“What’s for Breakfast? Oh, Just My Feelings”

Let’s start with a confession: mornings and I have a complicated relationship. It’s not that I hate them; I’m just skeptical of their intentions. Are they here to ruin my sleep or set me up for greatness? Jury’s still out. My alarm clock goes off at 6:00 AM (thank you, Nigerian upbringing where sleeping in is deemed morally questionable). But do I actually rise with the ferocity of a newly adopted morning person? Absolutely not. I spend a good 10 minutes scrolling through WhatsApp family group chats. You know, to find out which cousin got engaged, who’s inaugurating a new church, or a surprising new meme involving a goat and a politician. It sets the tone for the day—light chaos sprinkled with joy.

“Dear Coffee: Take the Wheel”

By 6:45 AM, I’m in the kitchen, tackling the most important ritual of my day: making coffee so strong it could power NEPA’s fragile grids. My relationship with coffee is like a slow-burn romance. It didn’t start with fireworks; it started with late nights in Lagos writing sociology papers, and somewhere along the line, it turned into a love I can’t quit.

Coffee isn’t just a beverage—it’s my morning muse. The aroma alone sends my neurons some much-needed "get-to-work" emails, and by the second sip, I’m a woman reborn. Since I’m also trying to be good—insert Nigerian aunty voice scolding, “Harriet, take care of yourself!”—I pair my coffee with a fruit smoothie. Will guava and coffee ever trend together? Doubtful. Still, I drink both with the pride of someone who’s basically Beyoncé at self-care. This leads me to the next ritual: journaling.

“Journaling, or Pretending I’m Oprah”

There’s something sacred about pouring your brain onto paper. What went right yesterday? What didn't? Did I risk sending a risky text? (Listen, sometimes life demands bold decisions.) Journaling helps me sift through the emotional debris of daily life while sparking a little gratitude. One time, I wrote half a journal entry about the joy I felt eating suya on a street corner in Abuja. If you’ve ever had proper suya, you understand—it’s an experience, a spicy love affair. When I write, it feels a bit like constructing a love letter to myself, and let’s be honest, in a world of unsolicited advice, the clarity of your own thoughts can be revolutionary.

“Cue the Afrobeat Symphony”

Post-breakfast, it’s workout time. Now, let me be clear: as a lifelong advocate for pushing past societal pressures, I used to believe being a gym regular was overrated. But then I realized endorphins are basically nature’s therapy. And what’s better than squats? Doing squats while blasting Burna Boy. My playlist is an emotional arc, starting with Tiwa Savage’s sass (“49-99” makes me feel like a financial genius) and ending with Tems’ “Higher” because, truly, what is a workout without some drama?

Here’s where things veer into unpredictability: I convince myself I can dance. Today’s attempt is a shaku shaku move so poorly executed that even my reflection winces. But hey, if I’m not laughing at myself at least once before 9:00 AM, am I really even trying?

“Emails and Existentialism”

By 9:30 AM, I’m seated at my desk, ready to tame the beast of email. Working remotely as a writer means emails live somewhere between inspiring collaboration and peak adulting drudgery. But instead of diving straight in, I give myself a breather, sipping on cup two of black coffee—which, at this point, is essentially fuel for my entire belief system—and write a short to-do list. Pro tip: never make your to-do list the length of the Nile. Nobody deserves that.

The beauty of remote work is that it lets you structure your life, but—here’s the plot twist—it doesn’t erase the quirks of long-distance socializing. During breaks, I catch up with friends via chat. One second we’re laughing about our favorite Nollywood memes, the next, we’re doing PhD-level analysis of why modern dating sometimes feels like a badly coded app that crashes when you need it most.

“Lunchtime: Where Palate Meets Passion”

Lunch is when I get extra. On some days, it’s leftover jollof rice because frankly, jollof after a night in the fridge deserves its own Nobel prize. Other days, I channel my best-inspired chef vibes, determined to cook something that wouldn’t disappoint even Aunty Yemisi (you know the one, always asking, “When are you bringing over a fiancé?"). Cooking connects me to my childhood kitchen in Abuja, where my mum would insist I “taste this soup” as if my culinary approval mattered. It was less about the food and more about the bond. Every dinner preparation became a family conversation, spiced with laughter and the occasional debate over who got the last piece of meat.

Lunch is also where I resist the urge to scroll through social media because while memes are a love language, a hot plate of yam porridge has my full attention.

“3 PM, The Twilight Zone”

There’s an unspoken rule that 3 PM is peak procrastination hour. I know this because my productivity dips faster than a high school crush. To reset, I step into the sunlight (a rare treasure during my time in London, but abundant back home in Lagos). These walks are part meditation, part daydreaming. Sometimes I think about big things like, “Would I survive on Love Island?” Other times it’s, “Should I dye my hair burgundy?” Inspirational stuff.

At this point, let me remind you that working through life’s micro existential crises is just self-discovery in disguise. Hectic. But necessary.

“Evening Shenanigans”

By 6:30 PM, the academic in me loves diving into books. My current read? A re-exploration of Buchi Emecheta’s “Second-Class Citizen.” Every chapter takes me back to my sociology days, and it feels like chatting with an auntie who lays down facts and then asks if you’ve eaten. Afterward, I might watch something from my endless list of what-to-watch-next: a Nollywood classic or, more recently, British dating reality shows. Am I embarrassed? Absolutely not. The drama is basically research for my writing.

Dinner happens somewhere between 8:00 and 9:00 PM, where I embrace balance. One week, I’m fully plant-based; the next, I’m devouring chicken wings like they cure heartbreak. We call this diversity.

“Conversations and Nightcaps”

As night deepens, I chat with my family in the Abuja group chat—by this time, someone’s already sharing unsolicited relationship advice or pressing me for updates on my (non-existent) wedding plans. Let me tell you, the emotional stamina it takes to endure an African family group chat is unmatched, but so is the joy of their banter. A video call with a London friend sometimes follows—conversations transitioning seamlessly from why socks go missing in the dryer to navigating the terrain of living authentically.

So, what’s the takeaway from a day in my life? Whether it's the structure of daily routines or spontaneous shimmies in the kitchen, I’m learning that joy lives in the details. It thrives in quiet moments of reflection, belly laughs from WhatsApp memes, and the kaleidoscope of feelings we welcome, uninvited, every day.

Because if my day’s chaos teaches anything, it’s this: you don’t need perfect. You just need to show up.