Someday!
Someday has excellent manners. It never arrives empty-handed. It glides in like a guest who insists on being hosted properly, carrying a bouquet of perfect conditions: perfect timing, perfect confidence, perfect weather, perfect hair, perfect bank balance, perfect emotional stability, and a perfectly edited version of you. The kind that doesn’t sweat, stumble, or say “um” before doing the brave thing (as if courage is a straight line and not a full-time scandal).
Someday also has a dark hobby: it keeps people polite and postponed. It is a professional rescheduler. A serial procrastination auntie. The patron saint of “Let me first get my life together,” as if life has ever once paused, folded its hands, and waited respectfully for you to finish your internal meeting (spoiler alert: it will not, life does not even read your drafts).
I know this because I have lived in the attic of Someday. Not literally, though if you’ve ever spent too long in your own head, you know the place. It’s draughty, elegant, and suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own excuses clearing their throats. The attic is furnished with half-written dreams, unopened opportunities, and that one outfit you keep for when I’m finally that person. You know it: still has tags, still has hope, still has never seen daylight. It is basically waiting like a Kampala event that starts “at 2pm” (and we all know what that means). The air smells faintly of ambition and avoidance, perfume sprayed over panic, incense lit to mask fear.
Someday sits there like an unbothered Victorian aunt with an iPhone and boundary issues, sipping tea and whispering, Not today, darling. We are not ready. Let us be dramatic about it. Then it sighs like you have disappointed it, when it is, in fact, the disappointment (the audacity is industrial). Sometimes it even sends you motivational quotes at 11:11, just enough inspiration to keep you hopeful, never enough to make you move. Someday loves a good atmosphere. Someday hates a schedule.
And because I am nothing if not an honest narrator with a taste for melodrama, I’ll admit: sometimes Someday sounds sensible. It wears a blazer. It holds a clipboard. It speaks in that soft, reasonable voice that says, “Let’s wait until you’re more prepared,” as if preparation is a destination and not a moving target that sprints away the moment you approach it, laughing, lightly, in your face (like boda-boda dust: it will find you even when you think you’ve escaped). Someday is very good at looking like “wisdom” when it is, in fact, fear with good grammar.
Someday, in short, has excellent PR. It is always trending in the mind of the anxious.
It also has disciples.
One of its most devoted followers was a hare named Inzibo.
Inzibo had the kind of face that made elders nod and say, “That one is clever.” Not because he did clever things, no, no. Because he could explain himself beautifully. His eyes were quick and shiny, always scanning the world like it was about to embarrass him. His ears had their own opinions; they twitched at every sudden sound, every risky sentence, every whisper of possibility. Inzibo moved like someone who had read too many warnings and memorized them all. Even when he sat still, his foot would tap… tap… tap, like his body was trying to flee without consulting his pride.
He always smelled faintly of warm grass, sweet fruit, and that sharp nervous scent animals carry when they’ve been thinking too hard. If you got close enough (and most people didn’t, because Inzibo’s charm had a polite distance), you’d notice his breath ran ahead of him: fast, shallow, like a drumroll before a speech. He laughed often, bright little laughs that arrived too early, like he was trying to interrupt his own fear.
He was the hare with immaculate reasons, the hare with a mind like a courtroom: always presenting evidence, always cross-examining risk, always acquitting himself of action. He could build an argument out of mist. He could turn a simple plan into a full-blown committee meeting. He could talk himself out of destiny with the elegance of a trained lawyer, and still sleep at night, congratulating himself for being “careful.” (Careful people are always congratulating themselves. It’s their love language.)
If excuses were currency, Inzibo would have owned half the savannah and a small vineyard in the hills. He’d be sitting on a veranda somewhere, sipping mango juice and saying, “Honestly, I would have done it… but you know.”
He lived on the near side of the river, in a patch of grass that always looked like it had been brushed neat by invisible hands. It was a tidy place, Inzibo liked tidy. Tidy meant controllable. The earth was firm underfoot. The air didn’t surprise you. His little corner of the bank had the smell of sun-warmed soil and safety. From his side, the world was manageable. Predictable. Safe enough to daydream in, and safe enough to confuse planning with progress, and caution with character.
Across the water, across the stretch of moving, glinting truth, was the other bank. It was not far, not really. But it might as well have been a continent, because the river had a reputation, and reputations are the favourite fuel of fear. The river sounded like secrets being passed hand to hand. It didn’t roar, it murmured, and somehow that was worse, because murmurs feel personal. The surface flashed like someone smiling and hiding something. The water smelled cool and metallic, like a warning wrapped in freshness.
On that other side lived Tuzi, the tortoise.
Tuzi was not the sort of friend you “hang out with when you’re free.” Tuzi was the kind of friend who made you honest. The kind whose silences had meaning and whose slow, deliberate presence made speed feel like a nervous habit. Tuzi smelled like rain on stone, clean, grounded, slightly ancient. His shell carried the rough texture of time, ridged like stories. If you ran your fingers across it, you’d feel the years in the grooves, Tuzi wasn’t old exactly, but he was settled, and that can feel like age to those still sprinting from themselves.
Tuzi had a way of looking at Inzibo as if he could see the panic behind the performance, and saying nothing at all, which was deeply offensive to someone who loved a good speech. Tuzi didn’t blink often. When he did, it was slow, like he was turning a page. When Inzibo spoke, Tuzi listened with his whole body: steady, patient, unhurried. It was like talking into a calm lake, your words came back to you cleaner, and somehow that made you accountable.
Inzibo adored Tuzi with the devotion of someone who fully intended to show up… eventually. He spoke of Tuzi the way some people speak of gym membership: with love, with guilt, with big plans that never quite touch the ground.
“I’ll go see him,” Inzibo would say, often.
Not today, of course. Someday. When conditions were better. When the sun wasn’t so loud. When his mind wasn’t so full. When the river didn’t look like it was up to something. Inzibo treated action like a ceremony: it had to feel right, look right, arrive with background music, and preferably be witnessed by the right people at the right angle. He wanted bravery that didn’t bruise his ego. He wanted growth without the growing pains. He wanted the result without the crossing. (Don’t we all? But some of us at least admit it with shame.)
Someday was a loyal companion to Inzibo. It walked beside him like a well-dressed shadow, whispering sweet, poisonous things.
Not now. Not yet. Wait until you feel braver. Wait until you feel ready. Wait until the world stops being… the world.
And Inzibo, being sentimental, mistook Someday for wisdom, because fear, when it learns manners, can pass for virtue in polite company.
The crocodile arrived in Inzibo’s life the way a truth arrives, clean, sudden, and with no interest in your comfort. One moment the river was just background noise and bad reputation; the next, it had a name, a body, and a stare that made excuses feel small.
Kwa lived in the river. He did not merely inhabit it, he belonged to it the way storms belong to the sky. The water knew his body. It curved around him like gossip, sliding over his scales as if it had been doing so since the beginning of time and had grown bored of pretending otherwise. At first he announced himself with almost nothing: a ripple that didn’t match the wind, a quiet drag of current, the sudden hush of birds who had learned to mind their business.
Then you’d see him, sometimes only his eyes, still as two dark coins, watching from the surface like the river had opened a pair of thoughts. Other days he’d surface fully with that slow, deliberate confidence of someone who has never apologized for being exactly what he is, heavy, ancient, and perfectly uninterested in performing innocence.
Kwa smelled like wet stone and riverweed and old secrets. When he rose, the air changed, cooler, heavier, like the whole river had leaned in to listen. His back was ridged and solid, built like a bridge you wouldn’t want to insult. His jaw sat in place with the calm arrogance of something that knows it is the top of its food chain and doesn’t need to announce it. (Kwa did not do motivational speeches. He did presence.)
Kwa had lived long enough to understand two things about land creatures:
1. They think they are in control because they have legs. Legs make them arrogant. Legs make them believe the world is theirs to schedule and stomp into submission. They walk around like being upright is a moral achievement. They call it “direction” when it’s really just momentum. They mistake movement for mastery, until the ground shifts, until the path ends, until the thing they want requires a crossing and not a stroll. Then suddenly those famous legs start holding emergency meetings.
2. They will waste entire lifetimes standing at the edge of something because they are afraid of getting wet. Not because the water is deep, necessarily, sometimes it’s shallow enough to splash your ankles. But wet is uncomfortable. Wet is unpredictable. Wet messes up the story they tell themselves about being “careful.” So they hover at the edge doing what land creatures do best: explaining. They will analyze the current like it’s a quarterly report. They’ll blame the clouds. They’ll say they need to “pray about it,” “think about it,” “prepare more,” as if preparation is a bridge and not a forever-project. They’ll stand there dry, rehearsing courage like it’s a speech, while opportunity crosses itself without them.
Kwa had seen it over and over: whole destinies postponed over the fear of temporary discomfort. Whole lives lived on the near bank of safety, because to a land creature, wetness feels like failure.
To Kwa, it was simply water.
And water, he knew, does not negotiate. It moves.
He’d watched them do it in every form: deer trembling at shallow water, goats panicking over puddles, birds holding emergency meetings about wind. He’d listened to their endless negotiations with fear, how they renamed it “discernment” so it would sound holy, and called hesitation “wisdom” so it would feel respectable.
Kwa and Inzibo spoke often.
It began as small talk, as most life-altering relationships do. Inzibo would approach the bank, careful but curious, like someone visiting danger as a hobby. He would arrive looking casual while his whole body screamed you are too close, you are too close. His paws would hover near the edge of the mud, never committing fully. He’d talk quickly, words tumbling out like he was trying to build a fence with syllables.
He would tell Kwa about the savannah: who had married, who had fought, who had found a new watering hole, who had started calling themselves “a thought leader” without any evidence. Inzibo loved news because news allowed him to feel involved without being involved. It was community participation without risk. It was cadence with plausible deniability.
And Kwa, Kwa listened. Patient. Amused. Observant. The kind of listening that makes you hear yourself clearly enough to get embarrassed.
Then Kwa would ask, casually, as if he were asking about the weather:
“How is your friend… Tuzi?”
Inzibo’s ears would twitch. His heart would do that small, guilty stumble, the one you feel when someone mentions a name you have been avoiding.
“Tuzi is well,” Inzibo would say. “Tuzi is… Tuzi.” As if Tuzi was a weather report. As if Tuzi was not the point.
“Do you visit him?”
Inzibo would laugh too quickly, too brightly, like a student caught without homework, trying to dazzle the teacher with personality. “Ah. You know. He’s on the other side. The river is… the river.”
Kwa would blink. Slow. Unhurried. The blink of someone who has eaten more fear than meat.
“I can take you,” Kwa said one day, so plainly it sounded like an insult.
Inzibo froze.
There are offers that feel like gifts, and there are offers that feel like traps wearing perfume. Inzibo looked at Kwa and saw every story he had ever been warned about. He saw teeth. He saw betrayal. He saw himself becoming a tragic lesson told to baby hares who wouldn’t listen anyway. His imagination immediately started producing a Nollywood-level scene: Kwa smiling, Inzibo trusting, the river swallowing him like gossip, and the savannah holding a memorial titled “He Was Too Naïve.”
“On your back?” Inzibo said, as if Kwa had suggested he juggle fire in church.
“Yes.”
“And you would… simply carry me?” Inzibo asked, voice polite, suspicion loud.
Kwa’s eyes did not move. “Yes.”
Inzibo nodded, as if considering it. As if he were not actively building a mansion of excuses behind his ribs. His mind was already arranging reasons like furniture, placing the couch of caution here, the table of “not now” there, hanging curtains made of “what if.”
“I will,” he said. “Someday.”
Kwa’s mouth, if you could call it that, twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. Something older. The expression of someone who has heard “someday” before and knows it comes packaged with lies.
And so it became a ritual.
Kwa would ask. Inzibo would hesitate. Inzibo would offer a reason dressed in satin: the current looked fast, the clouds looked judgmental, the air felt like betrayal, his legs were tired, his spirit needed alignment, the river gave him “a weird aura.” One day he even said, with full seriousness, “The water looks… tense.” (Inzibo was the kind of person who could sense “bad energy” in a perfectly innocent river, but could not sense avoidance in his own mouth.)
Kwa would listen the way one listens to someone describing a dream they refuse to wake from. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… watching.
And Inzibo would leave, relieved, congratulating himself for being “careful,” like he had just completed a risk assessment report and deserved a certificate. He would hop away feeling proud, proud, imagine, of not drowning in a river he had never entered.
Weeks passed. Then months.
The seasons changed like moods. The river rose and fell, unconcerned. Kwa still lived in it, crossing back and forth with a steadiness that insulted Inzibo’s theatre. Kwa carried messages sometimes, because Tuzi and Kwa, improbably, were friends too. River and land had found a language. The crocodile and the tortoise, two creatures built for patience, understood something Inzibo refused to learn: that commitment is not a feeling. It is movement.
And Inzibo stayed on his bank, talking about love the way some people talk about prayer: sincerely, loudly, and without moving. He would say Tuzi mattered. He would say Tuzi was family. He would say, “Next week.” He would say, “Soon.” He would say, “When I’m ready,” as if readiness was a taxi that would eventually find him at the stage. (Meanwhile, life was not even picking his calls.)
Until one morning, Kwa surfaced with news.
It was the kind of morning that looks ordinary until it isn’t. The sun was bright in that way that makes you feel watched. The grass smelled sharp. The air had the clean cruelty of truth. Even the birds sounded like they were gossiping. The river itself looked calm, which is how danger often dresses before delivering a message.
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Inzibo approached, rehearsing his usual script.
And Kwa said, without ceremony, “Tuzi has moved.”
Inzibo laughed, because shock makes fools of us all. “Moved where?”
“Not here,” Kwa said.
The words landed slowly, like heavy cloth. Like a wet blanket over the fire of denial.
Inzibo’s throat tightened. He stared at the water as if the river might apologize. As if nature would say, Sorry for progressing without you. His paws sank into the mud and for once he did not pull back. For once, he stood there like someone who had run out of excuses and discovered the terrifying silence underneath them.
“How?” he managed. “Why?”
Kwa’s eyes were steady. “Life changes. Friends change. Places change. Even patience changes.”
Inzibo felt something break, not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way heartbreak often arrives: as realization.
He had been waiting for the weather to cooperate. For confidence to arrive like a visitor. For the world to become safe enough for him to cross without risk.
He had been faithful to Someday.
And Someday, Someday had done what it always does. It had smiled, curtsied, and disappeared. Left him standing with nothing but his speeches and his dry feet.
Because here is the thing no one tells you until you are older and furious:
Someday is not a date on the calendar. Someday is a trick of the mind. Someday is fear in a nice outfit.
And fear, when you treat it like a wise elder, will politely steal your life.
Inzibo thought he had time. He thought Tuzi would always be there, waiting, slow and loyal and fixed in one place.
But Tuzi, bless him, had a life of his own. A path. A calling. A savannah that did not revolve around Inzibo’s readiness.
Tuzi moved. Not out of spite. But because the world does not pause for anyone’s hesitation.
That night, Inzibo lay in the grass and stared at the sky as if it owed him explanations.
The ground was warm from the day’s sun, but it didn’t comfort him. It only reminded him that time had passed, again, without his permission. Crickets performed like they were being paid, relentless and cheerful, the kind of joy that feels rude when your life is falling apart quietly. Somewhere nearby, the river kept moving with that indifferent, liquid confidence that made Inzibo want to fight it and apologize to it at the same time.
He lay on his back, ears flat, eyes wide, watching the stars with the desperate intensity of someone trying to read a contract written in light.
He thought of Tuzi’s face, calm, patient, quietly unimpressed. Not cruel. Not angry. Just… steady. The kind of steadiness that makes your excuses sound like they were written by a child with a shaky pencil. Inzibo remembered the way Tuzi listened: fully, slowly, like he wasn’t in a hurry to rescue you from yourself. He imagined Tuzi leaving without fanfare, without a speech, without checking whether Inzibo was finally “ready.” No grand goodbye. No dramatic pause. Just movement. Just choosing a life.
And that, that, was what stung.
Because Inzibo had always believed the world would wait for his readiness like a loyal friend at a meeting point. But Tuzi had not waited. Tuzi had lived. And Inzibo, in the most humiliating way possible, was being left behind by a tortoise.
And the insult deepened when he realized, slowly, viciously, that it had never been Kwa or nothing.
If he hadn’t wanted to cross the river on Kwa’s back, he could have made a water raft. He could have gathered reeds, tied them tight, balanced his trembling pride on top, and drifted across inch by inch, looking ridiculous but arriving alive. He could have scaled the border of the river and travelled slow until he reached his friend, patient legs, stubborn heart, one long inconvenient route that would have still counted as love. There were other animals in the river he could have hitched a ride with, too, hippos who moved like floating furniture, old fish who knew the current like family gossip, even a log that wasn’t a log if you looked closely but still had a back broad enough to cling to. There were birds that would have offered him to fly to the other side if he’d asked with humility instead of pride, wings overhead, a brief terror of heights, and then land.
There had always been options.
What Inzibo lacked was not a method. It was a decision.
Inzibo wanted to blame Kwa.
He wanted to blame the river.
He wanted to blame the universe.
He wanted to say it was all unfair, all suspicious, all arranged against him, because blame is a soft pillow and accountability is a stone. He wanted to make Kwa the villain because crocodiles look like villains. They come with built-in drama. Teeth do half the storytelling for you.
But the villain, irritatingly, was not the crocodile.
Kwa had offered his back again and again, steady as a bridge, patient as a thing that doesn’t need to prove itself. Kwa had shown up with the same offer, the same calm, the same unromantic truth: Cross or don’t. But stop pretending the river is responsible for your fear.
The villain was the soft voice that kept saying, later.
The villain was the version of himself that treated action like a reward instead of a choice. Like something you earned after you became perfect. Like the brave step was dessert and he had to finish all his vegetables of “self-improvement” first. (As if fear ever gets impressed by your progress report.)
And somewhere in the dark, Someday lounged in the attic of his mind, sipping tea like it hadn’t just robbed him. Someday wasn’t even sweating. Someday was relaxed. Someday had a silk robe on. Someday had its feet up, scrolling through excuses like they were love letters, whispering, Don’t be hard on yourself, darling. We’ll do it next time.
And Inzibo, poor, clever, ridiculous Inzibo, felt the full insult of it: that Someday didn’t even have to fight him. It only had to keep him comfortable.
Because comfort, when it isn’t earned by courage, becomes a cage with good lighting.
So here is the question Inzibo could not escape anymore, and neither can we, if we’re being honest:
What are you still postponing because you’re waiting to feel safe?
What friendship, what dream, what skill, what love, what version of you is living on the other side of a river you keep calling “too risky” while you stand there, dry and full of speeches, talking like a prophet, moving like a statue?
Because life does not only punish us with storms. Sometimes it punishes us with seasons. Quiet endings. Silent deadlines. Doors that don’t slam… they simply stop opening. The invitation expires. The opportunity relocates without apology. The world moves on with the casual cruelty of someone who is not obliged to revolve around your readiness.
That’s why the parable of the talents is so necessary, because it doesn’t flatter our excuses. In Matthew 25:14–30, the master entrusts his servants with talents, not equally, but intentionally, “each according to his ability” (Matthew 25:15). Which already ruins the fantasy that we were “given nothing.” The assignment is there. The capacity is considered. The resources are placed in your hands with the expectation of motion, not perfection.
Two of them do the unglamorous work: they trade, they risk, they multiply. No choir singing in the background. No cinematic montage. Just obedience in work boots. And when the master returns, he gives them the words we all want stitched into our spiritual CV, words that sound like warm light on a hard day: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” (Matthew 25:21, 23)
But then comes the third servant, the patron saint of “I’ll start when I’m ready.” And please notice: he doesn’t blow the talent in a club. He doesn’t lose it in some scandal that gives people something juicy to talk about. No. He does something more socially acceptable, more polite, and more dangerous: he buries it.
He explains himself. He presents fear as wisdom. He wraps avoidance in responsible language, like, I was protecting what you gave me. He turns hiding into a moral position. He becomes Inzibo in human form: eloquent, cautious, dry-footed.
And the master’s response is not, “Aww, you were being careful.” The master calls him “wicked and lazy” (Matthew 25:26), which, let’s be honest, is feedback that makes your soul sit up straight and adjust its posture. Not because the master is cruel, but because the truth is. Because burying a gift is not neutrality. It is refusal.
Then comes the line that should rattle every comfortable postponement: “Take the talent from him” (Matthew 25:28) and give it to the one who has ten. Reassignment. Redistribution. Not because the master is petty, but because gifts are not ornaments. They are assignments. They are meant to move. They are not museum pieces to be kept clean and untouched so you can say, “At least I didn’t fail.” (Failure, at least, means you tried. Silence is the real scandal.)
And then Jesus lands the point with that terrifying principle: “To everyone who has, more will be given… but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” (Matthew 25:29) In plain language: what you don’t work with, you don’t keep. What you bury to “preserve,” you eventually lose. What you call “potential” while refusing to practice it becomes someone else’s testimony.
And here’s the part no one tells you because it’s too personal, too sharp, too close to home: sometimes you don’t just lose the thing, you get a front-row seat to it. You watch your dream, your calling, your idea, your lane, walk around in someone else’s hands, wearing someone else’s confidence, collecting the applause you kept postponing. You watch someone do, loudly and imperfectly, what you were privately “planning.” And the worst part is that you can’t even hate them properly, because they’re not stealing your life. They’re simply living theirs.
Not because they’re more special than you. Not because heaven has favourites. But because they took the risk to multiply what they were given while you were busy trying to keep yours perfectly safe, polished, untouched, and buried like a secret.
Someday will not come.
But today, today arrives like Kwa: unromantic, direct, mildly terrifying, and completely available. Today does not bring a bouquet. Today brings a door. It is either open or it isn’t. It does not negotiate with your mood.
And maybe the bravest thing you can do is not to become fearless.
Maybe it’s to become the kind of person who crosses anyway, before Tuzi becomes a memory, and the river becomes your excuse forever… and before the talent you keep calling “potential” gets quietly reassigned to someone who actually used it.
By Ednah Rebeccah
📹Video and 🎨Artwork -2D Animation | Title: Someday ©️ 2026 | Artist and Video Created By Ednah Rebeccah
©Song Credit: 🎙️Panic! At The Disco’s 2018 hit “High Hopes” was written and produced by Jake Sinclair and Jonas Jeberg, with additional writing from Brendon Urie, Jenny Owen Youngs, Lauren Pritchard, Sam Hollander, William Lobban-Bean (Cook Classics), Taylor Parks, and Ilsey Juber. It was released on May 23, 2018, via Fueled by Ramen and DCD2 Records.
Mirror-Me Moment:
I caught my reflection today looking very serious, like a CEO of Potential Incorporated, holding an invisible clipboard and nodding at myself with the confidence of someone who has never actually crossed anything except WhatsApp statuses. My mirror blinked slowly, the way Tuzi blinks when he’s judging you without raising his voice, and I realized: I have been living like Inzibo’s cousin. Not the one who runs. The one who explains.
Because truly, I have turned postponement into an interior design style. I don’t delay, I curate. I arrange my dreams neatly on shelves like perfume bottles: “This one is for when I’m emotionally stable.” “This one is for when my bank balance stops coughing.” “This one is for when my hair agrees with destiny.” And Someday, Madam Later herself, sits in my head like a well-fed auntie at a wedding, sipping tea, saying, “We shall do it. Not now, though. Not when the sun is loud. Not when your confidence is wearing slippers.”
Meanwhile Kwa, the river’s unbothered truth with teeth, doesn’t even chase me. He just exists. Calm. Available. Mildly terrifying. And I stand there on the near bank like a motivational speaker with dry shoes, giving TED Talks to my own fear. I don’t cross; I conduct a full meeting about crossing. Agenda items include: “Is the water giving negative energy?” “Has the current been consulted?” “Should we first align spiritually?” “Can we create a subcommittee on bravery?” Then I adjourn with snacks and call it wisdom.
And the most disrespectful part is this: I act like Kwa is my only option, as if the world has not been full of other routes. As if I couldn’t build a ridiculous little raft. As if I couldn’t walk the long way around like a determined auntie going to town. As if there aren’t birds overhead willing to help if I stopped trying to look cool while being scared. The truth is, it’s not the method that’s missing, it’s the decision. I am not stuck. I am postponing with excellent handwriting.
So yes, I laughed at myself today, because imagine being front row at the premiere of your own dream… starring someone else… while you whisper, “I was just preparing.” And somewhere in the spiritual background, there’s a quiet reassignment happening, like a talent being handed to the person who didn’t wait for perfect conditions, just showed up with trembling knees and said, “Fine. Let’s go.”
Anyway. If you see me standing at the edge again, holding speeches and refusing water, please remind me: courage is not a mood. And Someday is not coming. She’s on ‘let me circle back’ time, indefinitely.😂😂😂
