My mum says I’m growing up fast.

Too fast, if you ask me.

I’m just ten, but in a few days, I’ll be leaving home for boarding school—far away, a whole other state, away from family, and from my four siblings who I had to share everything with. My box is already packed—secured with a padlock, new slippers, provisions, everything. I was excited. Even the new teal mosquito net I’d hang over my sleeping bunk made me excited. My luggage smells like Dettol and Cabin biscuits. My dad says he’s proud of me, but Mum has been praying louder than usual. I think she’s more scared than I am.

Everyone keeps telling me I’m a big girl now.
First daughter. First to go.

But I’ve been thinking a lot lately—what does it really mean to be grown?

Because if being grown means waking up early, cleaning the house, and cooking my own version of jollof for my siblings while Mum and Dad are out working, then maybe I’ve been grown since I was seven.

If it means knowing when to be quiet, even when you want to shout—especially when an auntie or uncle says something annoying—then yes, I’ve been grown.

Still, I used to think adults were perfect.

Like, really perfect.

They walk around like they know everything. Like they don’t make mistakes. And nobody ever corrects them. Even when Mum forgets something or Dad raises his voice too much, no one says anything. Even when they’re wrong, they’re right. And they never say sorry. Never, ever, ever!

When I was younger, if I talked back—even if I was right—wahala. I’d get the “Are you talking back at me?” look. Sometimes a slap. Sometimes just a long, painful silence that made me feel like I had done something terrible.

So I started believing that maybe when you grow up, you stop doing wrong things. That being grown means you don’t cry, or mess up, or need help. And that one day, if I tried hard enough, I’d get there too.

But lately, I’ve started noticing little cracks.
Like how Mum sometimes locks herself in the room and comes out with red eyes.
Or how Dad forgets things more than he used to.
Or how Aunty NK left her job but told everyone it was her choice.
I heard her crying on the phone to Mum, whispering, “I feel like a failure.”

Wait—grown-ups fail?

It’s confusing, because as a kid, when you fail, everybody sees it. They scold you, or punish you, or call family meetings. But when adults fail, they hide it. They wear it like a crown—looking fine on the outside, but heavy, heavy on the inside.

Now, as I’m getting ready to leave for school, I’m starting to wonder: maybe growing up isn’t about getting everything right. Maybe it’s about learning how to keep going, even when you get it wrong.

If I could talk to the grown-up version of me—maybe 25 or 30 years old—I’d ask her:
Do you still cry sometimes?
Do you say sorry when you’re wrong?
Do you ever feel like a child again?

I hope she tells me yes.

Because when I have my own children, I want to show them that grown-ups make mistakes too. That it’s okay to cry. To laugh too loud. To not have it all figured out.

But for now, I’m just a ten-year-old girl, with her hair in threaded plaits, sitting beside her travel box, writing in her notebook before lights out.

And even though I’m scared, even though I don’t feel like a grown woman yet…
I think maybe, just maybe, I’m already becoming one.