Everyone talks about having an opp.
For some people, it’s an ex. For others, it’s Lagos traffic, NEPA, or that colleague who somehow finds “gentle reminders” enjoyable.
Until last Sunday, I genuinely thought I was living an opp-free life.
Then the rain flooded my apartment.
It started as one of those Sundays that feels like it’s going exactly as planned.
It was Mid-Year Thanksgiving, and I was genuinely excited. My outfit ATEEE, my hair was on point, and I was looking forward to spending the day exactly how I liked it. Church first, then home to my small chops and one giant piece of chicken, a couple of episodes of The Last Dance, some work, and a quiet evening before the new week.
In other words, intentional living.
Church was beautiful. We danced, sang, and thanked God for bringing us through the first half of the year. It was the kind of service that leaves you convinced God is ushering you into a beautiful second half of the year.
Then the rain started.
Not ordinary rain.
Lagos rain.
The kind that floods roads so badly you step outside and start wondering if the clouds have a personal grudge against the city.
The downpour delayed the end of service, but no one seemed to mind. We simply kept praising.
Eventually, the rain eased enough for everyone to head home.
Finding a ride was another matter entirely.
The roads were flooded. Gbagada Expressway looked like it had temporarily become a river, and traffic had given up on moving.
Still, I wasn’t worried.
“One bus,” I told myself. “I’ll be home.”
When I got to my compound and saw water everywhere, I barely reacted.
“The rain must have been heavy,” I thought.
Then I reached my front door.
My three-bedroom apartment was flooded.
The first thing I thought about wasn’t my TV.
It wasn’t my couch.
It wasn’t even my wardrobe.
It was my office laptop.
My laptop is usually either inside my work bag on the floor or sitting on my reading table, and in that moment, I genuinely couldn’t remember where I’d left it.
I’ve never felt relief quite like spotting it safely on the table.
Then I looked around properly.
The water wasn’t ankle-deep.
But it also wasn’t something I could simply mop away.
My entire Sunday had just been replaced by an emergency.
My first instinct was to call for help.
Surely someone had a pumping machine for situations like this.
I called one plumber.
Then another.
Then another.
The response was almost identical every time.
“It’s raining.”
Nobody wanted to come out.
Which, if you think about it, is almost funny. The people whose job was removing water wanted nothing to do with water that day.
So my gateman and I accepted our fate.
We started packing water.
Bucket after bucket.
For hours.
Every now and then, I’d stop and convince myself we were making progress.
Then I’d look around and realize the house disagreed.
By Sunday night, after nearly six hours of scooping water, I admitted defeat.
This wasn’t a ME problem.
I needed a machine.
Around noon on Monday, someone finally agreed to come.
₦35,000 later, my apartment was dry.
Well… drier.
The flood was gone, but the real damage was only beginning.
There were clothes to sundry, appliances to inspect, gadgets that refused to come back on, and furniture that now carried the unmistakable smell of a weekend I’d rather forget.
I’m still avoiding adding up the full cost.
Some forms of denial are surprisingly comforting.
What surprised me most wasn’t even the flood.
It was how quickly an ordinary Sunday became one of the most expensive weekends I’d had in a long time.
I had planned for chicken and small chops.
Life planned pumping machines, repairs, and replacement costs.
It’s funny how we think financial planning is only about preparing for the big things; a house, retirement, buying a car, travelling the world.
Sometimes, it’s simply about surviving the unexpected.
Before last weekend, conversations about emergency funds and investing for the future sounded like one of those responsible-adult topics you nod along to before changing the subject.
Now they make perfect sense.
Not because anyone expects their living room to become a swimming pool.
But because life has a habit of introducing surprise expenses without sending a calendar invite.
I’ve heard people say everyone has an opp.
Maybe they’re right.
Mine just happened to arrive with dark clouds.
And while I’m hoping we never cross paths like that again, at least I walked away with one lesson.
The future isn’t only built by planning for the things you hope will happen.
It’s also protected by preparing for the things you hope never do.
