THE BOY WITH MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE
I grew up as a boy who seemed to have too many hands.
At least, that was how my mother saw it.
Of blessed memory, she would watch me move from one thing to another—one idea chasing another, one task calling for my attention while another was still warm in my hands—and she would shake her head.
“You have too many irons in the fire,” she would say.
In those days, I did not fully understand the weight of those words. To me, there was nothing strange about it. I simply wanted to do things. I wanted to try things. I wanted to know what would happen if I put my hands to something.
While one boy was content with one game, I wanted to play three.
While one person was thinking about what could be done tomorrow, I was already wondering what could be started today.
My hands were rarely empty.
My mind was even less so.
I did not see this as a problem. In fact, I rather enjoyed the challenge. Perhaps I was born with an unusual appetite for difficult things. Challenge never frightened me; if anything, it called my name.
I have always been that way.
Multitasking was not something I learnt from a management book. It was not a skill acquired from a seminar or written into a résumé. It was simply my natural setting.
It was the way my mind was wired.
Give me one assignment and I will finish it.
Give me three and I will find a way to juggle them.
Give me ten and, after the initial shock, I will probably ask, “What else?”
And failure?
Failure has never been enough to make me stop.
I may stumble. I may make mistakes. I may even fall flat on my face. But somewhere inside me is a stubborn little voice that says, Get up. There is still work to be done.
Perhaps that is one of the reasons I have always moved at such a fast pace.
I have never been comfortable watching time walk away while I stand still.
To me, wasted time is almost physically nauseating.
I want things done.
I want progress.
I want movement.
I want results.
And once something is done, my eyes are already looking towards the next mountain.
Then the next.
And the next.
Some people call it restlessness.
Some call it ambition.
Some call it impatience.
Some have even thought I do too much.
And perhaps they are right.
Over the years, I have discovered that people do not always see the same river when they stand on opposite banks.
Some have looked at my way of doing things and wondered why I must carry so many responsibilities at once. They have thought my pace can be overwhelming, even overbearing at times.
Others have looked at the same life and seen something entirely different.
They have seen energy.
They have seen possibility.
They have seen someone who refuses to sit down when there is still something that can be built, improved, attempted or achieved.
They have seen motivation.
They have seen a man who can walk into a room with an idea and leave the room with a plan.
Both groups may be right.
And perhaps both may be wrong.
Because I have never really known how to look at myself through either lens.
The truth is that when I am committed to something, I am rarely thinking about how it appears to the person standing outside it.
I am thinking about the finish line.
I am thinking about the work.
I am thinking about what needs to be done.
There is something inside me that finds it difficult to abandon a task simply because it has become difficult.
Once I have convinced myself that something is worth doing, I want to see it through.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever the inconvenience.
Whatever the long nights.
Whatever the disappointments.
Whatever the detours.
I want to finish.
Perhaps that is both my strength and my weakness.
For every mountain I have climbed, there have been moments when I wondered why I started climbing in the first place.
For every victory, there have been battles nobody saw.
For every beautiful harvest, there were seeds that almost refused to grow.
The journey has therefore not been entirely sweet.
There have been bitter moments.
There have been projects that consumed more than they produced.
There have been dreams that did not survive the journey.
There have been opportunities I should probably have declined.
There have been times when my speed outran my wisdom.
There have been seasons when I carried more than my shoulders were designed to bear.
But here is the strange thing about my story:
The bitter has never been enough to erase the sweet.
If anything, the bitter has taught me how to appreciate the sweet.
Looking back now, I understand my mother's words differently.
Perhaps she was not simply complaining about a boy who had too many irons in the fire.
Perhaps she was observing something she could not yet name.
She was watching a boy whose mind was always moving.
A boy who was curious.
A boy who was willing to try.
A boy who did not mind getting his hands dirty.
A boy who could not easily sit still when there was something to be done.
And perhaps she was also warning me about the danger that comes with carrying too many irons.
Because when you put too many irons in the fire, something can burn.
Some things will need your attention more than others.
Some fires must be allowed to die.
Some irons must be removed.
And wisdom, I have discovered, is not merely knowing how to keep many fires burning.
It is knowing which fires are worth keeping alive.
That is a lesson I am still learning.
But I remain the same boy in many ways.
The boy whose hands are rarely empty.
The boy whose mind is always asking, What next?
The boy who sees a challenge and feels something inside him come alive.
The boy who does not always know how to slow down.
The boy who can be exhausted and still begin another project.
The boy who fails, wipes the dust from his knees and tries again.
Maybe that is simply how I was made.
And perhaps, as the African proverb says, the lizard that jumped from the high iroko tree did not break its neck because it had learnt to praise itself before landing.
I have learnt to celebrate the journey, even when the landing is uncertain.
I have learnt that not every fire must be mine to tend.
I have learnt that speed is useful, but direction matters.
I have learnt that doing much is not the same as accomplishing much.
And I have learnt that sometimes the greatest achievement is not starting another thing, but having the wisdom to finish the thing that truly matters.
Still, if you ask me who I am, I will probably smile.
Because somewhere deep inside me, that little boy is still there.
Still curious.
Still restless.
Still reaching.
Still trying.
Still carrying his irons to the fire.
Only now, I am learning which ones deserve the heat.
