Smiling, he said, “Didn’t I tell you I was coming?”
Then, with a straight face, he added, “I came straight from Paris.”

That’s when I truly understood “I’m coming” in its full Nigerian dimension.
He wasn’t lying. He was spiritually on his way. His body? Somewhere over the Atlantic.

After that day, nothing about lateness could shock me again.
My friends already know I’m a latecomer. I wear it with my chest, so they don’t even bother anymore.
I’m Nigerian. It’s in my DNA. Please, don’t stress me.

 The only memos I’ve ever received at work? All for lateness.
For some strange reason, I wake up early, do everything early, and still manage to land late.

My first memo came fresh out of law school, at my first job in a bank.
My boss, clearly unimpressed, had given me several polite warnings about punctuality. But that morning, she couldn’t hold it anymore. Her patience had clocked out before I did.

She asked, in that calm but serious tone bosses use when they’re done repeating themselves, why I couldn’t make it to the office before 8 a.m.
And in my pure, unfiltered innocence, the kind that only comes from being freshly baked out of school, I asked why she was always in such a hurry to leave her house, even though she was the boss.

“What exactly is chasing you?” I said, genuinely curious.
“If you came later, like normal bosses, this wouldn’t even be a problem.”

The look on her face said it all.
That was the day I learned that honesty and wisdom don’t always clock in at the same time.
And just like that, I got my first official memo.

Memo number two arrived about ten years later.
I had changed jobs, so new boss, new memo.
He asked if I was a nursing mother — apparently, that was the only acceptable reason for showing up after nine.

Some people collect awards. I collect memos. It’s fine. We all have our thing.

Looking back, maybe all those memos were training for adulthood, where we’re all “on our way” to something but rarely ever there.

We don’t measure time by the clock; we measure it by the vibe.
When someone says “I’m on my way,” you can almost hear the subtext:

• “I’m thinking about leaving.”
• “I’m emotionally preparing to leave.”
• “I’m physically in bed, but I want you to believe in my potential.”

Maybe that’s the real Lagos lesson. Half the time, we’re not lying; we’re just trying not to disappoint anyone — including ourselves.
We’d rather lie with hope than tell the truth with guilt.

But adulthood has a way of humbling you.
Because the same way we say “I’m on my way” to friends, we often say it to ourselves.
“I’m on my way to rest.”
“I’m on my way to slow down.”
“I’m on my way to change.”
Yet months later, we’re still in the same towel, mentally dressing up for the life we keep promising to live.

Turns out, it was never about traffic. It was about truth — about learning to be honest with others and with ourselves.
Because sometimes the most grown-up thing you can say is, “I’m not on my way yet, but I’ll get there.”

Now, when people text, “Where are you?” I don’t panic.
If I’m not ready, I simply say, “Still getting myself together.”
No drama, no guilt, no lies of logistics.

I no longer start with “Traffic is mad,” because even the person asking is probably in their own traffic somewhere.
And if they call to say, “I’m outside,” I calmly reply, “Good. Use the time to reflect on your own punctuality.”

Peace, I’ve learned, comes from telling the truth with humour.
Because adulthood is hard enough without pretending to be on your way when you’re still moisturising your elbows.

Peace, my dear, is arriving when you’re ready — not rushing because the world said you should’ve been there already.

So yes, these days, if I say “I’m on my way,”
I probably mean it in the most Nigerian way possible.
In my heart, I’ve left the house.
Physically? Give me thirty minutes.

Because sometimes, honesty — even the funny kind — is the real Luxury Silk.