nascent.

It feels like there may be something here. I feel it. I feel it. It is nascent. It is new.

The river is a tributary of the sea, which itself bends into the ocean—science says the sun scythes the sea every time it wants a break; a cooling pause, a stolen exhale. And yet I struggle to believe that the only thing separating river, sea, lake, ocean is salt. Just salt. Tiny granules of salt. How many joules of energy does it take for the sun to lick the surface of the ocean, hoard it in the clouds, and let it fall elsewhere? On some days, I have been the sun; on others, the river—unruly, carrying everything along, yet pulled in directions I cannot command.

Do not expect a period here, not yet. Today, I want to express abstractly, lucidly, recklessly: who thought of carving holes in a wooden flute and calling it music? How do I tell you I have Lazarus’d more times than I care to admit this year—no summons, no fanfare, just resurrection at the edges of ordinary days? I, too, have become pollen—die. die. die. scatter. grow. live.

The weight of my slice of the world often swaddled me in itchy, dried blankets, as if to whisper, “I will show you how to trace the shape of air, counting your teeth.” And yes, it is easy—too easy—to get lost in all of this noise, to mistake the static for symphony.

Today, Finikin’s “Grateful” is playing in the background as I write this. It is miraculous, this split-second alchemy a song can conjure: one moment I understand the songwriter’s intent; the next, the song mirrors my own quiet ache, the circumstantial reminder of where I stand. To be ungrateful in the present is human; to be ungrateful in hindsight is witchcraft & I have pinched myself too often to the latter. I have been battered, and I have been bettered. I have lost myself, and I have found myself; I have clutched my God, and He has clutched me back, sometimes so fiercely I am startled by the tenderness of it.

It is a new year for me. The song in my spirit is “Shift” by the Oyors. I do not have all the answers—probably never will—but I have the One whose presence cause mountains to skip like rams.

So, yes: Happy birthday, Timothy Oluwapelumi Ojo.

Here’s to the rivers that bend, the suns we become, and the strange, beautiful alchemy of living.

i. And if you ask me what I’ve learned—sometimes the only way to stay afloat is to let the water carry you, and still, somehow, choose to swim.

ii. When God paddles a man through a river, drowning is not a miracle; it is part of the process.

Want to celebrate the birthday boy with some money? easy! Just pay your offerings into my Opay 7035881498 or my Wema 7810354473. I do appreciate you, really.

I genuinely covet your wishes, so please share them in the comment section.