June had a checklist. Not the cute, motivational type with pastel sticky notes and a bubbly handwriting. Nope, hers was a battle plan, written in furious scribbles on the back of an old electricity bill.

Before 30:

1. Get rich. (How? Figure it out.)

2. Travel the world. (At least Ghana, for starters.)

3. Find true love. (But not the broke kind.)

4. Lose weight. (Or at least stop calling puff-puff “breakfast.”)

She was 29 and six months deep into a job that paid her in stress and “We’re like a family here” speeches. The only thing she had checked off was “Lose weight” - thanks to her boss, Mr. Okon, whose impossible deadlines made lunch breaks a myth.

Her best friend, Noro, was no help.

 “June, you’re stressing,” Noro said between mouthfuls of suya. “Life is short jare. Enjoy small.”

 “Short? I’m 29! My life is anything but short; it’s a never-ending Nollywood series with bad lighting,” June snapped.

But June couldn’t “enjoy small.” Not when Instagram taunted her with 25-year-olds driving Benzes and sipping cocktails in Dubai. Meanwhile, her highlight of the month was arguing with the NEPA guy who cut her light for a bill she had paid. Twice.

Then came the headache. Not the “I need paracetamol” kind, but the “Why is my left eye twitching, and why do I suddenly hate bright lights?” kind. After three days of Google-induced panic, she found herself in a hospital with peeling walls and a nurse who looked permanently unimpressed.

“Doctor, tell me straight. Is it malaria, typhoid, or my village people?” June asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

 The doctor, a young man who looked like he smiled for a living, chuckled. “It’s none. But you do need an MRI.”

 “An MRI? For a headache? Can’t we try Panadol first?”

 “No,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.”

The results came faster than her GT Bank alert for deducted SMS charges. A brain tumor. Not large, but not small enough to ignore.

June froze. “Wait, like... a real tumor? In my head?”

 “Yes,” the doctor said softly. “It’s operable, but there are risks.”

 She blinked. Twice. “Risks like... I die?”

 “Risks like... you live differently.”

Differently? What did that even mean? June spent the next week in a fog, haunted by her checklist. She wasn’t ready to die. She hadn’t seen the Eiffel Tower yet or Ghana sef to start with.

Noro showed up with jollof rice and her signature bluntness.

 “So, brain tumor, eh?” Noro said, chewing loudly. “Maybe this is a sign.”

 “A sign of what? That God’s trying to unsubscribe me from life?” 

 Noro laughed. “No. That maybe it’s time to stop living like you’re chasing a deadline.”

June scoffed. “Easy for you to say. Your biggest worry is whether to get box braids or a wig.”

 Noro grinned. “And yet, I’m happy.”

It hit June then, not like a dramatic epiphany, but like realizing you’ve been holding your breath for too long. She wasn’t living. She was... existing on borrowed anxiety.

She made a decision.

On surgery day, she handed Noro a sealed envelope.

 “If I don’t make it..” June started.

Noro cut her off. “Abegi. You? You’re too stubborn to die. Now, go let them fix that your big head.”

She did survive. Because, of course, she did. She was June. But something shifted.

Two weeks post-surgery, June stood in front of her mirror. Same face, same stubborn eyes, but a lighter heart. She picked up the old checklist, crossed everything off with a bold, red marker, and wrote:

New List:

1. Laugh more.

2. Eat puff-puff without guilt.

3. Love recklessly.

4. Live fully.

Noro, reading over her shoulder, smirked. “No Ghana trip?”

June grinned. “Ghana can wait. I’m starting with suya tonight.”

And so, she lived. Not perfectly, but fully. Because in the end, it wasn’t about the years she had left. It was about how she spent every damn moment she had.