
Cheers to 2025
Every New Year holds promise, as though it is any different from the turn of
We are living in an age of questions—questions about identity, purpose, belonging, and the meaning of being human. For many people these questions remain philosophical. But for some, they become deeply personal.
This story begins with a boy
He is not remarkable at first glance. He comes from a modest home, the kind of home where the rules of life are clear and the expectations of family are well understood. In his household, things have always been simple: a boy grows up to become a man, a girl grows up to become a woman, and life unfolds within those familiar boundaries.
But somewhere along the line, the boy begins to wonder.
At first the questions are quiet. They live in his mind like whispers. He hears conversations in school. He watches videos online. He listens to people speak about identity in ways that were never discussed in his home. Words like “choice,” “identity,” and “pronouns” begin to appear in places where certainty once lived.
The boy begins to ask himself a strange question: *What if I am not who everyone says I am?*
In earlier generations such a thought might never have crossed a young mind. But the world has changed. The digital age has connected ideas, cultures, and philosophies from every corner of the planet. A child sitting in a small room can now encounter opinions and perspectives that once belonged only to distant societies.
And so the boy begins to think.
He wonders whether identity is something one is born into, or something one can choose. The
voices around him seem divided. Some insist that identity is rooted firmly in biology and tradition. Others argue that identity belongs to the mind, to the feelings that live within a person.
The boy finds himself standing between these worlds.
At home, life continues as it always has. His parents speak with certainty about the future. They imagine the man their son will one day become. They talk about responsibility, about character, about the values that shape a good life. Their expectations are not harsh; they are simply familiar.
But the boy’s mind has begun to travel beyond those walls.
He sees people online who proudly declare new identities. Some speak with confidence about discovering who they truly are. Others share stories of struggle, of misunderstanding, of families who cannot accept the choices they have made.
The boy does not yet know which story is his.
What troubles him most is not the question itself—it is the weight of it. A young mind is not always prepared to carry questions that reshape the meaning of self. Yet the world has placed those questions directly before him.
He tries to understand where the boundaries lie.
Society has always had lines—visible and invisible. These lines define what people consider normal, acceptable, or familiar. But today those lines seem to be shifting. Slowly, quietly, almost imperceptibly, the boundaries move.
And strangely enough, the world does not erupt in chaos when they do.
There are debates, of course. There are arguments on television, on social media, and in public spaces. Yet life continues. People go to work. Children attend school. Families gather for dinner. The world does not collapse.
Instead, the lines move a little further.
The boy observes all of this with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. He sees that society is capable of both tolerance and tension. On some days it celebrates difference. On other days it seems uneasy with it.
This contradiction confuses him.
He wonders what will happen to people who live between these worlds—people who do not fully belong to the old definitions yet are not completely embraced by the new ones either.
He wonders what will happen to him.
The human mind is a powerful thing. It can imagine possibilities far beyond the limits of the body. It can reshape how we see ourselves and how we interpret the world. But it can also lead us into deep uncertainty.
For the boy, the struggle is not simply about labels. It is about understanding himself in a world that offers many answers but very little clarity.
One day he sits quietly and asks himself a different question.

What does it mean to be human?
It is a question that feels larger than identity. Larger than culture. Larger than the debates that seem to divide people.
To be human, he realizes, is to search.
Human beings have always searched—for meaning, for belonging, for truth. Every generation asks its own difficult questions. Some questions reshape the world. Others fade with time.
Perhaps this question will do the same.
What the boy does not yet realize is that his journey is not unique. Across the world, countless young people are asking similar questions, each in their own quiet way. Some will find answers quickly. Others will spend years searching.
But one truth remains constant.
No matter how society changes, no matter how identities evolve or boundaries shift, every person remains part of the same human family. Beneath the labels, beneath the debates, beneath the noise of culture and politics, there is still the simple fact of our shared humanity.
The boy sits with this thought for a long time.
He does not yet know what the future will bring. He does not yet know how the world will continue to change. But he understands one thing clearly: before anything else—before identity, before labels, before definitions—he is simply human.
And perhaps that is where every search should begin.

Every New Year holds promise, as though it is any different from the turn of

There is a category of question that polite intellectual company tends to avoid: the kind that, if you pull the thread long enough, begins to unravel not just a specific mystery but the entire fabric of what we think we know about human history. The Pyramids of Giza are that thread. They have been standing in the Egyptian desert for roughly 4,500 years.

Let me take you somewhere. Not to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean — at least, not yet. First, to Lagos. Nigeria. Sometime in the late 1980s. A teenager who should probably have been revising for exams is instead sitting cross-legged on the floor of a library, holding a book that is older than most of the furniture around it, reading about a city beneath the sea.

This is my story of discovering a film that challenged everything I thought I knew about the gift of time, every pulsating detail documented to inspire you to leap beyond your limitations and appreciate the beauty of growing old.
This story explores the paradox of immortality and why a movie from 2015 still resonates so deeply with audiences today.
I hope you find it worth your time.

This is my story, every pulsating detail documented to inspire you to question what you know and leap beyond your limitations.
This story is about the audacity of belief, the power of a well-told lie, and the journey to unlearn the things that poisoned my teenage mind.
I hope you find it worth your time.

There is a category of question that polite intellectual company tends to avoid: the kind that, if you pull the thread long enough, begins to unravel not just a specific mystery but the entire fabric of what we think we know about human history. The Pyramids of Giza are that thread. They have been standing in the Egyptian desert for roughly 4,500 years.

There is a peculiar kind of madness that does not arrive with hallucinations or trembling hands. It arrives quietly. At two in the morning. In a small desert town in New Mexico. It sounds like an idling diesel engine somewhere in the distance — except there is no engine. It sounds like a bass note being held by an invisible orchestra — except there is no orchestra.

Let me confess something. Long before LinkedIn articles, podcasts, and leadership keynotes became my world, I was a teenager sneaking to the library

In an era that increasingly demands hyper-specialization, Akin Akingbogun stands out as a refreshing anomaly. He is a man who refuses to be confined to a single box.

There is a particular kind of silence that falls on a man when the phone stops ringing, the proposals go unanswered, and the diary that once groaned under the weight of appointments sits quietly — almost mockingly — open. If you have ever been there, you know it.

Let me tell you something uncomfortable: the most generous person you know — the one who volunteers every weekend, donates quietly, never asks for anything in return — is probably getting something out of it. Not money. Maybe not even recognition. But something.

Adaeze had been awake since 4 a.m.
Not because she was anxious — though she was — but because this trip felt different. After eighteen months of follow-ups, phone calls, and PowerPoint presentations polished to a mirror shine, the deal was finally ready to close. An investor meeting in Abuja. A partnership that would change the trajectory of her small but gutsy consulting firm. She had triple-checked her flight, her documents, her outfit. She had prayed. She was ready.

When he told his father, Dare’s first response was a sigh. Then: “I told you to practice more. I told you months ago. You don’t listen. You never listen.”
There was no “I’m sorry, son.” No pause to let the boy simply feel the loss of the thing he wanted. Just a swift, seamless pivot to what Temi had done wrong — and, by extension, how Temi’s failure was evidence of Temi’s failure to take his father’s wisdom seriously.

I want to tell you something that took me embarrassingly long to learn. Not because the idea is complicated — it is not. But because it cuts against something deeply wired in us, something we are rarely honest enough to admit.
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1 thought on “The Boy Who Questioned Himself”
Sometimes when I think about how much life has changed from the much I’ve been around, I kind of feel like I suddenly woke up from short deep slumber… I’m like it’s happening faster than I can process it. Well done!