I used to know what I wanted

...but not anymore

As a kid, I couldn’t shut up. I had questions. Lots of questions. I had comebacks. I had a loud-mouth (not literally), I had the kind of mouth that would gladly tell a visitor they snored too loudly, or they chewed like a goat. (I did say that at one point.) I always had something to say. I always needed to say it. If you said something I didn’t agree with, I’d argue with you until you understood my point. And not just that, I’d also try to make sense of yours. That was my thing. I needed things to make sense, and I needed to explain why they didn’t.

I didn’t know how to lock things in. I still don’t know how to. If something was on my mind, it would come out of my mouth. My mum had to tell me, “You don’t always have to say everything you’re thinking.” Because I was this close to telling a family visitor that he chewed too loudly.

Because of how sharp I was, my dad decided that I should be a lawyer. In fact, he insisted. And to be honest, I didn’t hate the idea. It made sense to me. A smart-mouthed child who talks too much? Yes, send her to court. It was kinda a Nigerian thing, a lot of people ended up studying law because they were talkative or sounded intelligent or could argue their way out of a beating. (I stand to be corrected.)

At some point, it even became my dream. I’d imagine myself standing in court in my robe and wig, going head-to-head with other lawyers, challenging their points, fighting for justice, or maybe for someone who didn’t even deserve it. I just wanted to win the argument. That was the fantasy.

Then math entered the chat.

And my brain checked out.

I’ve always been terrible at math. Like, not even “needs a little help,” kinda terrible. I mean, catastrophic, kinda terrible. I hated math!! And unfortunately, math is one of those subjects you need to pass if you want to study law in Nigerian universities. To this day, I still don’t understand what mathematics has to do with defending human rights in court, but we move.

I also realized while growing up that I was a bad liar, and I carried honesty on my sleeve. In a bid to defend my clients, I might end up saying the truth in front of the judge and sending him to jail. So yeah, I buried the law dream. Or rather, I placed it gently at the bottom of a pit and walked away.

Years later, during my teenage years, I found myself falling in love with something else entirely: the news. Not necessarily the news itself, but the way it was delivered. I’d sit with my parents in the sitting room watching NTA or AIT, and I’d be completely captivated by the newscasters. The way their mouths moved so effortlessly, their calm tone, their confidence, like they were born to sit in front of a camera and tell Nigerians what was happening. I’d watch and think, Yes. I can do this. I want to do this.

Same thing with the radio. I was obsessed. I could listen to my favorite radio station all day. I loved the sweet, confident voices of the OAPs, the way they danced with words, the ease with which they dragged news, gossip, jokes, and hot takes across the airwaves. I’d listen to people call in from all corners of Abuja, offering opinions, debating topics, trying to win arguments with total strangers. And the OAPs controlled it all. I was mesmerized. I wanted to be one too.

So my new dream was born: I wanted to be an OAP. I loved talking, I loved the media, I loved seeing people listen to my words. I loved everything that had to do with the internet, the radio, and television. It was honestly bordering on obsession.

Fast forward to NYSC. I tried to work at a radio station, but it didn’t work out. Or maybe I didn’t try harder. But the media industry was already changing by then. The radio was slowly dying, and even the people on it were being paid peanuts. And I didn’t want to be paid peanuts. I wanted to talk on the radio and go back home with a fat check. So I lazily killed that dream too.

People were now on YouTube. On podcasts. On Instagram Live. Content creation had swallowed the old world, and I wasn’t about to be left behind. So I pivoted. “I’ll be a YouTuber,” I said. Or a podcaster. Or a media girl. Something. Anything that lets me talk.

In all this back and forth, one thing remained constant: writing. It was always in the background. Always humming quietly, never loud enough to take center stage. I didn’t take it seriously. I was less confident about it and only wrote to my friends and family. It was never a career choice for me. It was just there. Something I did for fun. But it was there nonetheless.

These days, I can’t see anything beyond my present.

And I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing.

I’ve thought about my life. About how many versions of myself I’ve been. How many dreams I’ve chased and dropped. How I used to be so sure of who I wanted to be, and now everything feels bleak.

In my late twenties and for the first time since I was a kid, all I can see is a bland future. A blurry future. I have no idea where life is headed or what I plan to do. I believe time is an illusion, and we can always restart life at any age. Be it 20, 29, 35, 50, or even age 79. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But that’s different from looking far ahead and not seeing a future you’ve built for yourself.

Sometimes I do, though. Sometimes I see a future filled with everything I’ve ever wanted, but it has become blurry as the days go by.

I want things. I’ve wanted things. So many things. I’ve been so many things — at least in my head. But these days, my future feels like a page someone forgot to write on. I feel like a curious person, lost in a crowd, watching everyone move in a clear direction, while I don’t know if I should move forward, left, right, or wherever.

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I want.

But I do know what I dream of. I do know that I dream. Of a life. Of a beautiful life.

I dream of a country house with a small garden at the back, where I grow my own vegetables and watch them sprout. With a little area for chickens and goats, and all the animals I grew up with in my childhood. I dream of a life where I wake up slowly, brew my morning tea, and sip it while I stare at the sunrise. A life filled with quiet mornings and gentle evenings. A life of peace and love.

I want to write… daily, deeply, sometimes even badly. But I want to write all the same.

And I want to be a director. A chef. A traveler. A photographer. An author. I want to build a life out of all the little things that once felt impossible.

I want to be so many things. And yet, somehow, I want nothing. I don’t even know how to want things anymore. Or maybe I’ve just gotten tired of wanting and never having.

Maybe it counts for something. That I have these little dreams. These various careers. That I want this little life filled with things I love, and things I want.

I don’t talk as much these days. I’ve learned to keep more thoughts to myself. But deep down, that loud-mouthed little girl who wanted to make sense of everything? She’s still here. Just… quieter now. She has learned to put her thoughts into a blank paper for her subscribers to read.

Someone said being unsure is its own kind of bravery. I don’t know if that makes sense. Or if it’s just one of those stupid inspirational comments. But waking up every day not knowing who you're becoming, and still getting up, is a quiet kind of success. Choosing not to disappear into the nothingness, even when the nothingness feels more familiar than anything else.

Or if everything is just bullshit.

I read a novel yesterday, and there’s a part in the book where the protagonist, who’s also finding himself at age 28, says to his friend, not in these exact words, but this is how I choose to interpret it:

“Maybe life isn’t about choosing one version of yourself and forcing it to stick. We’re allowed to shapeshift and to change direction even in the middle of everything. Not knowing who you are right now doesn’t cancel out all the versions of you that existed before. Or the version of you that’ll exist in the future. You just need to be here today. Trying. Breathing. Writing something. Watering a plant. Sending a text. Taking a shower. Surviving your doubt. Laughing at a TikTok. Making a new playlist. Declaring yourself a photographer even if the only thing you’ve photographed this week is your food.”

I’m actually a photographer, duhh… look at this pretty picture I took last evening

I might just be stringing beautiful words together to gaslight myself or make myself feel better, but I do believe, or rather, I’ve come to believe that it’s okay lol. A bit scary that I don’t know where I’m headed, but I do know it’s not always going to be like this. And because I don’t want big dreams like everyone else doesn’t mean I’m settling for what life has to offer me.

There’s also nothing wrong with settling. It’s really just life.

It’s okay to want everything and still feel like nothing is enough. It’s okay to outgrow your own dreams. It’s okay to be scared of a future that now looks bleak; it doesn’t actually mean it’ll be bleak forever. It’s okay if your dreams are no longer loud. It doesn’t make them less real.

I might wake up tomorrow and want the big things. The great life. Life in the big city. With a lover. I might want to fall in love with someone that sucks the air out of me but for now, this is what I see. What I feel. And how I choose to react to it.

It doesn’t make me less of a person.

Maybe it does make me an unserious person.

But it makes me… human nonetheless.

And sometimes, I love being human.

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Oh, how I love gaslighting myself! *chuckles in delusion and living life on the edge

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