THE NARCISSIST'S JOURNAL

Dear Diary, Today was productive. Truly productive. The kind of day that reminds me why I push myself the way I do.I woke up before my alarm — my body knows its own discipline — made my food exactly right, the way nobody else in this house has ever learned to make it, and left for work before the morning traffic could steal my peace. At work I stayed two hours after closing. Someone had to. The junior staff have potential but potential without direction is just noise, and direction is something I have always had to provide. My supervisor mentioned the Henderson account in the meeting and looked straight at me when he said it had been handled well. I did not correct him when he forgot to mention that I had handled it alone. Credit finds its way eventually. I am not desperate for it. After work I stopped by my neighbor Adaeze's flat. She has been talking lately about starting a catering business. A real one, she said. With a commercial kitchen eventually. She had printed out a business plan. She showed it to me with the kind of excitement that is almost painful to look at directly. I listened. I let her finish. Then I told her the truth because that is what real friendship looks like. The economy, I explained. The instability. The cost of gas alone would swallow her margins before the first month ended. I have been around long enough to know how these things go. She is talented, yes, but talent is not a business plan and hope is not capital. She nodded slowly by the end. She folded the papers. She said “you're probably right.” I felt good about that conversation. It takes courage to tell people what they need to hear instead of what they want to hear. Not everyone can do it. Chukwuemeka was in his room when I got home. Fifteen years old and already he carries himself like someone with places to be. He told me about a science competition. National level. Students travel to Abuja, represent their schools, the top three get scholarship consideration. I sat on the edge of his bed and I listened to the whole thing. Then I told him what I know about big dreams in a country that does not catch you when you fall. At his age I was waking up at five to fetch water before school. I was not dreaming about Abuja. I was surviving, and surviving taught me things that dreaming never could. He has a good life. A stable home. He should tend to what is in front of him before he reaches for what is far away. He said “okay” He did not look up from his textbook when he said it. I told myself that was focus. That he was processing. That good advice takes time to land. Now I'm in my roomI sit on the edge of the bed and look at this room — my room, built by my choices, arranged by my preferences, belonging entirely to me. The walls are bare. I have never found anything worth hanging.Emeka made drawings once. I remember them. I did not keep them. Adaeze gave me a small woven basket two Christmases ago. It is in the wardrobe behind the broken door. I prefer it there. Out of the way.Just my things. Exactly where I left them. Exactly where they should be.What a productive day, I say to the walls. I check my phone. No message from Adaeze. No message from Emeka.Probably asleep, I tell myself. They will understand tomorrow.I put the phone down. I already know I did well. NOTE: This is a dramatization, not a diagnosis. The piece is written from the perspective of a narrator who sincerely believe their own account of events. Readers may interpret the situation differently than he does.

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