Some seasons do not move
They just sit.
Inbox empty, phone quiet.
I dey refresh wetin no fit answer me
I dey call am hope.

I send the application with careful hands.
Every word measured. Every hope folded inside.
Now the days stretch long and thin.
I begin to question myself for nothing.
Was I too much? Not enough?
Did I miss one line, one comma, one sign?
My mind turns into a courtroom
Where I’m a witness and judge at the same time.

Nothing dey come.
So I dey find reason for the silence.
Maybe they’ve seen someone better.
Maybe my name sounds too foreign on the page.
Maybe I dream too loud.
I replay the interview like song wey skip.
Check spam. Check again.
Tell people "I dey fine" while I dey count hours.
This na how doubt dey grow —
not with shouting, but with small, polite knock.
Still, I go water wetin I plant.
Even if the ground dry.
Even if I no see green yet.
Because seasons, even the still ones, eventually turn

I have learned the art of waiting.
Not to sleep, not to fold
But to keep my life moving while one door take its time.
If the call comes, I’ll pick it.
If the email comes, I’ll read it twice.
And if neither comes, I’ll rise all the same.
The waiting will not erase me.

About the author:
Ololade A. Obadina is an emerging UK-based poet and writer exploring identity, resilience, and the lived experience of the Nigerian diaspora. By day, she manages complex casework within the UK public sector; by night, she translates sharp observational skill and analytical precision into grounded, emotive verse.

Writing from the perspective of a "legal Naija alien," her work turns a thoughtful lens on modern migration, personal growth, and the extraordinary moments tucked inside everyday life. After years of refining her craft in private, Ololade is now stepping out of the closet to share her voice with a wider audience—bringing authentic storytelling, emotional honesty, and deliberate structure to contemporary poetry.