If ageing sneaks in quietly, perimenopause kicks the door open, dumps her suitcase in your living room, and says:
“Hi, I live here now. What’s for dinner?”

The first time I heard the word wasn’t from a doctor, a book, or even the internet.
It was from my aunties — women in their late 50s and 60s, glamorous, accomplished, passports heavy with stamps and handbags perfumed in Dior.

I wish I could tell you they introduced it gently.
But no. They traumatised me.

They sat gisting, laughing about “the journey” — dry, scaling skin, night sweats, hot flashes, depression.
They laughed like it was funny, but in between the laughter were confessions that it was not funny at all.

One aunty said she’d travelled the world searching for answers. Every test said she was fine. No cancer, no rare illness. And yet she felt like she was dying.
It wasn’t until a doctor in Eastern Europe listened and said, “Oh my dear, that’s menopause,” that she realised this wasn’t a mystery illness — it was a stage of life.

She nearly fell off her chair. This casual name for something that had made her feel like a ghost in her own body?
That night planted a fear in me. Because the way they described it, menopause didn’t sound like a chapter in life. It sounded like a hostile takeover.

So I started reading. Obsessively. I wanted to be ready. I wanted sanity when my time came.

And then… my time came.

One week, I was fine.
The next, I was crying at a detergent advert — you know the one where a mother hugs her child in slow motion because the clothes smell fresh?
Tears. Streaming. Down. My. Face.
Suddenly, every sad thing that had ever happened to me came rushing back, like NEPA had taken the light in my soul.

Then my period — the same one that arrived every 25 days like a tax collector — went rogue.

Sometimes skipping months. Sometimes showing up like a surprise party I never wanted.
And when it did? The cramps arrived like they’d been lifting weights.

Sleep? She abandoned me. She now visits only at 4 a.m. — just to watch me overthink every decision since 1999.

And the hot flashes.
Listen, nothing prepares you for a hot flash. One moment you’re in a meeting, nodding politely.
The next, your body has turned into an inside-out microwave.
Makeup sliding, blazer off, water bottle empty. Pretending you’re “just a bit warm” while your bones burn like Third Mainland traffic at noon.

Then came the itching.
Not arms. Not legs. Too simple.
Everywhere.
The kind of itching you cannot scratch in public unless you want HR to schedule a meeting.

And yet — life didn’t pause.
Work still had deadlines.
Bills still came.
Family still expected me to function.
Meanwhile, my insides were hosting a weather forecast, a telenovela, and a construction site — all at once.

So I adjusted.
• Moisturising like it’s my side hustle (sometimes with WhiffWonders butters, because even chaos deserves quiet luxury).
• Carrying a mini fan in my bag, though these days my supplements have tamed the worst of the heat.
• Practising selective hearing — not every comment deserves a reaction.
• Saying no more often, because energy is now a luxury item.
• And most importantly, talking about it. Because women aren’t crazy. We’re just in a new season.
One friend of mine came crying one day, begging me to take care of her kids if anything happened to her. She was convinced she was dying.
The petty in me took pictures for “documentation,” then handed her supplements and said: “Relax. This is perimenopause. Give it two weeks.”

She thought I was joking. She even started putting her affairs in order.
Two weeks later, she was back to herself.

Here’s what I want every woman (and every man who loves a woman) to know:
Perimenopause isn’t an ending.
It’s a transition.
Yes, it’s messy. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. But it’s also a reminder that our bodies are powerful, adaptable, and worthy of kindness — especially from us.

Na only God I dey please now.
And if perimenopause wants to tag along? She’ll sit in the back, keep quiet, and behave herself.

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