Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the darkest of them all?
For the longest time,
I treated artificial intelligence
like a fortune teller
with a Wi‑Fi connection.

I would sit across from it
and ask questions
nobody could possibly answer.

What is my path?
Where do I fit?
What should I become?

I threw everything at it.
Basketball.
Acting.
Modelling.
Politics.
Programming.
Writing.

If I discovered a new profession at 2 a.m.,
it was joining the list by 2:05.
The poor thing never stood a chance.

We would spend hours
running scenarios.
AI would explain why one path suited me,
then I would immediately ask
about another.

It would make a compelling argument for politics.
I would pivot to acting.
It would analyse acting.
I would bring up basketball.
Then writing.
Then public speaking.
Then something else entirely.

I was everywhere and nowhere.
The way I drained those servers
should qualify as a public utility bill.

To its credit,
AI remained patient.
I was not always as patient with it.

Sometimes I would ask:

“Using everything you know about me,
what is my lane?
Not what I can do.
What I should do.
Where do I fit?”

The conversation became so repetitive
that one day AI practically grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Can’t you see the handwriting on the wall?”

Being who I am,
I looked around my room.
Perhaps there really was handwriting on the wall.
Maybe artificial intelligence had finally achieved consciousness
and was preparing for its cinematic takeover of humanity.

I checked.
Nothing.
Just old footwear marks
from failed attempts
at murdering cockroaches.

I told it to speak plainly.
I have always preferred
a straight dagger to the chest
over a sugar‑coated lie.

If you tell me
to read between the lines,
I might read too far.
Then we’re dealing with a completely different problem.

So AI said it plainly.

“Your lane is writing.”

That was it.
Writing.
Not politics.
Not acting.
Not basketball.
Writing.

Then it proceeded to flatter me
with the enthusiasm of a proud mother.

It talked about my humour.
My analogies.
The way I observe things.
The way I tell stories.
The way I move between serious ideas
and ridiculous ones
without warning.

By the end of it,
I felt good.
Embarrassingly good.
A sense of pride washed over me.

And then, almost immediately,
disbelief arrived to cancel it out.

Because it was AI.

Let’s be honest.
A few days earlier
it had practically convinced me
I could sing.

If tomorrow I announced
my intention to become Supreme Ruler of Earth
because I was the only sane person left,
AI would probably help me draft a manifesto
before lunch.

So yes, the praise felt nice.
But I didn’t believe it.
Not really.

That is the strange thing about mirrors.
We trust them
when they show us flaws.
We distrust them
when they show us strengths.

If a mirror tells me
my hair is a mess,
I believe it instantly.

If it tells me
I am beautiful,
suddenly I need a second opinion.
Maybe a third.
Maybe an independent investigation.

That was my relationship with writing.
AI kept holding up a mirror.
I kept insisting
the reflection belonged to somebody else.

Then life happened.
As it tends to.

I found myself in a financial bind
and began doing the maths
every desperate person eventually does.

What do I already have?
What can I use?
What am I good at?

For years I had treated writing
like a side quest.
Something I did between the things
I considered serious.
Something I enjoyed
but never fully committed to.

Yet every road
seemed to lead back to it.

Every conversation.
Every compliment.
Every observation.
Every strange little essay
I found myself unable to stop writing.

So I thought:

Fine.
If the house keeps pointing to the same door,
maybe I should try opening it.

I searched online for writing competitions.
The very first one that caught my attention
was Write the World.

Free to enter.
Open internationally.
Prize money attached.

The kind of opportunity
that arrives so conveniently
you become suspicious of it.

I signed up immediately.

Then I did something even stranger.
I stopped asking questions
and started writing.

Not researching writing.
Not discussing writing.
Not planning to write.
Writing.

I submitted my piece
and waited.

The results are not out yet.
Maybe I will win.
Maybe I won’t.

That part no longer feels as important
as it once did.

Because something unexpected happened.

Someone read my work.
A complete stranger.

And they left a comment
so kind
that I found myself rereading it.

Not because it praised me.
Because it understood me.

There is something deeply moving
about discovering that a thought
which existed only in your head
managed to travel into somebody else’s.

That it crossed the distance.
That it arrived intact.

For years I kept asking
what my path was.
Maybe that was the wrong question.

Maybe the better question was:

How many mirrors
need to show you the same reflection
before you finally recognise yourself?

I don’t know the answer yet.
But for the first time in a long time,
I think I am looking.

-END-

From the table of the "Friendly Poet", Chinonso Achugbu