i'm a mosaic of everything i've ever loved

the pieces that make us, us

Mar 18, 2025

I say Are you well? instead of How are you? because a character in a fantasy romance book I adore—and often reread—does it, and I found it endearing.

During my Wattpad days, I often saw “rr” in the comments of book chapters, which I later learned meant re-reader. A seed was sown…. It’s okay to relive art; it’s never quite as magical as the first read or watch, but it’s sufficient enough to merit a do-over. That habit embedded itself in the folds of my brain long after my religious Wattpad phase.

Summer 2021, I started listening to Gunna as a way to impress my then-boyfriend—it was his favorite artist, seemingly still is. Our lives rarely intertwine enough for me to be certain. All that’s left are assumptions fed by Instagram stories I passively watch. I still listen to Gunna, though we never talk.

Regrettably, I started listening to Frank Ocean later than I would have liked. I was influenced persistently by a friend a continent away.

There are movies and songs I love because someone I loved loved them first.

I am intentional about my feminism, like the characters in my favorite author’s (Chimamanda) books. I live vicariously through them, learning to exist solely for myself, far removed from social expectations tied to my femininity.

I tie my braids up, despite my protesting edges, because my sister once said it frames my face nicely. I have hooded eyes, identical to my mother’s. Creasing when I smile, quiet traces of how joyous I can be.

I have a hard time opening up; vulnerability feels foreign, like uncharted water I was not taught to navigate. A familial trait passed down yet persistently trying to unlearn.

I used to avoid heat anywhere near mayonnaise because my mom—backed by Facebook rumors—made us believe it turned poisonous. I often think about that now as I sometimes toast my bread with mayo as a butter substitute. Before you judge me, dear reader, mayo is just eggs and oil.

I test out DKNY Be Delicious perfume every time I see it in a perfume store. It reminds me of a woman I adore. Our friendship transcended our age gap, her memory engraved in my childhood.

I wake up at 3 AM to pray because I’m in awe of my Creator—who, through the existence of heaven and oceans, thought the universe would be more complete with me in it.

I say, “My enemies are praying for my downfall,” at any minor inconvenience. A humorous ode to my African instinct for superstition.

My sister often sings song lyrics that align with her thoughts—a habit I’ve adopted. A long-running joke I find myself continuing, even in her absence.

I got my sense of humor from my cousins and sisters, who seem to find everything funny.

I recommend songs because someone once did the same for me, and I remember how seen I felt.

I drag the e’s in my byeeee on calls and in person because a boy I no longer talk to found it endearing.

I often watch Nollywood movies because they remind me of primary school evenings when I’d watch them with my family.

I like the color orange because it was my younger self’s favorite. I still adore it; it was my first assertion of individuality.

I don’t take shortcut paths when walking because my cousin warned me against it.
"People who had misfortunes happen to them were more often than not looking for shortcuts."

I love eating boiled potatoes because my late aunt loved them and would often share them with me while we sunbasked on the veranda.

I use words and phrases incorrectly as a form of connection with my friends, so when they start using them the same way, I know I’ve rubbed off on them.

I love hugs because an old friend used to give the best ones.

I like tea with milk, even though I’m partially lactose intolerant, because it reminds me of when my mother would save some for me.

I save my name in people’s phones with lots of emojis because my adored but distant friend does the same.

I put the word Apple in my Instagram username because the friend who helped me create my first Instagram account 10 years ago had Peach in hers.

I’m taking a writing course because a boy I loved used to write me the most poetic pieces —now frozen in time, yet his memory incessantly haunts me—I hope to invoke such emotion in others.

I love reading because the librarian at the school where my mom worked introduced me to The Hardy Boys—a series I clung to while my peers favoured Nancy Drew. I defiantly avoided it in my I’m not like other girls phase–one I have thankfully grown out of.

I put ketchup on my scrambled eggs, a tasty habit I picked up from a blogger I watched. I put salt on every orange or peach I eat. A habit I adopted up from my sister.

I love seeing small, fluffy dogs because they remind me of the one back home.

I am a mosaic of everything I've loved, even for a second, even for a heartbeat.

We’re composed of fragments of all that has ever caught the attention of our soul—knowingly or otherwise. Even the parts of us we wish to discard.

I learned to love my voice. It felt hypocritical to adore my mother in her entirety while despising the very thing she passed down to me. Some parts of us are so deeply woven into our being —our voices, our memories—that we hardly notice them until someone else does. And how it stings when the pieces we intentionally buried are unearthed.

Like a song once shared with a lover, now tainted with a bittersweet weight. A selfish thought creeps in, "I wish I had never shared my song with them." Yet miles away, unbeknownst to me, that very song graces their ears—perhaps routinely, perhaps in passing—a welcome reminder of my existence.

I wonder what parts of me remain imprinted on the people who have loved me.

Thank you for reading. Feel free to check out my other pieces