Diaries: My Imaginary Husband

As the first rays of dawn cast a feeble light into my room, I reluctantly roused from a restless slumber around 8 am. The weariness clinging to me felt like an anchor, dragging me down into the abyss of exhaustion. The external auditors' season had turned my life into a relentless march of sleepless nights, leaving me emotionally frayed. With great effort, I forced myself to leave the comforting cocoon of my bed, only to be confronted by a stark reality.

A crimson stain, vivid against the pristine white of my bedsheet, mocked my already strained composure. "Oh, shoot me now!" I lamented, feeling the sting of inconvenience as my menstrual cycle disrupted the fragile balance of the morning. "My red badge of honor," I muttered bitterly, the irony not lost on me. The urge to cry threatened to overwhelm, and I stomped my feet in frustration.

As the weight of my predicament bore down, a jolt of realization hit me-I was late for a crucial virtual meeting. Panic surged through my veins, urging me into immediate action. Racing against the ticking clock, I hastened to the bathroom, immersing myself in a hurried bath that lacked the usual indulgence of a morning concert. With a sense of urgency, I brushed my teeth, abandoning any semblance of an elaborate skincare routine despite the pampering my skin had received the night before.

The day, however, continued to unfold its challenges. Craving a breakfast of sunny-side-up eggs and pan-fried potatoes, I opened my laptop to revise my points for the impending meeting, only to be assaulted by a blinding light. "I'm not ready to go blind," I murmured, swiftly shutting the device. In my quest for my glasses, my towel betrayed me, unraveling in an unexpected display. It dawned on me that, amid the meticulous preparations, I had neglected the simple act of getting dressed.

Feeling a need for freedom, I reached for my Nigerian Adire Bubu, its vibrant patterns beckoning to rescue me from the chaos. Minutes dwindled before the virtual meeting, and a sense of unease settled over me. Seeking solace, I turned to the comforting words of Psalm 23, a balm for my frayed nerves. Acknowledging my proficiency as a writer rather than a speaker, the looming task of anchoring the meeting stood before me like a Herculean challenge, a daunting trial I had anticipated but dreaded, nonetheless.

The meeting unfurled its narrative, a tapestry woven with the threads of my speech, punctuated by moments of uncertainty. Yet, amidst the ebb and flow, a resounding commendation echoed from the manager, a lifeline of approval that sliced through the tension. "Thank you for your time," the words hung in the air like a soothing balm, followed by the directive to share the report with the team, signaling the imminent closure of the engagement. Relief washed over me, a tidal wave of gratitude crashing against the shores of apprehension.

As the meeting concluded, my workday pressed on with a series of calls with subordinates and the diligent resolution of queries. Despite my introverted nature, I cherished my role and the opportunity to impart knowledge. At times, I found myself mistaken for an extrovert due to my confident presence in meetings and the effort I invested in welcoming new colleagues with brief introductions.

Lunchtime arrived, coaxing me away from my workstation, although I had already indulged in a pre-lunch array of junk food. As I disposed of the remnants, a self-realization struck: "I thought we were starting intermittent fasting today, Ohfeefey. Wow! With such zeal and determination, you've once again postponed your intermittent fasting." A twinge of guilt washed over me, prompting a humorous dialogue with my own belly. "Little miss will start all over again tomorrow," I chuckled, grabbing my leftover chicken salad from the fridge.

While fixing my meal, a casual scroll through Instagram stories turned unexpectedly bitter. A mutual friend had reposted a picture of my abusive ex and his newfound love with the caption "Happy married life." I gnashed my teeth in silent resentment, memories of toxicity threatening to resurface. Just as the emotional wave loomed, my sister sent a meme that broke the tension, eliciting a genuine laugh. "Metro what?" I replied, she countered with a laughing emoji, "too much." Returning to my desk with a bowl of salad, I resumed reviewing my work, determined to deliver an error-free report to my manager-an inherent perfectionist trait.

Lunchtime concluded abruptly as my reminder alarm signaled the need to hydrate. The realization struck that, once again, I had neglected to use my lunch break for personal rejuvenation. Embracing the flexibility of remote work, I immersed myself in music during my tasks. Being an avid fan of the queen of afrobeat, I played my favorite track, "Somebody's Son," featuring Brandy. The busy day neared its end, and the satisfaction of completion enveloped me. The rhythmic beats of "Somebody's Son" echoed in the background as I logged off, marking the conclusion of another workday.