A Morning Brew of Rituals

My mornings don’t start with an inspirational TED Talk or sunrise yoga on a rooftop. Nope. Most days kick off with a very stubborn standoff between me and my alarm clock—a barely functioning brick of plastic that beeps like it resents life more than I do at 6:30 a.m. Desperate to fend off reality for five more minutes, I sometimes try bargaining with it, as though it can be reasoned with. Spoiler: it can’t.

I’m out of bed by 6:45—6:50 on rebellious mornings—and shuffle my way to the kitchen. The sacred sound of water boiling fills the space. Coffee isn’t just how I wake up; it’s a ritual, complete with my old moka pot. I used to fantasize about having one of those fancy espresso machines you see in movies set in Italian villas, but there’s a certain alchemy in brewing coffee this way. I channel every “dad-who-only-trusts-one-BBQ-sauce” vibe as I huff over my moka pot’s superiority.

There’s something about that first sip. It’s like my brain runs an upgrade and suddenly, I’m booting into Malik 2.0—semi-functional, casual optimist, likely to FaceTime my sister asking if we have magical genes or if our cheekbones are simply this stunning by chance.

The Mid-Morning Hustle: Art, Emails, and Spotify Battles

By 8:00 a.m., I’m at my desk, ready to do battle with words. On writing days, I pull up my work-in-progress—a series of contemporary love stories where culture and heart collide. Picture one part Chinua Achebe, one part Fela Kuti, and a sprinkle of “what if rom-com characters actually went to therapy?” Writing romance, for me, is like solving a Rubik’s Cube: messy, colorful, and satisfying once you get the pieces in the right places.

But not all mornings are creatively charged. Some are swamped with emails, virtual meetings, or “research.” (Read: convincing myself that binge-watching a British drama for the fourth time totally counts because London year abroad solidarity.) Throughout this chaos, music anchors me. My Spotify playlists? A cultural warrior’s toolkit. Think Coltrane jazz, Afrobeats, and, yes, the occasional Beyoncé track because, as the kids say, “we all deserve Renaissance energy.”

Lunchtime: Jollof, Soul-Searching, and Quiet Conversations

Cue the culinary highlight of my day: lunch. If I’m honest, this meal is where nostalgia meets practicality. On good days, there’s leftover jollof rice waiting for me. The scent alone transports me straight back to my childhood kitchen in Lagos, where meals were vibrant reminders of joy and connection. My mom’s unofficial motto? “If a pot of jollof doesn’t unite a family, nothing will.”

On busier days, it’s New York hustle mode—a bodega chopped cheese or overpriced salad. As I eat, I’ve made it a habit to unplug for at least 20 minutes. No emails. No scrolling. Just food and thought. Sometimes, I call one of my siblings—my sister Tola, who inevitably drags me for my disastrous spice rack, or my younger brother, Dele, who swears every conversation is his personal podcast episode. Other days, it’s quiet reflection.

For anyone seeking to find their rhythm during the chaos of the day, I can’t recommend this enough: carve out space to just be. Whether it’s during lunch or before bed, grounding yourself—even briefly—does wonders for your overall sense of balance.

Afternoon Breaks: Dating Lessons from the Streets of Brooklyn

Afternoons occasionally involve stepping outside, particularly when I need inspiration (or to stop my brain from staging a creative mutiny). Brooklyn streets are like a living, breathing relationship workshop. Take Fulton Street: a kaleidoscope of lives converging. I once overheard an argument in front of a juice stand—it started about who got the last wheatgrass shot and ended with an honest, surprisingly poetic exchange about feeling neglected. Relationships, folks, are everywhere, even in juice bars.

Then there’s Prospect Park, my unofficial therapist. Whenever I walk those stretches of greenery, I find clarity in the echoes of my own thoughts. I once guided a friend through their breakup while pacing its trails, repeating the mantra: “Love is messy, but loss teaches you who you are.” Side note: if you’re ever arguing with your ex via text while strolling outdoors, call me. I come with portable wisdom (and snacks).

Evening Nostalgia: Soup, Jazz, and My Inner Softie

Dinner’s usually something lowkey but soulful—maybe egusi soup if I’m feeling industrious, or spaghetti if I’m giving in to the ease of carbs. After eating, I often settle on my couch for a bit of downtime. Sometimes, this means jazz records and soft candlelight. Other nights, it’s Netflix rom-coms that make me groan, “Nobody meets organically like that anymore!” (No shade—okay, maybe just a little—to my beloved Notting Hill enthusiasts.)

Evenings often bring a kind of vulnerability. It’s when the mind whispers deeper questions. How can I show up better in my relationships? Who am I when I’m not performing or striving? I don’t always have answers, but allowing myself to sit with those thoughts reminds me of the evolving nature of love—for others and myself.

Nightcap: Reflection and One Last Dose of Humor

My day usually ends with journaling, which might sound basic, but stick with me. It started off as a mental dump—a place to purge all the chaotic, disconnected thoughts pinballing through my head. These days, it’s become more intentional. I write down lessons learned, even the silly ones. Like, “Apparently, telling your date you alphabetized all your books is more intimidating than endearing.”

A final swipe through Twitter (because who doesn’t want to end the night scrolling through memes about Beyoncé tickets or people roasting bad Tinder bios?), and it’s lights out. Well, almost—I replay my favorite Coltrane track, lean into the darkness, and let myself dream about love, creativity, and that elusive muse showing up on time tomorrow.

My life isn’t glamorous. There's no private jets or “I wake up at 4 a.m. to meditate in Bali” energy here. It’s real. It’s peppered with hints of nostalgia, supported by rituals that nurture my soul, and fueled by connections big and small. And maybe, just maybe, the unexpected magic of a day isn’t in its perfection but in all its quirky, imperfect pauses.