I wake up before the noise does.

That’s the only way I can think clearly, before the generators start humming, before the street vendors begin calling out prices like early morning announcements, before life in Nigeria fully stretches itself awake.

My phone is the first thing I check. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Messages from clients asking, “Have you sent the draft?” even when they only briefed me the night before. Notifications from social media reminding me that consistency is key, post, engage, grow. But growth feels slow when your data is almost finished and electricity is a gamble.

I sit at my small table, laptop open, staring at a blinking cursor.

Some days, the words come easily. Other days, they hide, like they know NEPA might take light at any moment and interrupt everything. When that happens, I switch to my phone, typing drafts with one eye on my battery percentage and the other on time.

Writing in Nigeria is not just about creativity. It’s strategy. It’s survival.

By mid-morning, the heat sets in. If there’s no light, the fan becomes decoration. Sweat sticks to my skin, but I keep typing. Because deadlines don’t care about discomfort. Clients don’t want to hear about power outages or poor network. They just want results.

Around noon, I step outside briefly. The street is alive, okada riders arguing, children chasing tires, a woman frying puff-puff by the roadside. Life is happening loudly, unapologetically. Sometimes I draw inspiration from it. Other times, it distracts me completely.

Back inside, I edit what I wrote earlier. Delete. Rewrite. Adjust tone. Make it sound effortless, even though it never is.

Afternoon turns into evening faster than I expect. If I’m lucky, there’s electricity. That’s when I do my best work, charging devices, researching properly, sending out completed pieces. It feels like a race against time because I know the light won’t stay forever.

At night, when everything finally quiets down, I write for myself.

No client. No deadline. Just me and my thoughts.

This is the writing I love, the honest kind. The kind that tells stories about us, about Nigeria, about struggle and resilience and small wins that feel like big victories.

Before I sleep, I look at what I’ve achieved for the day. Sometimes it feels enough. Sometimes it doesn’t. But one thing is certain

I showed up.

And in a place where everything can make you stop, showing up as a writer every day feels like its own kind of success.