This Mishai Had a Point to Prove

I gave the day everything. The day took small revenge anyway.

Last Wednesday, my day started at 2:51 am, not because I couldn’t sleep but because I shouldn’t.

Four different projects were staring back at me, each one sitting there because I had shifted it around one too many times, thinking I still had space, feeling the deadlines would somehow move with me.

This time, I had reached the edge. My back was already against the wall, and the work wasn’t going anywhere. So I sat up and faced it, one task after the other, until the list was clear.

By 3:47 pm, I was done. The last file was closed, and for the first time that day, I leaned back and let my chest expand without the tension of delay sitting on it. There was no celebration, but it felt like something worth marking.

So I went to play ball.

I jumped out of the house and got there almost too late. Somewhere between the rush and tying my laces, I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. The thought crossed my mind again while warming up, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the field just to start looking for food. I stayed.

And I played.

For the next 65 minutes or so, my worries disappeared. “Ball sweet die. If you no dey play, you dey miss.” Let me not judge you, but for me, everything made sense in that moment.

Then the game ended, and my body started pushing back. My ankle pain came back like an old argument I thought I had settled. My stomach moved from silent complaints to full protest. My legs were heavy. I needed to get home, but I also knew I couldn’t walk through that door without eating something.

Most of the usual food spots were either too far or already closed, and I didn’t have the strength to roam. Then I remembered my Mishai guy near the junction. I turned in that direction without thinking twice.

I told him what I wanted and said, “Hope say this one go sweet?”

He lifted his head slowly and smiled like someone who had heard the question before.
“Oga, na me dey here.”

I told him the last one I bought was somehow.
He replied, “No be me give you that one. This one go set.”

Then he turned back to his work. He didn’t talk too much. He didn’t try to sell me on it. He just continued like someone who didn’t need convincing. He simply went about his business with the kind of calm that comes from doing something over and over again until you start seeing it as an extension of yourself.

And it made me think.

The best kind of work usually comes from people who carry it like their name is inside the outcome. They don’t separate themselves from what they’re building. They don’t hand over anything they can’t stand behind. There’s a kind of personal pride that makes you check twice before you finish, a kind of standard that doesn’t need to be explained to be felt.

Anyone who wants to do meaningful work needs that kind of ego. Just enough to care how it lands. Just enough to take your time and do it right. That feeling is what stops you from giving average effort, because somewhere in the result, your name is still in the room, even if no one sees it.

It’s the same ego that makes you turn down a good offer, not because you doubt the opportunity, but because you’re not sure you can meet the weight it deserves. You want to be proud of what you touch, not just relieved that it’s done.

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I came across a line in Proverbs that stayed with me. “Do not love sleep or you will grow poor; stay awake and you will have food to spare.”

I’m sure it wasn’t written with bread and egg in mind, but I thought about it anyway—watching someone make mishai like he was making a point brought it home. Maybe because I’ve seen enough rushed work to know what it looks like when someone is half-asleep inside their own effort.

This same energy lives in other places, too.

Like the dry cleaner who presses the inside of your shirt, even though you’ll never notice.

Like the akara woman who shifts the tray just to pick one that’s fresh and full, even when your nylon is already packed.

Like the vulcanizer who checks all four tyres, even though you only came to fix one.

Or the designer who says he needs one more hour, not because you asked, but because something is still pinching him inside the draft.

These are the kind of people who don’t separate themselves from their work, people who have refused to let their name show up in anything half-baked. They care how it turns out, even when no one is looking.

When he was done, he handed my food to me like someone who already knew what he had done.

I took a bite.

I’m still deciding what made my day: the two goals I scored earlier, or the Mishai. Maybe I’ll go with the goals. because they don’t come often for me, and I don’t know when the next net will open that wide again.

In case you’re wondering, we still lost. Four–three. One last-minute goal finished everything. If I catch the guy who scored that goal tomorrow, I’m breaking his leg.

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I started the day with deadlines on my neck, cleared them, chased a ball, and landed here with bread, egg, and a full plate of thought.

Maybe that's all I needed. Something I could taste, something I could trust.

Work, like food, always makes more sense when the person behind it shows up fully.