There's a girl called Yetunde.

A short story.

There’s a girl called Yetunde.

If you met her in January, you wouldn’t believe the life she’d have lived by September, or imagined the kind of year she was about to have.

January Yetunde had dreams. She was writing a book - pouring her heart into pages, believing in something she couldn’t yet touch. She was ambitious, scared, hopeful. She had a father. She had plans for a car. She had no idea what was coming.

By June, she became an author. A real one. Words she’d written in solitude were now bound, real, hers. She should have felt invincible. But life, in the way it always does—had its own story to tell.

Her father died. Just like that, the man who shaped her was gone. Suddenly she was on a plane to Nigeria, navigating funeral arrangements, spending money she’d saved for dreams on goodbye ceremonies. Her car fund became her grief fund. She’d later tweet that she’d spent enough to throw herself a small wedding, then cry after sending it because even if she wanted a wedding now, he wouldn’t walk her down the aisle.

But life didn’t pause for her sorrow. Her book started making waves online. Real noise. People were reading her words, feeling seen by them, crying over them. She got invited to national TV. Her book got accepted on Amazon - then became one of the top-earning books sold in September.

September Yetunde was living a dream and a nightmare simultaneously. She was an accomplished author grieving her father. She was financially stressed but grateful she even had money to stress about. She was ticking off her goals while losing pieces of herself.

If you followed Yetunde online, you knew she loved her monthly photo dumps. She was that girl: aesthetic pictures, cute captions, documenting joy. But grief changed her. She didn’t want to wear makeup like before. She didn’t want to put things together like before. She didn’t want to be perceived, perform, or pretend.

One Sunday she posted about feeling overwhelmed. Posted about how everyone expected everything from her while nobody was doing anything for her. People asked if she was okay as “she was crashing out.” She got defensive - “I’m not crashing out” - then wondered why she couldn’t just let herself break when she’d earned the right to.

Her book became her anchor. When people told her it changed their lives, she wanted to tell them it saved hers. That when her father died and panic set in about money, this book showed up. That it carried her when she could barely carry herself. That she couldn’t read the chapter where she mentioned her dad because it hurt too much, but somehow the book still held her together.

September Yetunde is a “bestselling” author who’s never seen the physical copy of her own book. The first time she saw it was through someone else’s photo - them holding it, loving it. And that meant everything.

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October Yetunde is preparing to say final goodbye to her father. She lies to herself that she’s ready. She’s not. She’s working on getting physical copies of her book in Nigeria. Has paid for her book ISBN no. Maybe planning a December launch if she can find the strength. She’s looking at a photo someone sent her - them holding her book - and crying because she’s never even seen the physical copy herself.

This year has been weird. Not bad, not good - just profoundly, impossibly weird. One minute she’s celebrating becoming a little “bestselling” author. The next she’s crying over wedding jokes. One minute she’s grateful. The next she’s exhausted. One minute she’s okay. The next she’s not.

There’s a girl called Yetunde. And by September, she’d lived an entire lifetime in nine months.