“God help me!”

“Do you even know what you are doing??”

Art inspired by mountains I climb. All rights to me.

I ask myself this more than 15 times in a week. I call myself a master of words but I doubt that I am.

I fear that the clients who never return see me for the farce that I am.

I utter the words,

“God help me,” so many many times.

I utter it as I apply for my 10th founders boot camp.

I utter it as I plan the launch of Wynletters.

I utter it as my third client for medical school application tells me she is the latest medical student for 2025.

I remember how I uttered “God help me,” as I collaborated with them to write over 32 essays, statement of purpose and to ace the application process.

I utter it as I apply for commonwealth short stories for the third time.

“God help me!”

Is it the god that lives in me I call or is it the god of my mother?

Is it the God I know in Pentecostal churches or is it the one from Catholic Church?

Is it the God that helped Saint Augustine’s of Hippo or is it the one of Femi Lazarus?

I do not know tbh.

At that point when I say it honestly I mean it for all the gods to help me.

And I am helped.

“God help me,” half the time I do not know what I am doing or where I am going but I know I am moving, I am building, I am crying, I am loving, I am breaking down, I am elevating, help me stand, help me, help me win.

For someone like me to win is the greatest proofs that stories cannot forever be a synonym of wilt—that roses can grow on the moon if we plant them.

My siblings are growing so fast, “God help me.”

My mother is growing so fast, “God help me.”

My country is crumbling so fast, “God help me!”

My emotions grow bigger daily, “God help me!”

I utter so many times and most times I am helped.

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Thanks for reading. ☁️