The Ministry of “I’m On My Way”

Last week, I said strength had left the group chat. Honestly, it’s still loading. Because even when strength leaves, we still find ways to show up, usually late, but still showing up.

 

In Nigeria, time is not a measurement. It’s a feeling.

We don’t check clocks; we check vibes.

We don’t keep time; we negotiate with it.

And no matter where we are — Lagos, London, or Atlanta — our universal language remains the same: “I’m on my way.”

Every Nigerian knows it’s not just a phrase. It’s a lifestyle.

Part optimism, part survival, part performance art.

A promise that might take its time but will eventually arrive, fashionably late but full of heart.

 

You can be in your towel, still deciding what to wear, and confidently type, “I’m on my way.” Because technically, in your spirit, you’ve left the house. It’s not lying. It’s faith.

 

We’ve all done it. You say “I’m almost there” while still locking your door. You whisper “five minutes” when Google Maps says thirty-two. Somewhere between guilt and good intention, “I’m on my way” becomes both apology and affirmation.

 

But Lagos doesn’t care about your affirmations.

The road has its own ministry.

By 7:30 a.m., the sun is hot, the horns are louder than your pastor, and everyone on the road believes they’re the main character in traffic.

One day, you’ll leave early and still arrive late because Third Mainland decided to hold a meeting without your consent. Another day, you’ll leave late and somehow arrive early because the God of shortcuts intervened.

 

Lagos na cruise. Half the time, even the person asking “Where are you?” is also stuck in traffic somewhere, calculating how to blame fuel queues when they show up two hours late. Everybody is “almost there.”

 

Let me tell you about one unforgettable “I’m coming” moment.

It was 2011, back when people still had to show up physically at the bank.

No instant transfers, no apps — just BBM, paper instructions, and vibes.

A long-time client called to ask me to help him purchase foreign exchange on his behalf. The naira was already in his account, but we needed his written instruction to debit.

He said, “Don’t worry, Ada. I’m coming. Just make sure the funds go to the person travelling to Abuja by noon.”

And because he was a trusted client, I did it.

 

By 6 p.m., nothing. FX dealers were pacing outside, my colleagues waiting to close. I kept texting him on BBM. His replies were calm and confident: “On my way. Almost there.”

 

By 9 p.m., he finally walked into the branch.

At that point, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry — laugh because I wasn’t going to be used as suya by the BDC guys, or cry because he had actually done it.

He smiled and said, “Didn’t I tell you I was coming? I came straight from Paris.”

 

That was the day I understood “I’m coming” in its full Nigerian dimension.

He wasn’t lying. He was spiritually on his way. His body? Somewhere over the Atlantic.

After that, nothing about lateness shocked me again.

 

My friends already know I’m a latecomer. I wear it with my chest, so they don’t bother anymore. I’m Nigerian. It’s in my DNA. Please, don’t stress me.

 

The only memos I’ve ever received at work? All for lateness.

My first one came fresh out of law school, at my first job in a bank. My boss, tired of repeating herself, asked why I couldn’t get to the office before 8 a.m.

In my pure, unfiltered innocence, I asked why she was always in such a hurry to leave her house when she was the boss.

“What exactly is chasing you?” I said.

That was the day I learned honesty and wisdom don’t always clock in at the same time.

 

Now, when people text “Where are you?” I don’t panic.

If I’m not ready, I simply say, “Still getting myself together.”

No drama, no guilt, no lies of logistics.

Peace, I’ve learned, comes from telling the truth with humour.

Because adulthood is hard enough without pretending to be on your way when you’re still moisturising your elbows.

 

So yes, these days, if I say “I’m on my way,” I probably mean it in the most Nigerian way possible.

In my heart, I’ve left the house.

Physically? Give me thirty minutes.

Because sometimes, showing up late but honest is the only kind of strength we have left, and that’s fine.

That too, my dear, is the real Luxury Silk.