One afternoon in Cape Town, Morgan and I drove Naomi to the airport and talked about how we were having one of those “I can’t believe this is my life” moments.

I met Morgan earlier that morning, and then later at brunch, also met Sarah, Jenna, Mike and David. Morgan and I ordered the same delicious salad, and we all drank cheap mimosas. Then we visited a street market where I bought two classic works of fiction. Now, we were in Morgan’s car listening to classical jazz and thinking what an amazing day we were having.

I think maybe this is the point…

I recently asked my friend Teju what stood out most to her about her 3 months as an MBA student at Stanford. She listed a series of moments: morning walks, dinners with friends, moments not awash in themselves with anything spectacular. They were simply moments of noticing.

In the book I am currently reading, Friends by Fredrik Backman, the narrator keeps noting, with amusement, the way our memory works. It is truly amusing, you cannot always tell what you will remember, for how long, in how much detail, or which details.

Although sometimes you can tell. Sometimes, the moment slows you down and lets you notice that this is an unbelievable life that is yours. Despite the fact that the moment itself is truly believable. Truly ordinary.

For me, that moment today was in a cafe in Abuja, where I noticed how beautiful the trees were. What a life it is to notice the trees.

I seem to be able to tell what kind of year it’s going to be quite early. In 2023, I knew my life was changing by June. In 2024, I knew it was going to be the first stable year of my adult life. This year, during a sunset walk by the beach, I noted it as a year of expansion.

By the end of June, I had already spent a month each in two long-time dream cities of mine. And there was something about wanting to and then taking those trips that made me feel like life could be anything. Suddenly, I had dreams of owning a home in Nigeria, of moving to a different country, of starting a bed and breakfast, and of starting or not starting a family. In all of this, I found myself thinking about what I’d like to do with a long life. At the start of the year, I had a conversation with a friend with whom I confessed that I could not imagine a life beyond 27. I did not know what that could look like. I held this secret hunch-fear, that mine might not be a long life. I guess I was too scared of the unsaid future that the easiest thing for me to do was catastrophise that it might not come. And now, for the first time. I could imagine a future. I could.

But June is early, and a year holds many twists.

This morning, I had a thought about the brevity of life.

Last night, at 2 am, on my way back from a friend’s apartment, my Uber ran out of fuel in the middle of just about nowhere. I felt the tense air that sweeps over when you suddenly feel unsafe. Earlier this year, a stranger turned up at my home address pretending to have a delivery for me. He wore a make-shift mask and handed me a letter, written in red, with a threat of death if I did not let him into my house.

This morning, I had a thought about the brevity of life.

I woke up too early and listened to an episode of Modern Love. Andrew Garfield read an essay by Christ Huntington, Learning to Measure Time in Love and Loss.

When he got to these sentences, he could not go on.

And then he caught his throat in an unexpected interruption of emotions. You know… when you feel more than you expect to feel. “Sorry… sorry” Andrew swallowed and sighed and swallowed and sniffed. Noticing his failure at composure, he swore the potent combination of Fucking and hell.

Earlier this year. I texted a friend this message:

“one thing that breaks my heart is unrealised future plans.”

I was thinking about my friend Aisha, who passed away in a car accident. I had texted her the night before. I have texted her since. When she moved back to Nigeria about a year ago, we made soft plans to have brunch together. We never did. We saw around the city. One night, we both happened to be out for dinner with different friends and sat at adjoining tables. We took a picture together. The night before she died, I texted her, ‘Hi.’

This morning, I had a thought about the brevity of life.

I applied my eye drops and thought about my eyesight. Earlier this year, I found out I had glaucoma, and that part of my eyesight had faded. My eye drops keep my eye pressure down, but at my last two check-ins, the pressure has been as high as the previous visit. My consultant prescribed a second drop. On my last refill, the nurse exclaimed with some fanfare that I need to check my pressure again. So this morning, as I put in my drops, I wondered, what if I am losing it now? What kind of life does one live when they learn darkness impends?

And this is how I end the year. Once again scared of the ̶u̶n̶s̶a̶i̶d̶ unseen future.

Like I said, June is early, and a year holds many twists.

I have been thinking a lot about the popular quote from Mary Oliver

“What are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?”

I am not very big on poems, but now and again, a line from a poem hits me and stays with me as if it were something meant for me.

Closing out the year, confronted by questions about longevity and brevity, this question feels like a reminder of the point. That life is wild and precious.

I met someone at the airport a week ago. Our luggage bags had been lost in transit and landed an hour later. To pass the time, she and I fell into a meandering conversation that at one point came to the question, “So… what do you believe in?”

I paused, not having had to think of an answer in recent times. I often answer the question of identity, but not of belief, which surpisingly enough, is a different one. I said to her.

What is more meaningful than noticing the moments?

Post script: Essays like this (not at all about my work life) seldom make it to my substack. I am going to experiment with publishing more of those here