They say everything’s bigger in Texas, they didn’t lie.

As I sit here writing this, a bundled human burrito, my thermostat is doing its best to convince me that 12°F (-11°C) is “cozy,” while my electricity meter keeps climbing higher. As a writer—one who calculates rent between commas—I am keenly aware of these things.

Anyway, I digress. Let me tell you about the time Texas weather caught me in 4K.

Before moving to the States, I had a vision of Texas straight out of a postcard. “It never snows there!” they said. “The weather is perfect!” they said. “It’s one of the best places to live in America!” they insisted.

Clearly, they were on some high-quality substances.

I landed in Dallas last April, feeling like I’d just discovered paradise. The weather was perfect—a gentle warmth that reminded me of home minus the crushing humidity that makes Lagos feel like God’s personal steam room. Trees were blooming, birds were singing, and I thought to myself, “Ah, these Americans have been hiding the good life!”

Nobody—and I mean absolutely nobody—warned me that Texas weather has multiple personality disorder.

Back in Nigeria, we have two seasons: hot and rainy. Sometimes they overlap and create what we lovingly call “hot and wet,” but that’s about as complicated as it gets. So, when people told me Texas was hot, I smugly thought, “Please, I’m Nigerian. I invented hot.”

That first summer hit me like a slap from my grandmother’s wrapper. This wasn’t the kind of heat I knew from Lagos—this was personal. Texas summer feels like someone took the sun, made photocopies of it, and stuck them all in the sky at once. I mean…this heat was biblical!

The kind that makes the devil reach for a fan.

The kind that makes you question whether Texas is a test run for colonizing the sun.

I found myself doing the classic Nigerian “stand under any available shade” dance, except here, the shade was also cooking you, just on low heat instead of broil.

But summer? Summer was just Texas warming up its sense of humor.

Nobody talks about Texas winter. It’s like a secret society everyone’s sworn to keep quiet about. One day in December, I woke up to go to work, stepped outside in my light jacket (because, hey, I’m African, and this is America—how cold could it be?), and immediately felt my ancestors collectively facepalm.

The cold here doesn’t just exist—it hunts you down. It finds every gap in your clothing like it’s being paid a commission. It infiltrates your jacket, squats under your sweater, and settles in your bones rent-free. And don’t get me started on public transportation during winter. Waiting for the bus in Lagos might test your patience, but waiting for the bus in Texas winter tests your will to live.

Picture this: It’s 7 AM, 20°F outside (that’s about -6°C for my people back home), and I’m standing at the bus stop looking like a lost penguin. I had my fingers buried so deep in my sleeves that they were practically in my armpits. The wind? It wasn’t just blowing; it was delivering a TED Talk on why I should have stayed in bed. To think the bus app said 5 minutes. Twenty minutes later, I was doing a dance that looked like a mix between shoki and hypothermia, wondering if I could sue Texas for emotional damage.

When the bus finally showed up, moving with all the urgency of a sleepy tortoise, I climbed aboard with the grace of a frozen chicken and collapsed onto a plastic seat—somehow colder than the outside air because apparently, the heater is more of a suggestion than a requirement. I made eye contact with another passenger, and we exchanged that universal nod of mutual suffering.

The best part?

Texas weather has a sense of humor that would make Broda Shagi slow-clap. One day you’re wearing four layers and contemplating if you can fit a fifth, the next day you’re in shorts wondering if you accidentally slept through a whole season. It’s like the weather has a dart board of temperatures and someone’s throwing blindfolded.

It ambushes you and leaves you just as bewildered. It turns your weather app into a habitual liar. It tricks you into wearing the wrong outfit every single day. It turns the water in your pipe into icicles. Oh, and did I mention that it lets you run your tap on a slow, steady trickle to keep your pipes from bursting?

Y’all. Texas winter would have you asking, “What in the Night’s Watch is this cold?”

I’ve learned to keep an emergency weather kit handy: sunscreen, umbrella, light jacket, heavy jacket, and a healthy dose of “this too shall pass” mentality. Because in Texas, you don’t just check the weather forecast—you check your horoscope, flip a coin, and hope for the best.

To my Nigerian people planning to move to Texas: pack your courage along with your clothes.

To my fellow survivors of Texas weather roulette: I see you, I feel you, and yes, that walking burrito you saw earlier was me doing the morning prayer walk to the bus stop in three jackets.

And to Texas weather itself: well played, but, bro, I got this!

Thanks for reading this one, lover.

See you on the next one.