This is my year. It has to be.
They say turning twenty makes you an adult. But for me, it just feels like a quiet kind of panic. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with no clue what's waiting below - only that everyone expects you to jump and somehow land gracefully.
Funny how in Nigeria, nobody ever told me life could feel this lonely. It's been five years since we packed up our whole lives and left Lagos for the UK. Five years since I hugged my best friend at the airport and promised we'd call every weekend (we didn't). Five years since I left behind street food that made my mouth water, loud Yoruba aunties who pinched my cheeks, and a hundred little moments that somehow meant home.
Now, here I am. Twenty. Staring at my bedroom ceiling, whispering dreams to a cracked plaster that never whispers back.
When I was younger, I thought by twenty I'd have it all together. I'd be in med school, my parents boasting about "our daughter the doctor," my old classmates wishing they'd studied harder. But life isn't that clean. Turns out being an African daughter means carrying the hopes of your entire family on your back; uncles, aunties, cousins, even that one uncle you've never met who lives in Canada. They're all watching, waiting, comparing. "Do not disgrace us," hangs heavy over every exam, every decision.
I miss Nigeria more than I let on. I miss the way people laughed from their bellies. I miss classrooms buzzing with gist, girls braiding each other's hair during boring lessons, and the boys always trying too hard to be funny. And Tolu. Sweet Tolu - the boy from church with a smile that made me forget my name. We were fifteen and awkward, sneaking glances during choir practice, holding hands behind the Sunday school building like it was the biggest scandal in the world. It was all innocent, nothing like what people might whisper. No weird stuff, just us - two kids giddy on first love. In a Nigerian home, dating wasn't just frowned upon, it was unthinkable. "You're too young," they said, eyes narrowed and voices sharp, like love was a sin reserved for grown-ups with degrees and jobs. So we hid our texts, our grins, that Valentine's ice cream I pretended came from my bestie. Leaving him was the first heartbreak I didn't know how to name.
Moving to the UK was like stepping into cold water. First day of school, my stomach twisted when I realised I was the only Black girl in the class. Eyes followed me everywhere.
When I introduced myself, someone giggled, then asked me to "say it again" - not because they didn't hear, but because they wanted to laugh at my Nigerian accent. They joked about my hair, called it "funny." I didn't know how to stand up for myself, so I just swallowed it and got quieter.
Flashback (My First Mocking Laugh): I still hear that sharp snicker behind me, the hush that fell over the classroom as I said my name. The wooden desk scraped against my palms, the stale chalk-dust smell mixing with antiseptic in the air. A boy's voice cut through the silence: "Say it again." His classmates tittered. My cheeks burned hotter than the Lagos sun, and I pressed my fingers into the desk edge, wishing the walls would swallow me whole.
People think racism is always shouting and violence. Sometimes it's just being made to feel small over and over, until you start believing you are.
But the academics here? Different story. In Nigeria, I struggled with maths, thought Pythagoras was a punishment sent from heaven. But here, teachers broke it down so simply I felt cheated, like why did no one explain it like this before? It almost made me forgive the UK. Almost.
So here I am now. Done with A-levels, finally breathing after months of late nights and silent prayers that sounded more like begging. I want to be a surgeon so badly it aches. I want my parents to look at me and see that all their sacrifices were worth it. I want to prove to everyone - my family, my old classmates.
But beneath all that wanting is fear. What if I'm not good enough? What if the grade boundaries are cruel this year? What if after everything, I still fail them all?
Sometimes at night, I lie awake thinking about the little girl I was back in Lagos. The one who laughed too loudly, who believed love was holding hands behind church pews, who never imagined leaving home. Would she even recognise me now? Would she be proud, or just sad?
Maybe turning twenty is scary because it means I can't hide behind childhood anymore. My dreams are real now and so is the fear of never reaching them.
But even with all that, I still hope. Hope that one day I'll walk across that stage in a white coat, hear my parents call me Doctor, and know that every lonely day, every tear, every silent prayer was worth it. Maybe along the way, I'll find pieces of myself again.
For now, I'll just whisper it like a promise:
"This is my year. It has to be."
Author's Note:Thank you for reading Chapter One of Becoming Me. If any part of Sade's story felt familiar-like the quiet panic of turning twenty, the weight of expectations, or missing a version of yourself you left behind-then maybe you understand her more than you thought. Maybe you've whispered your dreams to cracked ceilings too.
This is only the beginning. More chapters are on the way. I hope you stay with her. Stay with me. We're still learning how to carry our stories with pride.
See you in Chapter Two 🌿