"John, so, what plan do you have for yourself?," mom asked again for the umpteenth time.

I had gotten up very early this morning, and sat myself down comfortably on my favorite spot which is right beside where I charge my phone while I use.

"Shey, na to press phone upandan be life?"

Okay. That hit me. Hard. Again. That's not my plan for myself. At all.
I'm not lazy. All my previous bosses can testify to this. I only left them when they weren't able to stick to the terms they set unconsciosly.

Unconsciously because I enjoy all their "niceties" at the beginning of the job. And I'm nice, myself. So I like for it to be replicated.

I also do not like constant supervision. It chokes. I like to breathe. I believe there shouldn't be that much supervision unless I'm doing something wrongly, which I doubt I do.

My last job was a washer/receptionist in a laundry shop. I smile when I remember how hard and diligently I worked for grains disguised as cash. I become sad when I realise that I could have made the most of it by doing something on the side, or investing in something else, or even saving. Yes, saving. I have no savings. That's so bad for someone who so desperately wants to study Business Administration in the university and become an entrepreneur or Business manager of some sorts.

I did very well at managing in my previous job for my boss so much that he was impressed when I started handling the accounting aspect. So much that he became comfortable with travelling knowing that his business would go on just well.

Travel. That's when everything changed. His insecurity started when he got back. Like, bro, I just want to work, not to steal your business from you.

Aish!

That's when he began putting so much "eye" on everything I did. The terms became stringent. I needed to breathe. And without an idea how to move forward, I left.

No plan to get registered for JAMB. None at all. If there was ever any plan, then it was imaginary. My confidence fizzled out.

That was early two months ago. I quit and became jobless once again. And getting up early to "press phone" has become a habit. A job. A job that doesn't pay. A job that doesn't pay but has the potential to. I job I could use to revamp my writing skills and make myself a comfortable living.

Mum doesn't believe in that. She pressurizes a lot—and not just me. She guilt trips, also.

"If you people had something to support, do you think your dad would still be struggling at 60?"

Ouch!

That hit hard. Again. Once again.

There is truth in that, undeniably. That's something I want to rectify.

Cee—my friend—told me just now that I can write!

But really, can I?

Do I even have a forte to build on?

How long would it take?

Sighs.

There goes the self confidence again.

I'm tired.

Help.