I Settled

It’s a few minutes after midnight in the harmattan season of December, and the cool, dry air carries a strange heaviness as I speak with one of my friends. One question, seemingly innocent, has opened the floodgates and led to a torrent of thoughts and feelings I’ve kept bottled up for months. As I type, my fingers fly across the screen, each word carrying the weight of my frustration, my longing, and my quiet hope. I pause now and then, wondering what my friend will say. Will they offer me a solution, the clarity I’m yearning for? Will they offer sympathy, or pity, or perhaps the kind of encouragement that feels like a lifeline? Or maybe they’ll simply listen, which, in this moment, might be enough.

It is mostly about how unfulfilling the entire year has felt, a gnawing dissatisfaction that I can’t quite shake, and how much of this I know stems from my own choices—or lack thereof. My pictures and videos, carefully curated for my WhatsApp audience, tell a different story, one that feels like a performance. There’s a video of me laughing and dancing at Hertitude, seemingly carefree and in the moment. There’s a picture of me dressed in pink, with a playful pout, taken at GTCO Food and Drink by an acquaintance. A photo of a cozy dinner night exudes warmth, and another picture of me at the beach radiates light, with my almost clear skin. Each snapshot suggests a life well-lived and bursting with fulfillment. But beneath the surface, my heart carries a truth that these images cannot capture. They are fragments, moments of brightness scattered across a year that has often felt like a fog.

The events of 2024 have carried me through a whirlwind that has often been beyond my control. I finally understood those tweets joking about wanting to be removed from God’s strongest soldier list. That is exactly how I felt—as though I was thrust into a fiery furnace, the kind they say refines gold. But the refinement process seems to have stalled. It feels like I am stuck in the middle of this burning transformation, waiting for the moment I emerge as the precious, gleaming material everyone believes I can be. This year has been a hard teacher, and while I have come out of it with growth, it has often felt like the process was taking so much more than it was giving.

For a fresh, young graduate from a Nigerian university, there is a clear path laid out, almost like an unspoken rulebook. The first step is to go for the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), the mandatory one-year service that involves donning the iconic green khaki and white shirt. This program is a badge of pride for many Nigerian parents, a rite of passage that signifies their child has officially transitioned into adulthood and is ready to contribute to society. If, for some reason, NYSC is not the immediate option, the alternative is usually to find a small job, something that allows you to start earning just enough to leave the house and begin figuring out your next steps in life. For me, the latter was the route I took. I got a job, but before anything else, I left home.

Another thing fresh young graduates often have is an overflowing abundance of dreams and ideas. The possibilities seem endless, like the world is an open field just waiting for you to plant something extraordinary. I have more than my fair share of those dreams and ideas. With a degree in Biochemistry and a budding interest in marketing, staying in my parents’ house in Warri, Delta State, felt like a plan doomed to stagnation. If I decided to pursue the path of Biochemistry, there were simply no industries in the city to nurture that ambition. On the other hand, the field of marketing offered potential, but even there, the opportunities seemed scarce. I could count the billboards in the city on one hand, and companies that might take me in were just as limited. It felt like trying to fit into a space too small for the visions I had for myself.

The fear of mediocrity haunted me. It wasn’t just about failing; it was about the shame of not living up to the potential everyone around me seemed so certain I possessed. It’s the proverbial story of the king in the Bible who entrusted his servants with talents. Some multiplied theirs, while one buried his in the ground, too afraid to do anything with it. That story felt like a warning, a reminder of what happens when you don’t take risks and let fear keep you from moving forward.

That fear, coupled with the drive to prove myself, pushed me to leave Warri for Lagos. Lagos, the land of dreams, where the lights are bright, the noise is loud, and the opportunities are supposed to be endless. There was also the frustrating reality of being too far away from the action. More than once, I had been told during job applications for supposedly remote roles, “We want someone who is close by.” Even in a world that thrives on digital connection, proximity was still king, and I was too far removed from where things were happening. I had to bridge that gap if I wanted to stop being sidelined by location.

With school finally no longer a distraction, I thought it would be the perfect time to unlock the potentials I had been holding back. I was ready to focus fully on manifesting those dreams I had carried for so long. I had already taken steps to get started in marketing, balancing a remote 9-to-5 job at a fast-growing fintech company. The role was demanding, and while I learned a lot, I was also stretched beyond my limits. It was an eye-opening experience, teaching me the difference between being ambitious and being overwhelmed.

I have always been assertive enough to recognize when something is or isn’t for me. So, when I realized that the job was no longer aligning with what I wanted for myself, I made the decision to leave. Growing up, I watched adults in my life stay too long in situations that drained them, situations that left their lives unrecognizable. I was determined to want more for myself and to never settle for less. Quitting that well-paying job wasn’t an easy choice, especially when I considered the financial stability it offered, but I wanted to refocus on school. A coursemate once commented that I could afford to quit because I wasn’t “adult enough” yet. At the time, I disagreed, brushing off his words as just another opinion. However, looking back now, I can see the truth in what he said. Adulthood in Nigeria isn’t just about age or responsibility; it is a relentless challenge that seeps into your core. Instead of thriving, many people become living examples of Charles Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest.

Lagos, often considered Nigeria’s equivalent of New York, is a city where people believe dreams come to life. Yet, beneath the glamour and the allure, Lagos is a jungle. It’s a city that tests your resilience, your patience, and your willingness to fight for your dreams in a way that often feels unforgiving. It is both a place of promise and a place of unrelenting pressure, a constant reminder of the fine line between ambition and survival.

This year wasn’t my first time in the little big city, but 2024 was the first time I truly felt like a Johnny Just Come (JJC). Everything about navigating the city was unfamiliar, even though I had been here before. I found myself jumping from bus to bus, waiting for strangers to help me cross the road, and occasionally paying agberos to either show me the way or assist with my load. There were days when I finally managed to get on the popular BRT buses, all in a bid to cut costs. For the first time, I felt like a fully-fledged adult. There was a whole new level of awareness. I became starkly conscious of the fact that I was in charge of my life in a way I never had been before. Every decision, every step I took, was solely my responsibility. The experience was humbling and reminded me again of one crucial truth: no man is an island. We need each other to survive.

The agberos taught me this in their own way. They only needed to glance at you to figure out you were almost lost, offer to help, expect payment for their service, and then move on with their day. It was a lesson in simplicity and efficiency. Sometimes, life isn’t as deep as we make it out to be. These interactions made me realize that what we often take for granted or consider insignificant can actually be valuable. The agberos were charging for what they knew, and it worked for them. It dawned on me that the same principle could apply to so many aspects of life. You could take that thing you consider a hobby, package it as a service, and make money from it. At the end of the day, it’s all about providing value.

The day I stepped into the company where I would end up spending the entire year, I had no idea what to expect. I had prepared thoroughly for the interview with one of my friends and wore the best corporate-looking outfit I could find. My move to Lagos wasn’t carefully planned. I was originally in town to be a bridesmaid for one of my closest friends’ weddings, and somehow, that decision led me to this moment—landing an interview that would define the rest of my year.

Despite the uncertainty, I had a specific salary in mind because I believed my work experience backed me up. However, I quickly learned that life after school operates on a completely different set of rules. No matter how much effort you’ve put into working while in school, the corporate world still views you as entry-level. My salary negotiation felt like bargaining in a busy market, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had overestimated my worth.

It became evident that switching industries from fintech to public relations, and joining an agency fresh out of university, was going to be a challenging transition. I realized that my approach may not have been the best decision, but I decided to stay. I held on, believing there was still something valuable to gain from the experience, even if it didn’t align with my original expectations.

It’s the end of the year, and as I reevaluate, I know I settled. In a new city seven hours away from home, I was terrified of going back, afraid of admitting to myself that I had failed. I wasn’t just fighting for my career; I was fighting for my life. The cost of food seemed to rise every other week, transportation became more expensive by the day, and I constantly worried that I wasn’t doing enough. My living situation was unstable, and the unhappiness weighed heavily on me.

Scrolling through Twitter, the message I kept seeing was, “This is not the economy to quit your job.” Those words reinforced my fear, even though I felt stuck in a role that brought me little joy. When I started, it was supposed to be a three-month opportunity—a short-term stint that I could leave if it didn’t suit me, especially given the pay. I thought I would stay true to the principle of never settling, of moving on when something didn’t align with my goals or happiness. Amarachi of a few months ago would be shaking her head at Amarachi now, disappointed by how I let go of that principle. This is how settling begins: you justify your choices, weaving a web of small, seemingly harmless lies until it becomes too thick to cut through. And before you know it, you’re struggling to break free, caught in something you never thought you’d allow yourself to be part of.

Something older adults say that I cannot dispute is that I am young, no matter how much I believe I should have life figured out by now. I have the freedom to make mistakes, reinvent myself, and keep trying—again and again. The key is not to let the fear of failure hold me back.  In staying too comfortable and settling where I was, I didn’t put in the extra effort to look for a new role or improve my writing skills in ways that would make me stand out.

One of the reasons I don’t look forward to December is the influx of big wins people share on social media. Even with their general summaries, you can tell how much work went into achieving those milestones. December often feels like a concept, a reward, or a harvest—a season for reaping the benefits of effort and resilience. Each rejection I faced this year chipped away at my confidence, and I started to convince myself that I wasn’t as good as people believed. That self-doubt often led to giving up.

While the year has been laced with a lot of challenges, I am more determined—cowering in fear but still determined—to take the leaps that will help me achieve my goals, even if it means defying Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. That theory, which suggests that basic needs like food, shelter, and safety must be met before one can focus on self-actualization, has felt like both a truth and a trap. This year, it largely held me back, convincing me at times that I couldn’t pursue my aspirations fully until I was completely secure. I found myself caught in a loop of waiting for the perfect circumstances—a stable paycheck, a better living situation, or a sense of total confidence—before daring to act on my dreams. But life doesn’t wait for perfect conditions, and I’m learning that the climb toward fulfillment isn’t always linear or logical. Sometimes, it’s about making bold, seemingly irrational decisions—trusting that by reaching for the top of the pyramid, the foundation will hold steady enough to catch me. This determination, shaky as it may feel, is my way of rewriting the script and refusing to let fear or practicality silence the bigger dreams that fuel me.

All my life, I have been hopping from one career to another. I’ve wanted to be a model, an actress, an astronaut, and even a chemical engineer. Now, I’m not quite sure how to define what I truly want. I’ve always dreamed of building a career that allows me to create, tell stories, and leave a lasting impact on the world. The vision has evolved over the years: a writer, a content creator, a strategist. What has remained constant, however, is my desire to connect with people and build something meaningful. It takes grit, humility, and, above all, people who believe in you when you doubt yourself. Lagos has introduced me to many people—friends and even strangers—who have become my cheerleaders. Through all the transitions and challenges, one thing has been clear: the people I’ve met along the way have played a significant role in shaping my journey.

As the year draws to a close, I find myself feeling both grateful and restless. Grateful for the lessons I’ve learned, the community I’ve found, and the strength I’ve discovered. Restless because I know that settling shouldn’t become a habit. One of the most profound lessons this year has been this: it’s okay to fail. Failure doesn’t define you; what matters is what you do in the aftermath. For too long, I allowed the fear of failure to paralyze me, to keep me in situations that no longer served me.

Looking ahead, I’m determined to break free from the cycle of fear and complacency. I want to set big, bold goals for myself, even if they scare me. I want to embrace the unknown, take risks, and chase my dreams with reckless abandon. This year, I let fear dictate my choices. Next year, I choose courage. As I type these thoughts to my friend in the quiet of the harmattan night, I realize that maybe this recognition is the first step toward unsettling.