Yesterday’s Choices are Tomorrow’s Visitors.

Dear God,

I was in a reflective mood, sitting with my legs crossed like a woman who has finally made peace with nonsense. I was sipping my coffee, (I no longer pretend I am slimming down), and wondering about the mystery of the choices we make. Both the loud, dramatic choices we display on social media and the quiet childhood choices we made ignorantly. This is how Nnenna walked back into my thoughts.

Nnenna was my first friend, or rather, the first friend who made friendship feel like a privilege. We were in the same primary school, and she arrived fully formed, like royalty that skipped the womb and went straight to life runway. The only daughter with three brothers and parents with deep pockets. Nnenna did not walk; she arrived. Even her absence had presence.

She was not the usual mean-rich-girl, I will be honest about that, in case she reads this blog one day. She simply had that effortless arrogance of people who have never had to look for anything that wasn’t already looking for them. You know that… “See me before I die,” syndrome? She carried the posture daily.

Her uniforms were always crisp, as if ironed by brands. Her lunch pack smelt like invitation, and inside it lived foods our mothers only cooked on Christmas Eve. And the books, ah, the books. Storybooks of all kinds, foreign names, and adventures that transported me far away from chalk dust and mosquito bites. That was how she got me, I was a sucker for storybooks and novels.

“Have you read this one?” she asked one day, pulling out a book like a magician revealing a dove.

“No,” I whispered, already in love.

“You can borrow it. But don’t spoil it.”

That “but” carried more weight than the book itself. I respected it. I polished my hands on my dress before touching the treasure. I didn’t know then that I was already learning one of life’s early lessons: some friendships come with terms and conditions written in invisible ink.

In our small universe of little girls, we were four. Nnenna, Me, Jessica and Nneka. And we all had a personality, a strong one. Looking back now, I wonder how we could relate. If poverty had a face in our childhood imagination, it would look like Nneka’s sandals. It always looked torn and worn in a way that suggested they had already retired but forgot to stop coming to work. Her uniforms were clean but old, and her lunch pack? Optimistic. She carried the same thing for lunch everyday. Dad, please in all humility and sincerity, I am only on a recall, the intention is not to put anyone down. (Just saying before you roll your eyes).

However, the Nneka herself, was a bundle of joy and charisma. She laughed as if laughter was her inheritance. The kind of laughter that started somewhere deep, tumbled out noisily, and dared the world to join in. She had no patience for sulking. I used to wonder if she knew how to get angry…or what it even meant to be.

When children mocked her, she’d shrug and say, “It’s okay. They’re just having a bad day. Let’s make them laugh.” I used to watch her in awe.

“Are you not angry?” I once asked.

She looked at me with gentle confusion, as if my question made no sense at all.

“Why should I be?” she shrugged. “Tomorrow, they could be happier and we could be friends.”

That, my Lord, was wisdom, but at that age, I couldn’t recognise it, because it was disguised as foolishness.

And there was Jessy, very much in the league with Nnenna is economic spread but too humble or too timid to flaunt it. For some reasons, her family had a code of sworn poverty in the midst of extreme wealth. You only see the wealth in the external things like mansions, donations and cars but never in the way of life. That was scary for me as a child because I didn’t understand how her super rich dad, couldn’t spare the good things in life for his children. They lived the true life of religious chastity.

And then, there was me. The awkward middle. Not rich enough to be intimidating and not poor enough to be underestimated. The middle-class child, just socially, emotionally, materially relevant. It was a most confusing place to stand because it meant I could move freely between worlds but fully belonged to none.

I could eat from Nnenna’s lunch box without flinching, but I could also share groundnuts with Nneka without pity. I learned early how to translate myself depending on my audience. That skill would later become diplomacy or people-pleasing, depending on the season of my life you are examining.

In hindsight, I see it clearly now: that was where my relationship with contentment was born. The rich girls competed relentlessly.

“Is that bag new?” one would ask, pretending innocence.

“Of course,” the other would reply, lifting her chin slightly, as if she personally sponsored the purchase.

“Oh okay, Mummy bought mine from London last week,” another would counter.

Competition was their native language. Dresses, shoes, lunch boxes, handwriting, birthday parties, everything had a ranking system. A simple “Hi” never came alone; it was always followed by a full-body scan. Assessment complete. Verdict pending.

Even as children. You will think that is the rich girl’s thing, right? Wrong! Nneka and her gang competed too, but on entirely different things……like….

“Who can laugh the loudest?”

“Who can run the fastest?”

“Who got the highest score in maths?”

Same game, different currency. It took adulthood, and a little grey hair for me to understand that competition is not born from wealth or lack of it. It is born from insecurity. It just changes costumes. One afternoon, I remember Nnenna crying quietly because a new girl came to school with a better shoe.

“It’s from Lagos,” the girl announced proudly. I watched Nnenna’s identity tremble.

Later, she hissed, “My daddy will buy me a better one.”

Nneka, overhearing them, simply said, “Well, congratulations, your shoe rack will have a new inmate soon.” We laughed. That day, I learned something important: wealth does not automatically produce peace.

Years later, life did what life does best, it scattered us. Friendships stretched, thinned, and snapped politely without noise. But the lessons stayed. Now, sitting here as an older woman with education stitched into my bones and wisdom earned expensively, I see what those girls gave me.

From Nnenna, I learned excellence, exposure, and the danger of tying identity to possession. And if I could whisper to Nnenna, I would say: “You are enough, even without the performance.”

From Nneka, I learned joy, emotional resilience, and the radical power of kindness without strategy. And if I could see her again, I would bow slightly and say, “Teach me again how to laugh like nothing matters.”

From Jessica, I learned that wealth does not cure fear, and abundance does not automatically teach ease. That abundance can still feel unsafe to those trained in restraint. And if I could speak to her now, I would whisper: “How could you carry fullness as if it were fragile, learn to hold prosperity boldly and remember to live more.”

And from my position in between, I learned balance and contentment and the rare art of appreciating good things without envying. If I could speak to that little girl I was, I would say to her: “Read the books, yes. Dream beyond your horizon. But do not borrow your worth from anyone’s lunchbox.” Comparison is a hungry spirit. It does not care how much you feed it, it will always ask for more.

To the young reading this, listen to me carefully, because I am talking from the far side of life: Do not despise where you stand now. Life is a classroom. Pay attention.

Know this: wealth without self-awareness is noise. Poverty without bitterness is royalty. And competition without self-knowledge is a thief that steals joy silently. Your childhood is not just a memory; it is a blueprint. Revisit it not to blame, but to understand.

Ask yourself, quietly, like I am doing now: What did I learn then that still drives my choices today? What must I unlearn? What must I scale?

Because becoming a wise human is not about knowing everything, it is about finally understanding where you learned your first lies, and where you accidentally picked up your truest truths. And then choose, deliberately, who you will be now.

Here’s to continuous growth.

 

This your daughter Lord, I am checking in.