April 25th, 2025 – My Birthday and Other Ramblings. III
Estimated reading time: 9 minutes
Last time, it was at a mechanic. Today, I’m writing this from my garden, with a can of Coke sweating on the floor beside me, dirt packed under my fingernails like a badge of honour, and one or two mosquitoes singing off-key love songs in my ear like they know today’s special — and have decided to be part of whatever today was. Because why not? If I’m getting older, they might as well have a drink on me too.
And this evening, somewhere between clearing out the weeds and sipping the good ol’ can of Coke — by the way, can we all agree that Coke in a can tastes waaaay better than any other kind? No? Yes? Okay, I digress — I realized I am officially that guy now: the crocs-wearing, plant-talking, shovel-wielding, fertilizer, manure and compost-researching guy. The one thinking of buying a wheelbarrow “just in case.” The one who genuinely believes the best way to start the day is watching one stubborn tomato finally deciding to live its best life.
If you can’t tell already, I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to take up farming. And weirdly, I don’t even hate it. Actually… I’m kind of proud of it. Because at a certain age, you stop pretending you’re cooler than the life you actually want.
This year, I planted some ugu, tomatoes, and — most ambitiously — hope. One of them is thriving. The other two are currently in heated negotiations with the weather gods. There’s something stubborn and beautiful about putting something tiny into the ground and daring it to survive. Feels suspiciously like hope.
It’s funny — last year, there was no birthday post. No sentimental rambling. No dramatic reflections. Just silence. Because life felt like standing in the middle of a four-way intersection with everything honking at once and no crosswalk in sight. Life bulldozed me a little too hard. (Picture getting hit with a piñata stick, but instead of candy falling out, it’s bills and new responsibilities.)
But somehow this year — even though it’s still messy and unpredictable and more humid than it has any right to be — I feel like pausing. Like writing. Like acknowledging that, against all odds, I’m still here. Still trying. Still cracking jokes in the dirt.
Also — let me just say — TikTok owes me a full refund. Nobody warns you that tilling land is less “wholesome” and more “wrestling the Earth’s crust while your spine files an HR complaint.” Fifteen minutes in and my back was negotiating for early retirement.
At one point, I just laid flat in the dirt, staring at the sky, reconsidering every decision I’d made since 2017. But somehow… I still got up the next morning and tried again.
And while we’re on the subject of things that hurt — Gym update:
For the Fourth consecutive year, I boldly declared that this would be the year I’d get serious. I’d be one of those guys who “can’t live without the gym” and “feels weird if they miss leg day.”
Narrator: He did not.
But… progress. This year, I went to the gym three whole times. Last year? Two. I’m basically an elite athlete now compared to 2024. At this rate, by 2040, I might even own a consecutive month gym membership.
The big headline of this year though is simpler: I became a father!
I mean, small me — I became someone’s first call, someone’s first laugh, someone’s whole world in a tiny, chubby-cheeked package.
And even saying that still feels like putting on clothes two sizes too big, like surely this happened to someone else. Someone with a PowerPoint and a five-year plan. But no — it’s me. It’s happening. She’s mine.
My daughter was born May 13, 2024. The first time I saw her in real life felt like meeting a celebrity you’ve only seen in grainy photos — except better, because no amount of pictures could have prepared me for how small she was, or how loudly she claimed my whole heart in one glance.
Picking her name was an Olympic sport. For nine months, we tossed around options like we were pitching startup ideas — everything from “too trendy” to “too traditional” to “are you kidding me right now?”
And then — three weeks before she arrived — her name just… found us. Simple. Obvious. Like it had been waiting for us to stop overthinking.
The first time I held her, it felt like slow motion. The airport was its usual chaotic self — overpriced snacks, weary travelers, small children protesting gravity — but in the middle of it all was this tiny human I already knew by heart.
Holding her… man. That moment on the drive home, with her in my lap (don’t panic, we were already inside the estate), was like something out of a slow-motion movie montage. Goosebumps. Heartbeats. Quiet tears. Confused Uber driver. The kind of moment you want to bottle and carry around for the hard days.
And I still stare at her like she’s some sort of magic trick — like any second someone’s going to jump out and yell, “Gotcha! She’s actually a very tiny adult actress!” But no. She’s real. She’s ours.
Now she’s almost one. Loud. Messy. Perfect.
She babbles like she’s explaining quantum mechanics. She tries to eat my beard with the same passion I reserve for important things — like watching an Arsenal game. Sometimes she just looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m the hero or the comic relief in her story. Honestly? I don’t even care which one I am — because the real magic is watching her and my wife together.
Motherhood looks ridiculous on my wife — in the best way. She was already incredible, but now she’s doing elite-level parenting like it’s a competitive sport. I’ve never seen someone negotiate nap time like a seasoned diplomat one minute and wield a bottle like a lightsaber the next. I watch her and think, “Yeah. I did something right.”
Honestly, I was already gone the first time I saw her caring for a little girl on the street — the first day we met — but watching her mother our daughter? Whole new level. She’s the CEO of Mothers. (If there’s an IPO, I’m buying all the shares.)
My wife deserves her own public holiday. Honestly.
And how come nobody said anything about women getting hotter during and after pregnancy? Feels like I’m married to a completely new woman. At this rate, I might just have to keep getting her preg… okay, never mind.
Anyway — somewhere along the way, between the gym that didn’t happen, the tomatoes that sometimes did, the rejection emails that now feel like polite weather updates (“Chance of mild devastation today, pack a jacket”), and the grand dreams that still haven’t arrived, I stopped waiting for the big, cinematic, everything-makes-sense moment.
Instead, I started noticing the small wins. The ordinary magic. The stubborn victories — like getting a single tomato plant to live, even when the ground said no.
If this past year had a theme, it would be fatherhood. Raw. Beautiful. Terrifying.
I’m still figuring it out. Still learning how to be a husband who shows up, a father who’s present even from far away, and a man who knows when to water his plants — literally and metaphorically.
I want my daughter to grow up knowing how to build things. Fix things. Be whole on her own. Not wait for the world to hand her anything. So I’m becoming the man who can teach her that. Or at least the man who can confidently say, “Pass me the wrench… no, not that one… okay, just hand me everything.”
I’m not sad. I’m not broken. I’m just alive. Messy. Stubborn. Here. And somehow — that’s enough.
Aging feels different now. Birthdays don’t scare me the way they used to. They feel less like ticking clocks and more like half-scribbled journals you flip through and think, “Hey, that wasn’t half-bad.”
I look at my daughter’s face and think, “Yeah… let time do its thing.” I’ve watched her change, grow, and light up every room she enters. Getting older suddenly feels like a privilege. Dad Bod? Earned. Grey hairs? Wisdom. Crocs? Non-negotiable.
Also, yes — I still get disappointing emails. But now I read them like weather reports: “Ah. Light disappointment with a touch of ego bruising. Typical Lagos heatwave. Where’s my sunglasses?”
So here’s to dirt under our nails and dreams sprouting stubbornly anyway. Here’s to growing things, even badly. Here’s to three gym visits and a hundred missed ones. Here’s to stubborn dreams, stubborn weeds, and the stubborn miracle of still showing up. Here’s to missing some moments but making the ones we catch count. Here’s to family, gardens, love, heartbreak, mosquitoes… and whatever comes next.
And here’s to you — reading this ramble, sharing this little patch of sky with me.
Happy Birthday, self. You’re doing okay.
Here’s to the 25th. Again. Always. Maybe I’ll have another update next year or in two years… who knows.
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2 Comments
2 days ago
happy birthday Sir
2 days ago
Your daughter and I are proud of the man you are and we adore you.