A Letter to Whoever’s Still Reading

Read At Your Own Risk (May Contain Existential Dread and Cringeness)

Hello, my lovelies,

It’s been a month and a few days since I last wrote something to you. You probably didn’t notice, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Apparently, it is true that I write best when I’m falling in love or when I am falling apart. Overall, when I am falling. Isn’t that tragic?

Oh, forgive my manners, sweets. I disappeared, and here I am yapping instead of checking on you. Actually, I never do check on you — quite selfish, ain’t it? I just come to yap and say the most illogical things every time.

How are you?
How have you been fairing these months?
It’s the second quarter of the year. Did you achieve a few of your yearly goals by the end of Q1? You know, the ones you wrote at the beginning of the year — or, if you’re weird like me, wrote none and now wonder what to spend your time on ‘cause you made no plans and are just going with the flow like this newsletter.

I have no destination for this letter, my dearest, but come on this journey with me. Let’s see where it leads us.

I’ve been home since I graduated from secondary school last July. I’ve been on a gap year. I had huge plans, you know? According to my plan, I should’ve been great at a lot of things. Should’ve been earning a few bucks. But instead, I’ve spent most of my time bedrotting and achieving nothing I wrote down. I’ve been doing things that weren’t even on my list. Sighs. I am quite undisciplined. It’s a terrible habit I should fix, I admit.

But hey, you know what I have learned over the past year?

I’ve learned that things, sometimes, go haywire. Things will go in ways you cannot even imagine — to the extent that you’ll become a stranger to your own life, ‘cause you don’t even understand what’s going on. Like that meme says:
“Life so private, me sef no know wetin dey happen.”

But when this happens… what do you do? Cry? Laugh? Punch the wall? (Please don’t do that and break your hand. Don’t come back saying “It’s Ikram that advised me to punch the wall.” I am not there. I do not promote violence. Sometimes.)

Sorry, I lost track of what I was saying. Where was I? Ah yes — what do you do when life leads you by 2-0?

I’ve learned to feel, then move.
When it hits, I acknowledge that it happened. I let all my emotions out. But right after, I pick myself up and remind myself that it’s only a phase. Things happen. But it’s not the end — and I move on.

Life waits for no one. If you decide to sit and sulk for too long, time will leave you behind and, without your permission, steal the moments away from you. Time just takes. It takes and it takes and it takes.

I clocked 17 last month. And amusingly — but not surprisingly — people think I’m way older than that. I guess it stems from what I write about. Like most older Africans, there’s this sentiment of, “What could possibly worry a kid aside from education?”

Well, plot twist, aunty and uncle:
Everything.

We worry about dreams. About failing at life before we’ve even had a real chance. About not knowing what’s next. About being too much and not enough at the same time.
We worry that our dreams are bigger than our pockets and our fears louder than our voices.

And then there’s puberty.
Oh boy.

Nobody warns you how... weird it is. One second, you’re chill, vibing — then the next, you’re crying because the bread fell butter-side down and it “felt personal.”

Puberty isn’t just about pimples and periods — it’s about feeling everything all at once. It’s like someone turned up the volume on your emotions and then broke the dial.
You feel too deeply, care too hard, laugh too loud, cry too easily. You start questioning why your body feels foreign, and why your thoughts are suddenly louder than everyone else’s voice in the room.

And then there’s self-esteem — or the lack of it.

There’s the wild realization that sometimes, the same people who twist your guts and make you cry… also somehow make you feel like you’re on a cloud. Like life is worth living again.

It’s all so confusing. And yet, weirdly poetic.

I was writing a piece for my 17th birthday — something nice and reflective and quote-worthy.
But when the day came, I sat there blank.
Not because I had nothing to say, but because so much had happened that I didn’t even know where to begin.

Dreams changed.
Life changed.

If you told me three years ago that this is how things would turn out — that I’d be on a gap year, questioning everything, feeling everything, writing letters to imaginary blog readers like they’re my emotional support group — I’d laugh in your face and say,
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

But here we are.

Anyway, I’m growing. And while life hasn’t fully started just yet, the pieces are moving — slowly but surely.
It feels surreal. Like I’m watching a movie about someone else’s life. But this time, I’m the main character. Kind of cool, kind of terrifying.

I’ll keep you posted.

Before I go, here’s your gentle reminder (or not-so-gentle nudge, depending on how much caffeine you’ve had today):

You don’t have to have everything figured out. You’re allowed to wander. To be confused. To try things and hate them.
You’re allowed to take a deep breath, delete the to-do list, binge a show, or build something random at 2 a.m. that only your cat will appreciate.

Life’s not a checklist — it’s a chaotic lil’ dance.
So dance your weird dance.
Offbeat, barefoot, and confused.
It still counts.

Anyway, enough about me and my philosophical rants that probably make you question if you accidentally subscribed to a therapy newsletter. (You didn’t. Or maybe you did — who knows? Life is weird.)

Like you know, this letter has no exact plot. Just like life sometimes.
It flows, stumbles, reroutes — and somehow still moves forward.

So here’s to you, to me, to all of us stumbling forward.

Until next time — whenever I decide to pop up again,
stay chaotic, stay kind, and please, for the love of soft pillows and mental peace, don’t punch the wall.

With love, growing pains, and late-night rambles,
I’ll be back soon, I promise. Or maybe I won’t — you know me.
But you’ll hear from me when I fall again — either in love, or apart, or both.

Till then,
stay soft, stay weird,
and keep being your glorious mess of a self.

With love and logic-defying yaps,
Ikram.

P.S. Feel free to write back to me. I’d like to hear from you.