I don't have a title for this.

what even is a title?

It’s 10:27pm. Emmylou by Vance Joy is playing while I write this. I have it on repeat because it’s the one song that calms me down when I’m close to losing my shit.

I’m tired. Really tired.

Tired of Nigeria. Tired of having to show up despite the horror I wake up to every day. Tired of the rigid rules around where and how you worship, rules that eventually make you tired of worship itself.

It shouldn’t be like that.

Worship shouldn’t be something you clock in and clock out of. Worship should be a lifestyle. A way of living. Offering yourself wholly and fully to the One.

But my life is clogged with other realities, and with each passing day, it becomes harder to stay true to my way of living. My real way of living.

I forget rhythm. I forget flow. I forget lucidity. I forget everything.

Everything is exhausting. Every single thing.

Yet I know this might be it. These might be the times Scripture spoke about, the times when the faith of those who truly believe will be tested.

Can you still hold on to the True One?

Can you believe He cares when over forty children are in captivity? Children. What exactly did they do wrong?

Can you believe He is involved in the smallest details of your life?

Can you tell whether He is with you in the middle of this storm?

Do you still have joy in the middle of all this chaos?

Tell me.

Tell me how you’re holding on.

Tell me it gets easier to pray.

Tell me you never thought of ending it all.

Tell me it all makes sense to you.

Tell me everything is going to be okay.

And please, make sure I believe you.

Make sure I believe you.

Make sure I believe you.

Because right now, there is no other option.

I go around retweeting, reposting, talking about insecurity, inflation, the collapse of education, all of it.

But you know what?

We’re cowards. You and I.

Absolute cowards.

Our retweets are not going to save anything. At best, they add to the statistics proving how badly this country is failing and how badly we are failing with it.

But redemption?

Revolution?

No.

Retweeting, reposting, resharing, none of it changes anything.

We are not angry enough.

Not even close.

I’m carrying so much anger right now.

I hate it here.

I hate it here so much.

Maybe in an hour or two I’ll calm down and whisper “it is well” to myself again.

The It-Is-Well-ification of Nigerians.

“It is well”

IT IS WELL?

What a terrifying thing to say so often that it becomes instinct.

And yet, here I am saying it too.

Maybe because I feel like I’m drowning in whatever this is.

Maybe because I know it’s eating me alive more than it should.

It’s tearing me apart.

I don’t understand how people are still calm.

I don’t understand.

I don’t.

The nation is in crisis.

My Father’s palace is slowly becoming somewhere I no longer recognize because of rigid structures and systems that no longer make sense to me.

None of this makes sense.

Nothing does.

This doomed thing we call life.

Make meaning from it or don’t.

Sometimes it feels like none of it matters anyway.