Nobody gave Dangote a certificate before he started selling sugar. Nobody handed Fela a permission slip before he opened his mouth. The bold ones don't wait because they understand something the rest of us are still arguing about in the group chat: there is no perfect time, and there is no one coming to let you in.

We've been trained — in school, at home, at work — to raise our hands before we speak. To wait our turn. To get the qualification before the title. And that training is useful, don't get me wrong. But somewhere between the classroom and the real world, "wait until you're ready" became a hiding place. A very comfortable, very convincing hiding place.

Here is what nobody tells you about starting before you're ready: it costs something. It costs your ego. You will embarrass yourself. You will post the thing and hear crickets. You will launch the product and three people will buy — one of them your mum. You will stand in the room and feel like an impostor for a solid six months. That is the fee. That is the tuition.

But here is what also nobody tells you: the people who look "ready" when you finally meet them — the ones speaking on stages, running the companies, moving the crowds — they started broke, confused, and slightly embarrassing too. They just started earlier than you. They ate the embarrassment while you were still waiting for confidence to arrive like a package from Jumia.

The bold ones don't start because they're fearless. They start because they understand that inaction is also a choice, and it has its own cost — a slower, quieter, more devastating cost. The cost of watching someone else do the thing you said you'd do "when the time is right."

So start. Start ugly. Start incomplete. Start with the wrong font on your flyer and too many typos in your bio. Start and correct as you go. Because the ones who started before they were ready? They're ready now. And you? You're still waiting.

Permission denied. Proceed anyway.