Not Okay, Just. Functional.

Hey there,

I didn’t write to you last week.

I was overwhelmed—struggling to collect my thoughts, forcing myself too function, and holding up every other part of my life I couldn’t afford to let slip. But I’m writing now, partly to process things, and partly to leave myself a trail—words that can hold my. hands if everything else fails. Today, I have no. motivation or jokes for you, I. really just wanna vent.

I went home to see my mum. Also, I went because I was burnt out—from Lagos, from the chaos of the music business. I love what I do, deeply, but it drains me sometimes.

The last update I shared, my mum was undergoing chemo. But a few weeks ago, they told us she needed surgery to take out the tumor. They also warned, “it looks like it has spread.” I remember the exact moment—Friday afternoon, just before a meeting. That day broke something in me. Since then, I’ve just… kept going. Showing up to work, smiling when I need to, moving like nothing’s wrong—because if I sit still too long, the thoughts swallow me whole.

Last week was supposed to be the surgery. But when they opened her up, it had spread too far. So they stopped. Stage 4. That’s what we’re dealing with now. And that day? Something in me shifted.

There are so many reasons I’m sad. While I may not have the coziest relationship with my mum, she’s still my baby girl. I have dreams for her—of soft life, ease, comfort, and good health—when everything in my life aligns.

Cancer is wicked. Watching her shrink, watching her battle pain she didn’t ask for—it’s heartbreaking. My mum is soft. She doesn’t like pain. I also have wounds—some from her—that I always thought I had time to heal from. I always believed we’d find our way back. And maybe that’s what hurts the most: feeling like time is slipping through my fingers.

I find my mind refusing to reconcile the image of her now—frail, darkened, bald—with the woman I grew up admiring: healthy, light-skinned, vibrant, with a head full of hair. It's like I’m watching my memories and reality fight it out, and I’m stuck in the middle.

I keep hoping this is some sick dream I’ll wake up from.

I kept running from the truth until last Tuesday. Before leaving town on Wednesday, I went to see her. And we finally talked—really talked.

I told her how I was avoiding everything because I couldn’t reconcile the woman in front of me with the woman I looked up to as a child. I told her how helpless I feel, how painful it is to not be able to fix this—me, the fixer. I told her how much I need my mother right now, in this messy, grown-up stage of life, where I’m figuring out how to survive, and nothing feels certain. How I’ve gone broke multiple times this year, how I’ve had to put up a brave front, and how the pain in my chest never leaves. I told her my blood pressure spiked because of constant worry.. I wept through it all. Deep, ugly crying—the kind only your mother can hold space for.

She held my hands. Cried with me. Wiped my tears. Prayed for me and blessed me. And in that moment, I was her baby again. Her last born. Her final gift to the world.

I’ve never doubted that she loves me. Through every disagreement, bad decision, or moment of silence—that love has been the one constant. But now, it feels like something I’ve always known is slowly fading. And I can’t stop it. I don’t think I’m okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be okay.

I’m scared. I’m scared I’d be alone when she’s gone. I’m grieving things that haven’t fully happened yet. And I don’t know how to prepare myself for any of it.

I usually tell myself to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel—but this time, I can’t see one. I’m scared to hope. Every time I have, my heart has broken all over again.

So I’ve told my friends: I need help. So I’ve opened up to my friends. I can’t keep myself afloat on my own. I need my people—my community. And I’ve asked them for one thing: help me hold on to normalcy. Even when I go quiet. Even when I disassociate. Laugh with me. Tease me. Hold my hands like you usually would. Help me stay grounded and tethered to joy.

I might be inconsistent here. I’m struggling to show up for anything or anyone. But if you’re reading this, please know—I’m still here. I’m trying.

And if you’ve been going through anything similar, I see you. I hope you’re held too.

Love, Fanii.

PS: I cried while writing this. Forgive any errors. I just needed to let it out.