When you’re younger, you don’t really know what love is. You just know that certain people make you feel things you can’t explain. Maybe it’s the person you’re always excited to see at school or the person whose attention makes your day a little better. At that age, you don’t have the words for any of it. You’re not thinking about forever or commitment or partnership. You’re simply experiencing connection for the first time without fully understanding it.

As I got older, those feelings started making more sense. Relationships became more real, and the feelings became deeper. I started dating, making mistakes, learning lessons, and slowly figuring out who I was whenever another person’s heart was involved.

I won’t pretend that I’ve always been great at relationships. Looking back, there are situations I could have handled better. There are moments where I misunderstood people, and moments where I probably hurt people without intending to. I think that’s the reality for most of us. We like to imagine that we arrive in relationships knowing exactly what we’re doing, but most of the time we’re learning on the job.

Every relationship taught me something. Some taught me patience. Some taught me communication. Some taught me what I wanted. Others taught me what I never wanted again. Over time, I started understanding that loving someone and loving someone well are two completely different things. A lot of people can love. Loving somebody well takes intention, sacrifice, understanding, and growth.

What surprised me most wasn’t that I met somebody I loved. I’ve loved before. What surprised me was how peaceful it felt. The conversations felt easier. Even the difficult moments felt different. Instead of wondering whether we could get through them, we found ourselves looking for ways to get through them together.

Maybe that’s because nobody really teaches us to look for peace. We grow up hearing stories about grand gestures, dramatic romances, and relationships that survive impossible odds. We celebrate intensity. We celebrate passion. We celebrate people who can’t stay away from each other. But we rarely talk about the kind of love that simply makes your life lighter. The kind that doesn’t leave you guessing. The kind that doesn’t require constant reassurance. The kind that allows you to be fully yourself without feeling like you’re too much or not enough.

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate is the importance of perspective during conflict. It’s easy to get caught up in being right or proving a point, but healthy relationships have a way of reminding you what actually matters. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that protecting the relationship is often more important than winning the argument.

I’ve come to appreciate how much being understood matters. We spend so much time talking about communication, but understanding is something different entirely. Being heard is great, but being understood is a different ball game altogether.

What I appreciate most is that this relationship hasn’t made me complacent. It’s made me more intentional. It makes me think more about the future. It makes me think about the type of partner I want to be. It makes me want to show up better every day. Not because I’m afraid of losing what I have, but because some people inspire you to become a better version of yourself simply by being who they are.

I don’t know where life will take us. None of us really do. But I do know that this experience has changed the way I think about love. It has shown me that healthy love doesn’t have to feel like a constant battle. It doesn’t have to feel like trade by barter. It doesn’t have to leave you exhausted.

Sometimes love can simply feel like peace.

And if you’re reading this after experiencing heartbreak, disappointment, betrayal, or relationships that made you question whether genuine love still exists, I hope you don’t give up. I hope you continue becoming the person you’re supposed to become, and I hope you remain open to the possibility that one day you’ll meet someone who makes all of those difficult experiences make sense.

Because no matter what you’ve been through, I genuinely believe there is love out there for you.

Not the kind that drains you.

The kind that feels like coming home.

There are four of us. Two girls, two boys. I’m the second. Close in age, close in everything. We didn’t just grow up in the same house, we grew up inside the same moments and experiences. The same jokes, the same arguments, the same phases of life happening almost side by side, and when you’re in it, you don’t really think about time, especially as kids. As kids, we aren’t sitting around thinking “One day, all of this will change.” We just live.

I remember when my older sister was about to go to university. Back then, that felt like the biggest thing in the world. Like she had crossed into some version of adulthood that was so far away from me. University meant you were grown and independent. If we are being honest, this is the first time you really start to experience what life truly is.

Then somehow, without warning, I was there too. Me and my younger sister got into university at the same time, and just like that, something that once felt distant became normal.

Then came jobs. Then came moving out. Then came real responsibilities.

And still, somehow, you don’t fully process it. Because internally, you still feel like that same kid. And just when all of that starts to feel normal, life gives you a moment that forces you to pause.

Recently, both of my sisters got engaged. Around the same time. Crazy, right? I just got back from one of their court weddings, and standing there watching everything unfold, it hit me in a way I didn’t expect.

These are the same people I grew up with. The same women I watched become who they are today. and now, they’re starting entirely new lives with people who love them deeply. People who see them, appreciate them, and choose them.

Every. Single. Day.

That part matters to me more than anything because when you’re close to your siblings, you don’t just want them to find love. You want them to find the right love. The kind that doesn’t take from them but adds to who they already are and vice versa.

Seeing that for them made everything feel real. It revealed an emotional realization that time doesn’t slow down for anyone. One minute, you’re all just kids in the same house. Next minute, you’re watching them become wives and you’re standing there, proud but also slightly overwhelmed by how fast life moves.

Nobody really prepares you for that part. How life doesn’t come in loud announcements. It just happens gradually, then suddenly and somewhere in all of that, love becomes more than just something you saw growing up. It becomes something real. Not something you heard about growing up, but something you can actually see. Watching them step into that kind of love made everything feel different.

It wasn’t just about the moment, it was about what comes after. The building, the growing, the decision to keep choosing each other over time. And when you see people you love find that, it hits differently. It reminds you that as unpredictable as life is, some things still come together the way they’re meant to.

Watching my sisters step into this new chapter didn’t just make me happy. It made me grateful. Grateful that we grew up the way we did. Grateful that we were shown what love could look like. Grateful that they found people who reflect that same kind of love back to them because not everyone gets that. And maybe that’s why it feels so special. Because deep down, you realize, the life we once thought was far away is already here.

Not the cool, mysterious quiet. Not the observant, composed quiet people romanticize. The awkward quiet. The kind where someone walks into your space, you say “hey,” and then your brain immediately empties itself of every possible follow-up sentence.

The strange thing is, it’s not that I don’t feel things. I feel everything. Deeply. Sometimes too deeply. But expressing it feels unnatural, like I’m speaking a language that isn’t mine. You know when you say a word in Spanish and you’re convinced you nailed the accent, but something about it just sounds slightly off? That’s what emotions feel like leaving my body. They’re correct in theory. They just don’t land the way I intend. So in situations like this, I usually just shut up and say nothing. I convinced myself that staying quiet made everything better. And when you do that long enough, silence stops being a habit. It becomes a part of you. Eventually you stop speaking because you’ve already overthought the outcome.

In college, I had a roommate who was the complete opposite of me, to be honest, not completely opposite. He just knew how to banter. When our friends came over, they naturally drifted toward his room. That’s where the laughter was. That’s where conversations flowed without effort. If someone stepped into my room, I’d greet them, sit up slightly, maybe smile and then wait. I never knew what came next. I wanted them there. I enjoyed their company. I just didn’t know how to keep it alive. And when I do nothing, the awkwardness slowly takes over the room… and eventually they leave. Rightfully so.

At the time, I remember feeling something I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t anger. It was more like a quiet rejection that no one had actually delivered. I’d hear them down the hall, loud and comfortable, and think, maybe I just don’t flow with people like that. Years later, I realized something uncomfortable but freeing: if I were them, I probably would have gone to his room too. Energy invites energy. And mine has always been contained.

That containment follows me everywhere.

I hate when attention is suddenly placed on me. Not when I choose it, that’s different. Put a mic in my hand, give me a stage, give me something I’m prepared for, and I’ll show up. But random attention? Someone shouting my name in a crowded room? I can feel my body tighten instantly. Even something small, like having a conversation on the train and realizing people three seats away can hear us, pulls me out of the moment. I stop listening. I start monitoring. Who’s looking? What are they thinking? How are we being perceived?

It’s like there’s a surveillance system constantly running in my head.

The irony is that the only time it quiets down is when I take a shot or two. Suddenly conversations flow. Words don’t feel rehearsed. My body doesn’t feel like it’s betraying me. You know, I later understood why artists take a shot before stepping on stage. It’s not about courage. It’s about silencing the internal editor. The version of me that overthinks tone, posture, eye contact, volume. The one that’s always calculating whether I’m doing this “right.”

I don’t like that it takes that, though. I don’t like that fluency sometimes feels borrowed instead of natural.

Being this way has affected more than just casual conversations. It has shaped my friendships, my confrontations, my dating life. I’m terrible at confrontation. If something hurts me, my first instinct is to swallow it. I’ll replay the moment privately, think of all the things I should have said, but in real time? Silence feels safer than disruption. I would rather sit in discomfort than create it.

And dating? I always find it funny when people say they met their partner at a bar because they walked up and introduced themselves.

Me? Walk up to a woman? The fear that crosses my mind the moment that idea even tries to enter my brain is insane.

I genuinely respect people who can do that. I think it takes courage.

Courage I’m not sure I want to have.

But that’s the thing about awkward introverts, it’s never about a lack of desire. We want connection. We want to be included. We want to be understood. We just don’t always know how to perform it in real time.

Our thoughts are sharp in private and clumsy in public.

We’re better with writing than with immediate response. Give us time, and we’ll give you depth. Put us on the spot, and we might disappear.

Sometimes I think back to college and wish I had said something. Wish I had told my friends, “You can come to my room too.” But I didn’t. And I don’t blame them. I understand now that people move toward comfort, toward energy that feels easy.

Mine has never been loud.

But it has always been there.

If you have a quiet friend, don’t mistake their silence for indifference. Don’t assume they don’t care, or that they don’t want to be in the room. Sometimes we’re just translating internally while everyone else is speaking fluently. Sometimes we’re rehearsing a sentence that never makes it out.

We’re not cold or snobbish.

We’re just learning how to be heard without betraying the way we’re wired.

P.S. I’m working on it now, so progress is being made.

I am fairly new to Substack. But since I joined, I’ve been seeing a lot of “gatekeep Substack” posts.

“Guys! Our space is getting invaded.”

“Celebrities are coming. It’s over.”

And I just find it interesting.

Not annoying. Not offensive. Just interesting.

Because why are you trying to gatekeep something that was built to be shared?

I’m new here. I don’t feel like an insider. And maybe that’s why I find the gatekeeping interesting. Because if someone told me not to join when I did, I wouldn’t be writing this right now.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand where these feelings stem from.

Substack feels different.

It’s slower.

It’s more thoughtful.

It feels less performative than X and we experience little to no chaos on the platform. At least from what I’ve experienced so far.

People actually finish their sentences here.

People explain themselves in the most kind way possible.

People think.

It feels intimate.

And when something feels intimate, you don’t want it to be diluted.

I get that.

But I think we’re asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking, “How do we keep people out?” maybe we should be asking, “How do we protect the culture?”

Because culture is what makes a space special. Not exclusivity.

And here’s the interesting thing I’ve noticed:

When people come from other apps to Substack, they adjust to the Substack culture. It’s almost like there’s an unspoken etiquette here. You don’t just drop hot takes and run. You don’t insult strangers for sport. You don’t rage bait people for engagement.

You write.

You think.

You explain.

It’s like the environment demands a different version of you.

That’s culture.

And culture scales when it’s strong.

Gatekeeping doesn’t protect culture. It protects comfort.

It’s ironic to fear new arrivals while also craving new readers.

How exactly do you want to grow if you don’t want new people in the building?

There are billions of people on earth. Even if 0.1% of them joined Substack, that’s still more potential readers, more potential connections, more potential opportunities.

Growth doesn’t automatically equal destruction.

Weak culture equals destruction.

If the culture is strong enough, anyone who joins will adapt to it.

And maybe this is bigger than Substack.

I’ve always found gatekeeping strange in general.

Buying a T-shirt and hoping no one else wears it.

Loving a song and hoping it doesn’t get too popular.

Discovering a restaurant and hoping it stays hidden.

Why?

If something is good, why wouldn’t you want more people to experience it?

The way you wear something is still yours.

The way you interpret music is still yours.

The way you write is still yours.

More people enjoying something doesn’t erase your relationship with it.

So maybe the real question isn’t about Substack at all.

Maybe the real question is:

What exactly are we afraid will happen if more people join?

Are we protecting culture?

Or are we protecting exclusivity?

And those two things are not the same.

One builds community.

The other builds walls.

This is something I think about once in a blue moon.

Not from a place of sadness but from a place of genuine curiosity.

What happens when you attain all the success in the world?

Walk with me as I try to put my thoughts together.

You’re financially secure. Not surviving. Not hoping. Truly Secure. Your family is comfortable. Your parents don’t stress about bills anymore. You’re healthy. Your partner is healthy. Your kids are healthy. Or maybe you chose a different life, single, fulfilled, fully at peace. You wake up without anxiety. You have great friends. You’ve built the thing you once prayed for. You’ve achieved the goals that used to keep you up at night. Even your spiritual life feels settled.

Now what?

Do you just exist in peace?

Do you finally exhale and stay there?

Or does your mind immediately begin searching for something else to conquer?

I think about this a lot because right now, I’m still in pursuit. There are things I don’t have yet. There are numbers that haven’t matched the effort. There are rooms I haven’t entered. That pursuit gives structure to my days. It gives tension to the story. It gives me something to fight for.

But what happens when there is nothing left to fight for?

Is there an equilibrium in life? A point where you feel fully satisfied with who you are, what you’ve built, and the people around you?

Or are we wired to always want more?

If you’ve achieved everything you once desired, does ambition quietly turn into rest? Or into restlessness?

And here’s the part that unsettles me.

Is there a kind of loneliness attached to having it all?

When you’re no longer striving, no longer proving, no longer chasing, who are you then?

So many of us build our identity around pursuit. “I’m building.” “I’m working toward.” “I’m getting closer.” The struggle shapes you. It gives you some sort of structure. The hunger sharpens you. Every new step, every new height gives you life.

But at the top, what defines you?

Maybe the real challenge isn’t getting everything you want.

Maybe it’s learning how to exist without needing the next thing.

And if the chase is what gave your life meaning, who are you when the chase is over?

But somewhere along the line, we stopped learning love from experience and started learning it from the internet instead.

It doesn’t happen loudly. It happens quietly. And because social media is everywhere now, it happens earlier than we realize, especially for younger people still figuring themselves out.

A video here. A strong opinion there. A take that resonates. Over time, we begin forming ideas about how love or relationships should look, how partners should behave, what is acceptable and what isn’t. And before we’ve even written our own story, we’re already carrying pieces of someone else’s.

Now two people meet each other in real life. But they’re not meeting as two blank slates. They’re meeting as two people carrying expectations they picked up from their time spent online.

And I think that’s where things start to get complicated.

I’m only 28 but I didn’t grow up fully online. I didn’t have a proper phone until I was in SS1 (I honestly can’t remember). Before that, it was cyber cafes, computer labs in schools, and shared computers at home to just access Facebook. You had to log out when your time was up. You couldn’t scroll endlessly. And there weren’t even that many people sharing their lives online yet. That concept is still relatively new.

Love, friendship, conflict. We learned those slowly. Through proximity. Through awkward conversations. Through trial and error. And don’t get me wrong, we still don’t have it figured out 100%. Which is exactly why I worry about how much unsolicited information is available online.

Advice used to come from people who knew you.

Now it comes from strangers on the internet.

And the scary part?

Sometimes they make sense.

That’s what makes it tricky.

Because in five minutes of someone talking, maybe two minutes resonate deeply.

The other three minutes? Not so much.

But most people don’t know how to filter.

They just absorb.

I sometimes wonder if we’re dating each other, or dating what the internet told us love should look like.

It feels like we now inherit expectations before we inherit experience.

And maybe that’s the real danger.

Sometimes it’s not that your partner failed, it’s that they didn’t match a script you never wrote yourself.

I genuinely believe love is an adventure.

Not in a cliche way. I mean literally.

Imagine two people at an amusement park.

One person goes on a roller coaster while the other stays back to grab food.

When they meet again, the one who rode it says, “I hated it. The turns were too sharp. The drop was unnecessary. I wish they built it differently.”

Now imagine the other person decides, right there, “Yeah, roller coasters aren’t for me either.”

Without ever trying it.

That’s what the internet is doing to us, not just with love, but with anything that requires personal experience.

Someone goes through a relationship.

It doesn’t work.

Then they come online and explain why it failed. And instead of listening with context, we adopt the conclusion.

“This is why relationships don’t work.”

“This is why you should never…”

“This is why men are…”

“This is why women always…”

But love isn’t a universal roller coaster design.

What terrified one person might thrill another.

What drained someone else might energize you.

What broke someone’s heart might be exactly what teaches you how to love better.

You cannot outsource your adventure. You have to ride it yourself.

Love isn’t a viral opinion.

It’s something you figure out on your own, slowly, with a real person in front of you.

It’s messy.

It’s human.

It’s deeply personal.

And when it’s experienced with the right person, at the right time, with two people willing to grow, it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ll ever feel.

But you won’t find that beauty on the internet.

You’ll find it in real conversations.

In real effort.

In real vulnerability.

Social media isn’t the enemy.

But it shouldn’t be the architect of your values either.

Because at the end of the day, you close the app.

And the only thing left is the life you chose.

So choose it for yourself.

I’ve been cheated on before.

Not once.

I won’t get into how many times.

Just know I’m experienced.

Not in some dramatic movie way.

Not with catching anyone in the act.

Just the slow, psychological version.

And I think that’s worse because cheating doesn’t start with finding out. It starts with a feeling, a very small one. The kind you try to ignore because you don’t want to look and sound insecure.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking.

You tell yourself you’re traumatized from something old.

You tell yourself to relax.

But something shifts.

And you can’t explain it.

The first couple of days after it happens, your mind doesn’t even go to cheating. It just feels like disconnection.

It’s in the energy.

The sudden privacy.

The brightness of the phone lowering when you’re both in bed.

Small things.

Too small to accuse.

Big enough to feel.

And this is where the madness starts.

Because now you’re hyper-aware.

You start noticing things you never noticed before.

And if you gather the courage to bring it up?

An argument starts out of nowhere.

And somehow, they win.

Every. Single. Time.

“You’re overthinking.”

“Why are you like this?”

“You’re so insecure”

And now here you are apologizing.

For expressing something you’ve been fighting internally for days.

And with every day that passes, you feel yourself getting closer to losing your mind.

So you finally say something.

And it backfires.

I’ll tell you this.

Your gut is right most times.

But when you don’t have proof, you start doubting yourself.

And once you start doubting yourself, you’re already in trouble.

Eventually, you find out, not because they told you, because they almost never tell you.

You either hear something.

See something.

Or connect dots that were never meant to connect.

And now you’re standing there with a bad boy piece of information.

The kind you wish you never had.

And you don’t even know how to confront it.

Because part of you still wants them to lie.

You don’t want the truth.

You want reassurance.

You eventually suck it up and gather the courage to ask.

You ask calmly.

“Did you cheat on me?”

There’s a five-second pause.

It feels longer.

They look at you like you just insulted them.

Almost disgusted that you would even ask.

“No, I haven’t. And why would you even ask me that?”

You go back and forth for some time but they stand their ground.

They look you in the eye.

They deny.

And for a second, you almost believe them.

And that’s when it scares you.

Because even when you know,

they make you question yourself.

Hours go by and for some weird reason, they admit it.

And that’s when it gets ugly.

Not externally.

Internally.

Because now your brain starts creating images.

You start asking stupid questions.

“What exactly happened?”

“Did you…?”

“Where were you?”

“Was it just a kiss?”

“Was it at his place?”

Questions you would never ask in a sane state.

But you’re not sane.

You’re in shock.

And when they answer?

That’s when the replaying begins.

You go home.

Or they leave.

And now it’s just you and your thoughts.

You remember where you were that day.

You start replaying what you were doing that day.

And the wild part?

The world didn’t stop while it was happening.

You were probably in church.

Or laughing.

Or planning something for them.

While they were somewhere else.

And now every memory feels contaminated.

Even the good ones.

Then comes the interrogation phase.

You don’t even want them anymore at this point (So you think).

But you need answers.

“Why?”

“What made you do it?”

As if their explanation is going to give you peace.

It doesn’t.

It just gives you more scenes to replay.

You reconstruct the night.

Who texted first.

Who leaned in first.

Whether they hesitated.

Whether they even thought about you. At this point, you’re about 87.7% mad.

The remaining 12.3% is trying to act normal.

You check timestamps.

You re-read old messages.

You look for inconsistencies.

You try to catch the next lie inside the first lie.

Because there’s almost always another lie.

And when you find it?

You spiral again.

It’s not even about the cheating at that point.

It’s about betrayal.

It’s about the fact that someone could look at you, kiss you, reassure you, and still have that life on the side.

That’s the part that messes with your head.

Because now trust feels stupid.

And the scary part?

You carry it.

You end things.

Or you pretend to move on.

But the next time someone replies late?

Your chest tightens.

The next time someone says “I was just busy”?

You hear echoes.

You don’t want to be paranoid.

But you also don’t ever want to feel that stupid again.

So now you’re fighting ghosts in a new relationship.

Ghosts they didn’t even create.

That’s what cheating does.

It makes you become someone you don’t recognize.

It doesn’t just break a relationship.

It fractures your sense of reality.

It makes you question your intuition.

It makes you question your judgment.

And if you’ve never been cheated on, you probably think it’s just heartbreak.

It’s not. It’s humiliation.

It’s finding out the person you trusted the most was the one making you look like a fool.

And the worst part?

They move on like it was a mistake.

You move on knowing you almost lost yourself.

And you’re not entirely sure you’ve gotten all of you back.

I know this might sound harsh.

But I genuinely believe Nigeria’s biggest problem is not just bad leadership.

It’s moral weakness. It’s greed. It’s the obsession with “me before anyone else.”

It’s the mentality of, “They did it, so why shouldn’t I?”

That mindset will eat us alive.

Because once everyone is looking for their own slice of the “national cake,” nobody is protecting the whole cake anymore.

For years, we’ve watched the same recycled names move from office to office. Different titles. Same results. We shake our heads. We rant on Twitter. We protest. We complain and complain and complain….

And then we say,

“It’s our turn.”

“The youth will save Nigeria.”

But the truth is, I doubt many young people want power to fix anything.

They want power so they can also eat.

And the scary part?

It’s not even subtle anymore. If someone before you took five billion and nothing happened to them, you aim for ten. Not because you need it, but because you can, and Nigerians will do absolutely nothing about it. The worst that will happen is shouting for two weeks and then everyone moves on.

We bark so loud but not with enough anger to push us to bite.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

— Edmund Burke

“The youth will save Nigeria.”

But save it from what exactly?

From corruption?

From greed?

From selfishness?

Those things didn’t start with the older generation. And they won’t automatically disappear with younger faces in office because corruption is not an age group. It’s a mindset. And that mindset is everywhere.

You see it in contracts.

Someone is awarded a road project. Instead of thinking, “Let’s build something solid,” the first thought is, “How much can I inflate this without anyone noticing?”

The road becomes secondary. The profit becomes primary.

And these are not just the older politicians doing this.

These are the so-called young people that are supposed to help save the country.

Let’s leave politics briefly and talk about us. The everyday Nigerian. The one who drives on one way because they have enough money to hire two policemen and one Hilux with loud police sirens and koboko lying on the dashboard. The one who throws trash on the floor. The one who sees injustice and says, “It’s not my business.”

A country does not collapse overnight. It erodes in small daily decisions, in traffic lights ignored, in rules bent, in accountability avoided, in greed normalized.

We say Nigeria is bad. But sometimes Nigeria is just a mirror.

Maybe Nigeria doesn’t need saviors.

Maybe Nigeria needs citizens.

Not louder complainers. Not younger thieves. Just people who genuinely want to do what is right, even when nobody is watching.

Because if we carry the same mindset into power, nothing changes.

The faces will be younger, the speeches will be fresher, the slogans will trend.

But the country will remain the same.

And that is the part that scares me the most.

Not that Nigeria is failing.

But that we are becoming the leaders we complain about.

So what do we even do?

Maybe it starts with admitting that the mindset we criticize is sometimes sitting inside us too. Admitting that greed didn’t just damage the system; it shaped the culture. And if we’re honest, it has shaped us too.

Real change might not begin in office.

It might begin in self-awareness.

In doing personal work.

In choosing integrity when shortcuts are available.

Because you can’t give a country what you don’t possess as a person.

You can’t build accountability if you avoid it in your own life. You can’t demand honesty if you compromise it daily.

Maybe the first revolution is internal.

Maybe the first reform is character.

And if enough of us do that work quietly and consistently, without applause, then one day we will step into power in politics, in business, in our communities. We won’t just replace bad leaders. We’ll become better ones.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how Nigeria begins to change.

This is going to sound dramatic.

But a few days before I got the call about this movie, I genuinely felt like I was running in circles.

Not failing.

Just… not progressing.

And yeah, I know I said something similar in my last article. That’s because this feeling is seasonal. It comes. It goes. And this time, it came again.

You know that feeling where your life looks active from the outside, but inside you still feel stagnant?

That was me.

I wasn’t sad because something bad happened.

I was frustrated because nothing felt like it was happening.

It was one of those nights where you’re in bed and your brain won’t shut up.

The year was coming to an end, so all of a sudden your brain decides to do your life yearly wrapped. You start replaying everything, what you did, what you didn’t do, what you thought would happen but didn’t.

And I remember thinking, very clearly:

“Maybe this is just it.”

That dangerous sentence.

Maybe this is just it.

Maybe this is the ceiling.

Maybe this is as far as it goes for me. I didn’t say those words out loud because I believe there’s power in the tongue. So they stayed in my head. I cried, I prayed but I slept with that thought.

The next morning, I woke up and opened Instagram. I check my messages and see about 8 new messages but two messages stood out.

One was a 7 minute voice note.

A 7 minute voice note from one of my favorite directors and producers in the industry.

Not someone random.

Not someone being polite.

Someone whose work I deeply respect.

Seven minutes.

I listened to it without even getting out of bed.

And in that voice note, she had said a lot but this part, I remember very well because of how much it moved me:

“you’re a very special person in multiple realms Justin and you need to understand that. You’re very gifted, very very..you’re so gifted and you’re a star, you’re a light and all these things that come to you is not by chance….”

After listening, I was dumbfounded and in shock.

Because the night before, I was fighting feelings and emotions along side the voices in my head.

And now this woman, someone I admire, is speaking life into something I had just quietly doubted.

Then I opened another message.

From Dammy Twitch and he said:

I won’t lie, I laughed to myself at first.

Not because it was funny.

Because it felt unreal.

Like is this a joke?

Yesterday I’m questioning everything.

Today I’m being asked if I’m ready for a feature film.

The timing was too precise and at that point I knew God was trying to let me know that he is still with me.

I replied immediately.

“Ahhhhh, Lets gooo!!!”

No long speech.

No overthinking.

Just ready.

He said the producer would reach out.

About twenty minutes later, I get a message from Blessing Uzi, the superstar producer of the Film; Call of My Life.

She introduces the project, talked about shooting in November, 2025 and finally, asked for my number.

I have never given anyone my number that fast in my life.

We got on a call.

She sent the script.

Asked for an audition tape.

Two roles.

Main character.

Supporting character.

Obviously in my head I’m like I really would love to be the main character so I was hoping and praying I got the role for the main character.

I sent in the tape.

And when the feedback came back, she said something I respect her for to this day.

She said I was overthinking it. Trying to do something extraordinary. When all she needed was for me to be calm and do what I already know how to do.

And she wasn’t wrong.

I was overthinking the whole process.

I didn’t know audition etiquette.

Didn’t know if I should stick strictly to the script.

Didn’t know how much of myself to add.

I wanted it too much.

And sometimes when you want something too much, it shows.

They offered me the supporting character.

And you know what?

I was extremely happy. Because even with a supporting role, I knew I could still leave a mark.

Because lets chill out for a second.

I was about to be in my first ever Nollywood feature film.

With actors I grew up watching.

With people who are genuinely elite at what they do.

With stars.

That perspective humbled me quickly.

After booking, Blessing connected me with an acting instructor to prep.

Her name was Ijeoma.

And she did not play lol. She was good at her job.

We broke down everything.

Not just “say this line louder.”

We talked about intention.

Subtext.

Emotional layering.

Why a character reacts a certain way.

The best way to portray particular emotions to fit the scene.

For the first time, acting felt like coding.

Intentional.

Technical.

Precise.

A couple weeks later, my flight to Nigeria was booked.

Now it was real.

First day on set.

Call time 6am.

I was there at 5:30.

Because I needed them to know something:

I respect this. And I believe first impressions matter. A lot.

Walking onto set for the first time felt like stepping into organized chaos.

Lights everywhere.

People moving with purpose.

Makeup crew doing their thing.

Sound checks.

Wardrobe adjustments.

At first, I was overstimulated and nervous.

Then something settled.

After the first few takes, I realized I wasn’t trying to prove myself anymore.

I was just present and that’s when I knew, this isn’t a one-time thing for me. This is something I want to build, even on the long days, even when we were tired, even when scenes had to be redone.

I enjoyed it.

That surprised me the most.

Shoutout to Andrew.

Andrew was the male lead. And watching him work? Different.

He’s such an executional actor. Like when it’s time to go, it’s time to go. No confusion. No half-energy. Just locked in. There’s something very calm about how he approaches scenes, but when the camera rolls? He delivers. Every time. I definitely made a new Ghanian brother.

And then there’s Uzoamaka.

Female lead. And also the writer of the project. When people talk about being exceptional at what they do, they’re talking about someone like Uzo.

Seeing her act in something she wrote? That’s another level of understanding the material. The chemistry between her and Andrew was actually crazy, just pure acting. Pure craft. Watching them go back and forth in scenes made me realize very quickly:

They were meant for this role.

Then there’s Beverly. I’ve watched a lot of her movies, so imagine sharing scenes with someone you’ve seen on your screen for years.

That was already a proud moment for me. She’s an OG in this space. Calm, composed, seasoned. And being able to act along side someone like that? It was an honor, genuinely.

Blessing Uzi! My G.O.A.T!

Listen.

I stressed her. A lot.

But to be fair, she stressed me too 😂 But I love her for real. She made sure everybody was comfortable. She made sure the actors understood the story properly. She was very clear about what she wanted, and she wasn’t settling for “almost.” She wanted the story told correctly and that type of leadership makes a difference.

And DAMMY!!

This was his first feature film as a director but you would never know. It did not feel like someone figuring it out as they go.

He was confident and looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Nollywood is very lucky to have him in this space, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for him in this space.

Then the crew.

DOP.

Makeup.

Costume.

Sound.

Every single person that came together to make this project happen.

Exceptional.

You don’t realize how many moving parts there are in film until you’re in it. And everybody showed up and being surrounded by people operating at that level?

It forces you to level up too.

With that being said, the trailer for the project is officially out.

And I’m trying to say this calmly but internally I’m screaming:

“I’m going to be in cinemas!!!!!”

Like actual cinemas.

The same cinemas I’ve sat in.

Now I’m part of that world.

And that’s not something I take lightly.

That’s insane. What’s even crazier?

48 hours before those messages came in, I was almost convincing myself to shrink my expectations.

Almost telling myself maybe I should just stay comfortable.

Almost accepting “this is fine.”

That’s why I’m sharing this.

Because sometimes the only thing separating you from the next level is one morning.

One message.

One yes.

One decision not to downplay yourself.

If you’re in that space right now, don’t make permanent conclusions based on temporary silence.

You don’t know what’s lining up behind the scenes.

I didn’t.

And now I get to say:

My first Nollywood feature film.

And we’re just getting started.

THE TRAILER IS OUT.

Watch it. Share it. Let’s goooooo!!!!.

Watch trailer here -

I don’t think people talk enough about this part of the journey.

The part where you’ve been working hard for years.

The part where you’re not at the beginning anymore, but you’re not where you dreamed you’d be either.

The part where you quietly ask yourself:

“What exactly is the problem?”

I’ve been making content since 2009. Back then, it was just fun. No pressure. No strategy. No thoughts about monetization or brand deals or algorithms. It was just creativity and vibes.

I highly doubt anyone creating content back then ever imagined that this could become a career. Nobody knew you could potentially build a life from creating videos from the comfort of your home.

But now we know.

And once you know, it changes everything.

You start taking it seriously.

You put in more effort.

You analyze numbers.

You plan content. (Or at least you try to. I’ve tried, and it just doesn’t work for me.)

You think about audiences and markets and monetization.

And somewhere along the way, the fun quietly turns into pressure.

The numbers grow, but the money doesn’t always match the effort.

Deals come, but they’re not consistent.

You have good months then dry months that make you question everything.

I had a 9-5 from 2022-2024. I had stability. A predictable paycheck but In 2024, I quit and moved to Philadelphia to go all in on content creation (along side other personal reasons)

That decision looked bold on the outside.

But on the inside? It’s been scary.

Nothing really prepares you for not having a constant source of income. The stress is different. The silence hits harder. The self doubt gets louder and the pressure? “WESSERRRR" (iykyk)

Sometimes it feels like I’ve put in so much work and there’s not enough to show for it. That’s a hard thing to that’s hard to admit out loud, but it’s the truth.

It gets really frustrating at times. About a year ago, I posted a video and captioned it “Deleting in 2 years.” I genuinely believed that by the time I revisited it, my life would look completely different. I thought it would be a reminder of how far I’d come. Instead, it feels like a reminder of how far I thought I’d be by now.

And now I’m here thinking…

Did I overestimate my timeline?

Did I underestimate the journey?

I’m 28 now, I thought I’d have achieved way more by now. There’s pressure from everywhere/everyone to make it. When you’ve been doing something for years, people start wondering when it will “pay off.”

Honestly, sometimes I wonder too.

I’ve started businesses.

A clothing brand.

A dating app.

New ideas. New risks. New attempts at building something meaningful.

Some things started well and slowed down.

Some things never took off the way I hoped.

Some things were hit by life itself, like losing my dad, which shifted everything for me in ways I’m still processing.

But here’s the part I don’t say enough:

I still believe it will work out.

Not in a motivational quote way.

Not in a delusional way.

But in a quiet, stubborn faith kind of way.

I believe in God. I believe there’s a bigger picture I can’t fully see yet. I don’t always understand the timing, but yeah. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing something wrong spiritually, mentally, or strategically.

But deep down, I still believe.

I’ve even tried shaping my content for different audiences to increase revenue potential. But I felt less like myself. Engagement dropped. It messed with my happiness and my peace. I felt disconnected from my own voice.

So I went back to what feels natural, African relatable content. The kind of content that built the support system I have online today.

Through all the trial and error, I realized something important: my supporters’ happiness fuels my creativity. And more than anything, it gives me peace. Peace in knowing I’m genuinely being myself, not performing, not pretending, not trying to fit into someone else’s mold.

I’m hopeful that one day the world will catch on. Maybe advertisers will begin to see the value in African audiences. Maybe the landscape will shift.

But until then, I value the peace that comes with being myself.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’ve been working hard with little to show for it, I want you to know you’re not alone.

Some of us are in the “middle.”

The messy part.

The unclear part.

The faith-required part.

This isn’t the success story yet.

This is the chapter where we’re still figuring it out.

And maybe one day, we’ll look back at this exact moment and realize it was shaping us for something bigger.

For now, I’m choosing patience.

I’m choosing belief.

I’m choosing to keep going.

And if future-me is reading this years from now, I hope you smile and say:

“You had no idea how close you were.”