“Mum, Dad, I want to be a writer not a doctor.”

It wasn’t until I turned 27 years old that I found out that the world did not care about your well-being. Everyone only looked out for themselves and whatever opinion they had for you was based on their fears, insecurity and experience.

It wasn’t until I overheard my father tell my mother that he wished he had a son that could take over his clinic because he didn’t think a girl could handle his clinic well.

It wasn’t until my male colleagues blatantly ignored every point I made in the board meetings and treated me like I was invincible.

It wasn’t until I realized that almost every patient that came to the clinic only wanted to be treated by an older male doctor over any female doctor available.

It wasn’t until all these had happened that I realized I had been performing for an unattentive audience. An audience whose eyes and attention were on their phones and everything else but me.

After all was said and done, I finally made a decision.

It was time.

It was time to start digging my parents’ grave.

It was time to stop performing for an absent-minded audience.

It was time to start living like Boluwatifenisola Adesanya.

A day after my 28th birthday, I walked into my father’s clinic in my grey sweatpants and white T-shirt that had the inscription “Try dey enjoy, problem no dey finish” on it, along with my bathroom slippers and messy cornrows, intentionally leaving my wig at home.

I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care what people had to say as my colleagues and patients stared at me in dismay as I walked up to my father’s office.

As I got to the first floor, I stopped in front of my father’s office door, knowing he was seeing a patient at the moment. But I didn’t care.

I took a deep breathe in and out before opening the door. And to my surprise, my father’s patient was my mother. Talk about perfect timing.

“Ah, Tife. You’re not working today?” My mother looked at me up and down in confusion.

I didn’t say anything but dropped a small white envelope on top of my father’s desk. It was my resignation letter.

“What is this, Boluwatife?” My father asked me while opening the envelope to remove the piece of paper inside.

I stood at the corner without looking into my parents’ confused eyes.

“Mama, baba,” I looked at both of them, “I want to be a writer, not a doctor.”

Suddenly, I felt a change in the atmosphere. It didn’t feel suffocating like it had been for over 8 years. It felt oddly normal, empty and quite... stale.

It wasn’t peaceful, neither was it chaotic. It just felt okay. The words felt like every other normal conversation I had with my parents, even though this was a life changing decision.

It was then that I realized that all these while I wasn’t killing my parents... I was killing myself. Because now, I didn’t feel the sting of the virus anymore.

Neither did I kill my parents before their time.

But let’s see… would they kill me before my time?

Take the risk and find out, dear dreamers. But please, don’t die.