This is probably the one of the longest and most vulnerable (considering I write about marriage, that’s saying a lot) post I’ve written to date, so buckle up.
I hate that this is my first post back after two months writing. I wanted to write about the Eazi and Temi Otedola (now Ajibade) wedding spectacular in a post titled “The Greatest Wedding of All Time.”
I planned to write about shaking Dangote’s hand, stepping into a man-made structure in Dubai that felt more like a scene in Wakanda than real life. Then I could talk about Iceland — Lord, Iceland, the glass palace built in the middle of the mountains — a Bentley rolling through the hills, and JOHN LEGEND arriving as the guest singer to serenade the bride (on a piano that, only minutes earlier, was being played by the second-best pianist — his exact words — on the planet).
I couldn’t wait to relive the joyous moment with my Substack audience, but God had other plans. As Les Brown, the speaker, says: “In life, you’re either going through a storm, coming out of a storm, or heading towards one.”
For this to make sense, we need to go way back a few years. I never started Substack for subscribers — I just wanted to write. As a young writer, my dream revolved around being published. Not just “I have a book” published, but walking into a Barnes & Noble and seeing my name on the shelf next to my heroes: Stephen King, Tolkien etc etc. And I almost did it. Three times.
The first two times I can talk about in another post, but the last time is where our story begins.
It’s late 2020, deep in the tail of the pandemic. I’m a few months into writing some of the most heartfelt, passionate controversial twitter (yeah, before Elon) threads on marriage the internet has ever seen (I even got cancelled for a few days!). I discovered Substack and shifted my focus there.
Not long after, agents came knocking on my door. Real agents. Book agents — my “I’ve finally made it” moment. At the same time, I reached out to someone who introduced me to a publisher, it was happening. An agent, a publisher, and the next step: a book deal. It happened fast, too fast, and just as the world sat in the palm of my hand, it slipped through my fingers, well, I let it go. I didn’t take the publishing deal (a long story for another time), but I stayed in touch with the editor interested in my book. A real one. I told her that the moment I decided to step back into traditional publishing, she’d be the first person I’d call.
Fast forward a few years. I’m a better writer. I understand my voice, tone, and the kind of story I want to tell. I felt ready — but life doesn’t care how ready you are.
I sent an email to this editor with my new book concept, shut my laptop, and prayed. A few days later, I received a response, some feedback on the novel’s structure, ending with a resounding: “Connect me to your agent, let’s do this.”
The dream was alive, again.
Just over a week later, I sat on my bed, casually scrolling through my Instagram feed: gym bro, parenting meme, comedy skit, Donald Trump…
No.
My heart thudded in my chest. I tried to catch my breath, tapping the screen to refresh the page. You never want to see an R.I.P. post on your feed — especially with a face you recognise.
We take life for granted. It’s so fleeting, so fragile, so unpredictable.
In only a few days, the editor who believed in my writing was gone. She died unexpectedly. Condolences to her family.
I’m terrible with grief. It sends me all kinds of mixed signals: guilt — if only I’d published with her earlier; blame — why didn’t I message her sooner?
A new experience for me, is understanding that grief can be selfish. I mourned a life lost, but deep down, a part of me mourned my writing, and I hated myself for it. I felt so selfish — too selfish to pick myself up, too selfish to write. don’t have a therapist anymore, but I remember the techniques — deep breaths, moralising, rationalising, stages of grief, etc. Knowing why you’re feeling something doesn’t make it hurt any less, but at least it makes sense.
My pen felt heavy for a few months, so I left this newsletter. My wife Office Hours kept posts flowing through the page (I love babs), while I rested. Then one day, it dawned on me, it’s selfish not to write. I can write for myself, I can write to help others, but also to honour the people who believed in me.
Back when I was in school, there was a strict rule: students couldn’t use the sports hall without adult supervision.
As a young basketball player, this frustrated me to no end, especially during the winter months. I remember one time being so desperate to play that my friends and I snuck into the hall and tried to convince any adult to supervise us.
One day, a teacher — a small, meek man in an oversized suit — walked past the hall, no doubt on his lunch break. None of us knew him, but we ambushed him and asked if he could “supervise” us.
Despite having no relationship with us, he didn’t need much convincing. He nodded, pulled up a chair by the sports hall, and quietly munched his sandwich while we played. There were a million ways he could have told us to piss off, but he didn’t.
A few months later, the entire student body was called into the assembly hall for a memorial service. The service was to honour a teacher who had passed away. Unfamiliar with the name, we shuffled in reluctantly, only to be met with a picture of the same man who had given up his lunch break for us.
It was such a small gesture, nothing grand in the scheme of his life, yet that one act stuck with me. To this day, I still don’t know his name. But he left an impact.
I spoke to my editor once, and confessed that I felt the publishing industry didn’t have space for me. She listened, then asked why I couldn’t be the first to make space for people like me. Who cares what the industry thinks?
I told her I didn’t want to be the first.
Now I realise, I don’t need to be accepted by any industry to leave an impact. It’s not always about how I feel; it’s about moving forward regardless.
We don’t get to hold on to people, but we are entitled to cherish the memories. It’s not always easy to keep going, but I’m grateful to wake up every day and still have a choice.
I advise you to take advantage of every opportunity you get, you will still miss some, but just keep going. Only time will tell how it all goes.
Once again, thanks for your patience.
And here are a few pictures from the best wedding EVER!
Suli Breaks
This is probably the one of the longest and most vulnerable (considering I write about marriage, that’s saying a lot) post I’ve written to date, so buckle up.
I hate that this is my first post back after two months writing. I wanted to write about the Eazi and Temi Otedola (now Ajibade) wedding spectacular in a post titled “The Greatest Wedding of All Time.”
I planned to write about shaking Dangote’s hand, stepping into a man-made structure in Dubai that felt more like a scene in Wakanda than real life. Then I could talk about Iceland — Lord, Iceland, the glass palace built in the middle of the mountains — a Bentley rolling through the hills, and JOHN LEGEND arriving as the guest singer to serenade the bride (on a piano that, only minutes earlier, was being played by the second-best pianist — his exact words — on the planet).
I couldn’t wait to relive the joyous moment with my Substack audience, but God had other plans. As Les Brown, the speaker, says: “In life, you’re either going through a storm, coming out of a storm, or heading towards one.”
For this to make sense, we need to go way back a few years. I never started Substack for subscribers — I just wanted to write. As a young writer, my dream revolved around being published. Not just “I have a book” published, but walking into a Barnes & Noble and seeing my name on the shelf next to my heroes: Stephen King, Tolkien etc etc. And I almost did it. Three times.
The first two times I can talk about in another post, but the last time is where our story begins.
It’s late 2020, deep in the tail of the pandemic. I’m a few months into writing some of the most heartfelt, passionate controversial twitter (yeah, before Elon) threads on marriage the internet has ever seen (I even got cancelled for a few days!). I discovered Substack and shifted my focus there.
Not long after, agents came knocking on my door. Real agents. Book agents — my “I’ve finally made it” moment. At the same time, I reached out to someone who introduced me to a publisher, it was happening. An agent, a publisher, and the next step: a book deal. It happened fast, too fast, and just as the world sat in the palm of my hand, it slipped through my fingers, well, I let it go. I didn’t take the publishing deal (a long story for another time), but I stayed in touch with the editor interested in my book. A real one. I told her that the moment I decided to step back into traditional publishing, she’d be the first person I’d call.
Fast forward a few years. I’m a better writer. I understand my voice, tone, and the kind of story I want to tell. I felt ready — but life doesn’t care how ready you are.
I sent an email to this editor with my new book concept, shut my laptop, and prayed. A few days later, I received a response, some feedback on the novel’s structure, ending with a resounding: “Connect me to your agent, let’s do this.”
The dream was alive, again.
Just over a week later, I sat on my bed, casually scrolling through my Instagram feed: gym bro, parenting meme, comedy skit, Donald Trump…
No.
My heart thudded in my chest. I tried to catch my breath, tapping the screen to refresh the page. You never want to see an R.I.P. post on your feed — especially with a face you recognise.
We take life for granted. It’s so fleeting, so fragile, so unpredictable.
In only a few days, the editor who believed in my writing was gone. She died unexpectedly. Condolences to her family.
I’m terrible with grief. It sends me all kinds of mixed signals: guilt — if only I’d published with her earlier; blame — why didn’t I message her sooner?
A new experience for me, is understanding that grief can be selfish. I mourned a life lost, but deep down, a part of me mourned my writing, and I hated myself for it. I felt so selfish — too selfish to pick myself up, too selfish to write. don’t have a therapist anymore, but I remember the techniques — deep breaths, moralising, rationalising, stages of grief, etc. Knowing why you’re feeling something doesn’t make it hurt any less, but at least it makes sense.
My pen felt heavy for a few months, so I left this newsletter. My wife Office Hours kept posts flowing through the page (I love babs), while I rested. Then one day, it dawned on me, it’s selfish not to write. I can write for myself, I can write to help others, but also to honour the people who believed in me.
Back when I was in school, there was a strict rule: students couldn’t use the sports hall without adult supervision.
As a young basketball player, this frustrated me to no end, especially during the winter months. I remember one time being so desperate to play that my friends and I snuck into the hall and tried to convince any adult to supervise us.
One day, a teacher — a small, meek man in an oversized suit — walked past the hall, no doubt on his lunch break. None of us knew him, but we ambushed him and asked if he could “supervise” us.
Despite having no relationship with us, he didn’t need much convincing. He nodded, pulled up a chair by the sports hall, and quietly munched his sandwich while we played. There were a million ways he could have told us to piss off, but he didn’t.
A few months later, the entire student body was called into the assembly hall for a memorial service. The service was to honour a teacher who had passed away. Unfamiliar with the name, we shuffled in reluctantly, only to be met with a picture of the same man who had given up his lunch break for us.
It was such a small gesture, nothing grand in the scheme of his life, yet that one act stuck with me. To this day, I still don’t know his name. But he left an impact.
I spoke to my editor once, and confessed that I felt the publishing industry didn’t have space for me. She listened, then asked why I couldn’t be the first to make space for people like me. Who cares what the industry thinks?
I told her I didn’t want to be the first.
Now I realise, I don’t need to be accepted by any industry to leave an impact. It’s not always about how I feel; it’s about moving forward regardless.
We don’t get to hold on to people, but we are entitled to cherish the memories. It’s not always easy to keep going, but I’m grateful to wake up every day and still have a choice.
I advise you to take advantage of every opportunity you get, you will still miss some, but just keep going. Only time will tell how it all goes.
Once again, thanks for your patience.
And here are a few pictures from the best wedding EVER!
1 week ago | [YT] | 51