‘motolani mi!” my mom said in greeting on the phone. “My Motolani,” she translated; Motolani, my name. “Motolani. Do you know what that means?” she asked. I said I didn’t though I was sure she’d told me once before, I just forgot. “Write this down.” I grabbed a pen and a post-it note.
by around October, I had christened 2014 the year of rejection. And like most, I handled this rejection by wallowing in it, wondering what I’d done to deserve to be cast aside, and then reluctantly dragging my feet onward.
if you know me at all, then you know how fickle I can be; how indecisive and at times not passionate enough. It can be frustrating. I’ve known myself too often to just let the cards fall where they may and accept it. If the world says I can’t be a writer then I guess, …