dear Chimamanda Adichie,

the thing around my neck will soon kill me, please.

note entry: 24 Mar

i saw a tiktok quote that read “at a point where i can’t even call it ‘procrastinating’ anymore, i’m straight up jeopardizing my future” and i screamed “REAL!” from my seat—ironically, while avoiding something important. it’s funny how the truth can just slap you across the face, and instead of fixing the problem, you just sitting there, nodding in agreement.

lately, it feels like i’ve pressed pause on my actual life. not in the cool, cinematic way where the protagonist takes a sabbatical to “find themselves,” but in the tragic way where nothing happens, and yet, time keeps moving. the things i should be doing, the plans i once wrote down with so much enthusiasm—they all sit in the waiting room of my mind, collecting dust. in their place, i busy myself with tasks that don’t matter. rearranging my room. doom-scrolling endlessly through my Instagram Reels. overthinking text messages. playing “Block Blast!” on my phone. reading over and over through the lyrics of my favorite songs on Spotify.

this note will have nothing to do with Odeluwa, nor will it contain anything from her best-selling book either. but i do have a thing around my neck, and it’s getting tighter. procrastination. and unlike hers, mine isn’t a metaphor for homesickness or displacement. it’s just me, sitting in the ruins of my undone tasks, convincing myself that avoiding them is somehow an act of self-care.

do you know how relaxing and intoxicating postponing itineraries can be? how sweet and easy it is to lie to yourself? you wake up with a plan, with determination. today, i’ll do this. i’ll tackle that. you’d have actual tasks and actions planned to take down. you know, those deadlines and responsibilities that need to be fulfilled urgently. but then the bed is warm, the phone is close. suddenly, you’re making deals with time, and once you lay back, there’s a huge (but temporary) surge of nirvana you’d feel come over you. just ten more minutes. i’ll start at noon. maybe after i eat. okay, i’ll start at 3:30pm. before you know it, the day has slipped through your fingers like sand, and you’re left staring at a to-do list that mocks you. you’re there, laid back and chill, doing nothing, while those tasks wait and wait for you to finish them.

my mum would often tell me in igbo, “the fly that doesn’t heed advice often follows the corpse to the grave”, her voice would sometimes ring through my head as i relaxed, disturbing my wind down time. but she’s right. just like the fly, i would soon be in the grave.

the worst part? i know this. i see the problem. i analyze it, intellectualize it, even romanticize it into words like these ones. but i do nothing. and maybe that’s the scariest thing about procrastination—it doesn’t just steal your time; it slowly rapes your will to fight back.

i wish i can just tell Mrs Chimamanda that the thing around my neck is not an immigration story. it is not the weight of displacement or the grief of homes left behind. it is simply me, slowly strangling myself with my own hands. my own hands are the thing around my neck.

and goodness me, i wish i would stop.

but i think i am afraid. afraid of what happens when i finally start, when i finally run out of excuses. because what if i start and fail? what if i start and realize i’ve wasted too much time? what if i see, with painful clarity, that all the waiting and lingering hasn’t made me better, only rustier? it is easier to pretend that my potential is untouched, that i am simply waiting for the right moment, rather than to confront the possibility that i might not be as capable as i once imagined.

so i sit here, waiting. waiting for some motivation, for some sign, for the perfect moment that will never come. and in the meantime, the thing around my neck tightens, little by little, until one day, i wake up and realize there is no more air left to breathe.

and that’s the cruelest part to me, i think. the realization that no one else is tightening the rope. not the society, not capitalism, not bad luck, not even my village people. it’s not just some external misfortune. it’s just me. my own hands, clasped firmly around my own throat, squeezing with every delayed task, every postponed dream, every lie i tell myself about ‘tomorrow.’ and the worst part? there is no struggle. no fight. just a slow, willing surrender to the tightening grip.

---

hey guys, my partner is having a 7-day writing challenge for herself to offset her drive for writing and her writing block. also, she has 390+ subscribers, if you can, you can go through her page and subscribe to her. here’s her Day 3 entry:

How do writers do it?

---

if you have made it here, i appreciate you so much for reading. the blonded boy's notepad. is a reader-supported publication. to receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a subscriber.