Writers 
Map of the Little Things
I have been mapping the world in small things.
Not along coastlines or capitals.
But in the way afternoon light sits in Lagos,
like a visitor who didn’t leave.
In the first sip of tea before the house wakes.
In the sound of rain finding the roof
and deciding, yes, this is where I’ll stay.
I used to believe that a life had to be loud to be important.
A TED Talk.
An announcement.
A significant departure.
But the older I get, the more I believe in footnotes.
The marginalia.
The quiet edits.
Like the woman who sells plantain by my bus stop.
She recalls everyone’s change.
Calls the students “my professors.”
Her fire burns low and steady.
She is erecting a cathedral of smoke and patience.
Like how my neighbor tends to one hibiscus plant
every night at 6:12 p.m.
Not 6:10.
Not 6:15.
As if the flower and the clock made an agreement
and he intends to keep it.
I am learning that meaning hides
in repetition.
In showing up.
In the choosing again.
We are taught to chase peaks.
But I have found God in valleys
that have no echo.
In conversations that end with “be safe.”
In the pause before someone says “I’m proud of you”
and means it.
What if greatness is not a mountain?
What if it’s a table?
Set daily.
With bread, with water, with people
who know your middle name.
I want to be the kind of person
who pays attention.
Who sees the bus conductor help an old man down
and makes a note of it in his heart.
Who watches the moon rise over Third Mainland
and does not reach for his phone.
Because the world is not waiting to be conquered.
It is awaiting observation.
So today I will practice cartography.
I will chart the route from my bed to the kettle.
The gap that exists between “how are you” and “I mean it.”
The latitude of laughter,
the longitude of rest.
I will name the small things.
And by naming them,
they will remain mine.
This is my atlas.
No borders.
No flags.
Only moments, carefully folded,
and placed in the pocket of my chest,
where they’ll be staying
long after the great things have lost track of my name.
