“Have you started that thing you told me about?”
My roommate asked without looking up from her phone.
I knew exactly what she meant.
“I’m working on it,” I replied.
It came out so naturally that I almost believed myself.
She nodded and went back to whatever she was doing. A few minutes later, she suddenly sat up.
“Ahhh! They paid me!”
“Paid you for what?”
“That writing job I told you about! Remember?”
“Oh, yes! Congratulations!”
I meant it. I really did.
She started telling me how much she’d earned, how she planned to save some of it, and what she wanted to do next. I listened, smiled, and asked questions.
Then I picked up my phone.
I had a document saved somewhere with three different business ideas. There was also a course I’d started two weeks ago, a YouTube channel I hadn’t posted on in a month, and a folder full of screenshots of opportunities I kept promising myself I’d apply for.
I opened the course.
Watched about five minutes.
Then I switched to WhatsApp.
By the time I remembered what I’d intended to do, I was watching somebody explain how to become successful before turning twenty-five.
I laughed at one of the comments, scrolled a little further, and locked my phone.
“What’s wrong with you sef?” I muttered.
Nothing, apparently. Nothing was wrong. I was just tired.
Or maybe I wasn’t.
Later that evening, my mother called.
We talked about school, food, and the usual things. Just before we ended the call, she asked, “That thing you said you wanted to learn, how far?”
I stared at the clothes scattered across my bed.
“I’m still on it, Mummy.”
“Okay, o. Just don’t forget what you want for yourself. You know you’re capable of doing great things.”
“I know.”
And I did know.
That was what made it annoying.
After the call, I sat on my bed for a while. I wasn’t angry with my mother. She hadn’t said anything wrong.
But I was tired of hearing about my potential.
Everybody seemed to know what I could become. Nobody knew how many times I’d sat down to work, done something else instead, and gone to sleep feeling guilty.
Including me, I suppose. I knew. I just didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
The next morning, I woke up with the usual determination to get my life together.
I made a list.
Study. Finish the course. Work on my project. Stop wasting time.
By afternoon, I’d completed one item.
Just one.
My first instinct was to call the day a failure. I’d done that so often that it almost felt natural.
Instead, I looked at the remaining tasks and picked one.
I didn’t suddenly become disciplined. The next day wasn’t perfect either. I still got distracted, and I still had moments when doing nothing felt easier than starting.
But I kept coming back.
A few weeks later, my roommate asked me the same question again.
“Have you started that thing you told me about?”
This time, I turned my laptop towards her.
“See for yourself.”
She leaned closer, scrolled through my work, and smiled.
“Ah-ah! So you’ve actually been doing something!”
I laughed.
“Abeg, leave me.”
It wasn’t a huge achievement. I hadn’t made money from it yet, and I wasn’t suddenly ahead of everybody else.
But that night, when I lay down to sleep, I didn’t have to invent excuses for myself.
For once, I had something real to show for the time I’d spent.
And honestly, that felt good.
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