New year , new you blah blah blahhhhhh

January always arrives with big expectations.

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New year. Clean slate. Fresh planner energy.The world collectively deciding that this is the moment we’ll finally become the version of ourselves we’ve been promising since 2014.

Every day is a good day to start again.

Not just January 1st.Not just Mondays.Not just after the breakdown, the breakthrough, or the “rock bottom” people love to romanticise.

I used to love that feeling.The false certainty of it.The dramatic resolutions.The bold declarations scribbled into brand-new notebooks with expensive pens.The quiet pressure to reinvent myself on a schedule that had absolutely nothing to do with my actual life.

Listen — let me be clear.I am grateful to be here.Living. Breathing. Standing.

Especially after spending most of 2025 up s**t’s creek without a paddle, a map, or even a decent life jacket.It didn’t take me out though.I’m still here.A little bruised. Slightly feral. Feeling less resilient than I used to be but a LOT Wiser in ways I didn’t ask for.

The older I get, the more I realise something deeply liberating:

Every day is a good day to start again.

These days, I don’t make resolutions.I make promises.

A small, sacred handful — the kind I can carry with me quietly, instead of performing for an imaginary audience that isn’t even paying attention.

I promise to listen when my body whispers — not wait until it screams.I promise to stop negotiating with things that drain me.I promise to tell the truth faster, especially to myself.I promise to rest without needing to earn it first.

Midlife didn’t arrive with fireworks.No dramatic entrance. No announcement.

It crept in quietly, like condensation on a mirror — subtle enough that I didn’t notice until I could no longer see myself clearly.

One minute I was vibing to Brandy, club scheduled Weds - Saturday, eating what I wanted , doing all sorts of craziness whilst absolutely certain I’d never wear orthopaedic-looking comfy shoes or schedule joy like a dr’s appointment.

The next, I was Googling “why am I sweating through linen sheets at 3 a.m.” while whispering curses at a hormonal ghosts and “grown up” issues I did not invite into my life.

Midlife doesn’t knock.It lets itself in.And then it rearranges the furniture.

Suddenly, the stretch in your jeans changes.Everyone starts calling you “ma’am.”Your tolerance for nonsense evaporates overnight.The music in clubs feels aggressive instead of exhilarating.

Dancing until dawn?No thank you.

Being around people you don’t know and making small talk? If it was imperative - YES - if not - errr Maybe, NO?

Your house — and more specifically, your bed — becomes far more appealing than painting already-painted streets.All of a sudden one day, you catch your reflection looking back at you like your mother’s.

Beautiful, yes.But unfamiliar.

Without warning, the invitations lessens, being on the scene becomes optional - you start to feel… un featured.

Not old.Not irrelevant.Just strangely sidelined in your own life.

Life happened.Grown-up problems reared their heads.I struggled — deeply at times — but I didn’t fall apart.

What actually happened was quieter than that.

I realised I wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore.And I wanted the keys back.

So I’m starting again.

Not loudly.Not dramatically.Not with a rebrand or a manifesto written down

Just honestly.

This year, I’m not chasing reinvention.I’m choosing recognition.

Of who I am — now.Of what I need — now.Of what I’m no longer willing to tolerate — going forward.

These aren’t resolutions.They’re reminders.

If you’re reading this wondering whether it’s “too late” to begin again, let me offer you this:

Today counts.

And guess what?Tomorrow will too.And the day after that — even though none of them are promised.

That’s why presence matters more than perfection.

Which brings me to something new I’m weaving into these musings this year: music.

Not as background noise.Not as vibes-for-the-algorithm.

But as accompaniment.As memory.As medicine.

Sometimes a song can take you back to a version of yourself you forgot still lived inside you — back when things were messy in a different way, but your spirit felt loud and intact.

Mini Playlist — The Beginning

* Be Happy — Mary J Blige

* What it is right now — Busta Rhymes Ft Kelis

* Still Not a Player — Big Pun ft. Joe

* Get your freak on Remix - Missy Elliot ft Nelly Furtado

* Hot Damn — Clipse

Let these play while you breathe.While you remember.While you begin again — quietly, imperfectly, honestly.

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You can now restack with commentary — add your voice, your truth, your story and if you turn on notifications, you’ll catch new posts without relying on the algorithm gods - I hate tehm

Thank you for being here. Truly.

Question as I draw this musing to a close,

What promise are you making to yourself this year — not for perfection, but for presence?

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Autumn is here—and the trees are all getting bare. I guess I have to get used to the dark mornings again. Coupled with the ongoing craziness in the world, it’s set to be another winter of discontent.Or is it?

Look, I’m Gen X—we invented ironic detachment as a survival mechanism—but even I have to admit this year has kicked my ass. My personal annus horribilis, if we’re being fancy about it. The kind of year where autumn feels less like a cute metaphor and more like an actual mood: everything falling apart in vibrant, crunchy, photogenic decay.

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As October draws to a close and we enter the last two months of the year, I seem to be feeling less stressed than I have been for most of 2025.

For once, I’m actually looking forward to spending cosy evenings indoors, all hygge with my husband, plus our winter walks and talks. Who knew?

Here’s what I’m clinging to as we slide toward winter: seasons don’t stop. They’re the original rollercoaster, and unlike the disasters of this year, they’re at least reliable.

Winter will be cold and dark and probably involve too much self-reflection over copious amounts of coffee and G&Ts—but, and this is the part I’m tattooing on my brain—spring always comes back.

It has to. It’s contractually obligated.

So yes, I’m in my midlife autumn, nursing my wounds and watching things fall away. But I’m also that stubborn weed that refuses to believe this is how the story ends.

Winter can do its worst. I’ve got my layers, my hygge game strong, and the unshakeable Gen X conviction that after you’ve hit bottom, the only direction left—as YAZZZZ sang—“is up.”

Spring is coming, and when it does, I’m going to be insufferably smug about having survived.

The Myth of Balance (and Why It’s Overrated)

Let’s talk about that sacred cow of modern life: work–life balance.

It’s outdated. Over-marketed. A big, shiny lie.

Balance implies calm, symmetry, and control—three things absolutely no one has in 2025. We’re not balancing; we’re juggling flaming swords on a unicycle while trying to look emotionally regulated.

We’re stirring pasta with one hand, answering Slack messages with the other, and calling it “mindfulness.” We’re doom-scrolling at bedtime and calling it “staying informed.” We’re running on fumes and calling it “discipline.”

Balance, as we’ve been sold it, is a fantasy. A productivity-porn fever dream that whispers:

If you just optimise better, plan better, wake at 5am, batch-cook on Sundays, colour-code your Google calendar, meditate for exactly 12 minutes—you’ll finally find harmony. BULL S**T , FA FA FA FOULLLL!

Life isn’t a spreadsheet, and you are not a project that needs better management.

The Stoics knew this long before hustle culture and LinkedIn thought leaders.They didn’t chase balance—they sought equanimity. Yes - I am in it - my oracle phase- but indulge me for a minute.

That quiet steadiness that comes not from controlling everything (impossible), but from mastering your response to it (deeply possible).

The goal isn’t to make your life symmetrical—it’s to make it sincere.To build a life that feels like one cohesive story instead of a series of competing chapters where Work You, Home You, and Social Media You are all beefing with each other.

Shout out to Ryan Holiday—his books Stillness is the Key and Courage is Calling, along with his Daily Stoic newsletters, have been a serious source of enlightenment.

When your work aligns with your values, when your boundaries actually support your wellbeing, when you stop treating peace like a weekend activity or a vacation you have to earn—you stop juggling and start living.

Balance is the illusion of control.Integration is the practice of acceptance.And acceptance, my loves, is where real peace begins.

It’s not about having it all.It’s about knowing what “all” even means for you.

So instead of asking, “How do I balance it all?” try asking: What deserves my energy today?

Not what screams the loudest.Not what guilt tells you.Not what the algorithm says you should be doing.What actually deserves you?

That question changes everythingggggg

The Prince of Misalignment

If you ever forget what misalignment looks like—don’t worry. The universe provides examples daily.

Twelve million pounds and a dead accuser later, and any decent person in the UK is still asking: Will Andrew Mountbatten Windsor aka Andy Windsor ever face real accountability?

Let’s be clear about what we’re looking at here: a man whose excuses—“no recollection,” “I was at Pizza Express in Woking,” “I don’t sweat”—sound like rejected scripts from The Office.

SIDEBAR: Shout out to Emily Maitlis, because I genuinely don’t know how she conducted that interview with a straight face. The woman deserves a BAFTA for maintaining composure while someone tried to alibi himself with a chain restaurant.

The real insult has been the tax-paying British public footing the bill for his protection and his silence. His security detail. His legal settlements. His carefully managed public invisibility. Now thanks to Kingyyy - this will be no more.

All while ordinary people are choosing between heating and eating, between electricity and therapy, between dignity and survival.

It’s misalignment on a royal scale: privilege pretending to be innocent.Reputation propped up by taxpayer pounds. Accountability buried under ermine and entitlement.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here facing consequences for our actions—losing jobs for being late, getting fined for missed payments, having our reputations destroyed for far less.

This comes as no surprise really—in my opinion, power of any sort corrupts, and crowns corrode faster than most.

I’m a closeted royalist—anyone who knows me knows I loved and respected the late Queen. I’ve got some time for King Charles, none for William, but ALL DAY for Harry.

However, at the end of the day, royals are human beings—not special, not chosen by divine right, not exempt from basic decency. Nope. They’re arse-wiping, snot-cleaning, regular Joe Bloggs like you and me.

Let that sink in.

The only difference? When we mess up, we face consequences. When they mess up, we pay for the cover-up.Meanwhile, HMRC will still be looking for people to pay back their Covid loans. smh.

The Antidote: Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès

And then—grace. Literally.

Grace Wales Bonner, the newly appointed Creative Director of Hermès’s women’s universe.

Let me say that again, slower, so we can all feel the weight of it:A Black British woman is now leading one of the most revered, quietly powerful luxury houses on earth.

Hermès isn’t just a brand—it’s a 187-year-old French institution that’s historically moved with the speed of hand-stitched leather. This is a house that has built its entire identity on heritage, craft, and an almost monastic devotion to tradition.

Into that rarefied space walks Grace Wales Bonner. Not as a token. Not as a headline. But as the woman who earned her seat at the table through decades of uncompromising, visionary work.

This isn’t a diversity headline—though the media will try to frame it that way.This is a cultural correction.

The result of consistent, soul-rooted work finally being recognised by an industry that has historically gate kept Black excellence while appropriating Black culture.

For generations, Black designers have been the uncredited architects of cool—setting trends that white designers got awards for. The fashion industry has long had a parasitic relationship with Blackness: it wants our aesthetics, our cultural references, our cool—but rarely our leadership.

Grace Wales Bonner has been building toward this moment her entire career—one stitch, one reference, one deeply researched collection at a time.

She fused European tailoring with Afro-Atlantic spirituality, rewrote the language of modern luxury, and pulled from James Baldwin, Harlem Renaissance photography, Caribbean diaspora, and West African textiles—not as costume, but as conversation.

She didn’t chase virality. She didn’t pander to the algorithm. She built a legacy—with intention, intellect, and integrity.

That’s what alignment looks like. That’s purpose rewarded.

The world is finally starting to understand that Black creativity isn’t a trend to mine—it’s a tradition to honour.

Grace Wales Bonner at Hermès is proof that excellence, when rooted in authenticity, becomes undeniable.Even to institutions built on gatekeeping.

Autumn teaches us what to shed.Winter teaches us what to survive.Spring reminds us why it was all worth it.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

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In an age where everyone’s got a “take,” being decent is starting to feel… radical.So let’s talk about virtue — that quiet, untrendy little thing that refuses to die, even in a world addicted to outrage.

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OF COURSEEE!! there are so many things to be outraged about but If you ask me, I think there’s a lot of outrage about the wrong things. In a world where it isn’t cool to be seen as going against the grain, it will take a lot of courage for one to be virtuous in 2025.

The Courage to Look Foolish

The ancient philosopher Epictetus once said:

“If you wish to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid.”

Translation? Sometimes doing the right thing makes you look dumb.

To be virtuous or virtue isn’t trending on TikTok.It doesn’t clap back, subtweet, self-promote, or drop a hot take for likes.It’s showing up — quietly, consistently.Choosing empathy over ego.Choosing silence over spectacle.Doing what’s right when no one’s watching — and especially when no one’s clapping.

In a world obsessed with optics, that kind of behaviour feels almost rebellious.Virtue today is countercultural.It’s not sexy. Not shareable. Definitely not sponsored.

Doing right rarely feels like victory. It feels ordinary. Invisible, even.Yet over time, it builds something no money, follower count, or hyper-glossed filter can buy: peace.

In 2025? Peace is rarer than a good Wi-Fi signal in Zone 2 — and infinitely more luxurious.

Culture Check: To Greta, To Meghan… and (sigh) To Kemi

Language evolves. So do we.

Once upon a time, to Beckham meant to bend it.To Kardashian meant to contour — both your face and your moral compass.

But in this era of midlife rebellion, it’s time to update the dictionary.

To Greta (v.)To rebel with purpose.To call out the madness.To plant both feet on solid ground while everyone else performs compliance.

“I’m feeling a little Greta today.”Translation? Too seasoned to fake it. Too tired to stay quiet.

To Meghan (v.)To master the art of quiet revenge — with a side of grace.

“She pulled a Meghan,” we whisper, admiring the woman who wins without a press release.That’s not pettiness. That’s strategy. That’s a PhD in peace.

To Kemi (v.) — use sparingly.Definition: A middle-aged Black woman who’s misplaced her Black sensibilities somewhere between Parliament and performative politics.Exhibit A:

We see you, sis. But we don’t claim you.On behalf of the Midlife Nigerian-British Ladies Association, London Chapter — we’d like to respectfully leave the WhatsApp group.With love, light… and mostly shade.

Midlife Reckoning: Gatekeepers at the Gate

Let’s have a word, Gen X.

We can’t all be gatekeepers when the gate’s hanging off its hinges and the keys are lost in a group email.Too many of us are still playing the “one-in, one-out” game — clutching our hard-won seats like scarcity is a virtue.

We make noise on International Women’s Day, then hoard the mic for the rest of the year.Time to evolve.

The Millennials and Gen Z girlie dem? They collaborate.They build. They DM each other — not for gossip, but for growth.

Real power isn’t about keeping others out.It’s about knowing your worth and creating space without fear of disappearing.

Midlife isn’t about proving yourself anymore.It’s about owning your stage — and knowing exactly when to step aside.

You don’t need to overschedule or overperform to be seen.You are the résumé. You are the reference.You’ve already earned your seat.

Be Greta when the truth needs a spine.Pull a Meghan when grace needs a face.And when life starts to feel like a badly run UN session?Log off. Pour something strong. Exit with quiet dignity.

Save this one for your next meltdown, existential crisis, or WhatsApp group implosion.And if it hits home, pass it on — because someone out there is learning, like the rest of us, that sometimes…

The loudest move you can make is silence.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

MMM40. Can you believe it? We actually made it to 40 musings. 🎉

When I started this, I thought I’d maybe squeeze out 10 before running out of steam (or out of patience). Yet here we are — 40 newsletters later, still laughing at the madness, raging at the nonsense, and dancing through the mayhem in sensible shoes.

But let me start with a confession. I get paid to market other people’s brilliance, but when it comes to marketing myself? I get shy! Confusion sets in - what do people want to see - my imposter syndrome voice gets louder and louder. Meanwhile my Clients get shiny decks and polished strategies; I get half-finished drafts and voice notes labelled “post later” that never see the light of day. Funny, but not funny.

Maybe it’s peri-brain, maybe it’s procrastination… either way, it’s done. That era is over.

From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Fam, let me start with a confession.

I get paid to market for others, but when it comes to marketing myself? Suddenly I’m the cobbler with no shoes, tiptoeing barefoot through my own ideas. My clients get campaigns, strategies, polished decks; I get voice notes, half-finished drafts, and the eternal excuse: “I’ll post it later.” - later rarely comes.

That ends now.

This — this evolution of myself— isn’t about shinier fonts or a slicker logo. It’s about finally owning my voice across every channel. No more split personalities: strategist here, soft-life auntie there, sarcastic truth-teller everywhere else. Exhausting. Diluting. Done.

From here on out, it’s one voice. My voice. Unapologetic. Midlife. Unfiltered.

Honestly, the timing couldn’t be better. Because the world feels permanently stuck in protest mode.

We’ve got chaos on London’s streets, migrants still treated like suspects, corporations queuing up for their annual Black History Month photo ops, Nigeria blowing out 65 candles while corruption eats the cake, and Gen Z vaping their way into popcorn lungs.

So really, what’s the point of me whispering when the world’s already shouting?

London Protest: What Are We Doing?

Last weekend, London’s streets turned into a theatre of slogans — placards waving, chants ricocheting, racism bold enough to strut without shame.

I was / am disgusted. Far-right mobs make my skin crawl. Racism has no place in British society. Full stop. Yet there it was, bold and unashamed. What’s worse? The silence that followed. No media uproar. No reckoning. White supremacy brushed off like background noise.

Let’s be clear: migrants are not the problem. The real problem sits higher up — an elite hoarding wealth, dodging taxes, and distracting the masses with “the other.”

And without migrants? Britain would collapse in days.

* The NHS would fold — 1 in 6 staff are migrants, 30% of doctors trained abroad.

* The economy would sag — migrants contribute more in taxes than they take in benefits.

* Culture would flatline — no Afrobeats, no curry houses, no Stormzy.

* Even football would limp — Marcus Rashford, Bukayo Saka, Cole Plamer. Gone.

This isn’t new. The Windrush generation answered Britain’s call, only to be treated as trespassers. Kids of migrants in the 80s were taught to shrink: walk behind, avoid eye contact, code-switch to survive.

Fast forward to 2025, and we’re still here. Racism bold in the streets, institutions pretending not to see.

Migrant Realities

That protest energy flows straight into the migrant struggle.

We bring the recipes, the rhythm, the free labour, the NHS shifts, the cultural sauce — and still get treated like uninvited guests at the very party we built.

Britain has selective memory. Post-war rebuilding? They called, and Windrush answered. NHS on its knees? Migrants staffed the wards. Fruit to be picked, labs to be led, tech to be launched? Same story. Who shows up? Migrants. Every single time.

Without us, this island folds quicker than a cheap bra in the wash. The buses wouldn’t run. The hospitals wouldn’t heal. The music would be silent. Dinner? Tragically tasteless and beige.

So when someone says “go back where you came from,” I just laugh

Black History Month (UK): Receipts, Not Hashtags

October is creeping in, and so are the predictable corporate moves: hashtags, stock images, and polished #BLM statements from brands that dont really care and are just ticking off CSR / DEI initiatives if they still have them.

I’ve been here before. In a former job role, I poured my soul into a Black History Month newsletter about racism, erasure, code-switching. People nodded. Then October ended, hashtags faded, and business as usual waltzed back in. That’s the cycle: performative allyship, seasonal diversity, and silence.

I said this then and ill say this now, the rush for brands, businesses and investors all of a sudden showing support to the black during the height of BLM would fall off a cliff, and it did/ it has.

A grassroots social media movement is calling for Black consumers, particularly Black women, to boycott non-Black-owned beauty and hair care retailers starting September 1st. Organisers and influencers are calling for a nationwide boycott, encouraging black consumers to stop purchasing beauty and hair care products that are not black -owned.

The movement gained momentum after TikTok creator @delwboy posted a video that quickly went viral, sparking a powerful conversation about the economics of the Black haircare industry.

Key Goals of this boycott are to redirect spending from major retailers and non-Black-owned brands to Black-owned beauty businesses and to Demonstrate the economic power of Black consumers in the beauty industry

The movement emphasiSes that after many years of black women carrying the hair industry on their backs, WE finally decided to take their economic power back. Black women spend six times more on hair than white women — £88 million in the UK alone. That’s power. That’s leverage. Yet we’re still sidelined, copied, and sold toxic products with a smile.

That’s why this September’s boycott matters. It’s not just about products. It’s about dignity.

We are tired of tokenism. Tired of Black founders being pressured into scaling too fast. Tired of brilliant brands shuttering while corporations steal our ideas.

Sidebar: go listen to Emma Grede’s Aspire podcast episode with Diarrha N’Diaye of Ami Colé. Powerful stuff.

If BLM means anything, it’s this: receipts over rhetoric. Buy Black. Year-round. Amplify, invest, sustain. Don’t cheer resilience while pulling the rug out.

Nigerian Independence Day

Nigeria turns 65. Old enough for a senior railcard, still too young for decent governance.

As part of the diaspora, I carry both pride and frustration. Nigerians are giants: Afrobeats, Nollywood, Chimamanda, Burna Boy, IAMISIGO reshaping fashion.

In the UK, we’re doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, athletes, artists. From Anthony Joshua in the ring to Bukayo Saka on the pitch, we don’t just participate — we excel. Britain is richer, sharper, bolder because of us.

And yet, home breaks hearts. Oil, talent, brilliance — squandered by corruption. Displaced people with a country. Nigerians scatter not because we don’t love home, but because home hasn’t loved us back.

Still, hope refuses to die. End SARS 2019 showed a fearless generation — tear-gassed, beaten, silenced, but unbowed. Maybe, like Nepal, Gen Z will take the reins and finally rewrite the story.

One Voice, Moving Forward

So here we are at the end of my musings for now, No more mixed messages just my unfiltered mix of s***s,giggles, thought provoking topics - topped up with humor , some gossip and vulnerability.

So if you’re here for soft life and vibes only, this might not be your stop. But if you’re here for messy truths, cultural clapbacks, and midlife rebellion — welcome home.

Strap in. The mayhem’s just warming up.

Now I want to hear from you. What do you want to see dismantled, celebrated, or dragged into the light? Hit reply, share this with your people, and let’s grow this movement of midlife women who are sick and tired of being sick and tired with a lot to say.

If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Comment, Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have considered moving up to paid on my substack as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Thanks for reading MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM ! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

Shoot the People: Hope, Truth & the Weight of Our Silence

Autumn lurks at the moment. The days are officially shorter, darkness creeping in before 8pm. Only a few weeks ago it was still light. I don’t mind the chillier mornings though — they feel honest somehow.

In the these crazy times, honesty matters. I choose to be on the side of REAL TRUTH.Not the curated kind. Not the spin-doctored “both sides” kind. But the messy, uncomfortable, bone-deep truth that demands we support the oppressed and call out injustice wherever it shows its face. That’s the bare minimum of being human.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Which brings me to Misan Harriman’s exhibition The Purpose of Light at the Hope 93 gallery, and the documentary Shoot the People at the BFI Southbank. The documentary is produced by Andy Mundy- Castle who is also of the Nigerian diaspora - when i found this out - i had a huge smile on my face. 

I’ve known Misan over 20 years — back when we were post-teens in the Nigerian diaspora, moving through the same London circles. He was a “city” boy: polite but obnoxious, flashy. Looking back now is almost comical, because the growth is astronomical. A decade ago he was outside London Fashion Week snapping street style. Then came Covid. Then George Floyd. something in Misan began to bubble — in his work — cracked open.

Misan’s lens doesn’t just capture moments. It refuses to let the world look away. He has archived protest, grief, unrest, resistance. Vulnerability and defiance, frozen in time.

A few years ago, at a march for Congo or Palestine (too many marches, really), Misan raised his camera and caught me mid-resistance. That photograph now hangs in his exhibition. For me, it’s proof: I showed up, I raised my voice, I refused silence. Most of all - I am PROUD to be featured as part of Harriman’s work - it is a moment of pride for me,  this kid from Misan’s home state of Delta in Nigeria.

Misan is an activist as much as an artist. He disregards comfort and safety to bear witness, to become a custodian of our collective trauma as Black and brown people. It takes courage. Whenever we speak, I worry for his mental health. The vitriol he receives online is relentless. Yet he says: “I do this because I must”, HOW POWERFUL IS THAT????

That kind of empathy and love — for people, for justice, for history — is rare. I’m glad to be alive in a time when people like Misan exist and insist. HE MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS. I could barely hold back tears when I introduced myself to his amazing wife - the bible says he who finds a good wife, finds a good thing - in this woman i swear he found a gem. 

If you haven’t yet, go to the Hope 93 gallery in London. See The Purpose of Light and then pop down to BFI Southbank and  Watch Shoot the People. Both of these works are powerful time capsules, reminders, and warnings of the times we are in. As we say in itsekiri ERE MISAN - ERE!! Misan Harriman

Michaela Coel: The Face, The Force, The Future

What does Michaela Coel mean to me — an African diaspora kid of a certain generation? EVERYTHING.

This woman is a GIANT to the culture. The epitome of DIY. The blueprint. The “I’ll build it myself, and you’ll just have to catch up” energy that redefines possibility.

So when I see her on the cover of Vogue, it isn’t just fashion. It’s cultural affirmation. A loud, unfiltered reminder that we’ve been shaping and remixing culture all along.

To call her only a “writer,” “actor,” or “director” is an injustice. She is:

* A cultural guardian of Black girl culture.

* A muse — Grace Jones for Gen Z.

* A face for the ages: Queen Elizabeth of Toro, Iman, and something entirely her own.

Those angular features. Cheeks like blades. Lips like sculpture. Skin that commands light without apology. She is beauty, but also disruption.

She has walked through fire. Survived a rape early in her career — transmuting that pain into I May Destroy You, one of the most powerful series of our time. That wasn’t just art. That was alchemy.

She’s a Spike Lee of sorts — but for Black Britishness. For the diaspora stitched together by Wi-Fi and memory.

Michaela is more than a moment. She is the moment. A living bridge. For some of us, she’s a mirror. For younger ones, she’s a portal, Micheala is Not just a cover girl. A cultural giant.

Tears of a Clown: Success Tax, Pennies & Perimenopause in the Valley

Do you ever get tired of being tired?Like bone-deep tired. The kind that makes you want to pack it all in and just… stop.

I’m in that season. Bills overdue, direct debits bouncing like afrobeats, pennies left to my name. I’m not writing this for pity (I hate pity). This is truth: I feel embarrassed, afraid, uncertain. And pretending otherwise is exhausting.

I call it the Success Tax. The price you pay for refusing to stay down. Every time life knocks you flat, you get back up. Over and over. UP UP UP. Like a jack-in-the-box nobody ordered.

Dean Graziosi said: “Success won’t come chasing you down — you’ve got to chase it.” Some days I think that’s me: chasing success in slippers while it runs ahead in Nike Pegasus.

Then perimenopause gatecrashes the race. Hormones turn every problem into a catastrophe. Anxiety sneaks in at 2am. Depression mutters “you’re not enough.” Mood swings flip me from zen to “burn it all down” before the kettle boils. A bounced debit becomes a referendum on my worth. A late text reply feels like exile. Sometimes I cry because my nails look wack, i forgot to get salt from the shops even though i was out a few times or when i think the  laundry  basket looked at me funny. It is out of control!!!

They say it’s darkest before dawn. But must I hit rock bottom for light to come? Some days I feel like 2025 mugged me and left me on the pavement. The peri-mental spiral is real: muttering turns into full-blown conversations with myself. Bargaining, consoling, scolding… then laughing at the absurdity. Tears of a clown.

The silence from friends stings. Everyone’s battling their own storms, I get it. But when your hormones are rioting, even a small sting feels like a wasp nest.

Yet — I am lucky to have family and  a husband who has been my rock. The ones who doesn’t flinch when I unravel. That kind of love, steady when everything else shakes, is a wealth no bank can measure.

So yes, I’m afraid. Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m broke. And yes, my hormones are dragging me like a malfunctioning self-drive car. But I’m still here. Still standing.

Maybe survival looks like this: ugly, unfiltered, overthinking everything… but still here.

As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x 

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

At this stage in my life, some jobs are just jobs — pay check in hand and we're good. Others are cultural pilgrimages in disguise, the kind where you're lugging garment bags through train stations and cobbled streets, answering WhatsApps at 2 a.m., and trying to draft a convincing email to an all-European team how an African brand deep in ancestral technologies and practices needs to be regarded and respected — even if the brand is showing for the first time in Scandinavia.

Working with IAMISIGO for Copenhagen Fashion Week wasn't just Comms and brand strategy — it was a living, breathing act of cultural preservation wrapped in hand-beaten metal resistance.

Bubu Ogisi, the creative director of IAMISIGO, doesn't "make clothes" in the pedestrian sense. She channels history and stitches memory, and turns textile traditions into wearable manifestos. My job? Make sure the world got it — without watering it down for the Western gaze.

CPHFW is many things: sustainable, structured, and very Scandinavian in its punctuality. Lagos? Lagos is organised chaos with a pulse. I was somewhere between translator, hype woman, and air traffic controller — making sure BUBU’s wishes for the show were conveyed as deeply African, fiercely modern, unapologetically itself… while still starting within the allotted slot. Well, 20-minute slot in this case — the traditional 15 minutes wouldn't work for us. Perfection cannot be rushed.

The moment I almost cried — not from stress, but from watching the first full run-through. Goosebumps. Lump in throat. Full cinematic cliché. Watching Bubu take the applause she deserved — a full-on moment for me. I was beaming with pride.

The magic wasn't just in the clothes — though those were something else entirely — but in the room. It was models walking with the weight of heritage and the lightness of art. It was knowing that somewhere between Lagos, Accra, Kampala and Copenhagen, between the ancestral and the futuristic, we'd built a bridge.

After years in fashion, shows can start to blur. This one won't. It will live in my memory not because it was perfect, but because it was true. In an industry addicted to reinvention, truth is still the most radical thing you can put on a runway.

The post-show high lasted 36 hours. The post-show foot pain lasted a week. I'd do it all over again tomorrow — sign me up.

Hip Hop at 46: Still Paying My Dues

I'm 46 and still a child of hip hop. Not in the "stuck in the 90s" way — though, let's be honest, my internal soundtrack is still heavy on Nas, Lauryn, and Biggie — but because hip hop shaped the rhythm of how I move through the world. It isn't just music. It's a lens, a language, a life skill.

I talk about hip hop like it's a living, breathing being — because for me, it always has been. It walked me through awkward teens, ambitious twenties, reckless thirties, and now these unapologetic midlife years.

Reggie Yates recently wrote about RESET THEORY — "Forever young, or refusing to grow up?"

His words hit. The culture has to evolve. Rappers have to age, and hopefully their sound with them. Yet some older cats insist on rapping about things that, at their age, just feel… gross, to be honest. How can you be almost 50 and still rapping about b*****s and hoes? The tables have turned at this point — if you are almost 50 and still rapping on this subject matter, guess what? You are the b***h. You are the ho! Life totally fucked you.

Hip hop in 2025 is messy. Industry plants everywhere. Gentrification on steroids. But I'm not done riding for it. Not by a long shot. Thankfully, a few of my favs are evolving the craft like fine wine.

We've got grown-folks rap thriving: Jay-Z pushing 60 and still dropping verses that send kids scrambling to Chat GPT to decipher. Nas in his renaissance. Missy Elliott out-innovating your favourite twenty-something producer. CLIPSE — yes, CLIPSE — back with an album that's both nostalgic and future-facing. Malice and Pusha T sound sharper than ever, reminding us maturity doesn't mean mellowing out; it can mean cutting deeper. "Let God Sort 'Em Out" is basically my new mantra.

The way we consume music has changed. Streams, playlists, algorithms telling us what we "might like." Efficient, yes. Fleeting, also yes. Back in the day, an album drop was an event. You lived with it. Read the liner notes. Argued about favourite tracks in person, not just in comment threads. Now? Your favourite artist's single can vanish down your feed before you've even memorised the hook.

For me, hip hop still demands presence. It's the one genre that makes me stop mid-task and listen. Never background noise — always front and center, syncing to my own heartbeat.

Hip hop is why I walk into a room like I belong there. Why I side-eye anyone clapping on the wrong beat. Why I can sit in a Copenhagen Fashion Week boardroom one day, negotiating deals worth thousands of pounds, and still lose my mind over a perfectly timed DJ track drop the next.

It's not nostalgia. Not a phase. It's a lifetime membership. In 2025, I'm still paying my dues — in full, with interest. Thank God for Kendrick — in him I trust.

Back to my life: I'm making s**t work the best I can. I realize I'm not alone trying to unravel my life — shed old things and become my new self. The tea is, nobody tells you becoming yourself at midlife feels like breaking in a new pair of Docs — stiff, awkward, rubbing in places you didn't know could blister.

Life right now feels like a construction site. Dusty, noisy, and full of mess. I feel so unprepared for this shift — it's like I'm trying to land a plane with no manual. This has been my life the last few years. Walking into my being now means bumping into all the old versions of myself — the people-pleaser, the hustler, the one who said yes before she even knew what the ask was.

Growing pains are real. Bodies rewrite their own rules without permission. Just when you think you've cracked the code, there's another life plot twist that shows up unannounced.

The beauty of midlife is that it strips you down to essence. I have been laid bare. MY YANSH is open.. No more rehearsals. No more pretending. Your own voice gets louder than the noise. You learn that peace is a flex, boundaries are love letters, and "no" is a full sentence.

For me, walking into my being feels both scary and exciting. Like stepping on stage with no script but finally trusting I can freestyle my way through.

Midlife isn't the end of youth. It's the start of truth. So I'm lacing up my boots, blisters and all.

Let’s talk about Serena Williams — the woman who could probably bench press a small car while serving aces — is now hawking weight loss drugs. Because nothing screams "athletic excellence" quite like trading your racket for a prescription bottle. Somebody wake me up when septemeber ends like the green day songggggg.. what da helly??????

Let me paint you the picture: Serena Williams, spokesperson for health company Ro (purveyors of those trendy GLP-1 medications), sharing her "positive experience" with weight loss drugs. Oh, and plot twist — her husband Alexis Ohanian just happens to be an investor and board member. Wonders ehhh!!!!- they shall never cease.

This is the woman who redefined what powerful looked like. Who made thighs-that-could-crush-watermelons aspirational. Who carried an entire sport on her incredibly strong back while reminding us that bodies were built for domination, not decoration. She turned muscle into mainstream and proved that champions come in all shapes, today, she's telling us the real victory is on the scale.

The irony is deliciously bitter: she built her legacy proving that strong was beautiful, that power was gorgeous, If SERENA— has to bow down to the skinny industrial complex, what hope do us mere mortals have?

Maybe this is midlife's cruelest lesson: no matter how many trophies you've won, how many millions you've earned, or how many times you've proven yourself unstoppable, the body shame machine will eventually come knocking apparently, it's very persuasive when it brings investment opportunities.

Though I proudly wear my REBEL badge and try my damnedest not to conform to society's beauty standards, I'd be lying if I said Kate Moss's infamous 90s mantra didn't whisper seductively in my ear sometimes: "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Hate to admit it, but that quote has some staying power.

Here's what really gets me though: these celebrities peddle weight loss solutions to us regular folk, but they've got teams of people managing every aspect of their lives. Personal trainers, nutritionists, chefs, probably someone whose entire job is monitoring side effects and adjusting dosages. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here Googling "normal GLP-1/ Ozempic side effects and reactions" at 2 AM and hoping for the best. SMH. o

Sharon Chuter — A Trailblazer Gone Too Soon

The beauty world just lost one of its fiercest visionaries. Sharon Chuter, founder of Uoma Beauty, passed away at just 38 on August 14, 2025 — a stunning loss that leaves a void far larger than any palette could fill.

Born in Nigeria and forged in the corporate corridors of L'Oréal and LVMH, Chuter launched Uoma Beauty in 2019 to do more than sell makeup. She set out to redefine beauty itself. The brand burst onto the scene with a bold statement: a 51-shade foundations. She wasn't competing with Fenty — she was reaffirming, reclaiming what beauty could and should stand for.

But Sharon Chuter didn't stop at products. She founded the Pull Up for Change initiative — and its clarion call, #PullUpOrShutUp — in 2020. She demanded transparency: show us your diversity numbers, or get lost in the noise.

In 2021, she elevated her activism with Make It BLACK, a campaign flipping the narrative on the word "black" — pushing brands to relabel packaging in black, and funneling the proceeds back to Black entrepreneurs.

Sharon Chuter stepped off the CEO stage in 2023 after a breakdown of health — a wake-up call that came with the weight of 134-hour work weeks and zero sleep. She lost 10 kg in a week, sparking fears of cancer. Thankfully, that nightmare wasn't real, but it cost her the job. She walked away from the boardroom, hoping for real rest, but the brand's assets were quietly sold behind her back during medical leave — can you just imagine… F**K THOSE PEEPS man.. everything she had worked so hard for just taken away just like that. Jeeezz!

She was found at home, on a patio — the cause of death still under investigation. we need answers ooo, why are black female founders under attack? 1st we lose the brand AMI COLE and now we reading UOMA was stolen from Sharon and then she is found UNALIVE??

Losing Sharon Chuter feels different. I want to know how she died. I was lucky enough to meet her at the Glamour Woman of the Year awards in 2023, and her energy was infectious.

In midlife, we're supposed to be easing off the accelerator, not flooring it — but Sharon proved that the real vice is complacency. She reminded us that representation isn't optional; it's revolutionary. My UOMA products (still unused) will become a memory for me. I refuse to buy anymore, knowing that the soul of the company left this earth already and she was not happy.

Rest in peace Sharon, my fellow Naija sis — as we say back home: YOU TRY!

On a final note, Summer 2025 has turned out to be one of my best summers yet - I got to do some incredible stuff , travel to a few different places and seen a lot of s**t! Most importantly I spent a lot of time with my nearest and dearest - and this has proved time and time again to be the best tonic for my woes. I am so blessed.

As usual, If these musings and others made you laugh or think, or even if you didn’t feel anything which i highly doubt not to toot my own horn…Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already and if you have consider moving up to paid as your girl would appreciate the coins.

Hit me up in the comments,

Love,

Ari x

P.S There’s no better time than now for us to start the UOMA boycott.

“We don't care for what they say – that’s my superpower.”– Obongjayar + Little Simz, “LOTUS” (2025)

June 6th, 2025: I’m at Heathrow, boarding yet another flight back to Malmö after two weeks of grafting in London. Hustling. Networking. Smiling through rejections and lukewarm “keep in touches.” A trip that, if I’m honest, didn’t quite work out the way I hoped it would. The energy felt off. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was Mercury doing nonsense again.

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As I settle into my seat, I say my prayers and just before I have a look through Netflix to see what moves I had downloaded, I start scrolling through the socials—and then BOOM. There it is: Simz just dropped her new album.

My anxiety-ridden face melts into a grin. Yes o! My sis dropped a lifeline.

Simbiatu Abisola Abiola Ajikawo—aka Little Simz—has been my little sister in my head since her debut. She’s Nigerian by blood, Brit by postcode, and just like me, her lyrics speak diasporan third culture realness.She raps like she’s been in our WhatsApp groups. Like she’s watched us age gracefully into soft life but still keep pepper spray in our handbags, just in case.

With LÖTUS, Simz didn’t just release an album. She released a whole spiritual seminar. A body of work that feels like what happens when introspection lifts weights, flies business class, journals with intention, and comes back with chakras aligned and edges laid.

This is grown woman rap. Nigerian slang, London cadence, but the delivery? Universal. Simz raps from her soul, from her solar plexus, from that place where your ancestors and your therapist meet for drinks and drag you lovingly.

The lotus flower’s meaning across cultures is one of rebirth, purity, and spiritual elevation. That’s exactly what this album is. After a very public creative divorce from her long-time producer, Inflo, Simz lays it bare. “Thief,” the opening track, is a lyrical exposé—raw, poetic, and clearly aimed at someone close.

But as we say in Naija: Naija no dey carry last—and we MOVE.

Simz teams up with Miles Clinton James (of Kokoroko fame), who produces the entire project with lush, layered, AFRO-jazz-meets-cinematic-orchestration vibes. The production? Textured like Aso-oke on a humid Lagos afternoon.It’s giving orchestral grime.It’s giving “Yoruba priestess in a Celine blazer.”It’s giving “I’ve done the healing, now here’s the sermon.”

For yours truly, the standout track? LION.

Featuring the mighty Obongjayar another one of Naija’s finest, it’s Marvin Gaye meets Fela Kuti on a rooftop in woolwich.Waists are winding. Yansh is yanshing. From the very first beat, I was up in my economy seat doing spiritual warfare through rhythm.It’s spiritual. It’s dangerous. It’s divine.

Throughout the album, Simz testifies. She lectures. She floats. On “SOS,” she addresses the rap game like a tired but stylish auntie at a family meeting.She gives us receipts with love. And when she taps into her softer moments? It’s not sad girl aesthetics—it’s I’ve walked through fire and didn’t burn energy.

LOTUS isn’t just music. It’s audio therapy.It’s incense, and the incense tax.It’s brass sections and boundaries.It’s what my inner voice wishes it sounded like—over immaculate production and unapologetic clarity.

LÖTUS is Simz’s coronation.She’s Lauryn Hill, Sade Adu, Erykah Badu, and the Ladiju Sisters, all rolled into one.In the 1hour 20 minutes I was up in the air listening to this album, I felt deep, unshaken gratitude.Not just for the music, but for Simbi herself.May her reign be long, bold, and boundary-breaking.

Meanwhile in the circus tent the Rumble of the Rich Men.

One minute they’re beefing—Musk calling for impeachment, Trump threatening federal contracts, Epstein name-drops flying like confetti.Next thing? Tesla shares bounce, Elon apologises, and the bromance resumes like nothing happened.

I mean ARE YOU HAVING A BUBBLE, TRUMP?ARE U HAVING A LAUGH, ELON???Come on. We saw it coming like a Nollywood plot twist.

It’s all one big distraction.It’s optics.It’s giving Jayda Essence Hall’s “look over there” while the world is on fire.And while the boys were cosplaying Real Billionaires of Mar-a-Lago, real things were going down.

Greta, Gaza & Guts

Greta Thunberg joined a flotilla to break the Gaza blockade. Israel intercepted the boat—on international waters—snatched activists (Greta included), and deported them like DHL returns.

She clapped back, called it what it was: kidnap.God bless her. God bless every soul on that mission. May they all return safe.

Greta’s urging the world to go to Gaza.In person, in spirit, in solidarity.That’s the real front page news.Not this clown-off between Trump and Elon.

The Diddy Debacle - OKPORRRRRRR

Whew.This week’s testimony from “Jane,” one of Diddy’s exes, was harrowing.

A social media influencer, she testified about abuse, manipulation, coercion into unprotected sex with sex workers—and Diddy watching her sleep with other men. Including entertainers. Including his personal trainer Paul.

Yep. Freak-Offs™ were scheduled. Staffed. Ready.It’s giving “Yansh on tap.”It’s giving “No orgy, no entry.”NA WA OOO.

Diddy’s legal team is pulling every stunt in the courtroom circus—calling mistrial, questioning jurors, all of it.But the prosecution? They’re painting a picture that looks like a long-standing, coercive sex-trafficking operation.

This isn’t about kink.This is about control. Power. Shame.And “Jane’s” story echoes what Cassie Ventura and others have said.These weren’t just “freak nights.” These were orchestrated violations hidden behind fame, fortune, and fear.

These are CRAZYYY times people, i aint gonna lie.

I mean what do you guys think? Hit me up in the comments.

Love,

Ari.x

P.SIf this musings and others made you laugh, think, shake- yansh, or side-eye the state of the world—do your good deed for the day:Like it. Re-stack it. Re-share it. Subscribe if you haven’t already.

Writing these takes incense, WiFi, and a borderline concerning amount of oat milk lattes. If you’re feeling generous (or just entertained), you can also drop me a tip or buy me a coffee

—every rebellious aunty needs caffeine-fuelled encouragement.

Your support keeps me going. Literally. 🖤

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This week felt unreal…

Gaza continues to be erased with clinical precision. The term "asylum" is now a branding strategy. Climate denial is being greenwashed with yacht fuel. And somewhere between Diddy’s trial, TikTok farmers, and billionaires trying to trademark culture, I caught myself looking up plots of land somewhere HOT wondering if it’s time to raise pot bellied ,goats and lean all the way into my midlife exit fantasy. I am OVER the western world. 

Reverse Asylum: When White Tears Unlock Borders

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So here’s the headline that made my left eye twitch: 35 white South African nationals were granted refugee status in the U.S.—on the basis of “white genocide.” Let that sink in. In 2025.

This same asylum system regularly denies safe haven to Black and brown people escaping actual war, cartel-controlled violence, climate displacement, or political persecution. But white South Africans? Come right in. No questions. No irony. I didnt know if i should laugh or actually cryyyyyyyy. 

This isn’t just a bad policy—it’s performance art for the insecure. It’s the weaponisation of a word as sacred and severe as “genocide” used to mask resentment over land redistribution and crime—two issues that, ironically, disproportionately impact Black South Africans.

Meanwhile, real, sustained violence against Black women, LGBTQ+ South Africans, and the economically marginalised gets zero airtime. It’s not trending on Twitter. It doesn’t get Fox News prime slots. It just… keeps happening. Quietly. Violently. Invisibly.

Ramaphosa vs. Trump: Diplomacy on Hard Mode

Then there’s the geopolitical theatre that unfolded on May 21st.

President Cyril Ramaphosa visited the U.S., only to be ambushed by Donald Trump—armed with debunked videos and doctored images supposedly “proving” white genocide in South Africa. One of the most egregious pieces of “evidence” turned out to be a photo from the Democratic Republic of Congo.

It was less of a state visit and more of a Daily Mail fever dream disguised as diplomacy.

But instead of walking out—or flipping the desk—Ramaphosa responded with poise. He corrected the record, reminded the room (and the cameras) that Black South Africans are the most frequent victims of violent crime, and calmly reiterated the country’s land reform efforts as necessary redress—not racial vendetta. I loved when he turned to the WHITE man in the South African delegate (- a billionaire himself and the minister of agriculture) and asked him to respond to Trump.  As if to say - “ABEG  TALK TO YOUR GUY” lollllz

That, my friends, is diplomacy under duress. You know deep down he wanted to slap someone and fly back home. But instead, he chose legacy over ego. That’s leadership. That’s emotional restraint on masterclass levels.

Meanwhile in the U.S.: Farming, But Make It Aesthetic

Back across the Atlantic, American agriculture has become content. No soil experience? No problem. Just buy a drone, throw on some Carhartt, and announce your journey into “regenerative farming.” Apparently, you can now become a farmer with zero training—just vibes and a tractor named Freedom.

This influencer-farmer era—let’s call it FarmTok gone feral—has turned rural labour into a gentrified aesthetic. But the foundation? Crumbling.

When ICE raids and immigration crackdowns decimated the farm labour force, it wasn’t "Chad from LinkedIn" who stepped in to pick strawberries. “NO one”. farms lost over $3 billion in crops in 2019 in the first administration of Trump,  with the present GOVT back  in power and the ice raids being ramped up - they are losing almost 5 x times that amount.

50–70% of America’s farm labour force is undocumented and are the backbone of the US Food system, and when they’re deported or too afraid to show up, America’s entire food chain collapses.  These former “MAGA” strong holds are besides themselves - all raging with regret- which i think is so funny - like what the f**k did you think would happen? Its the privilege and effrontery for me…

Black Farmers? Not New to This. Still Fighting.

While white farmers cry foul, Black and Indigenous farmers aren’t shocked—they’re just exhausted.

In 1920, Black farmers owned 14% of U.S. farmland. Today? Less than 1%. That’s what decades of USDA discrimination, land theft, and structural exclusion will do.

But still, they farm. Quietly. With innovation and resilience

The Diddy Trial: Abuse, Silence & the Machine Behind the Man

The Diddy trial isn’t just a courtroom drama—it’s a masterclass in how power protects itself. Former assistants including the one whom legend says knows where all the bodies are-  Capricorn Clark described years of intimidation, kidnapping threats, and physical violence. Cassie Ventura testified about abuse, coercion into drug-fuelled sex acts, and blackmail with revenge porn.

Kid Cudi’s Porsche? Firebombed. Witnesses? Traumatized. The entertainment industry? Mostly silent.

Global brands who once begged to associate with him? Quiet. Music execs? Even quieter. Because when power bleeds into profit, morality takes a nap.

This isn’t about one man—it’s about the machine that enabled him, protected him, and profited from him for decades.  Jimmy IOVINE was mentioned in Capricon’s testimony - and not in a positive light… SIGHHH… in some ways - PUFFY was always going to be the fall guy - HIS HANDS AREN'T CLEAN though - but there were bigger players involved for all of this to have been happening unchecked.

So yeah… this week felt like satire. But worse—because it’s real.

White refugees are being fast-tracked while Black and brown asylum seekers rot in detention. Billionaires are playing Monopoly with entire cultures. Ramaphosa showed more restraint than I have at a Zara sale. American farms are collapsing because Chad thought cucumbers grow in crates. And Diddy’s trial has become a slow drip of everything we’ve suspected for decades—corruption, silence, complicity, and a whole system built on "don’t ask, don’t disrupt."

It’s all so loud. And yet, in the moments that matter most, the people with the biggest platforms are dead silent.

But here’s the thing—we’re still here. Still side-eyeing the nonsense. Still surviving the chaos. Still holding space for nuance, for justice, for joy. Still cracking jokes because if we don’t laugh, we’ll scream. Or worse—become unseasoned.

I don’t have the perfect answer. I’m not sure if the goats or pot bellied pigs and solar-powered retreat are the solution (though it’s tempting). But I do know this: we find power in naming the absurdity, in refusing to look away, and in finding our own damn rhythm in the madness.

So tonight, I’m closing my laptop, making myself a triple Gin and Tonic, and whispering “woosah” into the wind.

Sometimes, the most revolutionary thing we can do is rest… and plot.

Finally, I am sending a special shout out and all my love to LIVERPOOL. standing with the people there who experienced a domestic terrorist attack as they celebrated Liverpool’s premiership title. YOU will NEVER WALK ALONE.

Please comment, interact, like, share, re-stack and subscribe if you haven’t. I TOTALLY need the encouragement and want to grow my small community on here.

You can also tip me or buy me a coffee if you enjoy my work.

Love,

Ari. x

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Zagging is for the masses—this is for the ones who see through the noise.

There’s so much freedom in not doing what everyone else is doing—especially in midlife, when society politely suggests you fade away respectfully.

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I f*****g can’t. NOPE. Even when I try, my subconscious throws a side-eye and snatches me back. I was simply not built for conformity for conformity’s sake.

While the world zags—chasing the next algorithm, swiping through trends, buying anti-aging serums infused with unicorn tears—I’m over here zigging in technicolour. Wearing clashing prints like armour. Mindfully minding my own damn business. Choosing joy over hustle. Energy over aesthetics. Peace over performance.

Zagging? That’s for the crowds. Zigging? That’s for the bold, the curious, the gloriously unbothered. Those who find things scary—but do it anyway. 

We are the ZIG-ers.(Careful how you say that. Could get you slapped if you’re not melanated.)

The ones who make audacious, off-script moves not because it’s cool—but because our spirit says this way. We feel. Then we do.

Midlife is My Mixtape

I’ve outlived bad hairstyles, bad bosses, bounced rent payments, countless pots of burnt jollof, and the kind of friendships and situationships as well as relationships that made me question if I had offended the ancestors.

I wear my scars like sequins—earned, not bought. The real flex? Marching to the beat of your own midlife mixtape. 

I’ve always been like this. If everyone loved something (or someone), I’d instantly side-eye it. Suspicious. Uninterested. Oppositional by nature.

I blame my mum and aunties. Do you know how many times I heard:“Just because everyone turns left doesn’t mean you should,”or the classic,“If everyone is putting their hand in fire, does that mean you’ll put yours in too?”

Countless. It stuck. Like OLD SCHOOL PALMERS (cocoa butter) did in winter.

Zigging is freedom when you deep it.It’s embracing this moment in life—gloriously messly, gloriously yours.

It’s “Too blessed to be stressed” energy mixed with “f**k around and find out.”

Zigging is that voice that whispers:“Spice up your damn life.”

My response?Zig a zig ahhhh.

On Diddy, Power, and The Silence That Kills

Now. Let’s pivot.

Because while I’ve been zigging my way through joy, healing, and bold expression—there’s another layer we can’t ignore.

This Diddy madness? From hero to absolute zero.

Sex trafficking. Extortion. Abuse. Even if he’s not technically indicted for all that, the accusations are enough to make your spirit scream.

As someone who grew up on hip-hop, this is heartbreaking. These unchecked crimes are rotting the culture from the inside out. The silence is loud. The cover-ups? Nasty work.

We talk about community, but too many stay quiet when it’s time to protect our women. That ain’t it.

Cassie’s story? Whew.If you’ve read the statement, seen the court docs, watched the footage… you know.

He stomped her head. Kicked her back. Tried to de-life her.Forced her into those so-called “freak-offs.” That ain’t love. That’s a predator with a god complex.

That’s manipulation, power, and control.

Kid Cudi? Blown-up car, DAY AND NIGHT - Ex friend of Kanye..

His Car exploded in his driveway. Diddy allegedly mad because he was cool with Cassie- apparently they were friends.

Who does that?Who the hell does he think he is—Puff Bin Laden?!

Wigs off and huge shoutout to Alex Fine—Cassie’s now-husband. Hired by Diddy as a trainer, ended up being her protector. Diddy allegedly tried to blacklist him too, kill his career. And still—Alex stood firm. Married her. Loved her. Fathered her children. That’s real. “Fix your face, watch your mouth”—was Diddy’s favourite threat to her. Shudder.

Cassie said she did hundreds of those freak-offs. Violated beyond measure. That $20 million settlement? Nowhere near enough. But she’s free.Free from the drugs. Free from the control.Free.

There’s one celeb I just know has seen some things.Allegedly, of course. But come on.

We are literally watching him unravel in real time. The energy’s off. The eyes are heavy. The light’s dimmed.

I’m talking about Justin Bieber.

This is someone who, like Cassie, got swept into the industry young—barely formed as a person, yet surrounded by power, predators, and pressure.

Since puffy got did, It’s like Justin’s spirit’s calling out for help in plain sight.

I JUST WANT TO HUG him and let him know everything will be okay.

He’s vulnerable. Clearly going THROUGH it.The trauma. The silence. The way his body language screams what his mouth can’t say yet.

Seriously, if what’s allegedly gone down is even half true—it’s some next-level s**t.

Protect Your Magic, Guard Your Real

This musing started with zig-zag living, but it cracked something open.

Because when you choose to zig, you start seeing the world as it is.You hear the offbeat. You clock the quiet abuse.You refuse to play along just because it’s easier—and you start holding space. For yourself. For others. For truth.

We exist in a world that screams “be yourself!”Then side-eyes you the minute you actually do.

Do you want to know the real grown woman truth?:

You cannot bring your whole self everywhere.Not to work.Not to that “good vibes only” WhatsApp group chat.

I’ve always preached showing up as your authentic self.Still do.But you’ve gotta know which version of you the room can actually hold.

That full-fat, seasoned, spicy, culturally marinated you?Keep that for your people.The ones who see you.Love you loud.Hold you soft.

Not every space deserves your whole self.And not every space has earned it.

Protect your magic—not out of shame, but out of wisdom.

The Pattern is the Point

This whole Diddy situation? Like Cosby, Epstein, Weinstein—it’s cracked something open. The silence that used to cloak powerful men is lifting.

The patterns are clear: Freak-offs. Control. Manipulation. Generations of damage, finally surfacing.

Cassie found her voice.Cudi survived.Alex Fine showed us what protective love looks like.

Midlife?It strips off the nonsense. The illusion. The falseness, It hands you clarity—and the courage to use it.

So no, I’m not zagging to keep up with anyone’s curated highlight reel.I’m zigging—with purpose, with joy, and yes, with a bit of glitter on my trauma and healing in my heart. Minding my joy which is nobody else’s business.

If you’re still here, still nodding, still reading?

You’re probably zigging too.

So I’ll say it one more time, loud for the people at the back:

Stay bold. Stay loud.And really, really, really…Zig a zig ahhhhhh.

Please Like, share, restack and subscribe if you haven’t.

Oh- and buy me a coffee if you enjoy my work.

xoxo

P.S ALLEGEDLY RE JUSTIN BIEBER - I aint tryna get sued by nobody whilst i’m here minding my business .

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Outgrowing Old Realities & Whispering New Truths

It’s wild, isn’t it?

When your favourite piece of clothing—the one that once made you feel unstoppable—still fits, technically… but it just doesn’t feel right anymore. It pinches in places you didn’t notice before. It clings where you now crave softness.  You suddenly realise: maybe it’s not the fabric that changed, maybe it’s you who’s changed.

That’s where I’m at. Growing out of old dreams, is like retiring a pair of trusty jeans that rode with me through the wild nights and even wilder plans. They served their purpose. But now? I’m daydreaming new ones.  Midlife, this time, they’re stitched with quieter threads—less toxicity and strife, more harmony and less stress.

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I used to chase rooms filled with the right people. You know, the ones who looked good on your insta feed or a LinkedIn brag or a dinner party name-drop. But the spaces I crave now? Just need to be filled with the right energy. The kind of people who don’t just see the highlight reel, but the whole damn blooper reel too—and stay anyway.

Yes, my dreams still involve cool places and people… but my definition of “cool” has evolved. These days, it’s less rooftop parties and more rooftop solitude. Less VIP lists, more inner peace. I mean I am not a recluse or becoming one—as every now and then, you can catch me OUTSIDE.

I know I’m not the same. I can feel the shift, tugging at the edges of who I used to be. And while I’m excited to meet the next version of me, I also know I can’t skip the messy middle. In the words of JAY Z on his smash hit with Linkin Park “ encore” There’s no grand “opening” or  grand “closing.” Just layers being peeled back, one truth at a time. I’m a work in progress. Forever.

Genuine Joy (Even When You’re Falling Apart a Bit)

Let’s keep it a buck: being genuinely happy for someone else when your own life feels like it’s being held together by chewing gum, dry shampoo, and ever decreasing faith is hard…  That’s not just emotional maturity—that’s advanced-level adulting. That’s emotional Pilates, some kind of stretching that hits parts of your soul you didn’t even know were tight.

Truth is celebrating someone else’s joy doesn’t shrink your own. In fact, it plants it. Quietly. Like hope with a long germination period.

Being happy for someone—even when you’re bruised, in a funk, or just emotionally crusty—takes guts. It means you’re starting to accept (or at least wrestle with the idea) that life isn’t a Pinterest board or linear.

Full transparency here—I still fall face-first into the puddle of “Why not me?” sometimes. I spiral. I scroll. I sulk. I whisper “when God?” under my breath more than I care to admit. I’m not proud of it. But I’m human. The path to healing isn’t a linear journey either—it’s a bloody roundabout.

But comparison? Oh, that B***H is  a slick thief. An “OLE” as we say in Lagos. Out here in these streets stealing hope, peace, and joy.  Sometimes she looks like inspiration until she starts whispering, “You’re behind.” Your mates have done XYZ and you haven’t.  Mindfuck!!!! 

Real joy for others is radical. It punches scarcity in the face—the same scarcity mindset that tells us there’s only so much love, success, money, or visibility to go around (just like the mindset of those who bullied that US Substack author off the platform last week... you know the one 👀).

Nah. The universe isn’t stingy. But it does respond to energy. And when your energy says,

“There’s enough for all of us,” it listens.

So yes, clap for them. Even with shaky hands. Even from the back row. Joy is contagious—and when it’s your turn, you’ll want people who clapped for you when they had every reason not to.

We Rise by Lifting Others (Not Just a Cute Quote)

“We rise by lifting others,”I heard Davido mention this in an interview on the Breakfast club a few days ago and it stuck with me. Not just because I love a well-dropped wisdom bomb, especially one I think I have heard before but can’t place where, but because it reminded me how powerful we can be when we shift the spotlight off ourselves for a moment and shine it on someone else.

But what does that actually look like in everyday life? Like beyond the emojis and messages of support on social media to see?

Here’s a starter pack for you - These are simple non “performative” acts of lifting others 

* Send the damn message.“Saw your launch—you're killing it.” Not because you want something. Just because you mean it.

* Make intros with intention.Know someone who could use a connection? Bridge the gap. Share the plug. Be the unofficial fairy godmother and connect people.

* Hold space, not spotlights. This is one i keep learningWhen someone tells you good news, don’t counter with your own. Just let them shine.

* Clap from the back row.Not every win needs a front-row ticket. Silent support is still support. Like. Share. Comment. Promote.

* Speak their name in rooms they’re not in.Be that whisper in the boardroom, the advocate over brunch, the hype woman they didn’t even know they had.

Lifting others isn’t performative. It’s a way of being.And when you do it from a real place—not for clout, not for karma points, but because you actually want to see people win—you start rising too.

Not always financially  ( though you don’t do this for money, it would be nice to be remembered if there was some monetary gain - most people don’t think like this which irks me, I gotta be honest).Not always visibly.But soulfully. Quietly. Powerfully.

Do I Hate the Game? Or Just the Player? Or Both??

Just the other day I asked myself:

Do I hate the game? Or just the player?One? The other? Both?I couldn't decide, i am undecided.

The game, you know the system.  —society, the rules, the algorithms, the industry gatekeepers, the silent expectations no one warned us about—can be rigged. 

Exhausting. Downright disrespectful to your spirit. It favours noise over nuance, speed over substance, shiny over soulful. It’s why burnout is trending and authenticity feels like a branding strategy.

But sometimes, it’s not the game.Sometimes, it’s the player.

Me.You.Us.

The version of me that hustled in silence, hoping someone would notice.The version that stuck to timelines society made without consulting me. The version that kept showing up in rooms I’d outgrown or being available to people whom I shouldn't. 

It’s not about choosing sides. Maybe it’s about seeing the messy middle—where the game is flawed and the player needs recalibrating.

So no, I don’t have it all figured out.I’m still learning to unfuck my life and let go of old things, people, relationships, dreams that no longer serve me.

Shout out toAshley Kelsch and Necole ❤️ whose posts this week are so relatable , have resonated deep and have totally just inspired my own musings. Subscribe to their newsletters if you aren’t already guys.

Anyway , ill be here trying to choose softness over cynicism which ill do my best to accomplish on most days). But Still side-eyeing the algorithm, the patriarchy, and my own procrastination.

But maybe that’s the point of growth in midlife.It’s not about declaring victory.It’s about asking better questions—and having the guts to hold yourself accountable. I GAT’S NO ONE 2 BLAME BUT ME…

Like how I have put on some weight post easter even though the wedding I was trying to look good for is on Saturday… Ah well, as we say in Lagos- “I can’t come and keee ma self.” I will just have to reset my diet again - Stop eating bread, diary and potatoes which I have indulged in since easter sunday.

Accepting it, All of it, the Mess, Lovingly and with intention.

Let’s see how it goes shaaaaa.

One love. x

P.s As I mentioned in my last post and in subsequent others, I am really trying to grow the community here so do engage with this post of it resonates.

Do not forget to Like, re stack and share with others who are not subscribed to my musings.

Please consider upgrading to a paid subscription If you can afford it or buy me a coffee, I need all the encouragement I can get.

P.P.S HUGE CONGRATULATIONS to my beloved cousin Rihanna and ASAP rocky. baby no3 on the way. You doing it guys!! That’s right, build that family - cement that legacy my sister.. people can’t understand, these guys are trying to get the family thing done and dusted so they can face business. I LOVE it, and I JUST LOVE them!!!

Some people have the gaul to be asking for album - there’s you album - there it is for you - It is called preggers . LOLLLLLLLLL

I am going to be an aunty again :)))))))

MIDLIFE MUSINGS AND MAYHEM is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.