Today I wanted to be an artist.
Yesterday, it was a baker with soft hands and loud joy.
Last week, I swore I would write books that smell like rain,
but now I just want a small home and comfort.
My dreams keep changing like Lagos traffic;
one moment clear, the next, go-slow.
And I’ve stopped apologising for not knowing.
Let me outgrow what once fit.
Let me become what I didn’t plan.
Isn’t that also faith?
