Gentle Enough For Chaos.

Until I can create images of my own to represent my writings, we will continue to give credit to where credit is due. Photo from Pinterest.

The car wasn’t really broken, but it had started making that ko-ko-ko sound again, the weird sound that only grew louder when you tried to ignore it. She had learned to stop flinching at the small malfunctions of her life. Everything she owned, everything she was responsible for, had a sound; soft, persistent, never quite urgent, but always there.

She stood beside the bonnet, arms crossed beneath the stretch of late morning sun, while Tunde the mechanic leaned in, humming to himself like the car would hum back an answer.

“Madam, this sound don dey since?” he asked, not looking up.

She exhaled. “It started last week. Thought it would stop.”

Tunde leaned in closer, listening for a moment. “If you leave am like that, e fit turn to bigger wahala.”

She didn’t move.

“Just check it. I have a wedding on Saturday.”

He raised his head. “Another one? Ah ah. Na wa o”

“Even my dreams are wearing gele at this point,” she joked.

Back at home, she kicked off her flats, and stood a while in the middle of her room, not ready to sit, not ready to do anything else. On the mirror, the envelope labeled “GIFT” was still taped in its spot, blue ink, underlined. She had planned to just transfer money and be done with it, but changed her mind. Sometimes, you just show up. Even when it meant reshuffling bills, or repurposing an old dress. Presence was a kind of currency, and she had learned that people remembered faces more than bank alerts.The dress was already pressed. The hair appointment booked. You just keep showing up.

A message popped in.

“Can you help me with something small for books? Registration is next week.”

Her cousin. The youngest one. Still in school. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

She read it. Paused. Tapped back.

“How much?”

That was the entire reply. No warmth, but no cold either. Just the kind of steady care that didn’t need decoration. Her cousin knew she would send it. She always did.

Outside, the neighbors were talking again, something about NEPA and extension cords. The toddler upstairs was racing from wall to wall like he had something to prove. And she, who never liked confrontation, got a woman to sweep the compound more often than necessary just to keep peace. Greeted everyone. Smiled when she didn’t feel like it. Because when you live closely with people, gentleness wasn’t a luxury. It was a survival tactic.

Dinner was another experiment. It usually was. She made yam and egg sauce because she didn’t feel like eating rice and didn’t want to start anything too ambitious. The fridge was half full. She had meant to shop on Wednesday, then Saturday, then forgot again. But she made do. She was always making do.

On her mirror, below the envelope, was her list of places. Some handwritten, others added from an Instagram screenshot or a post she’d saved with intention. Japan. Morocco. Zanzibar. Portugal. Cape Town. The names were beginning to feel familiar, not from visiting, but from how often she repeated them in her mind. She traced over the ink with her eyes. Maybe she’d remove one. Maybe she’d add another. She hadn’t decided.

The evening folded in gently. She took a long bath. Lit a candle she’d been saving since December. It smelled like vanilla and clean ambition. She didn’t really read the book she meant to, but she touched the spine. Opened the first page. Re-read the inscription. That was enough. There was a video she wanted to rewatch, but instead she sat quietly, scrolling through nothing in particular.

She had been meaning to attend a poetry reading, or a film screening. Something small, something that required her to wear something different and remember how to laugh. She made a mental note. One of many. There were too many tabs open in her mind. Something to buy. Something to fix. Something to start. Someone to check on.

There just was no point tying it all together. She didn’t. She let the day slip into itself, and folded herself into the evening without ceremony. The room held her softly. The air conditioner did its thing slowly.

She turned off the light, lay still for a while, watching the ceiling blur into darkness until even her thoughts stopped asking for attention. Sleep came the way it often did these days: not suddenly, not gently, just… eventually.

Somewhere far off, someone was playing music. It wasn’t a song she recognized, but it didn’t matter.

Everything didn’t have to mean something.

Not tonight.