Welcome to the Ministry of Control, where everyone is a member and no one is in charge.

Adulthood is that scam nobody explained properly. You think you are running your life, but your life is watching you make PowerPoint slides about plans it has already deleted.

You schedule, pray, visualise, even buy planners, and Lagos just looks at you and says, “That’s cute.”

Control in this city is like Wi-Fi on a rainy day. You think you have it until you refresh. You plan your route and still end up stuck at the Lekki Ikoyi toll, staring at brake lights like it is a concert. You leave early and still arrive late. You leave late and somehow meet the person who left early. Lagos does not follow logic. It follows vibes.

And before the “if you just plan better” people start talking, it is not always about that. Ask Londoners who plan around the Tube only for half the trains to stop running at rush hour. Ask New Yorkers whose subways stall mid-tunnel. It is the same story everywhere. Life laughs in every language.

But we love control because it makes us feel safe. It tricks us into thinking order equals peace. We colour-code our calendars, say affirmations, and hold private meetings with ourselves. Because the opposite of control, uncertainty, feels too wild. Too human.

Work does not help. You start the day with good intentions. One quick call becomes a three-hour meeting that could have been an email. By 5 p.m., your to-do list is still untouched, and your peace has sent in its resignation letter.

Even emotions have their own plan. You promise not to overreact and will not send that text. Ten minutes later, you have typed, deleted, retyped, and sent it again. Then you blame your zodiac sign.

And then Lagos comes back to test your surrender.

The street hums like it always does. Generators. Laughter. Someone grilling suya like it is not 10:30 p.m. You finally decide to rest, light a candle, play a little Asa, and breathe.

Then the estate group chat lights up. “Quick generator test in five minutes.”

The lights go off. You grab your fan as backup, already sweating. Five minutes pass. Nothing. From the gatehouse, someone shouts, “Try am again!”

You know what that means. The generator has refused to come on.

Now the air is thick, the candle is fighting for relevance, and your calm has gone on strike. Somewhere nearby, laughter breaks out. You smile helplessly because what else can you do?

It is the universe reminding you that peace here often needs project management.

Control feels powerful until it breaks. Then you realise it was never power, just illusion. We do not control as much as we think. We control our playlists, not our moods. Our diets, not our appetite for chaos. Our calendars, not the interruptions.

Adulthood will humble you. You plan to handle things better, and life whispers, “Noted.” You set boundaries, and people cross them wearing good intentions. You hold everything together until you realise “together” is a flexible term.

Even in the creation story, disruption followed intention. When God said, “Let there be light,” darkness did not vanish immediately. Both existed until He separated them. That middle space between the speaking and the seeing was where order began.

It is the same with us. The moment you set an intention, life starts its renovation. You decide to rest, and your phone will not stop ringing. You decide to heal, and old wounds resurface. Growth, like renovation, always looks chaotic halfway through.

So if disruption follows your good intentions, do not call it bad luck. It is proof that something real is shifting. Even creation had a messy middle.

Maybe peace works the same way. It does not show up because life is perfect. It shows up because you keep going while the paint is still drying.

The candle burns low. The air smells of diesel and determination. You glance at your phone, see ten unread messages, and decide they can wait.

Because in Lagos, peace does not come softly. It comes like a test run. Sometimes it sputters. Sometimes it shines. But when it finally holds steady, even for a moment, you sit in it. Grateful. Amused. Still.

Only in Lagos does chaos come with a chorus.

And you whisper, half to the night, half to yourself,

“Peace may delay, but it will still find light. Even if it needs a generator first.”

Maybe that is the real Luxury Silk.

Ada Obiajunwa
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Ada Obiajunwa writes from Lagos about the big truths tucked inside ordinary moments — friendship, self-discovery, and the quiet revolutions of everyday life. She believes in the power of presence, good banter, and decoding the unsaid. Through her fragrance studio, WhiffWonders, she also crafts scents that weave memory and emotion into experiences that feel like home.