Her new story

The poem captures the emotional path of a woman at holiday time remembering the trials and metamorphosis she had during the year. Between sparkling lights and pleasant remembrance, healing, hope, and discovery of purpose happen to her. It is a reiteration of toughness, self-reinvention, and the miracle of starting all over again.

In the twinkle of holiday lights, she find solace,
Reflecting on the year, emotions interlace.
A journey embarked, with highs and lows,
But now, a fresh chapter, her heart knows.
The holidays, a time of love and cheer,
Remind her of the moments she holds  dear.
With family and friends, laughter in the air,
Creating memories, beyond compare.
As the new year dawns, she feels the change,
A chance to grow, to rearrange.
A healthier, happier version of herself,
Discovering purpose, setting her soul free.

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She leaves behind the doubts that held her down,
Embracing strength, wearing her own crown.
With each step forward, she reclaims my power,
Building a life that's vibrant, hour by hour.
In this new phase of life, she finds her stride,
Uncover passions that she can't hide.
With purpose as her compass, she charts her course,
Spreading kindness, embracing life's force.
So as another season draws near,
she holds hope close, wiping away any tear.
With every beat of her heart, she knows it's true,
This journey of growth, she’s starting anew. 

Her new year

Year’s end was always a bittersweet moment for Temilade. She dwelled in the congested heart of Surulere, Lagos, and each day was consumed by din, traffic, and the customary bustle. December, though, had a way of slowing the pace — harmattan breezes, the soft jingles at neighborhood shops, and the colored sheen of Christmas lights made the city less brash, less unyielding.

Temilade sat in her window, observing the blinking lights her little brothers and sisters had run along their small front porch. She stood still for a moment, and she was safe enough to take a breath, actually breathe — something she’d forgotten to do all year long. 2025 had been a wild scramble. She’d been let go in February, struggled with mental illness through April, and nearly abandoned her dream of being a writer by June. But then came incremental wins: freelance work paid for, the occasional call to speak at a workshop for artists, and rebuilding, gradually, her confidence.

With a mug of warm zobo in her hand and Asa’s “Jailer” playing quietly in the background, she reflected. The poem she used to pen into her diary during the darkest moment now characterized her life: the closing of one chapter, and the opening of another. The holidays gave her not just how far she’d come, but the people who were there to support her when she could no longer stand on her own — her mother’s incessant prayers, her best friend Ijeoma’s 3 a.m. voice messages, and even her baby brother’s constant belief she’d “blow” one day.

As Christmas approached, so did a new sense of direction. Temilade had decided to apply to that UK writing course. She would take better care of her body, eat well, and begin journaling daily for the first time. She would break free from the energy-draining relationships, own her goofy laugh, and cease apologizing for who she was.

She’d seen too much not to be hopeful.

In her own small Lagos corner, with gen noise in the background and the smell of jollof rice from the kitchen, Temilade accepted what had been. The pain, the stress, the uncertainty — they had shaped her, but they no longer defined her. This was not the end of a year; this was the beginning of her becoming.

And as fireworks detonated in the night sky and her family screamed out “Happy New Year!” from the front yard, Temilade smiled profoundly. Not because things were fine — but because, for the first time in a really, really long time, she felt complete.

Yes, a new year had arrived. And so had she.