Always Too Late

"You’re not seriously doing this now, are you?"

It was Tolu’s voice. Crisp, skeptical, and a tad amused. The kind of voice someone uses when they’ve caught you elbow-deep in the cookie jar and want you to explain yourself.

I glanced up from my laptop screen, startled. She was leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, holding a steaming mug. She didn’t need to tell me what was inside—it was coffee. Always coffee.

“Doing what?” I asked, feigning ignorance, though my fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard.

“Writing your story. Don’t play dumb. You’ve got that oh-no-deadline look again.”

I sat back and sighed, my chair creaking in solidarity. “Okay, fine, yes. I’m working on it. But it’s almost done.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘almost.’”

I hesitated. “Uh… the title’s ready. And I have, like, two paragraphs. Really solid paragraphs.”

Tolu snorted. “You’ve had a week, Dami. A whole week! This story community thing you’re in—what’s it called again? Steam—”

“Steemit,” I corrected, waving her off.

“Right, Steemit. They give you days to write these stories. Days, Dami! And yet here you are, scrambling hours before the deadline. Again. How does this keep happening?”

I threw my hands up in mock despair. “Life happens, Tolu! Life is unpredictable, chaotic, messy. And besides, I work better under pressure. You know this.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You work under pressure because you refuse to work under any other conditions. There’s a difference.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but she held up a hand. “No, don’t even try. I’ve lived with you for twenty-five years, remember? You can’t fool me. What’s this one about anyway?”

“The theme is Too Late,” I mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

Tolu blinked. Then she burst out laughing so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.

“Oh, the irony. This is gold. You’re writing a story about being ‘too late’ while literally being too late to write it properly. Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”

I crossed my arms. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s meta. You know, like those clever stories that blur the lines between fiction and reality.”

“Sure, let’s call it that.” She smirked. “What’s the plot?”

I hesitated. “Well… I haven’t figured that part out yet. But it’s going to be great. Deep. Maybe a little funny.”

“You mean rushed and chaotic,” she said, strolling into the room and plopping onto my bed.

“Hey! I take offense to that.”

“Good. Offense builds character. Now, go on. Write your ‘deep’ and ‘meta’ masterpiece. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the show.”

---

Tolu was right, of course. She usually was. I had no one to blame but myself for my perpetually last-minute writing marathons. But still, it wasn’t like I planned to procrastinate. It just… happened.

The first day after the theme announcement, I’d been busy. Not with anything particularly important, mind you—just scrolling through Instagram and liking photos of cats in bow ties. The second day, I’d convinced myself I needed to “marinate” on the theme. Let the ideas stew in my subconscious. By day three, I’d forgotten the theme entirely. And by day five, I was knee-deep in a Netflix binge of a show I wasn’t even sure I liked.

Then, before I knew it, here I was: day seven, deadline looming like a thundercloud, and a blank page mocking me with its whiteness.

I stared at my screen, the cursor blinking accusingly. “Okay,” I muttered under my breath. “Too Late. What can I do with that?”

“You could write about a writer who’s always late,” Tolu suggested from the bed, where she was now flipping through her phone. “You know, make it autobiographical. Add some self-deprecating humor. People love that.”

“That’s too predictable,” I said, frowning.

“So is submitting your story at the last minute, but here we are.”

I glared at her. “Helpful as always, Tolu. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

---

After an hour of brainstorming (read: staring blankly at the screen), I finally had a rough idea. The story would follow a character named Dayo, a perpetually late writer who keeps missing deadlines and losing opportunities. One day, he stumbles across a magical notebook that can pause time, giving him endless hours to write. But instead of using it wisely, he procrastinates even harder, convinced he has all the time in the world.

It was brilliant. Genius, even. All I had to do now was write it.

But as soon as I started typing, my brain decided it was a perfect time to rebel.

“Dayo opened the notebook and—”

Wait, no. That sounded boring.

“Dayo stared at the notebook in awe, its pages glowing with an ethereal light—”

Ugh, too dramatic.

“Dayo picked up the notebook, wondering if—”

“Why are you typing the same sentence over and over?” Tolu’s voice cut through my concentration.

I groaned. “It’s called editing, Tolu. Writing is a process, okay? You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right. Because you’re the creative genius here, and I’m just the peanut gallery.”

“Exactly.”

She threw a pillow at me.

---

By the time I managed to string together a semi-coherent first draft, it was already past midnight. The deadline was at 2 a.m., which gave me—

I checked the clock—

Exactly two hours to revise, proofread, and upload.

“Plenty of time,” I told myself, though my heart was racing like I’d just downed three shots of espresso.

Tolu, who had fallen asleep on my bed somewhere around draft three, stirred and mumbled, “Did you finish?”

“Almost,” I whispered, not wanting to wake her fully.

She rolled over and muttered, “Better not be late again.”

---

The final moments before submission were a blur. My hands flew across the keyboard as I polished the last paragraph, double-checked for typos, and prayed my Wi-Fi wouldn’t betray me.

At 1:57 a.m., I hit “Submit.”

Then I leaned back in my chair, exhausted but triumphant. “Done,” I whispered to no one in particular.

Tolu, half-asleep, gave me a thumbs-up without opening her eyes.

---

The next morning, as I scrolled through the comments on my Steemit post, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Wow, this story really captures the chaos of last-minute creativity!”

“So relatable. I swear I’ve been Dayo at least ten times this year.”

“Is this autobiographical? Feels a little too real…”

I glanced over at Tolu, who was sipping her coffee and smirking at me knowingly.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” she said, her smirk widening. “Just thinking how funny it is that you turned your procrastination into content. It’s like procrastination about procrastination. Very meta.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Maybe she was right. Perhaps this whole too late thing was my superpower.

Or maybe I just needed to get my act together.

But that was a problem for future Dami. For now, I was just glad I’d made the deadline. Barely.