I remember when I was bidding for a spot to go to the North Pole – a lifelong dream of mine. The amazing show of support from friends, family, and strangers was humbling to say the least. People left notes to commiserate with me on the experience, many wishing they’d done more, which to me was already more than enough.
I thought I’d packed everything possible. I mean, I come from a family of condense packers. The frequency at which we shuttle between Nigeria, the US, and Europe requires skillful packing.
I grew up in a place where everyone was black like me. The Igbos had a honey-caramel tint to their blackness, the Hausas had an ashy-matte tone to their blackness, and the Yorubas (my tribe) had a chocolaty feel to their blackness. We were all black. Racism meant nothing to me back then.
This post isn’t about staying one step ahead of your purported “competition” as I personally feel your biggest competition should be yourself and not someone else who is living a totally different calling from yours.
I rarely talk about my husband here. After all, he is a fiercely private man. One of the many qualities I admire about him. A doer. Not an unnecessary talker. A talker only to learn more about you, balancing this by listening to you share your stories.
Two reporters were sent to cover a parade; one standing along the crowded sidewalk, the other hovering ahead in a helicopter. As vividly-decorated float after float came parading down the street, the sidewalk reporter kept radioing back up to the reporter in the helicopter, excited…