When I was seven or eight, my mother called me into the kitchen and asked me to season the beef she was cooking. Ever the entertainer, she had a few friends coming over and she wanted to wow them. Over to you, young Tobias. Um, there was a slight problem.

I had never seasoned beef before. I had definitely eaten beef but I had no clue what seasoning beef entailed. She told me to go into the spice cabinet for inspiration. “Choose what looks good to you” “Uhh, excuse me??” There were dozens of coloured crystals, pretty powders and seasoning liquids to choose from. “You heard me, young man.”

Ah, this was a request not a suggestion.

I made some choices based on vibes and the colour of the packaging. Reds and yellows were in but transparent bottles were not. Don’t ask me why. Sigmund Freud might say it has something to do with my fascination with fire as a child. Regardless, she adjusted my choices and explained each substitution. It turns out salt is chemically necessary for cooking. I had no idea.

She asked me to pour the spices into the pot. “But how much?” “Put a little, taste it and tell me what you think!” So I obliged, I poured some Maggi (because immigrant), some cayenne pepper (because Nigerian), dried herbs and a little soy sauce into the beef stew. The characteristic word “some” here is quite revealing. As a first-time cook, I had no way to know how big or small “some” was. Are we talking a teaspoon, a few cups or a flippant flick of the wrist?

I tossed the spices into the pot and stepped back, mindful to avoid the splattering beef juices on my Sunday best. "Ah ah, that's enough now". Apparently, I poured enough salt to immobilise a small rhino. Perhaps, my ancestors had forgotten to bestow me with culinary skill at the scene of my birth. Mum saved the day with dilution, sweetness and acid. So I learned how to make a stew, screw up one and save the day in one go. 

We did this dance several times over the years and I became more comfortable in the kitchen, and I learned how to freestyle under ambiguous conditions. Mama would come home and ask: “So what do we have in the fridge and what can we do with those”. I loved the adventure of it all: no recipes, no rigid boundaries, yet a few ideas could feed a whole table.

When I reflect on this story, it’s clear that growing up is a scam. As a kid, I could pick up new skills so easily. Back then, I didn’t have a script of who I was or who I should be. I didn't feel the need to associate my hobbies with my identity. I could paint freely without being "a painter". There was no pressure to distill my self into neatly packed labels or coherent categories. No need to explain myself. No limiting beliefs to hurdle. Free rein to crawl, sit and stumble, or stand, wobble and get back up.

If I was learning to cook today, I’d hear audible voices in my head murmuring “You’re not a chef” “What if you mess things up”. On a good day, I’d fight them, grab the metaphorical apron and dive headfirst into the kitchen. Stubborn Tobias would swat those pesky feelings away like an unwelcome fly at a dinner table. 

But on a day I'm feeling less than courageous, I might let those voices fester a little too long and I might cower. "Yeah maybe I'm not cut out for this" I might cede ground to the unhelpful stories swirling around in my head. The doubts, worries and anxieties we pick up as we traverse through life. Fears deposited in my palms by others. Stories I didn't write or invite in. I might give these aliens the keys to my ship and let them steer me away from the very thing I wanted to try. 

Telling ourselves limiting stories goes far beyond cooking, as it can lead us onto dangerous roads in life. If you tell yourself you're not lovable, you will stay in a relationship that you know is futile and fractured. If you see your job as the source of your identity and self, you will stay when the cost to your mental health exceeds the payout. They say we’re the average of our five closest friends but I think we’re more closely shaped by the stories we let in, the ones we reject and the ones we regurgitate.

I used to believe ambition meant starting a successful tech company or rising to the C-suite of another. For some reason, my success belief system was incredibly narrow and singular. I was at the open end of a firehose of gushing tech podcasts and narratives that evangelised these dreams as the pinnacle of success. My fineness filter for incoming stories wasn’t precise enough.

It's easy to know this on an intellectual level but difficult to put in practice. To probe, search and excavate deep within yourself to find the source of these unhelpful stories is a deeply uncomfortable exercise. Stories about what we think we can or can not do are lodged deep in the recesses of our very fabric. It can feel impossible to untangle. But the quest to audit these stories is lifelong, not a sprint. The revelations unfold over months and years rather than a single epiphany. 

Solo travelling on sabbatical, I've had to confront many of these stories. When someone asks where I'm from, I have a few different answers. Standard cookie-cutter response goes "I'm Nigerian". Depending on the geographic knowledge of the asker, I might get a response about how they once spent a summer in Kenya or South Africa. Neither of which is within 2,000 miles of my home country.  

"Oh but I hear a slight accent" 

Younger Tobi would rush to explain that yes, I was born in England and lived there for eight years. If the enquirer was a cute girl, I'd embellish the British accent for obvious reasons. I'd find a way to sprinkle in a helping of UK slang hoping she’s watched Love Island. All for stupid validation.

On less charitable days, I might explain to the questioner that they too have an accent. To speak is to have one. Because there’s no inherent “default” or “neutral” way of speaking. Then they get defensive and we’ve whipped up a useless brew that serves no one.

Speaking of brews, I met an Argentinian guy last week at a bar who asked what I do for work. Pretty normal question when you meet a stranger. But one that’s uneasy to answer when you’re on a sabbatical. When you’re walking on a dark, unlit road where you can’t see beyond your own feet. I felt an internal struggle. I could say I’m a writer, but then I might have to explain what that means.

“Did you write a book?”

“No. I mean, not yet”

“Oh, are you working on one now”

“Nope, I publish essays online”

“You just put your thoughts out there and people read them?”

“Precisely”

“Is that lucrative?”

“I, uh…”

To avoid this squirming conversation, I felt something within me reaching for a familiar, cozy warm blanket that would comfort me in this moment of temporary distress. I’d reply that I’m an engineer. I mean, I still am right? I didn’t flush my degree or skills down the drain. They’re still in there somewhere dormant and ready to be awakened if I make the call.

But then introspective Tobias kicks in.

Why do I care what this stranger thinks? If I need to play up certain stories to be accepted, then am I saying I’m not good enough as I am?

Why do I need to flaunt the accent for interest?

Can I be alright and content without the status and prestige of Software Engineer at Big Tech?

The pompous Yoruba voice within me is quick to shrug these concerns off. Of course, I’m enough. Of course, I shouldn’t care what strangers think or feel compelled to weave narratives that make me seem impressive. I shouldn’t give heed to these headless voices. I’m not a mindless video-game character being puppeted around by the whims of others.

Yet I know it’s a lifelong tussle akin to gardening. Hearing the voices in your head, distinguishing the ones you planted and carefully nurtured from the restrictive weeds that crept in uninvited. Watering the truths that you trust and believe. Pruning any outdated ones that are hogging the sunlight. Tilling your mind so you can receive future harvests. Killing the generic, unhelpful platitudes that take valuable space, steal resources and offer no fruit. Feeding and fertilising the little crazy ideas in a nursery before they’re ready for primetime.

As tricky as it is, I am reminded that the pen is mine to behold. To cross out and rewrite stories that never served a purpose or are no longer befitting. I can be the writer of my own life.