leaving, so she knew exactly where I’d be. She’d come find me when she was done, and together, we’d head home.
I started reading at a very young age, nurtured by Fred, the librarian at my mother’s school. I liked Fred, he had funny jokes, which was unique for a librarian. Every Friday, he’d hand her a new PaceSetter novel to bring home to me, and in return, she’d return the one I’d read the previous week. For those unfamiliar, the PaceSetters Series was a treasure trove of stories. Over 130 novels by African authors, mostly Nigerian but also from Ghana, Kenya, and South Africa. They thrived in the 1980s, offering affordable, compelling literature that shaped the minds of countless African readers like myself. The themes: love, justice, the human condition, were more than just tales; they were windows into the world, inviting me to leap through them with wide-eyed wonder. How fortunate I was to grow up with that as my foundation.
Each novel was a new adventure, a new set of lives to live, dangers to face, lessons to learn. No wonder Beauty fell in love with the Beast; he gave her an entire library. I suppose in a way, I was similarly enchanted—by words, by stories, by the idea that everything I could ever need to know was hidden between the lines of pages.
Writing, after that, became effortless. My imagination, already wild, expanded in ways I never thought possible. I devoured books the way some people breathe air, and in turn, my essays at school seemed to flow with an ease that impressed teachers and classmates alike. It should’ve been an ego boost, all the praise that followed. But truth be told, I didn’t need it. It was great to receive but I always knew what I was made for. Words and stories already in my bones, just waiting to be written down.
The discovery of who you are, where you’re going, and what you might yet become, that’s what keeps me writing. It’s the reason I’m back here, sharing pieces of myself with you. The path of growth is rarely linear, and sometimes it feels like we’re spinning in circles, unsure of what’s next. But through the mess of it all, I’ve learned something invaluable: the universe always has a way of guiding you to where you need to be, even when you think you’ve lost your way. And sometimes, ironically, that place is right back where it all started. And if I trust it, I’ll find that the words, the stories, the lessons, will always come.
I’ve had so many amazing people around me, supporting my writing, nurturing this gift. Some encouraged me when I thought it wasn’t enough, others laughed at my funny stories, still others gave me the space to grow. This blog? It’s a testament to that support, to the fire that never quite went out, even when I tried to smother it. It’s here for the musings, the reflections, the opinions, the questions. For all the things I want to say, and all the things I’ve yet to understand.
No matter what happens in the outside world, writing has always been my anchor, my constant. Whether you’re here for advice, entertainment, or just a moment to reflect on your own journey, you’ll always find something in these words. So, come back often. This is where the thoughts are, where the stories are, where the answers might just lie hidden in the next paragraph. Because I’m still figuring it out, and thank you, for journeying with me.
