Two years ago, I dug myself into a happy cave. After publishing every other week for a year, I needed new vibrations. I felt the need to write pieces with poetic bass and sonic appeal. I wanted pieces I could perform on stage. That cave birthed: seduced in condesa and a brunch to cry for (which drew a lot of you here!), and ultimately led to buttahbasted, my book, and my events!

Fast forward to today—2026 feels insane. Wars are waged upon us helter-skelter. Wars on our wallets ($8 coffee ??). Wars on truth. Wars on our attention and intellect. Wars on what it means to be human in the impending age of AI. Wars killing innocent people in the Middle East. Wars on American streets where masked men kill citizens in broad daylight.

Against the backdrop of these hostilities, I’ve been writing about food and spices. Food and spices bring us back to our better selves. Everyone eats. Everyone has nostalgic meals from yesterday. Everyone wants to feast tomorrow. Deliciousness cuts across every creed, every tribe, every religion, and every manufactured line we use to divide ourselves.

Food is resistance! Food is all about people coming together. I cannot promise cooking will right the world of its ills, but sharing your dinner table with friends lets sunlight into the darkness. We need to break bread, for us and for each other. When the world is spinning out of whack, our need for creativity grows. It’s how we create micro moments of joy. Most of us adults no longer sing or dance or draw or paint—our kitchens are our last remaining bastions of creativity.

Everyday I walk past my pantry, I see these little spice jars, and think nothing of them. These brown, ground-up pellets look pretty and petite, but hidden in those jars are CENTURIES of historic tales. Epic sagas that make Game of Thrones sound tame. Centuries of stealing and smuggling, brutal beheadings and murders, but also indigenous ingenuity, locals adapting to new locales, dumb luck, (mis-)fortune, and foreign seeds acclimatizing to sweeter soils.

Food and spices are infinite wells. I could keep digging in them and forever find more to talk about. Listen to the vocabulary we use when we speak about food. What does “authentic” mean? Whose food is familiar and what is strange? How did “gamey” become a pejorative? How did Black Pepper became the default companion to salt? What textures do we deem acceptable and what is outside the frame? Why must meat melt in your mouth like butter? Meat with chew is good for you. It’s often more delicious; hundreds of cultures around the world know this.

I’m calling this collection, Sweet Chamomile in the Hour of War. In the pages to follow, I will stir up, I will lift up, & I will sing songs about food and spices. Expect foods outside the Western gaze, hot takes, perspectives on culinary traditions you’ve probably questioned, a little history, and a lot of delicious. The same way chamomile calms me down when my head is spinning about, I hope these pieces take you away from the madness du jour—and make you a little hungry too!

My dream is for this to become a beautiful, hardcover project set in landscape accompanied with full-bleed pictures (12x9 inches). But I’m getting wayyyy ahead of myself. First, I wanna know what you think. Pls tell me!!

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Here are a few teasers of what’s coming. Tell me in the comments what you think!

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As always, thank you for reading ❤️.

When the song rips through speakers, it broods, it stings, it spreads its eerie clouds over the airwaves. She doesn’t know if the door is fully closed, but if it’s ajar and love’s not too far, she will be there. Her love won’t end for wont of trying.

When she sings:

“I will go down with this ship
And I won’t put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag about my door
I’m in love and always will be”

We feel the intensity of her defiance. We remember when we too felt the sting of warm love falling away from our fingertips. We are transported to our teenage selves feeling heart-shaking, nervous-wrecking, adolescent infatuations.

That’s a ballad doing what it’s supposed to do: ripping us out of our comfy seats, softening our hearts, and giving work to idle tear ducts. As we place our ourselves in the shoes of the songwriter, we find words to describe our own melancholy or joy or rich triumph.

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Now, what if you found out your favorite ballad wasn’t written by a person? What if “Someone You Loved” by Lewis Capaldi were written by ChatGPT? How would you feel? Would it change your appreciation of the song?

Or is it all about how it sounds? A banger is a banger regardless of who, or what wrote it?

Ballads rely on emotional intensity and vocals, so let’s imagine another kind of song. What if it’s something more vibey? A song on your summer playlist that instantly makes you smile. Suppose you discover that while the vocals are human, most of the production (writing, instrumentals, sound engineering, mixing, etc) is AI-generated. How would you feel listening to it?

Imagine it’s your last night on vacation in Mexico City. You’re drinking mezcalitas with your friends at a bar with orange lights and rust-brown outdoor seating. The DJ plays this song that rips a roar from the crowd. The ground begins to swell as people lend their bodies to the dance floor. You haven’t felt this need to boogie since the first time you heard Jungle. You rise to dance, and your friend rushes after you, but before the song is lost forever, she Shazams it. “JAKE BANKS”, she clicks on this Spotify profile wondering what else he’s dropped only to find an “AI vocalist” banner. Would she feel bummed out?

II.

I READ WITH HORROR the news that an AI-generated song topped the Billboard Country US charts last month. My horror morphed into embarrassment when I found myself bopping my head to “Livin’ on Borrowed Time“, a song by Breaking Rust, an “AI band”. I later found out the song has been streamed more than eight million times, and I’m responsible for two of them. I’m not a country buff, but to my untrained ear, the song sounded good.

I have so many questions. Who is making this stuff? Why invite AI into the music room? How is AI used in music production? Does it work like AutoTune or synth beats, extending the capabilities of musicians? Or is it a plastic (and potentially illegal) attempt at mimicry? My intuition tells me this is Soylent trying to replace whole foods, should I trust it?

Who is better off because AI music exists? I doubt it’s listeners. Music is not scarce; there is far more good music available today than I will ever have time to listen to, and finding a new artist is a rare joy in life. Part of the fun is digging into their discography and hearing how their sounds and influences change over time. If the artist isn’t human, then is there a story? It’s just statistics and cardboard.

Many of the pivotal moments of my life are punctuated with lyrics from songs I have on repeat. “What’s the point of flying first class on a crashing plane?”, echoed in my brain for months before I went on sabbatical. When I surrendered and accepted that I was a writer, and started working with the inimitable two years ago, “It’s gonna take a little work….now that you’re here, work!” by Charlotte Day Wilson kept my head above water. When I got mild Substack fame here last year, Cleo Sol’s lyrics featured prominently in the story.

If I found out any of those were written by a machine, I would feel let down. And I know I’m not the only one who feels this. My heart tells me AI music is unethical, but then I heard a song on Suno that I liked. I did not want to like it, but I did. Realizing this felt bizarre—it was like eating the smashburger from Lovely’s and trying to convince my brain it wasn’t tasty.

If that song played on my Spotify shuffle, I would have no clue it was made with AI. Might AI music become one of those things we publicly say we don’t like, but we actually don’t mind consuming, like fast fashion or plastic water bottles that are very unpopular in social settings, but if convenient enough, we consume when nobody’s watching.

But music works differently than utilitarian goods. The bigger question is:

Why invite AI into music at all? Can’t we have any sacred rooms in this house where we cherish human creativity for what it is?

Making music today already seems accessible. There’s tons of YouTube tutorials for every instrument. Public libraries in the US host free guitar and bass sessions, and offer software and books for people of all levels to learn music skills. Online music schools like ArtistWorks let you learn from world-class musicians.

AI is supposed to kill the mundane stuff from our lives: read our leases and contracts, and find convenient times for our meetings—so we can spend our time making music, cooking full-day braised beef, and sending physical postcards to our people.

It should not steal good things from us. In creative work, the process is as important as the artifact. Making music, or writing, or mastering photography is often challenging, but creative struggle and mastery are good for us, and we should encourage more, not less of them. I haven’t tried the Suno platform myself, and I don’t know how much creative wiggle room it gives to creators, but I’m wary of the CEO’s comments that “people find making music unenjoyable because of the effort required.” My impression is that musicians find meaning in the practice itself, and they want the satisfaction of developing skill over time. And it’s ok if everyone isn’t a musician.

Writing this essay wasn’t easy. I wrote forty or fifty rambling openers for this piece, each time inching closer and pulling farther away from the message I wanted to convey. I could’ve asked Claude to spit out an acceptable opening. But if I did, I would have missed the moment when everything clicked in my head, when I finally figured out what I was trying to say and how to say it. That’s something I deeply treasure. I imagine making music works in a similar way.

What then should we do?

Prioritize human music. There’s an entire universe of incredibly talented musicians out there, in your city, hanging in your Spotify app, maybe even in the jazz bar a few blocks from your bus stop, waiting to be discovered.

I do think AI music will eventually get so good it permeates through social media, through our favorite cafes, bars, and restaurants. But some people will reject it. IHeartRadio just banned AI music and synthetic DJ’s from their station as part of their “Guaranteed Human” promise. I’m not against AI music existing. I just think there should be reasonable disclosure, and fair payment to musicians whose work was allegedly used to train those models.

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Independent musicians already struggle to make real streaming revenue competing with other humans, and AI Vocalists and their farms of listening bots are unlikely to sway things back in their favor. There are real lawsuits and legal disputes being hashed out in the courts around copyrights, fair use, and licensing deals. Things are going to get a little weird until things get sorted.

Music means many things to people. It’s your heartbreak anthem when you need to feel all the feels. It keeps your heart pumping at 140bpm during your workout. It transports you away from the guy elbow jabbing you on the bus during your commute. Listening to the playlist your boyfriend made you can reconnect you even over thousands of miles of distance.

AI Music might walk like a duck, quack like one, even waddle in webbed feet, and that might suffice or even exceed our expectations in many cases. But if you want that soul-deep, butter-rich, human connection, and want to appreciate decades of craft, I think you want the real deal. I think you want the one you can see on tour.

This is my last AI post for the year. I’m working on something much more exciting coming soon. It’s more similar to kind of writing I did last year, and I am excited for you all to read it :)

Between 2021 and 2023, a semi-religious war brewed between proponents of artificial intelligence. The debate centered around one question: “How quickly should we develop and deploy AI?”

On the dirt-stricken streets of SOMA and in the many overpriced coffee shops in Russian Hill, engineers debated these questions with gusto. Lots of these concerns were theoretical and existential: Could bad actors use AI to create and deploy bioweapons? How will humans find meaning when we don’t need to work anymore? Will AI usher in less or more inequality?

Forward progress was taken as a given. The genie was already out of the bottle, and if we didn’t accelerate, China would get there first, and that was deemed an unimaginable national security risk. At the peak of AI culture wars, if you raised concerns about its pace of development, you were branded a “doomer” or “decel”1 in bright red paint and ridiculed for such opinions.

The AI field has since matured. 800 million people use ChatGPT every week2. It’s no longer theoretical. Anthropic and OpenAI have released data showing how people use LLMs and we have learnt some interesting patterns. Chatbots have evolved from from Q&A machines into trusted confidantes for many people. We increasingly share sensitive subjects with them exploring our relationships, work, and mental health3. It’s no longer absurd hearing your friend say “So I was talking to Claude the other day…”

But what is Claude? What is ChatGPT? What are these systems really supposed to be? Are they coaches or coworkers? Therapists or tutors? Broad assistants empowering us everywhere? With each new capability and model release, the limits extend, and we find new ways to use them for better and for worse.

Many AI tools are genuinely transformational: Claude Code and Cursor are incredible force multipliers for software engineers. NotebookLM is a study tool on steroids. Gamma creates stunning presentations in minutes. Learn Your Way transforms static, one-size-fits-all textbooks into personalized learning experiences so if you’re a soccer-mad student learning high-school physics, the tool teaches you Newton’s laws using soccer illustrations.4

Thousands of AI companies now exist and the breath of ambition is vast: from accelerating scientific discovery to replacing human friends. We’re giving computers a sense of smell. We’re building household robots that live amongst us, fold our laundry and wash our dishes. AI has even crossed the final chasm of death: 2wai.ai uses AI to create lifelike replicas of our dead relatives so we can “talk to them”. (A terrible idea that deservedly received a lot of criticism online).

Enormous philosophical values are embedded in the decisions of what AI products to build and how to deploy them. You don’t stumble onto a humanoid robot by mistake. For better and for worse, all products are living, breathing manifestations of design values and proclamations of the futures we want to live in.

But with billions of dollars in compute sloshing around, AI startups have felt the urge to move fast. They have predictably made a number of huge mistakes. We have first-hand reports of AI psychosis, a growing spectrum of symptoms where people become paranoid and delusional after extended chatbot use. Not one, or two, but seven (!) lawsuits allege ChatGPT drove and even “coached” up to five people to commit suicide. Emotional dependance on these tools has become a worrying trend with AI girlfriends and boyfriends becoming reality. When OpenAI changed the behavior of its GPT-4o model overnight, there were public displays of grief with users lamenting “It felt like my friend was lobotomized overnight“.

Society and AI are now entrenched in a tug of war, each side negotiating better terms to deal with this Cambrian explosion of new products. Videos used to be proof something happened in real life. But not anymore. Social media is now flooded with AI-generated content and bots run amok on Twitter. Cryptographic watermarks5 detect if images or videos are AI-generated or not, but they’re not widely deployed yet.

There used to be a tacit understanding online, that when you sent a message or a DM, you were talking to a person. This is no longer the case. And if Doublespeed gets its wishes, things will devolve further soon. Last month, they announced their product—a spam generator on steroids—that makes it cheap and easy for clients to flood social media with content from thousands of bots. Their founder’s claim “We’re not breaking the internet, it was already broken to begin with”, is as disappointing as it is predictable.

Is this the world we want? Just because a market for something exists, should we make it? How do we, as citizens, steer AI to work for us?

We need to articulate our ideal visions of the future. I’ve worked in AI: doing everything from technical storytelling, building multi-agent AI tools, and representing companies at conferences. I’ve spoken to hundreds of AI engineers and builders and I’ve learned there are wildly different dreams of the future.

AI is not a single technology. It’s a spectrum of hundreds of technologies and applications that span the gamut of our lives. Its builders want it everywhere, touching everything human: how we work, how we think, how we entertain ourselves, how we create. With such a wide surface area, we can’t afford the current asymmetry between those who build AI and those who use it.

We need Humanist AI

I believe in humanist AI6. By that, I mean AI that helps us lead healthier, happier, more creative lives. Such AI systems should exist solely to augment our capabilities in selected domains, while always staying subservient to us. I consider this view “common sense” but have learnt it is not universal, and hence needs stating.

I believe technology, including AI, can do tremendous good for us. But we don’t need AI everywhere. We need analog spaces. We need sacred human offline, connection. We need boredom. I believe in careful application of AI in areas where there is true need and potential, not us carrying a bunch of hammers looking for nails.

In practice, Humanist AI should have such traits:

Transparency

When I’m talking to an AI agent or bot, I should know I’m talking to AI. When I’m consuming content created by AI, that should be made clear. I am bearish on synthetic AI art (e.g. music, poetry, movies, etc) but given they already exist, they should be labeled as such, so people can choose if they want to opt in or opt out. I expect “AI-free” and “100% human” to become very strong marketing plays in the future.

AI should make us more creative, not less

Canva lowered the barriers to visual design and now more people can make posters, graphics, and videos without learning Photoshop. This is a good thing.

AI that writes essays for you is different. Writing is thinking. It’s a dangerous abdication to surrender your writing ability to AI. We should not outsource our thinking to machines. Instead, AI writing products should help people find their voice and become better writers.

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Anthropomorphism is not necessary

We should be cautious about making machines look, move, and sound like us. It can create false intimacy and emotional dependence with computers. We don’t fully know how LLMs work, but we use words like “reasoning” and “thinking” to describe their actions. When you combine human-looking robots with human-sounding language, you amplify the risk of emotional dependence.

AI must never make life-or-death decisions

AI in all its forms: embodied, virtual, hardware, humanoid, software, must never make autonomous decisions that end human life anywhere, from battlefields to end-of-life care at hospitals. AI can inform those decisions, but ultimately the decision holder must be a human who holds accountability.

AI should help us connect with each other more

We live in societies reeling from record levels of loneliness and isolation. If AI is to intervene in this space, it should give us more reasons to connect with each other in real-life, not fewer! I’m deeply skeptical of “AI friends” given we already choose screens over faces. I host phone-free events for this reason.

Maybe there are future therapeutic opportunities for AI companions, but this requires real research with randomized trials and careful deployment. I don’t expect or recommend it mainstream for us to befriend computers.

AI should serve our best selves

AI should help us live our aspirational lives. Instead of “cheating on everything” or “spamming the internet”, what if AI helped the chronically online to touch grass? Where’s the AI that makes me scroll less? Can we use AI to redesign the incentives of social media from rage baiting to genuine and even, compassionate conversations? Can AI help us return to a common sense of shared reality instead of us living in fractured reality bubbles? These are design problems and if AI is truly intelligent, these kinds of problems should be solvable, right?

AI stays subservient to humans

If you spend enough time in the AI space in SF, you’ll meet a few “Posthumanists” for whom the long-term survival and thriving of humans is not of paramount importance. They’re open to new kinds of beings: human-machine cyborgs and new “intelligent species”. If this sounds bonkers or otherworldly, you’re not alone. We should summarily reject this perspective. AI must stay subservient to humans. It beggars belief we have to say this out loud.

These are AI principles I believe in. Yours might differ and that’s the point. We need more voices articulating what we want from AI, not just accepting what we are given. And on the other hand, we technologists need to describe futures people actually want to live in. If your goal is to “automate everything”, it is incumbent upon you to explain why that is a good thing and for whom.

What do you want from AI? Please tell me in the comments. I’m especially interested in hearing from people who live outside the Bay Area :)

Weaving through the Presidio on the 43 bus, I can’t unsee it. Golden hour has sprung and the sun’s setting, spraying stripes of reds and purples on our overhead canvas. The trees are humming in unison. The birds are chirping along. We’re slaloming through the most beautiful part of San Francisco. And nobody’s looking outside. Not even me.

Our necks are hunched forty-three degrees downwards, eyes gripped on screens. Beside me, a guy in cargo pants swipes through his daily bread of YouTube Shorts. He half-gazes through the latest lemony-garlicky-miso-gochujang one-pan pasta from the New York Times. Reduce the sauce until it coats…aand he swipes up before the final reveal. Thirty seconds is too much to spare in this economy.

His next treat: a travel influencer shows him a destination bedazzled with pristine blue waters, bronze-kissed skin, and glistening beach sand. Her video has twenty-two million views but she swears this is Europe’s best-kept secret. Speaking in the signature social media tone and cadence that makes it seem like you’re listening to a friend, she’s selling him “Croatia” on an “Albania” budget. He watches every last second.

All this time, nature is painting her masterpiece outside. And we’re not looking. Because everything we could ever want is sitting in our palms. I am the same as CargoPantsMan. We all have our signature poisons. I’m a sucker for this guy who cooks staples from countries that no longer exist. I love videos of men and women starting fires outside, roasting whole pigs outdoors, and eating with their families.

I love seeing people pluck herbs from their home gardens, pickling vegetables I can’t recognize, vegan-this-vegan-that, and eating tons of tinned fish. Every week, I might as well write a check to YouTube for the hours I’m gonna donate to them. But like you, I feel the effects of short-form invading all the spaces of my life.

Sitting outside on a wooden bench at a warmly lit wine bar in North Beach decorated with all my friends, we’re people watching, we’re gazing and giggling away. Laughter is overflowing. Chilled ice buckets drip slow as they lubricate the evening. When one wine bottle runs empty, another is swiftly recruited. A king’s platter of accompanying cheeses and figgedy figs amouse our bouches. We’re dancing, we’re slapping shoulders, we’re watching the sun set. Enveloped in this warm, wonderful moment, I couldn’t ask for more. So why, please tell me why, do in this moment, feel a physical nudge in my body, telling me to open YouTube?

Who programmed me this way? What could I possibly be searching for? If there’s no answer, then why do I do it?

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I’ve been frustrated with my phone usage for years. This year, I started fighting back with phone-free walks and grocery runs. Navigating the frozen goods aisle of Trader Joes without Scott Galloway ranting in my headphones has been tough but I’m surviving. My phone has lived on grayscale and DND for nearly two months, and aside from when someone sends me a meme or picture, it’s been great. But memes are never urgent and when I eventually see them in color, they’re still funny. And when I’m really feeling adventurous, I just leave my phone at home, especially on Saturday mornings and afternoons when I’m hanging with friends for hours.

I wish we had more explicitly phone-free spaces: restaurants, cafes, and bars. Places where people can connect face-to-face without screens getting in the way. Spaces where we can exist and be enough without needing to document or memorialize beautiful experiences. Two weeks ago, I made this dream come true:

I threw an analog, phone-free event in SF for 35 people
in a photography studio in the Mission fitted out with six interactive stations and copious amounts of wine.

Guests were encouraged (bribed?) to deposit their phones into little velvet pouches1, and to thank them for complying, I gifted small sachets of East Mediterranean spice from OakTown Spice Shop2. I designed the stations to elicit conversation between people. The first station was the “caption station”, I printed out six funny A3-sized pictures of my friends. Guests were asked to write funny captions. The funniest four went on to win self-care prizes: a matcha set, artisanal honey, a purple soap collection.

I designed a postcard station fitted with beautiful vintage postcards like this:

and guests were invited to hand-write messages to people they missed: a friend, a family member, a crush, or an old teacher! And I provided stamps so they could actually send them! No excuses! None of that internet stuff where you passively watch someone’s IG stories for years and never say a thing. Grab a pen, let your hand touch paper, craft your message, cross your t’s, elongate your l’s, and write some real words to somebody!

The “instant film” station invited guests to capture a fleeting, imperfect moment from the evening. No retakes. No redos. Just a moment in time.

I performed readings of my spoken word from unreleased pieces I’ve been working on all year. “The meals that stay home when immigrants depart” opens with me scrolling Doordash on my living room rug wondering why some delicious, ethnic meals fail to cross the Pacific. In “don’t you dare touch my nutmeg”, I experiment with a musical style of writing to celebrate a few scenes from the history of nutmeg, a seed with an explosive history and more thrills and suspense than Game of Thrones.

“Authentic is a fictional point on a curve” reads like an essay, but it’s really a song. It travels around the world and in time, asking what we mean by
”authentic” food”? Is it about ingredients or technique or posture with which we eat?

Our dream station asked people to think of something they’ve always wanted to do and share with a stranger:

I curated vintage magazine poster cut-outs from Etsy and created a collage pairing them with printed excerpts of my poetry and snippets from other artists I admire. We hoisted up a huge canvas for everyone to paint on it—in many ways the canvas served as a living metaphor for the event itself as it emerged over time.

Because it’s San Francisco, I had a “ponder station” for people who wanted to chat a little deeper. I printed out this famous DFW quote:

Because the technology is just gonna get better and better and better and better. And it’s gonna get easier and easier, and more and more convenient, and more and more pleasurable, to be alone with images on a screen, given to us by people who do not love us but want our money. Which is all right. In low doses, right? but if that’s the basic main staple of your diet, you’re gonna die. In a meaningful way, you’re going to die.

David Foster Wallace (1996)

and asked people to discuss what it means given the state of the world today and how AI might affect this trajectory? Given attention spans are already in the gutter, and we lose too many hours to hyper-personalized videos, do we like where we’re heading? Is that utopia or do we dream of something different? And in that place, how do people gather, and how do they spend their time?

My thesis remains that all the present and upcoming AI, all the chatbots, all the overbearing phones will push us to yearn for the analog. We will see more offline experiences, more digital detoxes, and more expressions of authentic connection without screens.

To that end, I’m planning more events—one likely in NYC in February, and more in SF next year. I’ll keep you all posted.

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But I wasn’t ready for the Lagos airport experience. None of my trusty armor would work here. My TSA PreCheck? Here, that’s a porous shield riddled with holes. My American passport? I better hide that for my own good. It’s only gonna double my billing. When airport officials hold my passport hostage and beg me for money—would I rather be charged in dollars or naira?

My shoulders crouched back preparing to duck jabs from Mister Bureaucracy. Trying to ward off bad thoughts, I let my mind wander to the pleasant parts. I dreamed of sinking my face into bowls of egusi and falling into sweet itis. Egusi has no equal—it sits in that liminal space between soup, sauce, and curry with a nutty, rich, and aromatic demeanor. Is it dry? Is it loose? How do melon seeds shape-shift from flat, white ovals into this four-dimensional experience? 

You can tell a tongue that knows egusi. On the surface, you see little love notes inscribed on the papillae—saying "Call me soon" like a Nigerian parent dropping their eleven-year-old kid at boarding school. Stained yellow with the promise of a warm reunion. 

As we descended, I dreamed of verandah hour—between six and seven pm—when the sea breeze from the marina washes over and apologizes for the humid assault from the afternoon. Cool air swims in, singing sober sorries, asking us to nap. Nature's lullaby knows best—so weaves go off, durags rise up, eyes shut, and feet kick up to recharge.

The second the pilot screeched on the tarmac thumping us home, my dream was smashed. Until then, I lived in fantasy land, praying for a pitstop to refuel my tank. Touchdown shook me up. The dream became real—I was there, body to body, man on ground, reunited with my mother soil. 

Once the seatbelt sign was turned off, I rushed for the changing room: placing American Tobi on the subs bench, neatly folded in a bow, and unwrapped the Lagos boy within. You could tell he was a little rusty. You know when your uncle is smiling for a picture and doesn’t know where to place their hands? Should they hang in his pocket or lie loose to the side? This indecisive posture will cost you in Lagos. It reeks of rust, and rust means you're gonna pay double for everything. I had to shake the dust off.  

Everything in Lagos takes twice as long as it should. So I expected to wait hours to leave the airport. But to my surprise, I breezed through immigration in less than five minutes. Huh? Was this the new Lagos? Had I been gone that long?

On my way to baggage claim, I swatted away several men offering me trolleys. They seemed to crawl out of the walls. "I'm OK, thank you", I politely declined. But my responses set off alarm bells to trolley-men everywhere: “Fresh meat available on the arrival aisle!” Rusty Tobias forgot most locals ignore such requests. Men climbed out of craters offering services—anonymous chaperoning, help carrying suitcases, and paperclips for swapping SIM cards. By the time the fifth guy got in my face, I re-downloaded my Lagos manual, adopting a stern scorn, and walked through the heart of them like I couldn't hear. (It worked. Of course, it did.)

I grabbed my bags and headed for the exit. But my memory failed me here. I forgot the airport had been renovated since my last trip so my legs led me astray. I stood in a single spot thirty feet beyond baggage claim looking for the way out. Rookie mistake—I looked like a lost duck. A Customs officer saw me and waved me in her direction. "Oh no, I'm screwed", I thought to myself. She held serious eye contact scrutinizing me as I walked over. Her posture told me everything I needed to know. 

If you've lived in a place that doesn't work—you know the moment before a uniformed official harasses you for money. It's a standard dance in airports. They lead with a performative intro—like asking for an official document—often the one reviewed at the previous checkpoint. Passport in hand, they start to “whine you”:

"Fine boy, what did you bring home for aunty's Christmas?" in a jovial, upbeat tone.

"I'm a student, I don't have anything", I lied. 

"Ah ah! Students can still invest in us too!"

I laughed and looked away. She continued her sales pitch:

“You look too good to be a student. What are you using for your skin?”

Even though I was annoyed by this inconvenience, I was struck by how rhythmic this call-and-response dance was. Everyone in Lagos has what we call “sweet mouth”. Something about jostling on a piece of land sinking under the weight of awful governance and twenty million tenacious people—teaches you to advocate for your cause. Sales is written into our vernacular. Compliments come first. If that fails to fatten you up, then humor breaks the seal. Or they revert to prayer “Bless me so God blesses you double” or slight guilt “Give me something small so my children can grow big and strong like you.“

I don't condone officials asking for money, it's illegal and degrades the experience for everyone. But growing up in Lagos, I was very aware of money gaps. How could I not be? Picture me, fourteen years old being driven home in an air-conditioned SUV from soccer practice, when a bald boy my age stops our car in traffic, begging me to buy the sachets of water he's hawking on the street. "Please sir, buy something from me!" You see the pain in his eyes, the sweat dripping from his head, he’s been hustling all day and has very few prospects. . Meanwhile, I have the luxury of leisure because of money I didn't earn?

Wages in Lagos are a joke. Half the population is aged 18-40. People are desperate. Enterprising young people scramble to provide services to fix the enormous gaps and earn money—so on one hand, I understand the trolley-men offering me services—they're trying to make a living in a place that gives them few options. But they're also annoying me. 

When someone is “billing” you, there's a tactful approach to navigate the experience. If you reject the experience too aggressively or stage a "moral" fight based on “rights” or “justice”, you might aggravate the wound. Remember, this person holds your passport. The last thing you want to do is insult someone who has the time to make your stay unpleasant. You haven't seen petty until you annoy someone with a small station determined to drag you through the mud. 

You want to endure the initial approach, laugh it off, banter back if you’re feeling it, then decline. It's a social tax, but it guarantees you safe passage. After two minutes of awkwardness, the Customs woman let me go. I bought a bottle of water from a small shop because it was scorching hot. After handing me my water, the vendor asked me to "give him something to feed his family", and I gave him 1000 naira—less than a dollar—but enough to buy him eggs. I'm very happy tipping honest business people but airport scourge? Not in a million lifetimes. 

I got to the arrival aisle and called my brother's wife. They arrived from New Jersey a few hours ahead of me and were coming to pick me up with our family driver. I noticed the new arrivals area has zero seats and has a wide aperture for the full gamut of service-people to roam free—policeman with huge AKs, taxi men, SIM card guys, internet fellas, women in printed shirts raising money for motherless babies' foundations, miscellaneous helper men walking about looking busy but it’s never clear what they're doing. 

Standing in the shaded area of arrivals, a man came up to me: 

"Big boss, I can hook you up with anything you need.. Phone, internet, data—or if you want, I can dance for you?"

That last bit floored me and I burst out laughing. 

"I can do anyone you like. Michael Jackson, Chris Brown, just tell me—"

I'm laughing at the incredulity of it all. In America, airport exits are mundane experiences. You slip through grey, dull doors, pick up your bags, and slink them into a nameless Uber driver’s car. From the moment you touch down till you reach your house, you barely speak. Once you cram the last three digits of your car’s license plate, there are no memorable details. You shove your bags into the blue Prius and sink into your phone.

Nobody offers to dance for you in America. Then again, nowhere is like Lagos. For better and for worse.

Bay Area People! I'm throwing another experiential literature event at WAVE Collective. If you enjoy my writing, you'll love this one - we're bringing stories to life through all five senses. Think exclusive readings, interactive stations, and ancient spice tales that'll make your taste buds dance.

Highlights:

• Sample spices that sparked wars in the 1500s

• Match metaphors to mystery scents

• Create collective art with fellow readers

• Get first dibs on unreleased work

Reserve your spot here. Spots are limited and they tend to go quick. Previous guests called it "spiritually nourishing" and "pure magic." Hope to see you there!

Some foods are born half-cooked begging to be eaten, but others require delusional levels of faith. Look inside your fridge—how did we discover these culinary treasures?

Berries and mangoes make sense. We see them blushing bright red and green in nature, wearing thin skin our teeth can penetrate. They look sweet and nutritious. The user experience is obvious too. Berry vines look like chopsticks preloaded with dumplings—you see them and understand the assignment.

Plump mangoes fall from the sky—telling dummies lunch is ready—this happened to me a week ago. While eating grilled guinea fowl outside a live music lounge in Lagos, a chunky mango plopped onto my thigh from above, as if to say "Here buddy, you're running low on Vitamin A, you need this more than me!"

Coconuts hide in stubborn shells enforcing their "hard to get" personality. It's not immediately clear they're delicious. Hairy, round, and fatal if one falls on your head—this trifecta doesn't scream "eat me". But they're so common in the tropics, humans were always gonna pry inside. 

But oysters? They are silly looking rocks hiding slimy pieces of snot. Don't they look dangerous? We shuck them open, and zap zap, they shock us in return. Yet many swear fresh, raw oysters make life worth living. They crave that "pure essence of the ocean" taste. Every year, we lose thousands to infected oysters, but zealots argue it’s worth the risk. 

How do we find our own treasures? Whether it's the culinary ones outside or our creative ones within? You know those creative projects that ooze life and sustain us? The ones that give meaning and necessary escapes to both artist and audience. 

If we find strange rocks on our wandering path, how do we know if there are oysters inside? How do we adjust our sails to find our treasures?

We shuck our shells and follow the funk. Shucking is how we shed our skins from the accumulated nonsense we absorb—hours of doomscrolling, endless "opinions", waves of worry, tsunamis of self-doubt. It's ridding ourselves of unhelpful exoskeleton lingering past its use-by-date. Sweeping away labels no longer applicable, and peeling dead skin so new tissue can emerge. 

And where do we go? We chase the funk. Imagine you're the first person to ever open an oyster. You crack it open and see this soft, wet, squiggly, vulnerable mess inside rocky exterior. It looks odd and it won’t sit still—much like a novel creative idea. But something tells you this is treasure. Maybe you've seen wild animals gorge on them. Or your curiosity won't let you walk away. You see the silhouette of a baby seed in rich soil—huge potential but poor visual fidelity. 

You've never done anything like this before. You can't articulate why you're attracted to this funk. What's tempting you to taste it? Tough to say. Intuition travels far faster than the electrical signals your brain depends on. But the funk prods you closer and closer to your groove where your fire burns unrestrained. Your groove is where time stops and you’re dancing through space, free-styling without worrying what moves comes next, you just know you’ll make it look smooth and sweet.

This process—shucking old shells and following the funk—is how creativity has unfolded in my life. When I listen, this dance exposes new surface area to explore. If you told me at the start of 2024, I'd have published a book, designed and hosted a 75-person experiential event, performed spoken word, created a magazine, and taught an online course….I'd have laughed at you. I had no plans to do any of these! They were all firsts! 

Buttabasted started from a fuzzy observation—I want to write sensory, lyrical pieces with repeat value vs rush to write disposable weekly newsletters. My event was a bet along two axes—people want novel IRL experiences–I didn't want to sit on stage talking about my book—I wanted guests to live inside it! Both paid off better than I could've imagined. The course came from my beautiful friendship with , while chatting on the phone, we realized people always ask us for sabbatical advice.

But for each of those projects, the initial seedling was vulnerable and uncertain. These projects—writing a book, hosting an experiential event, teaching a course—each one hosts its own universe of mini adventures and side quests and admin nonsense that needs doing. And it’s so easy for ideas to die before they see the sun. That's where the muscle of self-trust comes in. I couldn't have published the book without making the magazine the year before. Following that funk fueled me with the delusion that I could figure out all the steps to publish a book even though I’d never done it before.

This very essay you're reading is a microcosm of following the funk. 500 miles off the West coast of Africa, while flying back to San Francisco, I felt "shuck the shell" arrive in my mind. I can't explain where it came from. I definitely wasn't eating oysters at 30,000 feet. (Remember the conscious brain is always playing catchup.) I liked how this phrase sounded so I wrote it down in my journal. I wondered: What does it mean? What shell? Why are we shucking? The WiFi connection died before I got an answer.

I scribbled a few paragraphs exploring different meanings of that phrase. Getting rid of the "shoulds" in your life and becoming the most authentic you. Code-switching and thriving in multiple cultures. Divorcing your limiting beliefs about who you are and what you can do. But I didn’t love any of these until "follow the funk" nestled in my brain several days later. This felt much more resonant to me. I'd love to tell you how this second phrase entered my mind. But I worry I’d be playing detective forcing clues to tell a plausible story that’s untrue.

As someone who has lived many lives—software engineer, biotech researcher, chocolate factory intern, author, technical consultant, events organizer—I've always struggled with long-term goals and New Years' resolutions. That form factor doesn't jive with my brain. Especially because I know my interests will change over time. I thrive when I'm chasing something resonant—but what do I chase? Signal reveals itself to me when I’m doing things!

Over the past few years, I lost some people who left us too young. Grieving made me reflect on what matters most to me. If I was 60 looking back at my career, what would I be most proud of? Aside from family, my working answer is an evolving body of work—zines, books, documentaries, IRL events—each one taking bigger creative risks and unearthing more possibilities. We truly don’t know what we’re capable of, and I worry labels and titles and fears stop us from finding out.

I’m most energized by following a fuzzy feeling and willing that thing to life. Nurturing my creativity used to be a “cute idea”, now it’s oxygen, life-giving and essential. The three hours of my event last year were the highlight of my year because of how it made people feel, and because it validated my silly little idea seedling. It built a few more millimeters of creative muscle on this lifelong journey.

So as the year starts, I'm committing to shucking more layers of shell, and following the funk. There’s a lot about 2025 I don’t know. But I know this won't betray me. I know it will open doors.

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Two weekends ago, sixty-something friends and strangers closed their eyes while I read three excerpts from buttahbasted, my written album. If a friend had flown in from the future, and told me this is how my November would go, I’d have laughed at them.

What do you mean I hosted an event where I sold 75 (!!!) tickets for an experiential, multi-sensory reading of my book?? One where street strangers shopping upstairs at the vintage store crashed the event, bought the book, asked for signed copies saying “I want to meet the author now before they blow up!”

What do you mean…thirty attendees left sticky note comments on our “Living Response Wall” with comments like “Your words are an escape from the world.”

How does this make you feel?

You’re telling me I delivered three live readings of my work? Slow, full-body readings where we reject the rush-a-mania of modern life, and envelope ourselves with the necessary enunciations. Where we chew each syllable. Whole and intact. Where we invite Vivid Storytelling to pry open the gates of our minds and paint the landscapes portrayed on the page.1

(if you’re reading this, i’d love for you to go back and read the last paragraph again from a slow & sonic perspective. did you try it? what did you hear this time?)

I’m still in shock. The event surpassed my biggest dreams for the evening. I’ve searched through the canals of my life, and I’m yet to find a more fulfilling moment than sitting down on the Sunday after the event, reading each of the handwritten guest notes. I’m framing them for posterity. These are my crown jewels.

Gas is starting to pour on these embers. The owner of the event venue gave me a generous discount because he “wants me to do another one soon.” 😉. A friend introduced me to a chef friend of hers who throws incredible food + wine events, and we’re talking about collaborating. Sensory writing and food are made for each other. Anthony Bourdain is one of my heroes and I’m so excited to pull on this thread.

Dozens have asked for the next event. So I created The Sensory Scene to turn this momentum into a social club. I applied to join BuildIRL’s second cohort for leaders in SF building communities IRL. suggested I turn my “wine & prose” pairings into a “Prosé” series. Imagine fifty people in one intentional space sipping wine, pairing prose, and nibbling on delcious eats. Isn’t that the antidote to our doomscrolling??

You guys here, my first readers, the first people who saw something in my words—all of you—from those who silently read the posts—to those who comment and share—I am immensely grateful to you. Without you, there is no buttahbasted. When I took a break from regular posting in January, I had no concrete plan. I felt a nudge to create something artistic. No deadline, no definition, just a little sway on a compass needle saying “hey you….yes you, pitch your tent fifty-seven degrees north. there’s a treasure there for you.”

I pitched forward in acceptance, but I would’ve run out of gas if not for your encouragement. Your comments in May to “Seduced in Condesa” blew my mind. Thank you💛.

If you’d like to support this burgeoning dream of mine, you can

1. Buy the book on Amazon. For yourself or a friend who loves food, travel, or vivid storytelling.
   

2. Follow The Sensory Scene where I’ll share event updates soon!
   

3. If you’re interested in multi-sensory events, tell me in the comments: what’s fun, what’s not so hot?
   

In the spirit of buttahbasting, the event will be sensory-focused and curated. Once you step into the space, you will be invited to interact with six sensory stations—tickling your senses of smell, taste, sound, and perception. Each station will have a guided card like these:

For one evening only, experience the sensory journey of buttahbasted, my book that celebrates richness from everyday moments. Your evening includes:

• Interactive sensory stations

• Curated wine & prose pairings

• Prizes for sensory sommeliers

• Simmering, ambient music

• (Temporary) reprieve from doomscrolling

• Discounted book bundles for holiday gifting

I would love to have you join me in real life. Buttahbasted wouldn't have made it to the real world if not for you guys. So many of you left the most thoughtful, generous comments along the way. Thank you, thank you, I’m so grateful.

Get your copy

Can't make it to SF this Saturday? Get buttahbasted delivered to your door:

Buy on Amazon

Why get the book if you've read the newsletter?

Buttahbasted is more than its individual stories. This collection offers a complete sensory journey made to be sipped, not skimmed.

In more practical terms, the physical book offers:

• New stuff never published before:

  • Fiction finale: “we are // flowers to the moon”

  • “walking on an unfurling road”

  • specially crafted prologue and epilogues

• Curated story order that creates new meaning

• New edited versions of previous favorites like “I don’t know where home is” and “a brunch to cry for”

The physical book also offers needed dimensionality. It felt ironic writing a digital manifesto “rejecting fast-fast-fast art culture” on a platform that sometimes encourages that. The full potential of buttahbasted is in the slowing down, steeping in, leaning into our senses—things that become easier when we step away from our screens and into the physical world. So we had to graduate to 3D.

Event details

Come taste the words IRL. You can RSVP here.

Where: The Faight Collective (475 Haight St, 94117).

When: 2-5pm (Saturday, Nov 23rd)

Why: You’re gonna have a blast.

Who: Everyone is welcome. Come solo or come with friends. RSVP list currently has 56 people.

Everyone who attends the event will get a book. Much more than that, I’d love to connect with readers and people in real life. So I’d love it if you could attend :)

Paid subscribers: Please reply to this email, I have something special planned for you :).

Thank you all again, and hopefully see you soon IRL. I’ll share pictures and videos here after the event.

Love,
Tobi

I was never curious about this upper limit. But in a blip, Fate fractured my flimsy ankle and fitted me in a medical boot and armpit-crunching crutches that limit my mobility. I live alone, so every day is a series of the same question: "Is THIS worth the hops?"

Morning hops are cheaper than evening hops. I wake without pain and only remember I'm broken, when I lift my left leg and feel the weight of a boot holding me down. But morning means coffee, and trust me, I'd crawl on bended knee for that injection. So I open my wallet and spend-spend-spend. 

Afternoon tends to offer nonsenses that need attending to. The kitchen counter that needs wiping. The silly sink that refuses to drain. The couch stain that needs to be cleaned. I swear, I read about self-cleaning fabrics years ago1, where are you my friend?

BigWater wants you to believe all-day hydration is key. Allegedly, it's good for your skin and your organs and all the cells in your body. But it means more peeing, and for me, that means spending my precious hops on visits to the bathroom.

Each trip costs fifteen or sixteen of my 147, and while these are essential, they annoy me. My face prickles at the thought of a Pee Hop. Can I escape this bear hug? Shall I submit to diapers again? I admit I considered this possibility, but then I'd need to spend extra hops disposing them.

The thought of carrying diapers drenched in my own decomposing urine disgusted me, which at least, reassures me…I'm not a monster…yet.

Night hops are the toughest to spend. As evening falls, my glutes and calves have literally worked their butts off, all day, hopping and holding me in place. Lending me into the air as I leap to the next stair. Keeping me stable in space as I scramble eggs while sitting on my roll-y office chair in the kitchen.

But every night, I make it to my bed, I remind myself that bones heal better than ligaments, and I've written more poetry in this boot than I did on two feet, and that is no coincidence. The Spirit of Art won’t be refused — no, it will not — even though we artists think we have agency.

Blip or no blip, the show must go on.

Pics, since we’re all friends here:

I’m getting good at breaking bones. Three years ago, I shared this snippet with you. Don’t expect another.

But you can expect the finale for Buttahbasted next week! Since May, I’ve dropped tracks from this written album and we’ve made it to the end. Stay tuned:

Come closer, I'll tell you a little secret. Do you have any friends like me— solopreneurs and consultants— mad enough to make their monies online? Want to frighten them? 

Wander into their bedroom and whisper "Tax Deadline Day" into their ears while they're sleeping. Watch them shake and shudder as they picture piles of paperwork floating above their heads like treacherous bogeymen. See them quiver as three-lettered acronyms flash through their minds—LLC, EIN, SSN—each triad swelling in size and scaring the daylight of your friend. You'd get a good giggle.

I know because I've been auditing my finances recently, and I realised I omitted some assets when filing my taxes this year. Scary stuff, yes, but the deed's been done. April is long gone. All I can do now is come clean. Honesty is the best policy, right?

Sigh, I hope this works.

You're supposed to report your income and loss in Schedule C of a 1040. Line 1 asks for Gross Income. That's pretty easy. I counted my coins, the monies minted from technical consulting and the dollars dolled out from selling Untethered (thanks to all of you!) 

But I got stuck on these three lines. 

Line six: “Other income”??

I stared at Line Six. What does "other income" entail? I added receipts from random freelance gigs earlier in the year. But that accounting felt incomplete. How could I file my taxes without listing my biggest asset from the year?

In April, Michelle and I taught our first cohort of How to Thrive on Sabbatical. During our first office hours, one of our students, an experienced manager broke down and cried happy tears. "Thank you guys, because no one ever told me, I could….question this stuff, and write a different path for my life." 

That moment— tender-to-the-touch and deeply personal— was colossal. I heard the chains fall down. I felt all the toiling—the endless spinning in circles, the anxiety sweats, the existential worrying, the tireless pursuit of an unwanted path— come to a stop. Listen, if we delude ourselves that Ethereum has value—so much that I own some—how can be say PROFOUND EMOTIONAL UNLOCKS are worth $0? 

What was I supposed to do? Measure the ounces of her tears? Weigh her sobbing against her salary? Accounting doesn’t account for this kinda stuff, but it’s the stuff that really matters.

TurboTax doesn't have tutorials for this stuff. So I left line six blank.

Line 13: Depreciation

Line 13 stumped me. Depreciation? Excuse you, I'd argue the value of our course and community has appreciated over time. Three months after our class, we hosted a catchup call, and Michelle and I sat there mouths agape listening to the incredible things our graduates were doing. 

Traveling around America to film a Bourdain-esque food series. Starting a research think tank. Dreaming up an IRL Wellness Center. Marrying people at City Hall. Getting ridiculously good at pottery. Taking chocolate-making classes. Making sneer-worthy sourdough bread. Trading, consulting, and returning to well-paying jobs.

Our students were high-agency, highly motivated professionals in tech, consulting and media, five to fifteen years into their careers who felt lost. Whether employed, unemployed, or reluctantly job-hunting, they all shared that moment of realization that yelled “Enough!” If you’ve been there, you know this feeling!

Through the cocktail of luck, that afforded us such a wonderful cohort of open-minded students, and vulnerability (we shared our honest highs and lows, our worries and our wins) about our own sabbatical journeys, we turned the ship around. Michelle and I shared lessons from hosting calls with 100s of people about sabbaticals. We taught them how to rest, not the phony fake rest, but how to really rest, how to wander, discover lost hobbies, and play — without guilt or shoulding one's self into an anxious mess. We showed them how to run and evaluate creative experiments, and how to ultimately land the plane.

Five months later, we've seen our grads meet up with each other in SF and NY. Grads have shared fun little updates in our WhatsApp group. So um, Tax Man, I didn't know how to file this one. Do I put a negative number in the depreciation box? Would that break your software?

Line 38: Materials and Supplies

I filled this box with pride: $0. 

Let me take you behind the scenes of an online course. We spent weeks designing the curriculum creating group exercises, breakout sessions, curating reading lists for students. We over prepared just in case we had eager beavers who wanted more.

But you never really know how much reading to assign students outside class. What's a good balance? Some of our students were working, busy interviewing, or taking care of kids. We assigned one or two readings per class thinking that would suffice. But every class, they asked for MORE homework and MORE readings. That stumped us.

So uh, IRS man, our students took all our supplies. Arrest me if you must, but I have nothing else to declare. 

Jokes aside, the ROI on a sabbatical is life-changing. That’s why Michelle and I are running our course again this September. Over six sessions, we’ll equip you with practical frameworks for rest, money management, and running creative experiments.

We’ll share our personal highs and lows, and reveal how we found our first paying gigs post-tech. We’ll also explore the inevitable money and identity shifts. Our space is designed to be both vulnerable and empowering. We are not gurus, we won’t prescribe paths for you, but we’ll help you explore fulfilling possibilities.

🚀 Want a sneak peek?

Join our FREE, one hour Lightning Lesson next week — Sabbatical Math: Find Your Formula for Time Off. We’ll show you how to
1) Calculate your runway
2) Measure the Life ROI of a sabbatical
3) Handle the skeptics (family/friends who may not understand your decision)

Not sure if a sabbatical is right for you? If you see yourself here, then you might benefit:

1. You're employed but deeply unhappy

2. You're burnt out (again)

3. You want time to work on those passion projects the pandemic stole from you

4. You're unemployed, by choice or season

5. You dislike your job but it pays so damn much

6. You want….sorry, you NEED a break

7. After your latest quarter-or-mid-life crisis, you realised….you're a writer! 

8. You want to explore other models of work (consulting, fractional work, nomadism etc)

9. You're tired of applying for jobs you don't want

10. You realise life is short and unpredictable. You'd rather experiment now you're young and healthy vs "someday in retirement"

Here’s a testimonial from India, one of our graduates from a previous cohort.

Tobi and Michelle’s course really changed my life. After chugging along in the rat race of media for several years without a serious break between jobs, I felt I had lost touch with who I was and what I was meant to do. The course allowed me to think outside the bounds of the corporate world where were told the only way to have a career is to climb the ladder without breaks, pauses and reflection. Through the course I realized what I needed most was a sabbatical and to untether myself from the whims of an industry that doesn’t care about my personal well being.

Because of the course I have allowed myself to experiment, start up hobbies for pleasure (not to monetize), reactivate and recharge my creativity and remember to invest in myself. There is no one way to live life, and through my reflections in the short but mighty course, I found the beauty in thinking outside the default path. Tobi and Michelle did a great job of sharing articles and modalities that help shift my perspective and give me the confidence to take a leap of faith. For me that looks like taking a few weeks to not work and travel before quitting my job and taking a proper 6-12 month sabbatical next year. Highly suggest this course, Michelle and Tobi are really lovely and really care about everyone in their cohort. 

So check out our course and let me know if you have any questions, please!

I wanna thrive on sabbatical

I pictured a broad pot braising meat — slipping out silky strands of tender goodness — but instead of Blessed Brisket, I found a sad slop of stringy stuff staring back at me. What a pity.

Brisket has never really appealed to me. It's nothing personal — I grew up in Nigeria and England, which meant I ate goat, guinea fowl, and goose, before I even knew what that beefy stuff was. When I moved to America, I learned of this mythical cut — juicy, smoky, butter-soft — it sounded delicious. Since then, I've had a few bites of bbq bliss, but I'm yet to taste the famed plates from Texas.

I know San Francisco is hardly the Mecca of Barbecue. But if this Meat Man offered a hint of the divine — enough to "change my religion" — how could I refuse?

Hungry for more stories that blend wordplay and flavor? Check out the whole written album below:

I want more lyrical writing

I arrived expectant on Brisket Judgement Day. The San Francisco sun was purring, flaunting its radiance on accepting faces. Someone with sufficient security clearance restrained Karl the Fog, our lovable cloud cover from attending this party.

With our Foggy Fella forbidden, the sky sported a brilliant curtain of blue. Beaming light revived sulking faces and put a pin on petty fights. You know the rules — you can't argue when it's sunny outside!

Citizens must frolic when the sun visits — it's cemented in city law. So my friends and I squeezed our feet into our running shoes ready to brave the silly streets. That pile of unfolded laundry lying on my couch could survive another day. Those damn taxes? Eeh, I file faster when the pressure's on. Go on, test me. Sunny streets demand dancing feet. We bobbed around from boutique stores to boujee pop ups — trying cheap sunnies and sipping on orange wine. 

We wandered like five headless chickens bouncing around town. What could go wrong? Well, we walked one block too far, and hunger struck our flock. When Austin placed his palms on his hips in that familiar sunken pose, I knew his race was nearly run. The party would end if we didn’t feed him. I had to act quick! Google Maps came clutch with a rousing recommendation that ticked all the boxes: walking distance (check!), outdoor seating (check!) and — wait for it — brisket fries (ding ding ding!)

But I wasn't convinced by the 3.8 rating. 3.8 out of 5 sits in that awkward zone of competence — clearly better than average, but miles from spectacular. Is the kitchen getting 5's for the food and 3's for customer service? Because I could live with that. Or is it the reverse? Pretty food that’s pretty average? Mmm not so good.

Before I try a new restaurant, I like to know where to place my expectations. If my own body was the ruler, where should the marker go? Shoulder height? Down at knee level? Or right at my gut — trusting its infinite wisdom to see through bullshit.

The matter was settled once I read that description of divine brisket. My mind drifted into dreamland as I pictured meat braised in a supernatural stew.

I imagined sinking my face in those silky strands and tasting the gelatinous goodness. Stubborn chains of collagen broken down by the prayer of patience. Hallelujah.

We ordered and I sat waiting for this preacher to convert me to a Brisket Believer. But instead, I met a shoddy impersonator — a false prophet! The meat was tender but laid limp and lifeless. It smelled okay. The taco shell was structurally sound, but is that alone worth jubilation? Sliced radishes and pickled jalapenos were supposed to add texture and acid, but neither popped. The whole production was an orchestra of unprepared singers — each one unable to lift the other up.

And so on a beautiful bright day, in this very America where bravado and reality often collide, I trusted the words of a stranger online in pursuit of life-changing brisket, and was left staring at a pitiful pile of plausible meat. The charlatan won

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🌸 a brunch to cry for

Will the real San Francisco please stand up?

If you read the news, the city is a ruined Rome—a once-great fallen city decaying right before us. Downtown is Ghost Central. You can't buy deodorant at CVS without buzzing a button—begging an attendant to quench your stench. Seasoned San Franciscans master the arc of the mindless hop, leaping over piles of poop and shattered glass everyday.

But if you live far enough from Market St, you know the city's ethereal beauty.

Russian Hill lifts you up high—and dips you down low—treating you to gorgeous views of the Pacific Ocean. The Presidio presses you to pause and smell the wet bark on evergreen trees. Victorian homes serenade with a quaint charm—offering timeless respite from the ridiculous Twitter thread of the day.

One thing is certain, though. For forty-five days every year, this city glistens. Her radiant glow leaves locals in a daze. Petty conflict dissolves, and we wake up convinced that the $20 sandwiches at Atlas Cafe are indeed worth it. How lucky are we—permitted to live in this pristine paradise?

The itchy chill from the Pacific tempers the brash burn from the sun. Parks crowd with puffy jackets, dusty sunnies, and furry fellas on leashes. Wicked winds wind down before they reach the park—on days like this, the bouncers come correct. No, you are not welcome here, you gusty heathen. The weather gods swivel the thermostat up and down, then left and right, until they find a sunny compromise. 

Streets sprawl into walkable havens dotted with rows of outdoor restaurants and watering holes. Hole-in-the-wall Burmese spots border French brasseries border bistros. Cafes convene around patisseries selling sweet treats. Soups from around Asia simmer in chorus—songs of ramen, pho, miso, and tom yum echo in rhythm. Burritos blend beans, rice, and bits of meat into a coherent story. All-you-can-eat Korean barbecue tests your limits as you sip soju and flip bulgogi till your belly hurts. 

I went for brunch with friends on one of these unforgettable Bay Area days. We'd just finished our weekly soccer game in the Mission, a Saturday tradition for the past three years. We usually get coffee at Atlas Cafe afterwards to let the dopamine drip into our bones. But we opted for brunch this day.

Our notorious foodie friend recommended an Asian Fusion spot a few blocks from the pitch. She used the opportunity to hard-launch her boyfriend to us. He hopped off his moped and joined the conversation like we'd known him for months. Within a few minutes, we all understood why she liked him. 

Nothing on the menu stood out because everything looked so damn good. We decided to eat family style and ordered a bunch of dishes. Fifteen minutes later, the server spread a feast of delights served on black, stone plates.

We dug in, breaking all boundaries between us and passing plates and drinks around for everyone to share. Bites followed by subtle, closed-eye moans proved the chef delivered on the menu's promise.  

Between those bites, the conversation flowed from travel tales to funny stories from when we were kids. Our group was mixed, spanning many countries—East Asian, Caribbean, West African, South Asian, and American. I told my handy boarding school tales that brought out shrieks of shock horror and high-pitched cackles—perfect grazing material for our bunch.

You know those picturesque days when the weather and your company are perfect, so the slightest whiff of breath near your funny-bone catapults you into a full-body laughing frenzy?

I was sold a dream in that perfect place. While giggling like a glutton, someone handed me a plate and I placed it beside me. My eyes were fixed on my friend telling stories about growing up in Florida. I glanced away to pick up a chunk of avocado from the plate and plopped it into my mouth.

I waited for that familiar fatty feeling to coat my tongue. But that smooth texture never arrived. Instead, I got a sudden rush shooting for my brainstem like mini rocket gushing inside my upper nasal cavity with a vengeance. I recognized it immediately. I stood up and walked away from the table, but nobody on my table realized. Florida Man was telling hilarious stories. 

Without my consent, I felt a villain draw tears from my eyes like someone dug a well in my face and pumped away. The sinus rush was inconsiderate. A runner on the street offered me a concerned face, our eyes catching each other for a moment, then she just sprinted off. How fitting: the only person who noticed my pain literally ran away?

I wanted to thrust my fingers into that cavity between my throat and nose and itch away. But that border is blocked. (For good reason, I imagine). So I contorted my face—raising my squeezed nose and lifting my face-cheeks—for relief. But nothing helped.

I knew the culprit for this feeling. I'm a sucker for spicy food, I love the burn of Capsaicin. But this wasn't Her work. She’s prone to fiery, volatile moments, but never cruel like this. This sinus sting had the fingerprints of wasabi or horseradish ravaging my nervous system. That bite I thought was avocado? Yeah that's when I screwed up. 

Eventually, the rush began to let up. I released my raised cheeks from their full mast position. Relief has never felt so good: the pressed foot on my neck eased off and let me breathe again. Sweet oxygen dancing on the top of my lip, belting out a song of worship and triumph over a tricky foe.

I returned to the table to meet giggling faces unaware of my struggle. Nabila noticed me pull my chair back. Seeing dried tears on my face, she asked, “Wait, dude, are you good?” I pointed to the plate conspicuously lacking wasabi and we all burst out laughing.

As the laughter died down and the waitress returned to ask for the check, I realized I’d never forget this brunch. The harmony of pristine weather, perfect company, and my prickly sinus demanded to be immortalized in history.

And herein lies the fossil.

Paid subscribers: I’ll be reaching out soon for your addresses to send you printed copies of my 2023 magazine, Untethered. Digital access is coming this Friday. I have about eight limited edition copies available. Once those run out, paid subscribers will get a physical copy of “buttahbasted” once I figure out Canva and margins and bleeds and all the hassles of printing. Thank you for supporting me.

As a treat to all, here are some in-progress visual concepts for buttahbasted:

Like all art….the finished work is just the tip of the iceberg. Your support acknowledges the unseen sweat that makes these stories possible. I’m grateful for your support 💛.

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Now, today’s track:

🌸 sight for sore lies

Do you remember the last time one of your senses betrayed you?

Your eyes, those squishy face-eggs1 lured you down a path that left you lost? One minute you were in control, the next you found yourself fiddling offshore like a rudderless ship in foreign waters. 

Last year, I had one of those moments. Three days into my sabbatical adventure in Barcelona, I joined an Airbnb experience that brought solo travelers together. Picture me, wide-eyed, and buzzing in a global group – a young Colombian couple nomad-ing through Southern Europe, a Jamaican I met the previous day, and a French Arab who told the best drunken stories. 

The bar was deceptively large. When I stepped in, it looked tiny, but as I walked through, it seemed to grow extra branches. Seating areas sprawled out of nowhere. Green velvet couches sprung ontop of dark brown tiles like leaves in a potted plant. The corridor worked like a stem transporting thirsty travellers to their watering holes for more booze. 

Farouk, my French friend stood larger than life. He told stories with such command of physical space and extended use of hyperbole you wondered if they were true. His account of a bare-hands tussle with a wild goat in Nepal sounded a little too Hollywood, but it was hilarious. And when did we ever let the truth get in the way of a good tale? 

After a few drinks, he confided in me. He had a meeting to attend in 9 hours time. OK, so what? Every working millennial has slapped themselves sober to finesse a morning meeting. What’s the fuss? But he confessed this meeting was in Marseille, some three hundred miles away and he didn't have a flight ticket. 

"Oooh, so you're crazy. You should've led with that", I thought to myself. But judging by his unbothered demanour, this was a rehearsed dance. "This is the point of life, no? To feel the rush on the back of your neck", he said without a care in the world.

To purge myself of the cliché, I glanced away from our table towards the back of the bar. My eyes caught a familiar silhouette. Wait…was that Jorge? The bearded bald man I played soccer with earlier that week? The man that helped me defeat the arrogant divas? What was he doing here?

Jorge and I didn't speak enough of the same language to communicate with words. But smugness is a universal enemy — everyone can spot a prick! So we played hard and crushed them. Every soccer player knows the joy of dominating divas on the pitch and making them run in the heat. Pass, pass, pass — then "puta madre" passed in our direction. As they self-destructed, Jorge and I giggled like children at the back of a school bus.

So when I saw him at the bar, I ran off to greet my guy! Maybe we'd toast to the win or I'd get his number so we could play more games together. With all the confidence in the world, I walked down the bar, nudged his shoulder and leaned in for a hug. He opened his body to receive it, but right as our chests were about to become chums, I got a glimpse of his shock. 

His eyes glazed white with apprenshension and in return, I tensed up. But our chests were too close to claw back. Mayday Mayday. We settled for the worst compromise: an awkward half-hearted hug. 

I peeled my arms back in horror. Did I just hug a stranger? The dark-haired girl in the wine leather skirt beside him gave me a quizzical look. "Que paso?", her raised eyebrows showing her concern. He babbled some Spanglish which I interrupted to apologize. I deployed my dependable fake laugh and tried to defuse the situation. Then, sprinted off back to the safety of our table. 

The first few steps of my escape were powered by utter embarrassment. But once I evaded the disaster zone, I burst into laughter. Of course, this would happen to me. First night out in Spain, and instead of an adventure, I harassed a stranger on a date.

But how did this even happen? 

For all of my life, I trusted my eyes without hesitating. Their word was solid as gold. This semi-solid clump of brown in front of me is chocolate — and not that unsavory stuff? OK brothers, I believe you. I’m bringing it into my mouth. Don’t make me regret this, please.

Maybe my eyes sensed I needed to escape Farouk. As much as I think I’m in charge, they draw the bounds of my reality. They call the shots. Heck, maybe Jorge wasn’t even bald. How would I know? Maybe they lied to me for good reason.

Or maybe they tried their best. Eyes are prehistoric technology fighting uphill in a world where the line between fake and real keeps getting blurred. Convincing camouflages can be tough to beat.

Whether or not they lied — whether or not Farouk made his flight or fought that goat, my eyes fed me a story worth telling, and I can’t begrudge that in pursuit of the truth.

There’s something so beautiful and endearing about seeing a promising unfinished work. I’ve argued this before—as our technology and AI continue to advance, we will yearn for the unmistakably human. We will treasure the uneven grooves and the jagged edges that feel reassuring.

I’ve considered video for the longest time but I’ve made all the excuses. Oh, my videos HAVE to be funny. The lighting has to be perfect. Editing is a pain, who wants to do that?? Hearing my own voice sounds awkward. I ended up creating this unassailable monster. Perfectionism is a dangerous drug.

These days, making videos is so much easier. Substack offers tools to make AI-generated clips. CapCut makes it easy to edit. So yeah, I really have no excuse.

Today’s piece is a response to this prompt by the wonderful Rachel Jepsen. She asks us to write about a time we were sick or injured focusing on the physical embodiment of that feeling. With this spirit of embracing the unfinished, I’ve decided to share this piece in writing and video form. For those who prefer to read along or revisit the words, I’ve included the text beneath as well.

untitled scar tissue

I lived with a stranger for most of 2024. I don't mean a roommate or someone who paid rent. This friend—my lousy left ankle—signed me up for a turbulent trip I never wanted. 

Our toxic relationship lasted longer than my first romance. Six bloody months of wishing and waiting, stretching and strengthening, pulling and pushing, and never quite knowing, if the pain would subside. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. 

It was the worst kind of pain, too. Whenever I thought I was healing, my ankle made sure I couldn't leave. Like a forlorn lover unwilling to let go. I'd get these tiny niggles and prickly feelings that kept me guessing. Five days without pain, then a random stabbing nudge while taking the trash out. The thrash of knowing and not-knowing hurt more than full fractures. Trust me, I've done both. 

When you break a bone, there is no grey area. The terms and conditions of your predicament are carved into your cast. You're broken. You literally can't play footy anymore. But that on-again-off-again fella? That guy fractures the trust you have in your own flesh. Am I healthy enough to go hiking? I feel good. I've crushed PT for four weeks. I can do it. Wait wait . . . ooooh ouch, why does it hurt when I tie my laces?

In that purgatory between healed and hampered, every day becomes a toss-up. Will my limp ligaments let me live this day? Or would they rather remind me how broken I am?

Let me know in the comments if you enjoy this kind of stuff. Want more behind-the-scenes content? More video? More audio? Do you like the narrated content or would you rather the words stand on their own?

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🌸 salted serenade 

"You HAVE to move here. It's the best city in the world."

I don't remember who said these words to me.

Was it the Italian brunette with the flower tattoo on her neck? The one who promised to teach me the Spanish lyrics of La Fama by Rosalia, only to fizzle into thin air. Or was it the city itself? Each inch of Her forty square miles finding ways to tickle me delusional. Forgive my naïvety, I'd never been courted by a city before. 

My twenty-five days in Barcelona felt like a coordinated serenade. My lover left little gems in precise places, knowing I needed them. Like the delicious late-night lasagne I found while escaping a bone-dry happy hour. I never saw it again. No one had ever heard of the place. It popped up for the ruse.

I have complained for years that San Francisco's cafes close too early. Where am I supposed to go at 4pm when I want to keep working? When I don't want to go home or work from a bar? Hearing my faint cry, Barcelona sprang warm coffeeshops that closed at 10pm my way. What is love, if not heeding one's deepest needs? 

One afternoon, I joined a highly-rated Airbnb tour of the old town. Aidan, our Irish tour guide, took us from Arc de Triomf, through tiny medieval streets, stopping for tapas, coffee, and pictures. He told the story of a city that had been burned down many times, from the Siege of 1714 to the Spanish Civil War. Each time, the people rose from the ashes of burned dreams and scorched hope to rebuild the town one stone and one handful of earth at a time. Truth or myth? Does it matter? Why let the truth interfere with the arc of romance?

Later that week, I caught a glimpse of paradise when I watched my beloved FC Barcelona play live. The same fingers that wrote the story you're reading now trembled with nervous electricity before the first whistle went. I didn't know whether to dance or scream or pull my braids out. 

The match felt like a music festival. Brothers in arms pulsated up and down in sync with beating drums. Seasoned ultras coordinated us in song. Neighbors from across the world danced and cheered, knowing we'd never see each other again. Grown men let off high-pitched shrieks and repeated "Ole's" at feats of audacious skill. When Raphinha scored the first goal on our end, the stadium erupted into a frenzy of unadulterated ecstasy.

The forty-five-minute walk home after we beat Sevilla 3-0 did not disappoint. Even though it was nearly midnight, the city rocked with serious rhythm. Thirsty worshippers went to the temple for a taste of the divine cup and were duly fed. When I stopped at McDonald's, a few fans jumped inside, and we sang for another five or ten minutes. I promise you, I have no idea what words I sang.

At this point, I became a willing pawn in the city's seduction. Off the pitch, Barcelona flung colorful characters my way to hammer home the ruse—Swedish Steve, who invited me to summer in Stockholm. The white Tanzanian chef, who worked excruciating hours six days a week, got hammered every seventh day and drunkenly demanded everyone remember she was African. Luisa, the poor girl who had just moved to the city for her Masters, got ditched by her friend at the bar (for a man), so I became the stand-in EU diplomat mediating between one sulking Portuguese and a culpable Italian. 

One night, I went dancing with friends I made through a homie back home. Picture this, four of us in our late twenties, one Nigerian, an American, and an Egyptian-Hungarian couple dancing in a beach bar and loving life. When I told them I was leaving the city soon, they outright refused. I laughed, but they didn't find it funny. We settled on a compromise: I'd stay another week and then plan my permanent move six months later.

Barcelona let me look at other cities on one condition—I had to keep my wedding ring on at all times. Girona fluttered long eyelashes my way. Forty minutes away by train, I could dip over for a day trip and be back for dinner. I'll be honest, I considered it. Girona has those gorgeous cathedrals and grand baths where Game of Thrones was filmed. But how would I explain the foreign stench on me? Negotiating my month-long Andalucian adventure with stops in Seville, Malaga, and Cordoba already took a lot of pitching and cajoling. 

You might be wondering how I got so whipped. Last year, during my sabbatical, I visited thirteen different towns including Bali and Bangkok. How did this one city have such a hold on me?

Well, have you had a crema catalana? It's basically a Spanish crème brûlée. My reaction to the city's seduction mirrors the experience of eating one. On my second day in Barcelona, a shop attendant screamed at me in Catalan for not understanding "bolsa" meant "bag". So I was a little resistant like the thin, hard shell of the dessert. But once I poked beyond that, the riches oozed all over—the sweet custard of the city's culture and charm gripped me. 

How could Montjuic Park turn me, someone who has never meditated two days in a row into a believer in the practice? I climbed that hill at least ten times, and on each summit, I felt this unfathomable serenity seep through me. Isn't that prayer? 

On the sloping streets of Poble Sec, I weaved through kids playing football with reckless abandon. That chorus—alternating thuds of balls bouncing on cobblestones and joyous, cheerful screams—was the soundtrack of my childhood. It took me back to happier, simpler times. 

Barcelona is set up for people to be people. When I cross the street in certain American cities, I feel the steaming wrath of the nearest driver waiting impatiently in the crosswalk, expecting me to rush-walk, as if my mere existence annoys them. I'm clearly wasting their time. But in the Eixample district in Barcelona, the avenues are wiiiiide, lined with trees, and pedestrians are prioritized. The city's octagonal grid was designed by the guy who literally wrote the book on modern urban planning, Ildefons Cerdà. So is it a surprise the city is so livable and walkable?

Maybe I should have expected this cultural alignment. Sobremesa, the Spanish desire for slow, longwinded conversations over the dinner table, and wish to digest and enjoy life speaks to me. My penchant for sun is as strong as my disdain for fog. My mother will tell you my infection with football fever is three decades long. Perhaps I've always been an honorary Spaniard.

When I reminisce about my time in the city, I feel the sweet rush of joy knowing I lived those days tussling with the salty realization those moments are doomed to memory. I remember my futile attempts to capture those moments on my phone. Those sad one-dimensional snippets don't begin to tell half the story. 

Every city has a frequency that resonates with certain souls. New York pulses with ambition and hustle. Paris holds court for the romantics. I imagine Rio buzzes with festivity. 

Barcelona is an ancient city dancing to a modern tune. Everywhere you go, you feel the juxtapositions. Shimmy your shoulders in Plaça Reial, a large square where you can groove to reggaeton at Jamboree bar, twenty feet from lampposts designed by Gaudi. Visit buzzing new clothing stores retailing out of medieval-looking buildings. Meander through the narrow Gothic streets of El Born until they lead you to the wide avenues of Eixample. Don't choose between hills or the sea, visit both, maybe even on the same day. 

It's been fifteen months since the salted serenade started, and even though we remain separated by five thousand miles, I'm counting the days till our next dance.

If you liked this, you’ll enjoy:

The reception to my written album, buttahbasted has been insane. Last week, when highlighted my debut piece, “seduced in condesa”, I received floods of beautiful comments, and more new subscribers than could comfortably fit in a Concorde! A few of you became paid subscribers too. Welcome, welcome! I’m so glad you’re here.

Big numbers are nice, but I don’t measure success here by metrics. The quantum I care about is intensity of feeling. Can my words make strangers feel something visceral? Can I transport them to a different land, even for a single moment? In a world obsessed with AI AI AI and content moving fast-fast-fast, we need more cold brew and less instant coffee.

We live in a metrics-mad culture, but we lose so much when we forget the qualitative. When I’m filing my taxes next year, under which column do I file the riches and love from my comments section? You want to convince me ’s description of my words as “fresh perfume for weathered short-form senses” is not income??

In February, I didn’t know what this project would become, but I knew the energy I wanted to convey. The pieces had to sing and transport. So when commented “You transmuted my 60-degree midwestern porch into a balmy stroll with a sultry angel guiding me through heaven on earth”, I knew I’d struck the right chord.

Earlier on, I considered pairing each post with a complementary song and an audio snippet, because of the musicality of the pieces. So ‘s note, “I can hear the words flowing so smoothly riding the beat”, felt like she was reading my vision board.

The wonderful thing about creating and following your intuition is seeing the power of emergence unfold in front of you. There are parts you can control, but serendipity and spirituality attend the same party. When commented she visited the same little boutique store highlighted in my Condesa piece, I felt the art gods were on my side.

This outpouring of love is crazy because I worked on this project for months, spending too long re-reading and rewriting paragraphs. It was a gamble with an uncertain payoff. Would anyone even care? Do people want to read anymore? Aren't we all rotting with TikTok brain?

But you all have shown me otherwise. The groundswell of people feeling inspired by this work is wonderful to see. I'd love to see more people take time off the punishing weekly publishing grind to go into their own creative caves to make weirder, more human, more authentic expressions of art.

OK enough commentary! Today’s story is a sizzling account of catfishing scampi. This is the second post from the written album. A few of you suggested I release audio snippets from these pieces, I’m thinking about it. If you’re new to the series, please check out the launch post.

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🌸 catfished by scampi

Nothing hits like the first bite of a great meal. 

You feel lifted from the drudgery of daily life, from that damned dishwasher that never empties itself, and taken to a temporary nirvana. Crunch and crisp catapult you to cloud nine. You become giddy and woozy in a near-drunken appreciation of the physical sensations—the seductive wisps and whiffs of browned butter on your nose, the glee, the sheer sinful and unrepentant glee tattooed on your face, and the reverence of raw skill that made the things on your plate.

Or that's what it's supposed to feel like. 

On a crisp fall evening a few years ago, two friends and I trekked several miles across New York chasing this blissful first bite. We were guided by my friend, a local who received a glowing recommendation from a fellow New Yorker with strong food opinions. As wide-eyed tourists in a famed foodie town, how could we resist? Like three baby ducks in a pond, we scampered forth.

Scampi is a dish I'd usually never order even though I love the ingredients—garlic, butter, shrimp, white wine. What’s not to like? But when I go out to eat, I'm looking for something I can't cook myself. Something that only those men with charcoal palms, stubby fingers, receding hairlines, and gritty heat-resistant hands can craft, something that survived the barage of insults hurled their way by head chefs. I want to marvel at my meal. 

This restaurant had the audacity to name itself after a dish. So I had to try it. It felt rude not to. The pulpo dish looked interesting, but I learned a long time ago that the Spanish make the best octopus. Our guide ordered first. She got the scampi. My fellow foodie friend followed suit, and I completed the treble. Three scampis for the table, please. 

After ordering, I wondered what secret element the chef would add to make the dish pop. Maybe a forbidden dash of fish sauce or a glug of gochujang? Or some other umami bomb that would offend the traditionalists. There had to be something, right? Maybe the secret was the broth? I pictured shrimp heads simmering in tall stock pots and seafloor crustaceans sacrificing their skeletons for finger-licking flavor. 

Speaking of flavor, my mother routinely interrupted my laziness as a child to drag me to the kitchen. "OK, so and so just called, they'll be here in thirty minutes. What do we have? What can we cook for them?" In Lagos, close friends and family don't care for your calendar, they arrive at your house expecting hospitality. So she'd take me to the kitchen and we'd run through our options. Did we have enough time to defrost the fish? Could we make a quick peppersoup as an appetizer to stall for more time? Her pantry stored several spice factories—smoky, prickly Cameroon pepper, enough dried herbs to make an immigration officer squeal, emergency MSG bombs like maggi and oyster sauce, and a deep freezer that revealed more secrets the further you inside you reached.

Her "ka sa ma se rere" attitude, loosely translated to "let us continue to do good" meant she secretly enjoyed those cooking sprints, and I, as little apprentice, loved learning how she turned thirty minutes into fulfilling feasts. She never used a recipe, so that's how I learned to cook. Trial by error, creating without rules and dogma. Her only instruction "taste taste taste!" reverberates in my brain till this day. Because nothing is more insulting to a Yoruba person, than saying their food is bland.

I guess my body language gave it away, that I was daydreaming back to my childhood. My friends had gone to the bathroom, and the waiter returning to refill our waters, offered this solace: 

"The scampi is our signature dish for a reason. You're going to love it." Uhh, was my face that transparent?

A few minutes later, he brought three steaming plates to our table. Visually, I was impressed. Squiggly sheets of mafaldine pasta housed uneven ridges and little crevices for the sauce to coat. Jagged brown bits confirmed the shrimp was seared not boiled. Hurray. Chilli flakes and torn shreds of parsley lay pillow-like on the resting noodles. The visual canvas stood on ten toes—creamy white pasta, brown breadcrumbs, flecks of orange from the shrimp, and glimmers of green from the fresh herbs.

I took my first bite and felt…nothing. But the nothingness was loud. It was so distinct it felt intentional. Like the way a filmmaker hides light from a scene to make a point. I wasn't sure what point this chef was trying to make though. I didn't let that stop me. First bites like first dates often mislead. Maybe I got an unseasoned square inch. I grabbed my fork determined to find the flavour I was promised. 

Sometimes, noodles are crushed by the dense weight of the sauce or the chef's anxiety, and you're left with a mushy disaster. But these noodles were textured, firm to touch, and sported beautiful irregular shapes. 

"Stop being so judgemental, Tobi", I told myself. Maybe this was an intended palette cleanser. My typical diet has a lot of salty, spicy food, so maybe this was nature's idea of a stop sign, begging me to slow down to appreciate the lighter flavours in life. But lightness doesn't mean absence.

I tossed my fork around like a detective in this twisted game of hide and seek. Maybe I'd find a pulse in an unexpected place. Was it the garlic? Was this some special earthy Italian variant that perfumed the sauce with wafts of the Mediterranean Sea? Maybe my search radar was mis-calibrated. I was too busy scanning for bolder flavors at high frequencies, and missed the subtle ones in front of my nose.

Wait a minute, was I mistaken? Judging a humble weeknight staple with the wrong lens. Was I doing that predictable human thing of placing heavy expectatations on something that never asked for such status? Maybe Seńor Scampi never wanted the big stage.

Alain, my foodie friend broke my internal monologue, "What do you think bro?"

"Eeeeeeh, it's not so bad" I babbled in a barely believable tone and we burst out laughing. He knew me too well to believe that nonsense. 

But my other friend, the New Yorker, loved the dish. What I found flat and uninspiring, she found simple and unpretentious. I was looking for a little life, a jolt, some bounce or bass to tickle my senses. But she enjoyed the story of a few household ingredients coming together to make a decent dish. 

In a culinary world of backflipping TikTok chefs trying too hard to be sexy, sandwiches too tall for human mouths, edible gold flakes, and overpowering truffle aiolis, maybe there's something romantic about the simple scampi. It doesn't pretend to be something it's not–no bells and whistles, yes, but it's honesty on a plate. It's a sheathed dagger to the heart of the gastronomy cult where meals are served with instructions that teach you how to eat them.

That being said, the dish lacked flavor. Even with reduced expectations, it flattered to deceive. I wanted the scampi to win, to scramble my senses and teach me that less is indeed more. But the pixels of that pretty canvas, the medley of creamy-white pasta, browned bits, floating specks of orange and green, the whole thing failed to deliver.

Turns out, we were catfished. We scurried to scampi in vain.

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Your response to buttahbasted's announcement has been overwhelming. You love the idea of art kneaded with patient palms. I'm thrilled to get this party rolling. 

(If you missed it, catch up here: buttahbasted is a written album rejecting the fast-fast-fast, more-more-more approach to creating and consuming art. Instead, you'll get seven stories steeped in love, made for sipping not skimming.)

For three months, I've been creating something I couldn't describe, but Intuition knew the way. This process taught me what lies beneath creative work. People see an essay and assume words simply flow on command. Now, when I see a book cover, I see the invisible work: stories explored and sunsetted, scenes written then scrapped, characters crafted and killed off, promising structures built and dismantled, blind alleys explored. Each detour made the final piece deeper and richer. 

Today, I'm thrilled to share the first act. May it transport you to a temple of tranquility.

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🌸 seduced in condesa

Modern life feels like Diet Coke. All the fizzy allure of stimulation, with none of the substance to satisfy you. Morning breaks and we heap our breakfast plates with helpings of short-form content and hollow laughs. Sip by sip, we're sinking in shallow waters. 

But then, certain moments offer a life raft. The first thirty-seven seconds of "When I'm in Your Arms" by Cleo Sol draws me to the shore. The second I hear those opening notes, I feel rescued from the digital void and taken to a warm place. 

I see the paradise plush with earth tones and layers of browns. Light streams in unopposed and oozes serenity. Smooth clay fixtures offset the textured grooves in the wall. Tickles of teakwood yield to comforting chamomile whispers. Cleo Sol's rousing voice perfumes the air, but the volume's not too loud. Each dimension holds the other in harmonious balance. 

In this place, her mellow music starts to work its magic. Her mosaic of maverick and melody appeals to the marrow in my bones. When the beat kicks, it compels my feet to tap the ground. Tip Tap. Tippity Tappity. Her angelic voice dances daintily on the beat offering enough to hug the listener without smushing them, then withdrawing for long enough for you to miss her.

When she returns to drizzle droplets of soul-stirring umami on your plate, the wait is well worth it. It feels like smooth shea butter sliding onto freshly showered skin. Like sinking your teeth in duck legs submerged in their own fat for hours. 

This feeling — full-body immersion in this wonderful conspiracy between the Arts and the Spirits crafted for me — mirrors what I felt that day in Condesa. 

Each time I strolled through the neighbohrood, I felt this uncommon wave of calm radiate through me. Peak by peak, gentle tides of peace swept through my core — loosening livid hamstrings and easing my neglected spirit. 

Uhh, I just met you. How do you know me so well?

My last day in Mexico City started with intense anticipation. I was celebrating my 30th birthday with a few friends, and every day, my lovely friends barraged me with the same question: "Tobi, what do you want to do today?"

Did I want to go clubbing? Or visit one of the world-famous museums? Was I itching for another one of Jenny's blue quesadillas?

Every time they asked, my answer was the same. I just wanted to stroll through Condesa, my favorite neighborhood in the world.  

Walking through Condesa feels like being in two places at the same time. At first glance, it sports a palpable French charm with outdoor cafes and buzzing bistros that remind you of Paris. Grand palaces and magnificent mansions hark back to the 19th century when French design was seen as the pinnacle of elegance in Mexico City. 

But it glows proudly Mexican. Take Avenida Amsterdam for example. This mile-long avenue in Condesa treats you to a delectable display of color and tranquility. Earthy terracotta browns and lush greens serve as the backdrop with amarillo accent walls buzzing with Latin cheerfulness. Fiery red tiles transmit passion and energy, while cool blue tones offer a refreshing respite from the warmth. Together, they convey a spirit of groundedness and harmony. 

The neighbhorhood is a walker's paradise. Broad avenues stand proud lined with lush trees and beautiful flowers on each side. One of Condesa's crown jewels, Parque Mexico is nine acres of luscious greenery inviting you to "slow down. shut your laptop. sip the air." This park along with an embarrassment of outdoor cafes welcome you to socialise till 11pm on weeknights. Even the dents in the sidewalk are poetic — little pick-me-ups designed to keep you awake to feeeeeeeel the city.

Condesa wants you to be calm and cozy, OK? That's why it brims with boutiques and indie artisans. Talented hands craft clay into ceramic mugs so you sip and savor the moment. Those beautiful beaded necklaces on display? Wear them and feel the stones seep serenity inwards.

This uncommon calm left an impression on me. So on my last day in CDMX, I knew I had to return. I strolled through Condesa until the mint-green door of Proyecto Rufina drew me in. As I stepped in, the shop revealed itself as an art gallery. In front of me, brown and cream shirts hung like statement art prints on a rack suspended from the ceiling. To my left, a spectrum of light grey neutrals gradually gave way to crisp cool blues. The middle sprawled a curated selection of locally made unisex jewelry—gold necklaces, beaded bracelets—interspersed with cozy fixings like carafes, scented candles, and knitted bags. 

My closet is fifty percent earth tones, so when I found a pair of loose-fitting rouge-brown corduroy pants, I knew it had to follow me home. The fifteen percent discount because of a flimsy zipper sweetened the deal. 

Next, I went upstairs to check out the fragrance section. As an unapologetic candle-man, I typically have four or five burning in rotation. Woody scents like teakwood, oak, and cedar dominate my stash, but every now and then I'll throw in a little sage or lavender for balance. 

Maria, the shop attendant upstairs welcomed me with a smile. "Would you like me to help you in Spanish or English today?" Realising I was the only customer there, I braved the bold, "English please, but can you sprinkle some Spanish in there? I'm trying to learn."

"Sure, claro que sí."

She grabbed a couple of smelling strips and began to teach me the different notes in each fragrance. With each bottle, she'd tell me the ingredients in English and Spanish, and wait for me to pronounce them back correctly. Who knew nuez moscada was nutmeg and not new moscato? 

As I stumbled my way through the ingredient list, she connected her phone to the speakers and played more Cleo Sol. This time, she played "Why Don't You", a song I'd been abusing on Spotify. Those lyrics spoke to me months ago when I was uncertain about the role writing would play in my life. "Why don't you just let go, and quiet down your ego" felt like a brick to my soul. I felt called to release the tight grip I'd placed on my professional life.

As the music played, it dawned on me, this was the perfect moment. This universal kismet was designed for me. I was in my number one city, listening to my favorite artist, smelling fragrances, and learning Spanish. You know, I have to clap for the spirits who concocted this seduction — well played —  it was too sweet to deny. I surrendered my wallet with full conscience.

Could I send Writing off to the workplace to fetch dollars for me? Or would it take offence that I was refusing to play?

This post comes in two parts:

1. a few confessions about online writing

2. a sneaky announcement! 

2023 was the year I found myself as a writer. I finally accepted the outstretched arm Writing was offering. Cadence and consistency were important. I published around fifty essays last year. But this year, you haven't heard from me as much. I released a story about a ballerina dancing in a wasteland, and one announcing my course. Then, I vanished. Poof! Gone with the wind. 

Well, today I'm going to reveal what Writing and I have been up to.

Writing online is weird

There are no in-betweens—you either publish 1000 words or write a 50,000 word book. Writers are word-factories churning issues out on a schedule. Hit publish. Promote another another draft onto the assembly line. The clock starts to tick, its pendulum pounding, six days and twenty-three hours to package the next set of paragraphs. Publish or be forgotten.

Or you could write a book—devote yourself to a heavy, emotional experience where your editor becomes your therapist, priest, and best friend. You learn the physical limits of your self-belief. This process can be deeply rewarding for you and your readers. Our animal brains looooove the idea of pointing to a tangible thing—a spiral-bound book, saying "I made that. I did that." It makes the author feel like a "real writer". 

In the first half of last year, I published an essay here every week or two. You met colorful characters from six months of travel—gangster street dogs that chased me in Thailand, my friendly kidnappers in Seville, the travel nurse who nearly poisoned me in Lisbon, and that outdoor shower in Cordoba. I reflected on the stories we tell ourselves about work, love, and money.

I loved that season but I learned a week is too short for this work. Creative quality requires time. I need to gather, listen, sit, then stumble….gaze through the windowlight, hold a belief branch, step away from the sentence soufflé and watch it rise!

All the nothings that consume

There's a popular meme about how a person who loves baking falls for the trap of entrepreneurship. She loves the way sugar, flour, and heat transform into all kinds of treats and textures—those pillowy soft croissants, crunchy cookies, risen breads, flat pastries, sweet and savory tarts.

So she opens a bakery to sell her treats, but in a sick twist ends up consumed by all the non-baking work required in business. She must negotiate with suppliers, optimize her website for SEO, make social media reels, balance the books, and learn basic business tax law.

Last summer, I felt this newsletter had potential to become a "real business". Multiple times, friendly strangers stopped me at events in real life quoting passages from my essays verbatim. Readers had written deep, soul-stirring replies to my pieces. (I keep a personal jar where I store these kind words). Fifteen generous people decided to become paid subscribers to support my writing. I'm still humbled by this support. 

I wanted to pour gas on the little embers forming in front of me. So I hired a Substack coach—yep, a person who teaches you to build a profitable newsletter business on this platform. They taught me a lot. To succeed, I would have to publish two essays a month, be active on Substack Notes, re-release old essays, make video episodes, record audio snippets, consider offering office-hours, serializing e-books, memoirs, promos, and more videos. It reminded me of the baker. 

Before committing to the gameplan, I asked myself a few questions:
1) Is the world asking for more FAST content?
2) Where does more-more-more and fast-fast-fast take us?

Syllables spilling all over your screen. Littered language loitering in your email inbox. Word fragments wheelbarrowed from exhausted writer to overwhelmed reader. Is this the game I want to play?

Discontent with content

I've been online for seventeen years. If you picked up a pair of forceps and pried my brain open, I'm sure you'll be able to tell. Should those fleshy nodes be that swollen or is that the consequence of a debilitating Twitter addiction?

It seems everyone is struggling with this. My friends and I constantly trade remedies to stay offline. Lower the brightness on your phone. Turn off all notifications. Delete Twitter for good. No, really delete that shit. Maintain strict phone-free hours. No TikTok after 8pm. Someone recently recommended Brick– a physical device that frees you from the temptation of your device. 

This is madness. You know it as much as I do. That we have to do so much to reclaim our time, attention, and focus. It sucks for us artists too. We must please our algorithm overlords who determine our worth, or forever shut up doomed to silence. 

I won't write for likes or clicks. It's a disservice to both reader and writer. You have given me the privilege of your attention–I should honor that and make stuff deserving of such. Not that fast food, quickfire garbage, I should serve fuller fibre wholemeal that satisfies. 

Even if I wanted to feed you junk, AI models will eventually do that much better than I could. Love dog videos and clothed chefs making cool recipes? Soon, AI models will generate ultra-realistic videos of puppy chefs making perfect beef wellingtons to make you swoon over and over. Startups will pay engineers $500,000 a year to fine-tune those models to keep you swiping and swooning. 

What won't change is the enduring value of human expression and imagination. The authentic expressions of our experiences—the complexity, the conflict, the embodied sensuality, the flaws, the authentic turns of phrase, the absurd and bizarre connections we make in our minds. When our feeds are saturated with hyper-realistic and addictive AI-generated content, we will yearn for the HUMAN— the unique POVs, the human experience as described by breathing meat-sacks who struggle with cognitive dissonance. 

I want to write more human things–I don't care if the algorithms reward this. Last year, I realised I loved describing scenes. Reconstructing old ones from memory, and making new ones from my imagination. Painting the sensory picture with vivid strokes you can touch–the sensualidad, the intangibles, the hushed internal dialogue, those external physical dimensions. 

So over the last few months, I made something that fulfils this expression. It was made slowly and with intention. When I was in Mexico City, a bartender explained that mezcal is to be "kissed" not "taken as a shot". This is the same way. Don't rush to lick your screens, but you get the idea. Here, we reject the framing of fast-fast-fast and more-more-more, and replace it with intentional art. Today, I'm announcing "buttahbasted".

Welcome to Buttahbasted

Buttahbasted is my written album that will be dropped over the summer months. It's the feeling you get when life soaks you in a sensory stew. Imagine the first drizzle of shea butter on parched skin. Close your eyes and savor the umami that stirs in your soul when you hear Cleo Sol. Feel the intimate welcome offered by the scent of teakwood. This is buttahbasting in every dimension.  

Don't know what a written album is? You're in good company. I don't know anyone else doing this. Technically, it's a short story collection with seven stories, six factual, and one fictional piece. Each piece features a blend of prose poetry and narrative. I'm calling it an album because I'm jealous of other artists (musicians, filmmakers, clothingmakers) who can disappear for a while, get inspired, experiment with new styles, and make seasonal drops around a theme or emotion.  

The connective tissue that runs through the pieces is "richness from everyday moments" hence the "buttah" in the name. Basting a steak is an act of love that elevates an act we've done for millennia — cooking meat in fire — to an aromatic, nutty luxurious one that grips your nose. That's it, I want to grip your nose! 

But it's not just about food. It's about flowers, full-body serenades, happy tears, mistaken faces, and catfishing charlatans that promise you life-changing brisket but give you a sad plop of meat instead. 

Welcome to buttahbasted. 

Subscribe now

Paid subscribers will get full access to every piece in buttahbasted as a HUGE thank you for supporting me over the past year. Paid subs will also receive free access to Untethered, my magazine from last year.

Free subscribers, I’m very grateful for your support too. I will release one or two essays from this collection to you for free. I’m also going to package all seven stories into a beautifully designed and constructed ebook that will be available for purchase.

Thank you for your support and love 💛.

You stand ten toes deep in waters near hip height. A surge of discomfort registers in your body. Slow sensations shimmy up your spine. The water is calm. You're the only predator here. But that is the worry. There is no buzz, no bass, no tide, no current, no rhythm to tickle you. 

Hunching over, your body looks for solutions. Fingers frolic on their own begging, pleading for seconds of that sweet nectar. Your arms wade through the water reaching for shiny objects with promise. Something catches your eye. The momentary glint from a coin on the seabed so you crouch down to pick it up. 

You feel the wear and the ridges on this coin. The slight grooves reward those desperate fingers. But it's only a coin. Wet metal covered in porous sand. Everyone keeps saying you should touch grass, feel the real world, but what is this murky coin supposed to do?

You pull yourself back up. Well, that was a waste of time. You'll take those hollow laughs over this wet mess. At least, those short-form videos lift you up before they leave you in the void. You crave those text threads of pity LOOOLs and illegitimate "lmaooos" with asses seated and unshaken. 

Nothing to scroll. Nowhere to hide. It's you and you.

Thank you for reading Wandering the Grey. If you enjoyed this post, consider sharing or upgrading your subscription. Becoming a paid sub helps ensure I can create better art for longer.

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