By Omorogieva Sylvester Ihonwa
Some days, it only takes a cup of tea to save you.
There was nothing special about that Tuesday. The Lagos sky was steel-grey, and my neighbour’s generator rattled like a grumpy beast. I’d been counting my sober days on a scrap of receipt tapes to the fridge, making little tally marks with a stubby pencil. Sixteen ticks. Every single one left behind after a day where I hadn’t caved… but this morning, my hands trembled so badly I nearly made coffee by mistake.
I was annoyed at myself for feeling this way. People say progress is supposed to feel empowering. Most days for me, it just felt lonely. I flicked on the radio, needing something – anything – to muffle the silent fight inside my head. Upbeat music. The news. A jingle for pepper soup spices. Lagos was living, breathing, pulsing outside, and here I was feeling like a ghost.
So, I made tea. Nothing fancy. Just hot water, slightly stale Lipton, and way too much sugar. I stirred, focusing on the small sound of the spoon clicking against ceramic. Then, I padded over to the window and watched the street below: two boys argued over a deflated football, a woman in gold slippers waved down a danfo and someone’s laundry flapped like a row of surrender flags.
That’s when the urge started to fade, soft and slow. Not gone – never gone – but smaller, the way your headache eases if you close your eyes and let the afternoon drift. I let the mug warm my hands, breathing in the steam, thinking back to when everything was unravelling: missed birthdays, excuses, all the lies told just so I could get by one more night.
My phone buzzed with a message from my oldest friend: “Still here. Call if you need.” A message from Esther. I didn’t want to talk, not really, but knowing someone cared patched a small hole in me. I sipped lukewarm tea and let the city’s sounds fill the kitchen. Somewhere, children burst out laughing, and for the first time that day, I smiled – a tiny, trembly thing, but real.
Lunch came and went. By late afternoon, the sun squeezed through the clouds, painting the neighbour’s window gold. Standing there, puffy-eyed and messy-haired, I realized: maybe today, this was enough.
It wasn’t victory, but it was another tally. Tomorrow would come. And that truly is enough for Esther. For now, I am here.
