Let’s get naked!

Now that I have your attention…

Really, let’s get naked, then sleep.

So, all ye lovers of nude sleeping, get in here and get some fighting points for those that disagree. It’s healthy, I promise… Sorta!

Younger and Stronger: Sleeping in your birthday suit improves blood circulation, and for this, your heart and muscles will thank you. The better quality of sleep you get, the better chances of an increased release of growth hormones and melatonin, both of which have anti-aging perks. Also, the same human growth hormone that helps burn fat is also the body’s anti-aging agent.

So, you’ll look younger …or at least, you’ll age better.

In other words, sleeping with clothes make you grow older, faster! Teehee!

Don’t add more stress: Cortisol, also known as stress hormone has some health benefits but poses a problem when it gets too high in the body. When you sleep overheated, the cortisol levels tend to stay high even after you wake up.

This could cause increased anxiety, cravings, weight gain, and…

When you sleep naked, on the other hand, your body temperature remains at the optimal ranges so your body can create just enough cortisol, to help with other metabolic functions.sleeping

Glow, baby, Glow: If you’re married, or living with your significant other, sleeping naked gives a greater chance of skin-on-skin contact, especially when it comes to cuddling. This kind of contact will lead to a more active sex life, and we can’t begin to explain the benefits of sex… Also, this body contact releases oxytocin; and this neurotransmitter is responsible for all the good things you feel about your partner, leaving you all glowed and blushed up!

Allow them breathe: Tight boxers and tight panties are huge offenders –

Tight boxers increase the temperature of the testicles, which can cause the quality of a man’s sperm to decrease, and on the other hand, tight panties don’t allow air into the vagina and this messes with the normal flora, and because of the moisture, there’s a likelihood of harbouring unwanted guests down there.

Ditching them in favour of loose underwear during the day and nothing at night can bring about an increase in sperm quality, and a healthier vaginal condition, as some research has shown.

Get Rich, without dying while trying: Embrace nude sleeping and save money from not having to buy so many night wears, and ditch that sad feeling that comes when you reach for your favourite trusty old nightshirt, only to discover they’re too just too dilapidated to be allowed into your daily existence.

Immuno-system boost: If you ever needed just one reason to aim for a better night’s sleep, here’s one. Getting more Zzz’s will also give your immune system a good kick start, and since stripping down before you hit the sheets helps ensure a good night rest, you owe it to your health to try. When you’re properly rested, you wake up happier and healthier, so you actually have nothing to lose by sleeping in your birthday suit — except your nightwear, of course.


Disclaimer: This article should be applied with your discretion, don’t sleep naked when or where you know you’ll freeze to death, or where you’ll be endangered.

That being said, let’s get naked!

Then sleep, yes, sleep, please.

A Pain I’ll Never Get Used To


For the most part of my teenage years I was a tomboy. Nothing extreme, I still had a robust physique and overly feminine features and I absolutely hated sports but I never liked female clothes and there was a noticeable masculine swagger or bounce when I walked. My casual wears consisted mostly of baggy shorts and over-sized tees and I would “pack” the crotch of the shorts like the boys do. My hair was always cut so short and carved round that I eventually started looking like a boy. I had no interest in jewelry, not even the common pin earrings and I was very comfortable being ‘one of the boys’.

My dad couldn’t be bothered because he had always wanted me to be a boy. From the little things like insisting the barber shapes my edges to look like a boy’s own to convincing me that studying mechanical Engineering and being a Female mechanic was the way to success… I was basically giving him what he wanted with my appearance.

Over time, my mom and an aunt slowly got me to give earrings another try and ditch my baggy shorts for ‘not-so’ skinny jeans. It took a few years for the bouncy walk to fade off and at about my second year in the university, I started wearing light makeup. I had friends who looked like models. No, I actually had friends who were models and I was always the ‘duff’ in the group because I mean…look at me. The acne and low self-esteem wasn’t even helping.

Peer pressure and personal growth eventually led me to drop almost all my tomboyish habits but one thing I could never give up was comfortable shoes. I loooooved flats. Sandals, sneakers, ballerina flats… I was stuck! It wasn’t odd to see me all dressed up in my Monday morning corporate wear, skirt all ironed and blouse neatly tucked in; and then look down at my feet and see a pair of sandals that looked like they got lost on their way to the meat market. Who does that? And that’s even because I made an effort o. Other days, I’d just sling on my hobo look and not care what anybody thought.


The first time I decided to get a pair of heels, I ended up buying a 2 inches brown wedge sandal whose heel was made of wood. I’m not kidding, it was literally carved out of wood. That’s how solid it had to be for me to trust it. I rocked that wedge for 3 years before I let it go. The next pair of heels I got was a cute 2 inches block heel sandal. I couldn’t get the pencil heel that was in vogue because… I mean, how do I even walk in those?? I’ve never been a fan of court shoes or cover shoes. I always admired other ladies in them stilettos but I knew I wasn’t about that life. Even as a young adult, I have researched many hacks and tips on buying the right shoes and breaking in your shoes so they don’t hurt but mehn… I just cannot deal. They always hurt! One time, I took a friend’s advice and started going about with flats in my bag so I can always slip out of my shoes when they start to hurt but fam, aint nobody gat time for that.

Well, I’m getting married to the most awesome guy in less than two months and I still haven’t picked my wedding shoes because all that’s going through my head is “I want to wear sneakers”. I mean, I just want something super comfortable to wear so I don’t have any trouble walking down the aisle or throwing it down on the dance floor. Is that too much to ask? A girl just wants to wear flats! Come on!

No matter how hard I try to wrap my head around it, the pain from dress shoes is a pain I will never get used to. Ever!



Okay, the Chivita is obviously a metaphor for just about anything that involves monetary transactions. Also, this is a rant. Be advised accordingly.

Buying anything in Lagos has become a nerve-wracking experience for me.

Last night, myself and the boo went to the Afrika Shrine to meet a friend and chill. We’d been at the beach, boo and I, so we were wiped out and tired but we really wanted to see this friend. So we found a table, sat, and were immediately accosted by a server who asked what we’d drink.

We ordered Chivita (since we really didn’t want to do anything but gist). Thirty minutes later, we were practically dozing and decided it was time to go. I found the server and asked how much Chivita was so I could settle the bill.

She…she said it was #1000.

The shock I experienced ehn…I still can’t even put it into words.

I blinked rapidly as I stared at her for a long moment. A lot of things went through my mind at once. #1000 Nigeria naira units? Not cowries? Not kobos? Did they perhaps charge for the ice…do we get to go with the seats..?

I was really not understanding, and the look on my face must have shown that because she took pity on me and came to the table to explain to the gentlemen.

‘You say how much?’ ‘#1000 naira.’ ‘Maka what? For one Chivita? Are you f**king kidding me?’ I couldn’t help myself, the Biafra in me took over. I clutched my purse like I was protecting the money inside from this cruel world.

She has this annoyed but puzzled look on her face like ‘this girl is retarded and/or very stupid’ as she loftily informed me that that was the price for everybody.


See ehn, the things I said are better left unprinted. Let’s just say that when I’m agitated, obscure dictionary words start coming out of my mouth, leaving the other party confused and bewildered.

I left the place fuming (after paying, of course), and have been fuming since.

What is wrong with this country? Isn’t there some sort of regulation around retail products and their pricing? How is it that someone will buy Chivita for #350 at the mall and come and sell it for #1000- for no apparent reason other than their proximity to Shrine (or some other upscaleish place)?

Why are Lagosians so exploitative?

This is not just about Chivita, but just about any product. A bottle of water will go for #50 on the road, #100 in a kiosk, #200 in an eatery, and #300 in some clubhouse. Like, having a set price is just a suggestion to you people?

Of course, this rant won’t change anything. I’ll still be thirsty somewhere in Ikeja and somebody’s child will tell me that life-giving serum is #500, and I’ll have no choice but to splutter and curse as I drink every drop. (Insert crying emoji)

I miss Enugu abeg. Stuff made sense there. I didn’t need to give a liver and my first born child for a packet of Chivita.

Or maybe I’m just broke.



Biafran here is used to colloquially refer to my Igbo roots. This is neither an endorsement nor a condemnation of any political groups whatsoever.




They said it was her fault.

Loudly hushed malicious whispers

from the people she trusted to understand.

Fingers pointed at burning cheeks,

shaming and blaming.


They said she went there herself.

She wore a green dress with flowers of white;

showered and shaved,

sang as she carefully put on the red lipstick

fated to smear.


They said she asked for it.

Why else would she tempt them that way?

Short skirts clinging to rotund hips,

rolling in a blatant invitation of ripeness;

smiling and dallying.


They said he is not a real man.

He lay there while his body

agreed on what his mind did not;

while tears rolled down his turned away face,

silenced and used.


They say it is our fault.

Cover up!” “Pull it down!” “Pull it up!” “Take it off!

Our shame keeps us silent and small,

while mindless takers revel in the safety

of the immunity conferred by misplaced blame.


They say we should forgive them.

Blood is thicker than the water of tears…

cried in the silence of our minds.

We fight demons now exposed to be

near and dear.


They said she was married to him.

Who ever heard of this newfangled notion:

a woman belonging to her own self?

Her scars are a laudable testament

of a good marriage.



Everything in this country is designed to stress us. From our homes where there is no light and generator fumes slowly choke the life out of us, and water has to be bought or gotten after a herculean task, to the pothole-ridden roads destined to make sure you feel like you just went through a blender when we do leave the house, even the policemen lying in wait at every intersection…

Everything is designed to make sure that we get as little rest as possible.

If you think falling sick gives you a break to rest and recuperate, think again. Even when we fall sick, our health care is set up in a way that it cannot even rescue us from the rigours of overpriced health services, or the endless queues at the subsidized government hospitals. You’re left with feelings of despair and hopelessness when the same people who commissioned the hospitals fly their family abroad for treatment.

So wait…they know the hospitals are shit? Wait… 😒

This means that when we inevitably crack from the stress, it takes even more stress to fix us. Don’t even get me started on the state of mental health care in our great Motherland. If you must crack upstairs, just keep it to yourself. Or better still, make sure it only manifests physically (like in the five types of pain panadol extra has promised to eliminate for us).

Is it any wonder that hypertension, the most silent of silent killers, claims the lives of Nigerians every day? He comes wrapped in a cloak of mysticism and religious fervor, because why else would someone just slump and die except his enemies have decided his success (or sometimes, even lack of it) is a threat to them?

There are whole churches built on the concept of sending enemies to well-deserved graves.

AH, THE ENEMIES. They are the causes of our colds, our constricted chest pains, the heartburn we feel after that heavy meal of amala,the sharp pain in the stomach after a stint of running after molue. They are why the feet hurt (even after we have trekked literally everywhere our entire lives) and why the eyesight is bad. When feet start swelling from diabetes, they are there. When our hair starts to fall out from the lack of proteins in our meals (even when evidence shows that we think eating fruits and vegetables are a sign of poverty) it has to be witches looking for materials to knit the purses they keep the teeth of their victims in.

Maybe I’m just cynical, but I have a groundbreaking observation: what if, just what if the enemies have nothing to do with whatever ails us?

Ignorance and self-diagnosis has made most of us into pseudo doctors, which means that when we observe anything that does not fall within the jurisdiction of what we are used to, then it has to be diabolical.

Your relatives are not dropping off one by one because someone has noticed their apparent success and wants to be rid of them. Just maybe..or at least, I don’t think so. Instead, maybe you should order an autopsy, real evidential information that can show you the fat around their enlarged hearts, the fluid in their lungs, the aneurysm that killed them without a trace of illness.

Maybe Uncle Bosco died because he was overweight and had developed high blood pressure from his bad habit of marrying increasingly younger women. Maybe Chike was shot in Malaysia because he was running drugs.

Maybe we are the architects of our own problems.
Just this once, maybe the enemies are not to blame.

Let’s just call it one of the consequences of living in the most stressful country in the world.

The Pull

My favorite thing about swimming was floating.

I had always loved the freedom that came with letting go of my and allowing the water guide me.

As a kid, I would spend the entire afternoon drifting around in the village Dam. My sister never understood how blissful it was for me to just float around in the water all day. She always thought I did it to avoid helping her with the laundry.

Right now, I could feel myself being enveloped by that bliss. I fought hard in my head to stay alert but my body had given in.

I blinked hard again, trying to peer into the darkness of the 20ft deep pool but all I could see was white light.

“There are no lights at the bottom” I reminded myself.

As I felt myself floating towards the surface again, I made one last effort to swim to the bottom of the pool. My ears were ringing and I knew I had gone past 15ft but I kept going.

I had to find it. I couldn’t lose it just like that. I knew Tomide might understand but I didn’t want him thinking I’d lost it on purpose.

The race was over by now. I’d lost the stupid race and I couldn’t lose this too. This is why I hated competitions. Water isn’t something you compete in, it’s something you enjoy. It’s a major essence of life and it’s indeed quite poetic but Tomide made me compete and I almost always won.

If only we didn’t have that fight this morning…

I saw it, glittering in the dreary darkness about two feet away from me. It’s beautiful rocks were winking at me and I wondered how that was possible since there was no light down here to reflect off of it.

I stretched my aching limbs, willing myself to pick it up but gravity was against me today. The urge to let go and float was so strong that it took every iota of willpower in me to keep paddling my legs.

Finally, I got to the bottom and reached out to pick it up. I had it! Tomide will be proud of me. All I had to do was swim back to the surface.

I turned around, facing the way I’d come but I had no strength left to propel myself up and for the first time in my life, I was afraid of the water.

I kicked and fought it but it wouldn’t budge. I was like a kid who was beating a bag of salt. I opened my mouth to call for help but immediately shut it when a litre of water went down my throats and into my gut. My lungs felt like they were about to explode and for once, I was actually terrified of dying. I had never imagined that death would find me right in the middle of the place I considered the safest in the world.

Eventually, I stopped fighting the water and I let myself go. I welcomed the warmth and bliss that came with letting go and drifting. Once again, the water felt like home; like the familiar but distant taste of a kiss from a long lost lover.

As I felt the ring slip from my fingers, I saw two dark figures swimming towards me from a distance and slowly, I totally succumbed to the pull of the water.



time is locked

I watched Clock-stoppers as a kid, and I remember thinking of how awesome it was to stop time, and I could list a gazillion things I would use the power for, but now? Nah! Every-time I think of the movie, I realize I would use it to pause those heart-wrenching moments, the ones I feel the need to stop and take a breather, and start all over without exactly losing out on anything.

Okay, reality check? It was just a movie!

Do you ever get those moments where you doubt every move, every word, and every action?  When the height of uncertainty is at its peak!

Or when everybody is just so far ahead, and you’re just getting the memo that there was even a race?

You feel like you need a breather, a clock stopper, something to pause time.

You somehow just remember things you didn’t say or haven’t said, didn’t do and haven’t done.

It’s like everybody has gotten to the finish line and you just realized there was a race.

When you need a super human, a higher being, God… In a more transcending way, for depth, for closure?

Moments; defining moments. Moments when self-pity, worry and fear of the unknown is ‘almost’ acceptable, but trust me, in this case like in every other, almost doesn’t count.
You’ll have to stop wishing you could turn back time, you have to stop wishing for a clock-stopper, it was just a movie.

It’s okay to pause, to cry, to take some time to breathe… After that, however, it’s time.

Time to go with the flow, get with the program, fall back in line and forget about the ones that are now ahead. You were given this life to live, manage, and enjoy, so like every other responsibility that means the world to you, try not to screw it up.

Talk to yourself or someone you value his or her opinion, but more importantly, you need to realize that everybody has a different race, a different pace, a different story, and therefore different crown of glory.

Search for your blessings and count them, and try, try and try to find some good in who you were and who you’ve become; where you’ve been and how far you’ve come.

It’s never too late to retrace, recover and bounce back! The best way out is through.

Have an inspired week ahead! Xoxo!


He whistled as he walked up the gravel driveway to the brightly painted door, hardly even noticing the weight of the duffel bag he had to carry.

The sky was overcast, people were safely shut up in their houses, phone lines were overloaded and NEPA was working in his favour.

He lived for days like this.

He knocked on the door, and after an unresponsive minute the curtains veiling the window next to the front door parted. Someone surreptitiously checked him out, and seconds later, the door opened.

She was dressed in jean shorts and a red tank top, her hair in simple cornrows. She was thin and barely came up to his chin, but she looked fit-like someone who lifted things heavier than herself routinely.

She raised a brow at him.


He had to exercise all his self-restraint not to smile. She was perfect!

Madam, Oga dey?

‘Nobody dey house. Wetin you dey fin?’

‘Na Oga im tell me say make I bring samples for am today.’

She frowned, puzzled. ‘Paint samples’, he explained, ‘for the kitchen.’

She paused for almost a full minute, then smiled suddenly.

‘Oh, you’re the paint guy! I’m sorry to keep you out like this! You can never be too sure these days: lots of psychos roaming around,’ she smiled brightly at him, then looked around behind him searchingly, ‘where’s your partner? I thought you guys work in twos.’

‘No madam…it’s just me today…’ He was getting worried. What if she didn’t let him in? He had to…

‘Please,’ she made way for him to come into the house, cutting his thoughts off, ‘call me Onwu.’


Really? Death. A favourable portend?

She led the way to the kitchen, a thoroughly clean affair in stainless steel and tile, and then she was standing right in front of me, backing me into the marble countertop. Her eyes were bright with something akin to desire, and her arms were going around me. She smiled again, but this time, it seemed ominous.

Oh no. Did she see through me? Blood pounded in my head as I ran though my plan, I had to do it quickly! The pleasure was already coursing through my body, and she was sooo close, almost in invitation.

I felt a small, uncomfortable prick in my side just as my hands found their way up her arms and around her throat…

Uncomfortable, then hot. In reflex, my hands tightened and I heard her gasp for air…

Slowly, almost like the lovers we’d been pretending to be, we sank to the tiled floor. Something slippery was soaking into my shirt…it smelt coppery and of life. It was a smell I was intimate with, a smell I reveled in.


All at once, the pain came rushing in. My chest constricted and breathing became more difficult with every passing second. Onwu was kicking, trying to break free of my strong hands, but I decided not to give her that pleasure.

Onwu, death.

Bringer of death. Reciever of the death I brought to her.

My last thoughts as she went slack was that there was no painted wall in the kitchen, just tile. She had played me just as effectively as I had played her. A worthy death for me, if I had been given a choice.

I smiled as my vision faded…


Photo credit: leclubstyle.com



I have often wondered how your whole life will be going to shit, and the world will just continue as it is, oblivious to your life falling apart, brick by brick. The same woman still smiles at you as you wait for your smoothie to be blended. The same Mallam that mixes tea close to your estate gate- I think they have a name, but for the life of me, I never remember it, still greets you with the same gusto. “Madam! Inna kwana?”, as you drive out. It all remains the same- traffic, Micra drivers trying to overtake you, someone trying to ‘help’ you clean your windscreen, little kids crossing the road recklessly, and missing being hit by a hairsbreadth. Different day, same happenings, and it seems as if you are the only one that is different.
I started paying attention to this trend four years ago, that was when it all started. I had gone to this party with my best friend and some of his other friends. I don’t really like to talk about that night, but I didn’t wake up the same person. I looked at everyone going about their business, and I wanted to yell at them. Could they not see what had been done to me? Could they not see how my dignity had been stripped? Could they not see that I was not alright? How could they not see what had been done to me? It must have been written all over my face that morning as I made my way back to my apartment, or, was it not? I wanted to scream at them, and tell them that it isn’t okay to move on like everything is okay. Everything is not okay! But, my mama didn’t raise a bitch. If the world is going to pretend not to see my pain, then I’ll be damned if I allow myself look weak.
And that was how it started. I kept my head up, and smiled like I had no worries in the world, just like everyone else.
A few years after the incident, I met Obajuwon, and we were married exactly a year after he literally walked into me at Shoprite. He had been engrossed with something on his phone, and I had been having a brand crisis, trying to decide which brand of face mask to buy. I dropped both tubes, and his phone also fell down. We both bent down at the same time to retrieve our properties, while he mumbled an apology. We ended up bumping our foreheads in the whole process. By the time we stood up again, we were both laughing, while I massaged my forehead.
“I’m really sorry.” He said, his voice a deep baritone, starting from somewhere deep in his chest.
“For what exactly?” I said in response, my eyes dancing mischievously.
“Well, first for walking into you, and then for hurting you.”
We did our shopping together, and at the counter, he offered to pay, and I quietly declined.
“I wasn’t really asking, you know? Please, allow me, it’s the least I can do.”
I nodded my assent, and when we were done, he carried my bags, along with his, and we walked out together.
“Did you drive here?” he asked once we were outside. I nodded, and walked towards my car, and he followed. At this point, I wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with the situation. It has been a long time since I had allowed a stranger do anything for me, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to behave in this situation.
“This is me.” I announced when I got to my car. I opened the back door, and he dropped my bags on the seat, shut the door, and turned around to face me.
I lost a bit of my balance as his eyes caught mine, and I got my first good look at him. On another day, I wouldn’t have stared so openly, but since he was doing the same, I reckoned it was no big deal if I did as well.
“So, my name is Obajuwon.” He said finally, the side of his mouth lifting to form a half smile. He extended his hand, and I took it, revelling in the warm feel of it.
“My name is Ade,” I said simply, slightly out of breath.
“That’s short for what?”
“Do you mind if I call you Adetoun instead?”
Yes, I do. I think to myself.
“No, I don’t.” I said instead, because I like the way my name rolled off his tongue, smooth and soft, like a very intimate relationship.
“I’m sorry again, Adetoun, for the inconveniences. I will like to make it up to you, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s fine, really. Besides, you already paid my bills. That’s more than enough.” I said, almost panicky. I had a feeling I knew where the conversation was headed, and I knew it will not end well.
“Please, I insist. Allow me make it up to you.” His gaze was fixed on me, and it was too intense for me to handle. I wanted nothing more than to get into my car and drive away, and save myself from the kind of troubles those eyes could bring.
“How do you intend to make it up to me?” I say, surprised at how I think one thing, and say the complete opposite of it.
“Well, are you free tomorrow? It’s a Saturday.”
“You don’t say.” I say drily, as sarcasm comes effortlessly to me. And just as quickly, I started worrying whether he might find it offensive, but his hearty laughter chased the thought away, and I relaxed a bit.
“Fascinating, but, you know what I meant. Well, are you?”
“Yes, I am.” I said, smiling for no fathomable reason, at least not to the sensible part of me.
We exchanged contacts, and he promised to message me at night. He asked if that is fine, I said yes, and he smiled again, before turning to leave.
I entered my car immediately he turned his back, and once he was out of view, I rested my head on my steering wheel, and finally allowed myself replay that moment that we had been staring at each other.
My mother told me once that during the course of our lives, we get a lot of indications, warning signs, that tell us to run in the opposite direction when we are about to do something. That moment was my first warning sign.

To be continued……


Image credit: Storyblocks





I lost my sleep!

I love the idea of sleep. Don’t get me wrong… Sleep itself is great!

I just don’t get enough sometimes to categorically say we’re in love. Amean! We can’t rush these things!

Let’s throw back a little, I’ve always loved to sleep. I look forward to lying on my bed and drifting off blissfully. I used to be unable to function without adequate sleep; like cranky, upset and wondering what I’ve done to the world to deserve such a small time to sleep. Oh, I’m a light sleeper so that complicates things, but sleep and I were still always finding a way to get back together…until, “adult”.

Being an adult humbled me. ‘Adulting’ has a way of messing with all your future ambitions, e.g being a professional in sleeping, eating and reading books.

I’m at that phase of my life, where I’m not yet an adult-adult, I’m just an adult; you know, the kind that still needs an ‘adultier’ adult sometimes? Yea, that kind. That phase where all the things ‘they’ didn’t tell you about growing up hits you, but somehow you’ll have to find a way to float, and that’s what this article is about…

How I’ve learnt to float, even when I can’t get enough sleep.

Alarm, snoozes and more alarms: This is the electronic version of someone pouring water on you…

I started with setting four (4) alarms on my phone, about 40 minutes before the time I actually need to be up. They all have snooze options so that in my battle with all these alarms and snoozes, a part of my brain will wake up and contemplate but realize how I have to go to work because there’s no time to find a lie.

Alert playlist: Music makes the world go round! Or was it love? Potato, Pohtahto… Oh, well!

With about 25 beautiful, upbeat, happy feeling songs, I start getting ready for the day, and it plays up until I’m ready to head out. I always shuffle and change mine every other month, so it doesn’t become boring. At first, I’m all grumpy, but after the first two songs, I start to sing along and I’m already in my ‘take on the world’ mode. I love ‘Beautiful Day by Micheal Buble’, it always gets me in the right feels.

Water and Exercise: Disclaimer- This bit is not as a weight loss therapy, but as a sleep loss therapy.

In addition to the helping you stay hydrated, water helps get you alert, and exercises too, they don’t have to be the kind that will need you to turn your room into a gym; aerobics, breathing exercises and whatever you can squeeze into 10 minutes is just fine.

Power naps: There are some days; even after my routine, sleep comes to me like… ‘Who do you think you are?’

Naps are generally supposed to be short, but this has more to do with the mind. I usually give myself a pep talk about how I have so much work so I can’t sleep, but how I won’t function properly anyway without some sleep. Once my brain gets it, I set an alarm of about 30 minutes or less, and blast off! I usually wake up, ready and alert!

Repeat: Some people think it takes 21 days to form a habit, and some think 66.

Well, I do know that you should continue, till whenever you think adulting and sleep now have a mutual understanding.

Oh, and in all of this, don’t forget to get as much sleep as you can over the weekend or whenever you can. It’s all in the terms and conditions of the relationship.

Do you have your own sleep-adulting hacks?

Do well to share in the comment section.