Today in class while preparing for our Literature paper later in the day, I was sitting with Hannah, Doyin and Favour. Grace passed our window crying and Hannah gave a weird look. Almost like she had something she wanted to get off her chest.

“You guys” she whispered to get our attention.

“So, you know how grace is always talking about how her father is in the US army and bragging up and down about how she was going to visit her?”

She continued

“ So according to a very visible source, her dad actually abandoned her mother and is married with a new family in the US”

“Ahh, I heard that too” Hannah said

“I wish my own father Abandoned me”

I said and they all turned to give me incredulous looks

“Why will you say such a thing?” Doyin said

“What? Can we continue reading for this exam abeg.”

I said, wanting to get my mind off the topic

The truth is, I very much wish my father was absent. Maybe life would have been better.

Maybe Mumsi would have married a better man.

Maybe we didn’t have to wake up to tge reality of an incapable father.

The other day, Papa was yelling about how we didn’t appreciate him at home, and compared himself to fathers who abandoned their families. He said if not thst he was responsible he’ll have packed his bags and left. I can’t remember what provoked him tgat day, but I remember whispering

“Please go and never return”

Who wanted a Father that spent his day lamenting over how everything was going wrong in the country but was still comfortable laying in his bed at 2pm on a Monday morning.

What responsible will borrow money, not to feed his family but to fend for his crumbling ponzi scheme of a business and feel self righteous.

Mama doesn’t believe in Divorce, for better or worse.

I believe if it were so I’ll never want to get married.

Love or not.

Papa was a parasite that thought he was justified to be so.

So when I thought of grace I envied her.

Of course Mama would struggle being a single mother, but hasn’t she always been one.

So what difference will it make of the man was gone, maybe we will even get better Aid knowing fully well that there’s no man in the house.

That night as I said my night prayers, I whispered to God for my father to disappear or better still go to jail.

Or your father on a very blissful Monday morning.

I am convinced that no good luck ever comes from that man?

Why?

Because I cannot understand why a woman has to cover the shame of a man that built it with his own hands.

Probably the only thing he has successfully built.

That glorious Monday morning, I was supposed to go for my Jamb exams.

My first step towards freedom from this madness called a family.

That was the day that this man they call my father, decided to fall ill.

Mummy was so distraught that she had to leave me to watch over her kiosk while she rushed him to the community clinic.

The woman looked more like she’ll pass out than the patient himself

I don’t even know who I resent more, the man that cannot do anything responsible in his miserable life or the woman who decided to have kids with him.

Because why bring kids into the world when you can’t take care of them?

Six children!

Six children!

And you can’t be bothered to feed them.

And when they got back from tge clinic, it was found that the man had pretended to fall ill to evade a debtor.

There was no way to retake my exams.

I felt sorry for myself but more for uncle Gbenga who saw a future on me and decided to pay for my form.

My father or like brother Timothy likes to call him, sperm donor couldn’t be bothered.

Aunty Ogechi, I am sorry that you have to see this part of me, but the truth is that I hate that man.

Imagine what his sister told mummy when she threatened to call the police on him after he stole her money and had the effontry to bruise her for confronting him.

The efulefu said that she shouldn’t wash her dirty linen in public. To cover her husband’s shame.

But then what use is a dirty linen that has been soiled with ink and condemned.

Everyone can already see that it’s damaged when worn, so whether washed indoors or outdoors, the fool is the person that bothers to wash it in the first place.

That is why I haven’t decided never to get married, ma.

If marriage entails washing of worn out fabrics then I’d rather burn it.

Someone I consider an uncle once told me that I have the curiosity of a toddler.

I think he was right.

There are parts of the world I still choose to see with innocent eyes. Not because I don’t know better, but because some parts of reality feel too heavy for my heart to carry.

I don’t think it’s intentional.

Maybe it’s my way of protecting something I don’t want the world to take from me.

But I know I have to grow up.

The question is: how do you learn to think like an adult without losing the softness of a child?

People say, “Have the heart of a child, but the wisdom of an elder.”

I understand the sentence.

I just don’t know how to live it.

Sometimes I think I don’t know how to navigate the world at all. So I retreat from it. I hide. I avoid. I convince myself that safety is the same thing as peace.

But you can’t spend your whole life hiding.

One day, the walls you’ve built to protect your heart become the very thing keeping you from living.

And then I wonder…

How do I know my heart is fragile if I’ve never really allowed it to live?

For a long time, I defended missing out by telling myself that you can’t miss what you’ve never experienced.

It sounded logical.

Until I realized that children don’t think that way.

Children don’t avoid life because they might get hurt.

They ask questions.

They touch things they’re told not to.

They fall.

They cry.

And somehow, they become braver because of it.

Maybe I don’t actually want to be a child forever.

Maybe I just want the childhood I never got to have.

The freedom to be curious without fear.

The permission to make mistakes without believing they’ll define me.

The courage to meet the world with wonder instead of suspicion.

Because if there’s one thing children understand better than adults, it’s this:

Life isn’t something you watch from a distance.

It’s something you experience.

Hi, my name is Cheryl, and I am a self acclaimed princess.

This is Cheryl’s Introspective, where I share the questions and thoughts that plague my mind.

My mind feels like there are several open tabs and background apps running all at once. I can’t seem to control it. Sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I have no choice but to purge it all and put my thoughts into words.

I hope my writing doesn’t reach the wrong audience. I’m not hiding anything, nor do I have secrets. This is simply a means to an end.

You may not understand me, and that’s okay. But please don’t misread me or write off my entire personality based on what you’ve read here.

This is for me, first and foremost.

I’ve shared a lot today, more than I usually would. But I think I needed to.

She wants to explore. And perhaps growing up isn’t the opposite of being childlike. Perhaps it’s having the courage to keep your curiosity, even after the world has given you reasons to lose it.

Thank you for reading and letting my inner child smile.❤️

A few weeks ago in church, someone asked a question that hasn’t left my mind.

He described a man who does everything “right.” He works hard. He prays. He obeys God. He lives faithfully. Yet, despite all of that, he never becomes financially successful.

Why?

Many people answered almost immediately.

“Then something must be wrong with his relationship with God.”

I looked around the room and wondered: if a lack of wealth is proof of weak faith, then what does that say about the millions of faithful people who struggle financially? Or even the people making that argument? Are they all lacking faith too?

Let’s step outside religion for a moment.

If everyone became rich, who would be poor?

Can an economy exist without income inequality?

Every society in history has had differences in wealth. Economists debate how large that gap should be, but no modern economy has ever eliminated it completely. Wealth is influenced by far more than effort alone. Opportunity, education, family background, health, geography, public policy, luck, and timing all play a role.

Research consistently shows that hard work increases the chances of success, but it does not guarantee the same outcome for everyone.

So maybe we’re asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking why someone didn’t become rich, perhaps we should ask why we’ve made wealth the universal definition of success.

Is ethical wealth possible?

Is financial success the only evidence of a life well lived?

Can someone be successful without being wealthy?

And if success has different meanings, is it fair to call someone a failure simply because their bank account doesn’t reflect our expectations?

Maybe the issue isn’t that some people fail.

Maybe it’s that we’ve confused prosperity with purpose.

Hi, my name is Cheryl, and I am a self acclaimed princess.

This is Cheryl’s Introspective, where I share the questions and thoughts that plague my mind.

My mind feels like there are several open tabs and background apps running all at once. I can’t seem to control it. Sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I have no choice but to purge it all and put my thoughts into words.

I hope my writing doesn’t reach the wrong audience. I’m not hiding anything, nor do I have secrets. This is simply a means to an end.

You may not understand me, and that’s okay. But please don’t misread me or write off my entire personality based on what you’ve read here.

This is for me, first and foremost.

I’ve shared a lot today, more than I usually would. But I think I needed to.

Thank you for reading and for noticing me.

These questions simply challenge the logic of equating faith with financial success.

Whenever I’m being asked what my hobbies are, I’ll say I have none. Because I felt like hobbies should be, sewing , playing a piano, crotcheting. Things you enjoy doing. Your escape from tge world. Then I began to say reading novels. I love reading novels, it’s literally my escape from reality. The only home I’ve ever known. I can’t say my home away from home because I’ve never really had that homely feeling. But when my thoughts begin to over whelm me and I begin to think of what ifs, and buts and I start to compare. Reading becomes a chore. I can no longer concentrate anymore. I can’t escape and runaway. I then began to say writing. But writing makes me compare myself to every good writer I know. There was a time where I used chat GPT to edit my work. To make my writing better. I didn’t believe I could be a writer.

I’m a creative at heat. I love to day dream. Since I was a little girl, my delusions have been my home. I love my imagination. It’s what keeps me afloat, what keeps me company whenever I’m lonely. And trust me, I’m mostly lonely.

Then I learnt about content creation. Back then it wasn’t a thing. It was just seeing our favourite YouTubers and dancers on TikTok. I wanted to be part, play out my delusions and creative ideas stemmed from my imagination. But I couldn’t. Excuses came up. I had no camera. My room wasn’t aesthetic enough. My life was too boring to vlog about. It was something I spoke of but never did. It had always been a dream.

In 2025, I chose to stop dreaming and start acting. But it was silky to me. Because nobody ever paid attention. Well to me. Tgat comparison came up again. Creators that started after me had thousands of followers. I followed the rules, put myself to out there but I was still stuck. Nobody was noticing me. Then I decided to decided to forget the numbers and be myself, but life caught up. I’m now unemployed by my calculations, I should be earning from content creation by now. But I am not. People who began at the same time as I did regardless of their follower count have had partnerships, collaborations and have started earning. Today, my daily depression hour began, and I was sad. I needed a distraction. Something that’ll stop me from spiralling. It’s the beginning of a new week. I have no Job, no money and no hopes of making it from content creation by now. It seems like I’ve exhausted all my options. I feel like giving up. I tried reading a book, but my thoughts kept on distracting me. Do you know what made me smile and feel giddy? Editing a video. Putting one of my creative ideas to work. The same thing that I wanted to give up on.

I’ve always felt weird to call content creation a skill, because everyone else is doing it. But it’s my hobby. It’s something I love and something I’ve always dreamt about.

So, I live content creation because it’s enables me to dream, to be myself and to explore and challenge my creative heart.

Hi, my name is Cheryl, and I am a self acclaimed princess.

This is Cheryl’s Introspective, where I share the questions and thoughts that plague my mind.

My mind feels like there are several open tabs and background apps running all at once. I can’t seem to control it. Sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I have no choice but to purge it all and put my thoughts into words.

I hope my writing doesn’t reach the wrong audience. I’m not hiding anything, nor do I have secrets. This is simply a means to an end.

You may not understand me, and that’s okay. But please don’t misread me or write off my entire personality based on what you’ve read here.

This is for me, first and foremost.

I’ve shared a lot today, more than I usually would. But I think I needed to.

Thank you for reading and for noticing me.

My fragile heart needed it.❤️

Intelligence has become a quantifying adjective.

It’s a compliment most people, especially in academic settings, use to stay afloat.

I personally believe that everyone possesses intelligence in their own unique way.

I’ve always wanted to be the best at at least one thing.

People have called me intelligent, but I never saw it.

I’ve always wanted to put words together in a way that would make someone stop and say, “Wow, she’s really smart.”

Everybody wants to sound smart. To shame the olodos. To shape culture with knowledge.

Maybe that’s just the little corner of the world I grew up in.

There was a book club I eventually left because many of its members believed that people who read romance novels were somehow less intelligent.

Read memoirs. Read biographies. Read historical fiction, they said.

Read books that challenge your knowledge.

I once told a dear friend of mine that I hated it whenever he belittled my intelligence.

It made me feel a certain kind of way.

Among all the different ways people shame others, the classism, the subtle superiority, the quiet judgment, there was also intelligence shaming.

They look at you and decide, She’s probably quite dense.

Maybe because I’m arguably pretty.

Maybe because I’m bubbly.

Maybe because I’m popular.

Somehow, those things become evidence against intelligence.

And that’s why I don’t subscribe to the whole “Olodo Uprising” or whatever it’s called.

I believe everyone is intelligent in their own way.

I’m just not brave enough to argue that today.

My final year results came out yesterday. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t anxious about a result.

It reminded me of the first time I failed without making a fuss. My WAEC result, where I had an F9 in Mathematics.

My father said it was my pride that made me fail. That I was too pompous and full of myself.

My own father said I needed to climb down from my high horse. He believed that because I had decided to study the Arts, I simply felt Mathematics wasn’t for me and that I didn’t need it. After all, I represented my school in Cowbellpedia in junior secondary school, even though we didn’t make it to the qualifying stage.

Writing this, I think I’ve just realised the greatest catalyst for my low self esteem growing up.

That was the beginning of my fear of failure.

It never motivated me to push harder just to prove people wrong. Oh no. It was even worse than that. The push became avoiding failure at all costs.

So every time I failed, I believed it was because I was too proud.

I remember my second year, second semester in Uni. I failed a particular course.

Deep down, I knew there had been a mix up somewhere. My mum encouraged me to follow it up and question why I got an F. But somehow, I interpreted that as me being overconfident and proud. I accepted that I must have deserved the 36. That maybe I hadn’t even earned my continuous assessment.

The funny thing is, I was the one who put the group together and did most of the behind the scenes work for our assignment.

Out of more than 150 students, only two of us failed that course.

Later, I found out that a similar thing had happened to someone in the level above mine, with the same lecturer. He fought for his score and eventually got it because there had indeed been a mix up.

But there I was, swallowing my failure, convincing myself I was simply being “humble,” and retaking the course.

That became the only carryover of my undergraduate degree, and I paid for it dearly.

I convinced myself that I had only ever thought I was intelligent, when really I wasn’t. That I needed to come down from my high horse, just as my father had told sixteen year old Cheryl.

I was too pompous.

So every exam, every result, I expected failure.

I humbled myself. I put myself down.

My greatest fear became not graduating.

I even mentally prepared myself not to make the graduation list. Just in case it happened, I wanted to believe it was because I deserved it. Because I simply wasn’t good enough.

I gave up on competing. I gave up on trying to be the best.

I settled for being mediocre.

Just good enough.

Normal.

Blasé.

Why?

Because I believed I thought too highly of myself.

My father still says it today.

That I think I’m better than everyone else.

So I started to stop caring.

Would that destroy me?

I used to believe I was going to be great and do great things.

Now here I am, stuck at home, unemployed, with no real plan.

My father says I need to find a job.

My mother says she’ll never raise a failure.

Who exactly decides what failure looks like?

I’ve already survived academic expectations. Now it feels like I’m about to fail at life instead.

Anxiety is my worst nightmare.

I remember crying the night before my final year thanksgiving because I was expecting the worst.

I deprived myself of enjoying the excitement of graduating because I kept waiting for something to go wrong.

Something to prove that I wasn’t intelligent enough to have made it this far.

While everyone else was planning outfits and spending money, I was planning how to skip graduation altogether.

Trust me, my father wouldn’t care.

After all, to him, I’d just be too materialistic and vain.

“It’s only an undergraduate convocation.”

“What exactly is the big deal?”

“Why do you need a photoshoot?”

He didn’t even attend his own convocation.

Tobe Ugeh.

He recently wrote a Substack article that I just finished reading.

It was about being criticised and called a fool because of something he posted.

I honestly don’t remember the exact post.

But I do remember a video he made earlier this year about Yoruba culture. I didn’t personally see anything wrong with it, but it received a lot of backlash over misinformation.

What did he really do wrong besides trying to share knowledge and make an impact?

He’s human.

His research may have been flawed.

That brings me to my question.

Why do people feel threatened when someone appears more intelligent than they are?

Why is intelligence so often mistaken for pride?

This may not even be Tobe’s experience.

But you can’t deny that many people assume he thinks he’s better than everyone else.

I spent years resenting people in secondary school simply because they always came first and I desperately wanted to be better than them.

I just wanted to feel like I was the best at something.

Then I’d hear things like, “Why would a Hausa boy be better than you in school?”

So I carried around this quiet resentment.

I compared myself with everyone who seemed better than me at something.

Because I convinced myself I could never truly be good at anything.

Eventually, I gave up.

I abandoned my interests.

Writing.

Content creation.

Trying to discover what I was actually called to do.

Now that I’m slowly rebuilding my confidence, another reality has settled over my life.

Two weeks ago, I returned home and moved back into my father’s house.

Every morning I’m reminded that I’m a failure because I don’t have a job.

Because I’m unemployed.

Because I sit at home all day while I’m still trying to figure things out.

My mum tells me not to despise the days of humble beginnings.

She says I should get any job I can, even if it’s frying akara.

Yes, she’s fully in support of starting anywhere.

She tells me to become a salesgirl if I have to.

My mum owns a boutique.

My sister works there.

The other day, a man tried to touch her inappropriately while she was working.

That scared me.

Now I have a degree that everyone said would open doors.

Yet here I am, still carrying that same mediocre mindset.

Still believing I won’t be good at anything.

I’m an unemployed graduate sitting at home, struggling to stand up for herself because I feel like I have nothing to stand on.

What pressure.

Will I ever make it out of here?

Will I ever escape?

Yesterday, I realised I graduated with a Second Class Upper.

I beat myself up for years because I couldn’t get a First Class.

I cried because I wasn’t good enough.

Eventually, I became numb.

By my final year, I just wanted it all to be over.

When my results came out, the same father who once called me pompous and full of myself hugged me.

Then he revealed something.

He graduated with a Third Class degree.

Hi, my name is Cheryl, and I am a self acclaimed princess.

This is Cheryl’s Introspective, where I share the questions and thoughts that plague my mind.

My mind feels like there are several open tabs and background apps running all at once. I can’t seem to control it. Sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I have no choice but to purge it all and put my thoughts into words.

I hope my writing doesn’t reach the wrong audience. I’m not hiding anything, nor do I have secrets. This is simply a means to an end.

You may not understand me, and that’s okay. But please don’t misread me or write off my entire personality based on what you’ve read here.

This is for me, first and foremost.

I’ve shared a lot today, more than I usually would. But I think I needed to.

Thank you for reading.

You know how last season I came up with the “mommy of the group” theory? The girl who’s always looking after everyone else but somehow can never find love for herself.

Well...this season, it’s Aniya.

I love Aniya. From the very beginning, she has been my girl. I fell in love the minute she said she wanted to be treated like a princess and honestly KC never did that, he only showered her with compliments which were mostly backhanded. No actions just “speaking life into her” In his own words.

One thing I’ve been thinking about is why so many people shipped Casey and Anaya. I genuinely think race played a part. They looked good together and honestly that villa has limited options.

Now here’s the embarrassing part.

I got fooled by Casey.

I can’t even say why because not once did he call out Zack nor Sincere for their actions with Kenzie and Melanie. He only spoke to the girls.

The crazy thing is, I saw the red flags from the beginning. And God was he so unserious. 

There was this facial expression he made when they were coupled up. It was subtle, but something about it didn’t sit right with me. Then he’d say things like he was happy with Anaya and that he would’ve picked her anyway.

Why lie?

You don’t have to pretend.

I’d honestly respect someone more if they just said, “I’m staying with you because I don’t want to risk leaving the villa.”

At least she’d know where she stood.

And that’ll have made him the villain instead.

Instead, he kept telling her everything was fine while acting like she wasn’t someone he genuinely wanted. He’d joke around, laugh things off and never really take her seriously.

Meanwhile, Aniya kept asking him the same question.

“Do you want explore, am I holding you back?”

Over and over again.

And every single time he’d reassure her.

Knowing he wasn’t being honest.

That’s what annoyed me the most.

He saw it as nagging.

(I remember this feeling, when I complain about how I’m feeling about a man’s actions and they make it seem like I’m nagging.)

Aniya is such a sweet girl.

Watching her constantly seek reassurance from someone who had already emotionally checked out was honestly painful.

Then I started thinking about something bigger.

This isn’t just Casey.

This reminds me of so many Gen Z boys. And yes, I said boys.

Because there’s such a huge gap in emotional maturity sometimes. Girls seem to be growing emotionally while some guys are becoming more manipulative, more emotionally unavailable and, at times, threatened by emotionally intelligent women.

I even saw a TikTok where someone analysed Casey’s behaviour. They said he seemed to be acting out because he wasn’t picked initially. Almost like he needed to feel desirable, and when he didn’t, whoever ended up with him became the person who absorbed that frustration.

I don’t know if that’s exactly what happened.

But it made me think.

Because Anaya was nothing but kind.

And somehow she still ended up being treated like she wasn’t enough.

That hit me harder than I expected.

It reminded me of myself.

I’m naturally nice.

I’m kind to people.

I’m kind to guys.

Not because I’m trying to win anybody over. That’s just who I am.

And I’ve had guys tell me, “You’re not like other girls.”

Or, “You’re so sweet.”

Looking back now, I don’t even know if those were compliments.

Sometimes they felt like little breadcrumbs. Just enough to keep me emotionally invested while they were never actually choosing me.

That’s the part that hurts.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering,

“What is wrong with me?”

“I’m nice.”

“I’m caring.”

“I try.”

“So why am I never the first choice?”

Watching Aniya made me realise so many girls have probably asked themselves that exact same question.

When she cried...

I cried too.

Because I understood.

Love Island has unintentionally become this really interesting reflection of dating culture.

It’s made me notice patterns I probably would’ve ignored before.

Especially this whole red pill mentality.

There have been so many experiences I’ve had over the past couple of months that suddenly started making sense while watching this show.

One moment that really stood out to me was when Casey complained that Aniya wouldn’t let him do anything physically. That she was like somebody’s grandma.

That irritated me so much because it reminded me of my own experiences.

I’ve had guys ask me how far is “too far.”

Mind you...

We barely knew each other.

I’d already told them I don’t do certain things.

I don’t kiss people unless they’re my boyfriend or unless I genuinely feel secure about where we stand.

And somehow that wasn’t enough.

They’d keep asking.

Keep pushing.

Trying to figure out exactly where the boundary was.

Almost like my “no” was just the beginning of a negotiation.

For the longest time, I used to feel embarrassed saying that out loud.

Now?

I genuinely don’t care anymore.

Love Island has washed my eyes.

People can call me difficult.

People can call me old fashioned.

I really don’t care.

Because I’ve realised something.

A lot of these behaviours aren’t loud.

They’re subtle.

It’s micro entitlement.

Not the obvious kind where someone outright says they deserve your body.

It’s quieter than that.

It’s the constant pushing.

The little comments.

The backhanded compliments.

The way they slowly make you feel like your standards are unreasonable.

Like you’re the difficult one.

Even the compliments Casey gave Aniya irritated me.

Things like, “Women of your colour get the shorter end of the stick.”

Excuse me?

She’s literally the only Black woman there.

Or those comments about baddies being hard to maintain.

They’re framed like compliments.

But they’re not.

They’re backhanded.

And once you start noticing them, you can’t unsee them.

At one point I found myself thinking, “I’m disappointed because he’s a Black man.”

Then I stopped myself.

Because this isn’t about race.

It’s about character.

Casey doesn’t respect women.

And honestly, a lot of the men in that villa don’t either.

Some of them don’t even seem to respect themselves.

Everything about Casey screams insecurity to me.

The constant need to be desired.

The mixed signals.

The dishonesty.

The inability to simply be truthful.

It’s exhausting.

The funniest part is that I used to feel sad because guys weren’t choosing me.

Because maybe I wasn’t attractive enough.

Maybe I wasn’t enough.

Maybe I wasn’t lovable enough.

I don’t feel that way anymore.

Now I think...

Maybe not being picked isn’t the tragedy I thought it was.

People always say it’s hard for men to find wives in this generation because women are doing this or women are doing that.

Well...

It’s hard to find my husband in this generation too.

It’s hard to find a man who isn’t carrying all these unhealthy mindsets about women, relationships and intimacy.

And maybe that’s the real issue.

Anyway...

That’s the end of my Love Island rant.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

I remember when I used to tell people that I never experienced one-sided love. Well, thank God I remember this one instance.

A lot of people overlook friendships, and I will tell you that female friendships are the most diabolical because you don’t know when you get too attached. You don’t know when you become too obsessed. And it seems easy because it’s friendship, but friendship holds more water than lovers do. Friendships are built to last forever. Love might come and go. You might not meet your lifetime partner in the first instance. You have to kiss some frogs, but you see friendships, they are meant to last a lifetime.

I believe one of my love languages is intercessory, in the sense that I will pray for you like it’s my own burden. I remember one day when I asked God and I said, Lord, I want to be in the shoes that Jesus was in. If I could die for my friends on the cross, I would. If I could take away the pain of so many people’s suffering, I would. That is the extent to which I love.

And it’s quite unfair that I have not been loved in the same way in which I love. I want to experience that, but it’s fine. I guess there are limits to this love thing, and to be honest, I have experienced love in all its beautiful forms.

But I digress.

Back to my main story.

I met this girl in JSS2, secondary school. I had never had a close best friend the way we were close at that time. It seemed like a fresh start for me because I was the weird kid in school and I didn’t have that many friends. But she came as the new girl, a transfer student, and, oh well, it just seemed so perfect that we would be friends.

At first, I didn’t push the friendship thing. I waited for her to come to me. Well, that was how I remembered it. And I was nice and polite until we found out that we had similarities and we became close.

I remember our parents even knew each other. My mom was so happy because finally I had introduced her to a friend.

It was all roses until the red flags started showing.

Now, this lady lost her mom. And while this may sound a little selfish, when she chose the people she cried to and shared her story with, I wasn’t one of them.

But I remember that Sunday, chapel Sunday, when we were praying. I cried and wept to God, and I said things, so many things I’m too embarrassed to say. But one significant thing I said was that I wanted to share that pain with this person. This person did not deserve what happened to her.

And then I realized something. Back then, I thought I was being selfish for feeling hurt. But looking back now, I think she had already started withdrawing. She started doing things which I deemed were out of her character. But did I really know this girl at that time?

And let’s just say my love was a little obsessive.

So yeah, I’m going to end it here and say that what I have learned, even though I don’t think I have had that level of friendship or love before, is that if I love you, I will do anything for you.

I used to say that I would die for my friends. I’m sure it was a joke, but I would die for my sister. I would die for my loved ones. I would die for my family.

But the main question is, will anybody die for me?

Would I ever experience this same type of love that I give? Because when I love, I give my all. I give everything.

Maybe I’m just a good girl in books. Maybe I’m not in real life.

But yeah, I will always pray for you.

Love,
Cheryl🤍

Comment

I had an argument with someone recently and it started because he said I create content for validation.

For context, he’s a creator who wanted to be featured on Creators Cameo. A spotlight series I started on Instagram and TikTok to showcase creators with interesting, fun perspectives and hopefully introduce them to new audiences.

I may not have fully achieved the audience part yet, but I’m growing. And honestly, I really enjoy doing it.

During our conversation, I asked him a question: “What do you want people to feel when they watch your videos?”

To me, it made sense because Creators Cameo is essentially a pitch. A way of showing people why they should pay attention to a creator.

But he laughed at the question. Said it sounded too serious.

So I answered it myself.

I said I want people to feel connected. I want them to feel seen. Especially with this series because it’s not even centered on me, it’s centered on other creators and the stories they carry.

Then he told me that mindset is exactly what’s holding me back. That I care too much about what people think. That I create for validation.

And maybe I am serious. But I’m serious about intention.

I love self expression. I love creating things that make people laugh, think, reflect, or feel understood. Content doesn’t always have to be deep, but it should stand for something. Even entertainment creates a feeling.

That feeling matters.

You’re not creating for people instead of yourself. You’re creating for yourself while serving other people at the same time. There’s a balance between self expression and connection. That’s what service is.

Because eventually, if you want to build a community or even make money from what you love, the question naturally becomes: Why should people stay? Why should they care? Why should they follow you?

And again, it’s really not that deep. But that’s the entire heart behind Creators Cameo.

It’s not just about showing creators. It’s about understanding them.

And can I add this too? Not every creator has to be loud, chaotic, funny, or spontaneous. Some creators are thoughtful. Some are quiet. Some are intentional. Some educate. Some inspire.

That diversity is what makes creativity beautiful.

I should be able to watch one creator because they make me laugh, another because they make me think, and another because they make me feel understood.

It all depends on how their self expression resonates with me as an audience.

Lately, I’ve also been trying to figure out what kind of content still feels natural to me. I stopped doing talking head videos because they started to feel like a chore. Somewhere along the line, they became performative.

And yes, I’m a perfectionist. But I also like creating at my own pace and in ways that feel honest to me.

To create a Creators Cameo feature on someone, I first have to understand them. I have to understand their thoughts, their intentions, their “why.”

Because that’s the only way I can tell their story properly.

Creators Cameo made me realize that understanding a creator matters just as much as the content itself.

And this doesn’t stop you from being yourself.

But my question is what is wrong with me being serious?

I’m goal oriented, I love organization and structure and I adore planning.

It doesn’t feel like a chore to me.

It feels professional and sophisticated.

I have well structured intentions.

I also have fun too.

And I’m getting to the part where I express myself better. I just need a strategy.

But does that mean I’m doing to much?

— Cheryl 🤍

It has always been my thing to break away from circles and friendships just so that I can be me.

I’ll explain with an example

I got into a new space and environment and I was seeing someone.

People introduced me as his babe.

I hated it.

Partly because I was a little bit ashamed of being associated with him, my brain low-key knew I settled but I digress.

I struggled to be identified as Cheryl.

Not Mrs Nwora’s daughter.

Onyinye’s friend.

Why can’t I meet people by myself without some relationship tied to me.

A lot of people said I lack personality. I don’t have a “rememberable face”

So it’s easier to remember me through a connection.

And to tag my personality with someone else’s.

When do I break free from this.

Chuka and Chioma had not said a word to each other since they left her form that morning.

Chuka made sure she was comfortable, so they booked a taxi. The two of them sat at the back, inches apart, close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to pretend they were strangers. He wanted to speak, but decided against it. Silence felt safer than saying the wrong thing.

They still had not talked about the slap from two days before.

He was even more stunned when she showed up with her luggage.

They had not talked about the plan either. Three days together at his friend’s apartment. Easter break. No lectures, no deadlines, no waiting for weekends. Just Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. By Monday, he would be back in school.

It was supposed to be simple.

But the tension between them made everything feel fragile.

Did she even want to be here?

The taxi driver tried to fill the silence. He spoke about politics, about Nigeria, about what the president was doing now. His voice carried easily, like someone used to talking to people who did not answer back.

The only time Chioma spoke was when he asked if they were siblings.

“No,” she said, sharp and immediate.

Nothing else.

They finally arrived at the apartment.

Chuka stepped out first, brought out the keys, and opened the door. He ushered her in, then returned to the car to pick up her luggage. Two bags.

“For three days,” he muttered under his breath.

If she heard him, she gave no sign.

He dropped the bags inside and turned, only to find her standing still. She held a piece of paper in her hand, staring at him with disbelief.

“Chuka, what is the meaning of this?”

Her hands rested on her waist.

“Let me see that,” he said, reaching for the paper.

Abeg no vex. I forget say you dey come with your babe. My brother dey use the other room so na only one room dey available. My room dey open.

John

“Oh,” Chuka said.

“Oh?” Chioma repeated. “What do you mean, oh, Chuka? What was your plan?”

“I am sorry…”

“Sorry for yourself. I cannot be in the same room with you right now.”

Her voice rose as she turned and walked down the corridor, searching for the open room.

A door creaked. Then silence.

Night came slowly.

Chioma did not come out.

Chuka knocked once. Then again.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked through the door.

No response.

He stood there for a moment longer, then walked away.

In the kitchen, he used the foodstuff they had bought earlier. He peeled the yam, cut it into chunks, set it on the fire. The familiar rhythm steadied him. He made egg sauce the way she liked it, rich with pepper and onions.

She always praised his cooking.

Maybe this would soften her.

Maybe this would fix something.

He finished, dished the food, and left it on the table. The aroma filled the apartment, warm and inviting.

He waited.

Nine o’clock passed.

Ten.

Still nothing.

Eventually, he spread a wrapper on the living room floor and lay down. Sleep came in fragments, uneasy and thin.

A sudden clatter pulled him awake.

He sat up, heart racing, and glanced at the wall clock.

2 a.m.

“Who is there?” he called out.

No answer.

He stood and walked toward the kitchen.

Chioma stood there, holding the pot of boiled yam.

“I just came to… I wanted to get water,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.

Chuka let out a small laugh.

“I knew you would be hungry eventually and leave that room.”

She hissed and tried to walk past him, but he stepped into her path.

“Chioma, I am sorry. Please.”

“Chuka, move.”

“Please.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him.

“Do you even love me?”

“I do.”

“Then why is it so hard for you to show me?”

“Chioma, we have been over this. I cannot do this.”

“You act like you do not want me.”

“I do want you. Chioma, please.”

There was a pause.

Then she stepped closer.

She kissed him.

He did not move.

She kissed him again.

Still nothing.

The third time, something in him gave way.

His resolve slipped, and he kissed her back.

The excitement of the date faded gently into something quieter.

Something steadier.

And before either of them could fully sit in it, reality returned.

School.

Distance.

Time.

That evening, they sat outside her aunt’s house.

The compound was unusually calm. A faint hum of a generator came from somewhere down the street, blending with the distant chatter of neighbours settling into the night. The air carried a slight chill. Not cold, just enough to make you aware of your skin.

Chioma sat with her hands folded in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing over each other.

Chuka watched her.

She had been quieter than usual.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, like she was trying to organise her thoughts before letting them out.

“You’ll be going back soon,” she said finally.

It wasn’t a question.

Chuka nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“And when you go back…” she continued, her voice softer now, “everything will change.”

He frowned slightly. “Why do you say that?”

She turned to him, her expression calm but searching.

“Because you’re a medical student, Chuka.”

There was weight in the way she said it.

“Your life isn’t like mine. You’ll be busy. Classes, clinicals, stress… everything.”

He sighed, leaning back slightly, his elbows resting on his knees.

“I’ll make time.”

It came out quickly. Firm. Like a promise he had already made to himself.

Chioma gave a small, almost tired smile.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

She shook her head lightly.

“I don’t want to be something that distracts you,” she said, and this time her voice dropped just a little. “I don’t want to be… extra weight.”

That word lingered between them.

Chuka turned fully toward her now.

“You’re not,” he said, more quietly, but more seriously.

She didn’t look convinced.

So he softened.

He gently lifted her chin, his fingers light against her skin, tilting her face upward just enough for her eyes to meet his.

“You’re not a distraction,” he repeated. “You’re something I choose.”

That made her eyes flicker.

Something about the way he said it. It was simple, without pressure, settled somewhere deep inside her.

But still… she didn’t fully let go of the thought.

*********

School resumed.

And just like that, life became faster.

Louder.

Demanding.

But Chuka kept his word.

There were days he showed up unexpectedly.

Tired.

Slightly disheveled.

But smiling.

Just to see her.

Sometimes, it was only for an hour.

They would sit together, talking about everything and nothing, trying to stretch time like it could bend for them.

Other times, he stayed the weekend.

Those were her favourite.

Weekends felt different.

Slower.

Like the world paused just enough to let them exist in their own space.

They would wake up late, talk lazily, argue about small things, laugh over nothing.

Sometimes they didn’t even go anywhere.

Just being together felt like enough.

But Chioma still thought too much.

One evening, they went for a walk.

It wasn’t planned.

They had been sitting inside for too long, the air feeling thick with unspoken thoughts, so she stood up suddenly.

“Let’s go outside,” she said.

The night air met them gently.

Cool against warm skin.

The street was quiet, save for the occasional passing car and distant music drifting from a nearby house. The streetlights cast soft golden pools on the ground, leaving spaces of shadow in between.

They walked side by side, their steps slow, unhurried.

Chioma wrapped her arms around herself lightly.

“Are you cold?” Chuka asked.

“A little.”

He hesitated for a second, then moved closer.

Not touching.

Just enough for his presence to be felt.

Silence settled between them.

Not awkward.

Just… full.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said after a while.

Chuka smiled faintly. “That’s never a good sign.”

She nudged him slightly, but didn’t smile.

“I’m serious.”

He glanced at her. “Okay.”

She took a breath.

“I feel like I’m taking your time.”

He stopped walking.

The sudden pause made her turn back.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Overthinking.”

She sighed, looking away.

“I’m being realistic.”

“No,” he replied gently, stepping closer now. “You’re creating something that isn’t there.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t understand—”

“I do,” he cut in, but his voice wasn’t harsh. Just certain. “I know my life is busy. I know what I’m doing.”

She looked at him now.

He took both of her hands in his, lifting them slowly and pressing them against his chest.

“Can you feel my heartbeat?” he asked softly.

She nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as they rested against him.

“And I’m choosing this,” he added.

Something in her chest tightened.

“I just don’t want to be the reason you fall behind,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he said. “And even if things get hard, I’ll handle it.”

She searched his face, like she was trying to find doubt.

But there was none.

They stared at each other for a long, suspended moment. His eyes reflected hers, wide and unguarded, as if they were sharing a secret neither had spoken aloud. Slowly, imperceptibly, they inched closer.

Neither of them noticed when their lips were only inches apart. Chioma’s heart hammered in her chest, each beat loud enough she feared he might hear it. The warmth of him, the scent that clung to his skin—it was intoxicating.

Chuka’s gaze drifted down, lingering on her lips. Chioma closed her eyes instinctively, her breath caught somewhere between anticipation and fear.

Then, softly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Before she could respond, he leaned back abruptly, letting go of her hands. The sudden space between them was sharp, almost painful. For a second, Chioma felt like the air itself had been released, rushing back into her lungs.

“It’s fine,” she whispered, unsure what he was apologizing for.

“We should head back,” he said, voice steady but gentle.

She nodded, and they began walking back together. The silence felt heavy, awkward, but not unkind.

Gradually, as the tension eased, her fingers found his again. This time, they stayed, soft and unforced, as if finding their rhythm in the quiet of the night.

⸻

By Easter, something had changed.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

Just… deeper.

This time, when he came to see her, they didn’t go out.

“My friend travelled,” Chuka said, his voice a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t entirely sure she’d agree. “I was thinking… maybe we could stay at his place for a while, just… spend some time together.”

He waited, heart thudding, almost afraid to hope.

“Yes,” Chioma said simply.

The single word hit him like a spark. Fireworks seemed to ignite in his belly, a rush of excitement and relief washing over him. He tried to keep his composure, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, lifting into a grin that he couldn’t quite suppress.

Chioma watched him, a small smile tugging at her own lips. There was warmth in the quiet between them, a soft kind of thrill that made the air around them feel lighter, sweeter, like something unspoken was starting to bloom.

And because I love to talk, let's talk about systemic misogyny.

I always say this — boys are far more influenced by peer pressure than girls. Maybe I'm wrong, but I know that with girls, parents always check the kind of company they keep, who they hang around with. But with boys it's usually, "oh, they play football together so there's no issue." Parents are way more careless with monitoring that aspect. And while some people will blame the parents and how they raise their male children, a large percentage of what children learn comes from their peers. They spend a heavy percentage of their lives in school, so those interactions shape a child's reasoning. This is not to say that parents are doing a good job. There is a level of monitoring and supervision that a lot of parents fail to provide.

Now back to the original topic. Systemic misogyny.

You know this phrase, "tapping current"? A very popular act among teenage boys, where they get aroused by being so close to a girl's bum. In the boarding school I attended, it was a nightmare. Girls saw it as a form of admiration, especially if they were told their "current was electrifying," meaning a big bum. I saw it as a disgusting culture. It’s seems hilarious right, but it’s twisted.

The day one foolish, fair, small boy in my class dared to touch my bum, I gave him the dirtiest slap of his life. Back then, I was segregated for being too "uptight" and "strict." Let's just say I was untouchable.

So this boy did what he did, and after the slap, he began to play the victim.

I slapped him. Why would I slap him? Another boy, a friend of mine at the time, asked what happened. I felt ashamed to narrate it. I still don't know why I felt ashamed, but I managed to tell him, and he was furious at the boy. I don't remember much of what happened after because I knew I had caused a scene.

But why didn't that boy feel ashamed? Why was I the one who felt ashamed?

Luckily, that was my only experience of such vulgar behavior. But there were girls in that school who were groped. Ostracized for not agreeing to do sexual things.

What do you mean, because I said no, you decide to spread a rumor that I'm loose?

There were so many stories like that. This girl was caught with that guy, and the girl was the "loose" one while the guy was the "cool" one.

The conquest and the conqueror.

I'm sure they placed bets on my head too, but being who I am, I was too intolerable for them.

Now that I think about it, those terrorists disguised as boys were nothing older than 18, and that was rare, seeing that I grew up in a generation where kids started school early.

Little boys of 10, 12, 13 asking for nudes. I genuinely did not know what nudes were until I was 16 and already in university. My brain simply was not that exposed, and neither did I care to know such things at that age.

People say naive, but if this is what happens with minors, tell me, how much more intense is it with grown men who feel they have the right to a woman's body?

You tell a man no, and he asks why 2,000 times and tries to persuade you. They do not take you seriously.

If I got a naira for every time I've been told "you're playing hard to get" or "you're forming," I would be rich by now. Apparently, we are the ones doing shakara. They just need to push a little harder.

Then the demented ones, when they realize you are serious, begin with "how dare you," and in their twisted heads, "the violent taketh it by force."

But the moment a girl asks you for money and pushes a little too hard, she cannot ask why, you do not have to give it to her, and she is a gold digger. Yet you can ask someone you barely know to sleep with you, and that is perfectly fine.

That's if the girl is lucky, because apparently asking for consent is, to some men, an optional luxury. They taketh what is theirs.

These traits begin in boyhood. Misogyny is a culture ingrained in the minds of young men from childhood. Women are taught to suit the system. Men are taught to uphold and preserve it.

And yet people ask why feminists are angry.

This is a pandemic, and something must be done about it. This is not about "oh, they're raping boys too," which should absolutely not be ignored. It is about the relentless, staggering increase of violence against women. It is rampant. It is obvious. It is everywhere. It is sick. To me, rape is murder.

So yes, this demented culture of men undermining women, of men treating women as objects, of men treating women as less than human, it begins with the little things. Things like "tapping current." Those subtle remarks men make about women's bodies that everyone laughs off.

Misogyny is everywhere.

Chuka had not been able to sit still for two days.

It showed in everything.

The way he checked his phone too often.

The way he replayed their last conversation in his head.

The way even the smallest things suddenly felt important.

He was excited. That much was obvious.

But beneath the excitement sat something else—something tighter, quieter.

Anxiety.

He wanted this to go well.

He needed it to go well.

*******

They were meeting at Mr Bigg’s.

Chioma had insisted.

“I’ll meet you there,” she had said, her tone light, almost teasing. “Since your guy has finish.”

He knew what she meant.

He couldn’t borrow his cousin’s car anymore.

So he couldn’t pick her up, he really wanted to do that.

He suggested that he goes to her house first to pick her up then they go together.

But she said she was fine getting there on her own.

******

The date was a week before the New Year.

Time was already closing in.

Chuka had tests to prepare for. School would resume a few days after the holidays, and they weren’t even on the same campus.

He had been thinking about it constantly.

How would they make it work?

Calls were easy now. Meetings were easy now. But later?

He didn’t have answers yet.

What he did know was this

he liked Chioma.

More than he had expected to.

More than he was prepared for.

The only problem was… he wasn’t sure she felt the same way.

******

Chioma, on the other hand, was careful.

She liked Chuka.

That part was true.

He was kind. Easy to talk to. There was something about him that made her relax without trying too hard.

And yes

he was cute.

Adorable, even.

But she was used to something else.

Something different.

Older men.

Established men.

Men who, as her sister once put it, “could buy boxers for themselves and not depend on their mummy’s money.”

Big boys.

****

Chioma had grown up watching the kind of men her sisters entertained.

Her eldest sister, Uche, had married well, very well.

A chief. Wealthy. Influential. Much older too, but no one seemed to mind. Not when he took care of her the way he did.

That was what mattered.

That was what her mother admired.

What she praised.

What she wanted for all her daughters.

Her mother never hid it.

She spoke often—too often—about her own marriage. About how she had been deceived, how she had believed promises that never materialized.

“I don’t want you girls to suffer the way I did,” she would say.

But Chioma never fully understood that version of the story.

Because to her, her father was… enough.

He worked hard. Provided for all six of his daughters without complaint. Never raised his voice unnecessarily. Never made them feel like a burden.

Even when people whispered about the absence of a son, about how he never took a second wife he remained unmoved.

Sometimes, he would even joke about it.

“Na my fault,” he would say lightly. “Na me bring the X chromosome.”

And he would laugh.

Chioma loved him for that.

To her, he was steady. Quietly strong. A man who stayed.

But her mother wanted more than “steady.”

She wanted wealth. Comfort. Status.

And somewhere between those two versions of love, Chioma had learned to hesitate.

*****

So now, she wasn’t sure what to do with Chuka.

She liked him.

But liking him and choosing him were not the same thing.

Could he become what she had been taught to want?

She didn’t know.

So she decided to take her time.

****

They agreed to meet at exactly 12 p.m. on Saturday.

Chioma arrived first.

She stood in front of Mr Bigg’s, adjusting her red sleeveless polka-dot top, the fabric light against her skin. Her jeans fit just right not too tight, not too loose.

Simple. Effortless.

Still, she checked the time again.

12:07.

She sighed softly.

And then, like a quiet echo, her sister’s voice slipped back into her mind.

****

That day Chuka had come to visit, she had been heading to the kitchen when Chinyere pulled her aside.

“Chioma.”

Her tone alone had been enough to make her pause.

“Come,” she said, lowering her voice.

Chioma stepped closer.

“I hope you’re not doing anything with that small boy.”

The way she said small boy carried weight dismissive, almost insulting.

Chioma frowned. “Sister, what do you mean? He’s my friend.”

“Good,” Chinyere replied quickly. “Let it stay like that.”

She leaned in slightly.

“That small boy has nothing to offer you.”

And just like that, she walked away.

Chioma exhaled, shaking the memory off.

Still, it lingered.

*****

Across the road, Chuka spotted her immediately.

Even from a distance, she stood out.

The red. The way she held herself. The quiet confidence in her posture.

For a second, he forgot about everything else the delay, the stress, the noise around him.

Gosh… this girl is heavenly.

He crossed the road quickly.

“Chioma,” he called, slightly out of breath.

She turned.

He smiled, a little sheepish now.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “The okada man

he stopped to argue with another driver.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Of course he did.”

“Chioma, I’m sorry na”

Chuka pleaded.

There was a pause.

Then she smiled.

And just like that, the tension softened.

******

They stepped into Mr Bigg’s together, the familiar rush of cool air and the faint smell of fried food wrapping around them almost immediately.

It was busy, but not crowded.

A few families sat in corners, children laughing too loudly over plastic trays. Somewhere behind the counter, a blender whirred briefly, then stopped. The clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation it all blended into something warm, something ordinary.

And somehow, that made it perfect.

Chuka glanced at her.

“You’ve been here before?” he asked.

Chioma gave him a look. “Is that a serious question?”

He laughed. “I just said I should confirm.”

She shook her head, smiling, and walked ahead slightly. He followed her to the counter.

When it was his turn, he didn’t hesitate.

“One jollof rice, coleslaw, chicken… and a bottle of Coke.”

Chioma turned to him immediately.

“This boy you don’t like sweet things oh, who drinks coke?” She teased

Chuka looked at her, completely straight-faced.

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough.

“But I like you.”

For a second, she blinked.

Then she laughed soft, surprised, the kind that escaped before she could stop it.

“Please,” she said, shaking her head as she stepped forward to order. “Let me not hear that kind of line again.”

But she was still smiling.

“One rice… chicken… and Fanta,” she told the attendant.

Chuka raised an eyebrow. “Fanta?”

She shrugged. “It’s sweeter than that bitter coke you like.”

*****

They found a table near the window.

For a moment, there was that brief, quiet pause. The kind that comes when two people are just becoming aware of each other in a new way.

Not on the phone.

Not through laughter carried by distance.

But here.

Face to face.

“So,” Chioma said, resting her chin lightly on her hand. “You’re actually real.”

Chuka frowned playfully. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve been talking every day, but… it still feels a bit strange seeing you like this.”

He nodded slowly. “I get that.”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“You look different too.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Different how?”

He paused, like he was considering his words carefully.

“Better,” he said simply.

She looked away almost immediately, hiding the smile that followed.

Their food arrived.

For a few seconds, they focused on unwrapping, adjusting plates, opening drinks.

Then the conversation picked up again.

Easier this time.

Lighter.

“Okay,” Chioma said, pointing her fork at him. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Chuka leaned back slightly. “Something you don’t know…”

He thought for a moment.

“I used to think I would be a footballer.”

She burst out laughing.

“You?” she said, looking him over dramatically. “A footballer?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said, still laughing. “You just don’t look like it.”

He shook his head. “That’s disrespectful.”

“So what happened?” she asked, still smiling.

“My father happened,” he said simply.

She nodded, like that answered everything.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s something I don’t know about you?”

She hesitated for a second, then shrugged.

“I can cook,” she said.

He blinked. “That’s your big secret?”

“It’s not a secret,” she replied. “You just didn’t ask.”

Chuka smiled.

“Okay, noted. So when are you cooking for me?”

Chioma paused, then gave him a look.

“You’re already planning future benefits?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “I’m a forward-thinking person.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.

Somewhere in between bites and laughter, the conversation settled into something comfortable.

They talked about school his tests, her classes.

They complained about lecturers.

They shared random stories that didn’t really matter, but somehow did.

At some point, Chioma reached for her drink at the same time Chuka reached for his, and their hands brushed.

It was small.

Barely there.

But both of them noticed.

Chioma’s cheeks grew red, she turned away.

Neither of them said anything.

“You know,” Chuka said after a while, watching her more than his food, “you’re actually more quiet in person.”

Chioma raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“On the phone, you talk a lot.”

“That’s because you talk too much in real life,” she shot back.

He laughed. “So now it’s my fault?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

She smiled, satisfied.

******

Time moved without announcing itself.

At some point, their plates were empty, their drinks nearly finished, but neither of them made any move to stand.

There was no rush.

Not yet.

Chuka rested his arm on the table, tilting his head slightly.

“I’m really glad you came,” he said.

Chioma met his gaze.

“I almost didn’t.”

He blinked. “Why?”

She shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head.

“Nothing important.”

But the way she smiled after said otherwise.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he smiled back.

“Good thing you came anyway.”

She nodded.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Good thing.”

Leave a comment

Chapter Five

The Week Before

There was something about late-night phone calls that made honesty easier.

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the distance. Or maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t see the other person watching you too closely.

Whatever it was, it worked for them.

What had started as a simple check-in the night after he visited her turned into something else entirely.

Chuka and Chioma talked every night.

At first, it was small things — how their day went, what they ate, who had annoyed them. But slowly, without either of them noticing when it changed, the conversations deepened.

They talked about where they grew up. The streets that raised them. The kind of children they had been.

She told him about Nsukka — how calm it could be, how everybody somehow knew everybody, how her parents still lived there. She had only come to Lagos for Christmas, staying with her aunt, just for the holidays. There was something temporary about her presence that made every conversation feel urgent, like time was quietly counting down.

He told her about home. His childhood.

And then, one night, without planning to, he told her the truth about medicine.

“I didn’t really choose it,” he admitted.

A pause settled on the line — not uncomfortable, just attentive.

“My father did.”

He let out a small laugh, but it carried no humour.

“I’m the last child. He was very particular about it. Said at least one of his sons had to be a doctor.”

Chioma didn’t interrupt. She just listened. So he kept going.

He told her about the gap — how his siblings were much older, how they were from his father’s first marriage.

“You know my sister, the one who’s getting married? She’s ten years older than me. But I’m closer to her than the others. I don’t even know why. I used to call her my second mummy growing up.” He chuckled at the memory.

“How many children did your dad’s first wife have?” Chioma asked.

“Five. Two girls and three boys.”

“And your mum?”

“I’m her only child.”

He told her how his mother had come into the picture later, after his father’s first wife fell ill. He didn’t go into too many details. Just enough.

“She was already sick when my dad married my mum,” he said quietly. “She never got better. She was such a good woman.” He paused. “She died when I was six.”

Chioma’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see him. “It’s… life.”

But it wasn’t just life. And somehow, she understood that without him having to say so.

In return, she told him why she had chosen her course — not because anyone forced her, but because she had always wanted something that felt like hers. Something she could have control over.

And like that, night after night, they kept unfolding. Piece by piece. Story by story. Until talking to each other became the easiest part of the day.

One evening, as Chuka lay on his bed with the phone pressed to his ear, his sister’s voice cut through the door.

“Chuka!”

He ignored it.

“Chukaaa!”

The door creaked open before he could respond.

Nneoma stood there, arms folded, eyes sharp with curiosity.

“Who are you calling every night like this?” she asked, dragging out every word. “You must have plenty of credit oh.”

Chuka sat up with a groan. “Sister, please mind your business.”

She stepped further into the room, grinning now.

“Hmm. So it’s like that? Doctor Chuka has time for phone romance but no time to read his books?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve read.”

“Liar.”

From the phone, Chioma’s laughter slipped through faintly.

Nneoma’s eyes widened.

“Ohhhh,” she said, pointing dramatically. “There’s actually a she.”

Chuka stood up immediately. “Sister nowww—”

She dodged him, already laughing as she backed out of the room.

“Do and marry her sha,” she teased, then paused at the door. “I came to tell you Papa is around — go and greet him.”

He shut the door behind her, shaking his head, but he was smiling.

“Sorry,” he said into the phone.

Chioma was still laughing. “Your sister sounds like trouble.”

“She is.”

“But she’s funny.”

He smiled to himself. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I have to go now, I’ll call you back later.”

The week passed faster than either of them wanted.

Before they knew it, it was time for the wedding.

Igbo weddings were never quiet.

From the moment the sun rose, the compound was alive — music blasting from large speakers, women’s laughter rising above the noise, the smell of food drifting thick through the air. Everything moved at once.

Chuka barely had time to breathe. He went from one end of the compound to the other, running errands, answering questions, carrying things, being called every five minutes.

Then his phone rang.

“I’m here,” Chioma said.

For a second, everything else faded.

“I’m coming,” he replied.

He didn’t wait to be called again. He moved quickly through the crowd, scanning faces until he found her.

And for a moment, he forgot what he was doing.

She looked different. Not in a way he could fully explain — just beautiful. Effortlessly so. She wore a red lace gown, and her hair, which had been braided in cornrows the last time he saw her, was now gathered into a sleek ponytail.

He had always wanted to run his hands through her hair, to feel how soft it was.

He walked up to her, doing his best to act normal.

“You found the place.”

She smiled. “Eventually.”

He led her inside, found her a seat, made sure she was comfortable, made sure she was served food.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I just need to finish a few things.”

She nodded.

But even as he moved around doing everything he was supposed to do, his eyes kept drifting back to where she sat.

By the time he finally settled beside her, the wine-carrying had begun.

The bride moved gracefully through the crowd — searching, teasing — while everyone cheered at every turn. Music filled the air. Laughter followed it. Everything was alive.

But Chuka barely noticed any of it.

He was sitting next to her. That was enough.

Later, as the sun dipped and the sky softened into evening, the crowd thinned just a little. The real dancing began — the kind where people loosened up, where laughter grew louder and steps grew bolder.

Chuka stood and held out his hand.

Chioma hesitated.

“Come on,” he said.

She glanced around. Too many eyes. Too much attention.

“I can’t dance,” she murmured.

He smiled. “I didn’t ask if you could.”

She laughed softly, then placed her hand in his.

That was all he needed.

They moved to the music — not perfectly, not impressively — but together. And somehow, that made it matter.

He could see his cousins whispering and giggling amongst themselves. Of course they noticed. Chioma grew shy under the attention, her laughter quieter now, her eyes avoiding the crowd.

But Chuka didn’t let go.

By the time the night settled and the noise softened, he knew he wasn’t ready for it to end.

“I’ll take you home,” he said.

She didn’t argue.

The drive was quieter. Not uncomfortable — just full.

Their hands found each other somewhere along the way and stayed that way.

When they arrived, she moved to step out.

“Wait,” he said.

She turned.

“Can I get a hug?”

She hesitated for only a second before stepping closer.

It was brief. Soft. But to him, it felt like everything.

He caught the scent of her perfume — warm, sweet, something like vanilla, something gentle and distinctly hers.

And for a fleeting moment, he wanted more. He wanted to kiss her.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

She pulled back slightly, smiling.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied.

She turned to leave. Then he reached for her hand gently, drawing her back.

“I want to see you again,” he said.

She looked at him, a small smile forming. “You can come over next weekend.”

That was all he needed.

That night, neither of them slept.

They talked until their voices softened and their words blurred into silence.

“I’m taking you out,” he said at some point. “A proper date.”

She laughed lightly. “Okay.”

“We’ll find somewhere.”

“Somewhere simple,” she added.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Somewhere simple.”

Just friends

Home always smelled the same.

Chuka had crashed at his cousin’s place because his mother had forbidden him from arriving home at midnight. His cousin had picked him up from the motor park and taken him back, which was close by.

There was a distinct smell to home that Chuka had always loved — spices, incense, and something that was simply his mother, something he could never quite describe.

Growing up, he used to complain that the house smelled like a native doctor’s concoction. But today, he was content to breathe it in.

“Chukaaa!”

His mother’s voice came first.

Before he could properly set down his bag, she had already pulled him into a tight embrace.

“My son! Dọkịta m!” she said, her voice thick with excitement. “Look at you! You’ve lost weight oh. Obim, are you not eating well?” She sized him up with both hands as she spoke.

“I’m fine, Mama,” he laughed, trying to free himself slightly. “My weight is just a testament to how hard I’m studying.”

“That one is not my concern,” she said, holding his face in her hands as if confirming he was real. “You are home. Biko, come and eat — I made food. Will you take ofe nsala or jollof rice?” She turned sharply toward the hallway. “Somto! Where is this girl, for Christ’s sake?”

And just like that, she disappeared into the kitchen. Chuka used the opportunity to drop his bag and freshen up.

When he came out to eat, he was met with voices — relatives, neighbours, familiar faces.

It was only natural the house would be full, with a wedding on the way.

“Ah! Doctor don come!” one aunty announced.

“Chuka, you don forget us oh!”

He smiled, greeted, laughed when it was expected. Answered the same questions over and over again.

“How is school?”

“How is Nsukka?”

“Hope you’re reading your books oh — Medicine is not easy,” one relative said, pronouncing it Medecine with great conviction.

Chuka’s mind was only half in the conversations.

Every now and then, his hand brushed against his pocket.

His phone.

He hadn’t called her yet. The whole day had been noise, food, greetings, and people pulling him in different directions. There had been no quiet moment.

That night, as he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, the house finally quiet, her face returned to him.

The way she had laughed.

The way she had leaned against his shoulder like it was nothing.

Chioma.

He picked up his phone. Stared at it. Put it down again.

What if the number didn’t go through? What if she had given him the wrong one? What if she didn’t even remember the conversation the way he did?

He turned to the other side of the bed. Closed his eyes. Opened them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

The next morning, he couldn’t avoid it anymore.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, heart beating faster than it should.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Then dialled.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times —

“Hello?”

He froze for half a second.

“Hi,” he said quickly. “Chioma?”

“Chuka?”

Relief washed over him immediately.

“Yes.”

A small pause. Then she laughed softly.

“I thought you wouldn’t call.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to. Yesterday was just… a lot. I got home and —”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I understand.”

“How are you? How was the rest of your trip?”

“It was okay. Long, but okay.”

“Same here.”

A brief silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just new.

“I was thinking,” he said carefully, “maybe I could see you again.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “I’m staying with my aunt for Christmas, so it might be awkward receiving visitors.”

“That’s fine,” he said quickly. “No pressure. Just — maybe we could meet somewhere.”

She hesitated. “I don’t really go out like that.”

“Okay… what about your place? I can come over. I won’t stay long.”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “I’m not sure about visitors like that.”

Chuka thought for a moment. “I could come with someone. Or your sister could be around.”

A small sigh came from the other end.

“You don’t like giving up, do you?”

He smiled. “Not really.”

Another pause.

Then — “Okay,” she said. “Weekend.”

“Weekend,” he repeated.

“I’ll send you the address.”

“Alright.”

And just like that, it was settled.

By Saturday afternoon, Chuka had borrowed his cousin’s car.

He checked the address twice before starting the engine. Then again when he arrived.

His heart was beating in a way that made no sense. It was just a visit. Nothing serious. So why did it feel like everything depended on it?

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the house.

Before he could knock, the door opened.

“Chuka!” Chioma’s voice rang out. “Ah! You found the place.”

Inside, the house was lively — voices, laughter, movement.

Chioma’s aunt sat in the sitting room and greeted him warmly. Chinyere was there too, smiling like she already knew everything.

“You’re welcome,” the aunt said. “So you are the famous Chuka.”

He laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know about famous, ma.”

“You young people,” she said, waving him inside. “Sit down first.”

The room filled easily with conversation — small talk, questions, laughter. Everything felt easy. Comfortable.

And somehow, that made him even more aware of Chioma.

She didn’t talk too much. But when she did, people listened. There was something different about her. Something steadier.

When it was time to leave, she walked him out.

The evening air was cooler now. They stopped beside the car.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

“Me too.”

A small pause.

“I would like to see you again,” he said.

She nodded slightly. “Okay.”

He hesitated. Then, before he could stop himself —

“My sister is getting married soon,” he said. “You could come.”

She blinked. “Come?”

“Yes.”

“To… your family event?”

“Yeah,” he said, suddenly unsure. “Just to hang out. I want to spend more time with you, Chioma.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Don’t you think that’s a bit fast?”

He laughed nervously. “No, no — nothing like that. I just meant… as a friend.”

The word slipped out too quickly.

Friend.

He saw the slight shift in her expression. But she nodded anyway.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll come.”

“Good.”

They stood there for another second. Then he got into the car.

As he drove away, his grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Friend?” he muttered to himself.

He let out a short, frustrated laugh.

“Of all things to say…”

He shook his head.

Because now, he wasn’t even sure what she thought.

Or worse —

What she didn’t.

On his way Home

December 2004

It was Christmas break, and ordinarily Chuka would have stayed back, or spent the break at his aunt’s place in Onitsha. But he missed home too dearly.

Plus his sister was getting married and he wanted to use that as an excuse.

His friends teased him about being a mummy’s boy.

But as much as he denied the remarks, he did infact start to believe that he was one.

He packed his small travel bag slowly that morning, folding shirts with the absentmindedness of someone whose thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

He had missed his mother. He had missed the chaos of his compound, the drama that always ensued in his mixed family.

The motor park outside Nsukka was crowded that afternoon.

Conductors shouted over one another.

"Lagos! Lagos straight!"

Chuka wiped sweat from his forehead as he pushed through the crowd toward a bus headed for Lagos. He haggled the price with the conductor and climbed inside.

The bus was already filling up.

Three rows from the back, he found an empty seat by the window and settled in, stretching his legs slightly as more passengers climbed aboard.

Then he saw her.

At first, he thought he was imagining it.

She stood near the front of the bus beside an older woman who looked like an aunt, holding a small handbag and speaking quietly.

Her hair was longer now. Her cheekbones sharper.

For a moment, he almost didn't recognise her. The girl he remembered from four years ago had been quiet and almost shy — the kind of person who could easily be overlooked in a crowded room. But the woman standing there now looked different. Time had filled out the softness of her face and the curve of her shoulders, giving her a calm confidence he couldn't quite explain.

She looked good. Radiant, even.

The way she spoke to the older woman beside her was different too — steady, assured, like someone who had grown comfortable in her own voice. She no longer looked like the shy girl he had met once in a hostel room. She looked like a woman who had come into herself.

Chioma.

Chuka froze. His heartbeat suddenly began to thump hard against his ribs.

It felt ridiculous.

12 months, 2 weeks and 2 days since he last saw her at his cousin’s apartment.

It had been that long since he had seen the quiet girl sitting on the bed, flipping through a magazine.

He had thought about her far more times than he cared to admit. At first it had only been curiosity. Then it became something else — a strange memory that refused to disappear. But after Tobe and Chinyere broke up a few months after because Tobe wasn’t “taking care” of Chinyere as she claimed, the small connection between their families had dissolved completely, and Chioma had vanished from his life just as quietly as she had entered it.

He hadn't seen her since. Not once.

And yet seeing her again felt strangely overwhelming.

He considered standing up. Calling her name. But something stopped him.

What if she didn't remember him? What if she looked at him with that same blank expression from four years ago?

So he stayed where he was. Watching.

A few minutes later, she took a seat near the front of the bus — three rows ahead of him.

A man in his thirties, built like a bag of garri, dropped into the seat beside her and swallowed up the space entirely. Within minutes, he leaned back, closed his eyes, and started snoring. Loudly.

Chioma shifted uncomfortably, pressing herself closer to the window.

Then the man farted — and jolted awake, looking around as if he wasn't quite sure whether to own it.

Chuka laughed quietly to himself.

The driver started the engine. The bus vibrated. Passengers settled into their seats.

Still, Chuka hesitated.

Then he stood up.

He walked slowly down the aisle until he reached the snoring man and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

The man stirred, half-awake.

"My brother," Chuka said quietly, "abeg, we fit switch seats?"

The man blinked lazily. "Why?"

Chuka hesitated, then gestured toward Chioma with a small nod of his head.

The man considered it for a moment — and said no.

Chuka pulled out a folded hundred-naira note.

The man's eyes opened fully. He stood up without another word.

Chuka slid into the seat beside her.

Chioma turned slightly, surprised.

For a moment they simply stared at each other — taking turns, almost, the way children play a quiet game. When Chioma looked away, Chuka stared. When he turned aside, she looked. Back and forth, until finally:

"Hi," Chuka said.

She looked at him politely. "Hello."

"I'm Chuka."

She waited.

"We've met before."

Her eyebrows pulled together slightly. "I don't think so."

He laughed, a little awkwardly. "Tobe's cousin."

Still nothing.

"Your sister — Chinyere. They used to date."

Chioma tilted her head, thinking. To her her sister had dated so many people that she could hardly identify nor keep up.

She shook her head slowly.

"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I really don't remember."

Chuka felt a brief flash of embarrassment, but forced a smile. "It's fine."

A small silence settled between them.

Then she smiled. "So — Chuka."

"Yes."

"We're obviously both going to Lagos. Where are you coming from?"

"UNN."

"Oh. Same."

That was how the conversation began. Slowly. Naturally.

She told him she was in her second year studying English. He told her he was in second-year medicine. They talked about school, the endless strike, and how everyone was tired of waiting for classes to resume.

The bus rolled steadily onto the highway. Outside, the sun slowly began to sink toward the horizon. Hours passed. Passengers dozed. Somewhere in the back, someone played music softly from a phone.

Eventually, Chioma leaned back in her seat. "I'm tired," she murmured.

"Long journey," Chuka said.

She nodded.

A few minutes later, her head slowly tilted sideways — and rested gently against his shoulder.

Chuka froze.

His heart was beating ridiculously fast again.

But he didn't move. Not even an inch. He simply stared straight ahead while the bus raced on through the dark highway toward Lagos.

It was almost midnight when the bus finally arrived.

Passengers stretched and climbed down slowly. Chioma rubbed her eyes as she stood.

"Wow," she said. "That was long."

"Very."

They stood awkwardly beside the bus. Neither seemed ready to leave.

"So," Chuka said.

"So," she repeated.

"I would like to see you again."

She hesitated slightly. "This is my final year. Things are a bit hectic."

"That's fine."

Another small silence.

Then she sighed. "Okay." She pulled out her phone. "Give me your number."

Chuka quickly recited it. Her phone beeped a moment later in his pocket.

"There," she said. "Now you can't disappear again."

Chuka smiled. "I wasn't the one who disappeared."

She laughed softly, then picked up her luggage and hailed a waiting taxi.

"I'll call you," he said.

She glanced back once. "Let's see if you actually do."

And just like that, she disappeared into the Lagos night.

But this time, Chuka knew he was going to seize this opportunity.

Now he had her number.

He had another chance.

Authors note.

I was struggling to write the next chapter and then I realized that my timeline wasn’t flowing so I had to alter it a bit. I apologize.

Chapter Two

is Celestina

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” the woman said.

“What are you doing here?” Chuka asked.

She looked as if she hadn’t expected that response. The words seemed to hit her like a bullet.

“It’s late, Chuka. I had nowhere else to go,” she said, her eyes softening.

Tallulah watched the both of them, trying to understand what was happening. Her father rarely got angry, but she could see a vein throbbing at the side of his head.

The woman seemed to shrink in on herself, either from fear or shame. Tallulah couldn’t quite tell. But whatever tension existed between them, she was certain of one thing — this woman was the one who had caused it.

“Take her bags to the guest room opposite Mama’s room,” Chuka said, turning to his daughter.

Tallulah knew better than to argue, especially when her father spoke in that tone.

“Where’s Celestina?”

Tallulah could hear their voices faintly as she walked away.

“There’s no Celestina here,” Chuka replied, disdain laced in his voice.

By the time Tallulah reached the guest room, their voices had faded. She could barely make out what they were saying.

She felt uneasy.

The last time her father looked this unsettled was when a boy had tried to grope her in secondary school.

Her father was always calm. Always collected.

But whoever this woman was, she clearly had an effect on him — and it wasn’t a good one.

Who could she possibly be?

And what did she want?

“I asked you a question,” Chuka said sharply. “What do you want?”

“Chuka, please calm down.”

“I had nowhere else to go. John left me with nothing.”

Chuka stared at her, disbelief written all over his face.

“And how is that my business?”

“I told you to get out of my life. Out of our lives.”

“Chuka, please. Let me just stay here for a while so I can sort myself out.”

He let out a long breath.

“Fine. One night. You can sort yourself out tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you to the park. At least you can go and see your mother in Nsukka.”

He paused, his voice lowering.

“And my daughter doesn’t need to know anything. Don’t come here and ruin the peace I’ve spent years trying to build.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I promise.”

Tallulah returned just in time.

“Tee,” Chuka said, his voice calmer now. “Could you please show her to the guest room?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she replied.

The woman froze.

She had whispered Daddy under her breath, and her eyes widened.

Realization hit her.

The little girl she had assumed was the help…

was his daughter.

Comment

November 2003

The air at the motor park in Onitsha was dry and restless.

November had already chased away the rains. Dust hovered under the yellow glow of the streetlights as buses reversed and turned in slow, noisy circles. The smell of petrol, roasted corn, and hot metal hung heavily in the air.

“Enugu! Enugu straight! Last bus!”

The conductor slapped the side of an aging Toyota Hiace. Passengers hurried forward.

Chuka adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder. Inside were the big nylon of chin chin Aunty Anwuli had asked him to take, and the brown envelope that held his admission letter.

Medical student.

Even thinking about it still felt strange. He couldn’t believe he had finally made it.

Beside him stood his elder brother, Emeka, arms folded, expression permanently annoyed.

“You better stop looking like a mumu, or they’ll kidnap you and your mother will break my head for losing her precious son,” Emeka muttered. “As big as you are, I’m still escorting you to school.”

Chuka smiled faintly.

“You could have refused.”

“And allow your mother to nag about how she came through for my mother when she was alive, and how I cannot help her with a small favour?”

Emeka scoffed. “Abeg, enter the bus.”

They climbed inside. The bus was half-full.

A woman with a baby sat near the window, fanning herself with a folded newspaper. A trader dragged two Ghana-Must-Go bags under the seats. Somewhere at the back, a man argued with the conductor over fifty naira change.

Chuka and Emeka squeezed into a narrow seat halfway down the aisle. The windows were open, letting in the cool November breeze and the dry smell of the road.

At the front, the driver switched on a small radio tied to the dashboard with tape. Static crackled before a familiar highlife rhythm floated briefly through the speakers and then vanished, replaced by news.

“…political analysts say Nigeria’s democracy is under threat from powerful political godfathers…”

One man near the driver chuckled.

“Ah! They’ve started again.”

Passengers murmured. Some leaned forward to argue over the news. Others shrugged, accepting it as the background noise of life.

Chuka’s attention drifted.

A young man across the aisle pressed the buttons of a small Nokia 3310, sending a quick text. Someone at the back whispered loudly into a Motorola flip phone, telling whoever was on the other end that they were already “on the Enugu road.”

Chuka held his own Nokia 1100 tightly in his bag, remembering how his mother had given it to him so she could reach him easily.

The driver revved the engine. The bus shook violently, then settled into a steady rumble. The motor park slowly slid away. Vendors chased the bus briefly, shouting for attention.

“…critics say the godfather system threatens Nigeria’s democratic institutions…” the radio continued, but Chuka barely heard it. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead. Beyond the headlights, the darkness swallowed everything. And somehow, that felt exactly like the life he was driving toward.

By afternoon, Chuka stood inside the bustling motor park, luggage in hand.

He and Emeka mounted separate okadas, dividing his belongings between them.

The campus town was larger than he had imagined. Students moved in all directions

some carrying mattresses, others dragging metal boxes. Vendors shouted from stalls selling notebooks, recharge cards, and snacks.

“So this is the famous Nsukka,” Emeka said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Chuka laughed softly. “It’s just a school.”

“Just a school?” Emeka scoffed. “You’ll soon know.”

After asking a few students for directions, they found Chuka’s hostel. Students leaned against railings, arguing loudly about football. Someone blasted music from a small radio.

Emeka dropped Chuka’s bag onto the bed.

“Well,” he said, glancing around, “you won’t die here.”

“That’s encouraging,” Chuka replied.

Tobe, Chuka’s cousin, arrived twenty minutes later.

“Ah! Doctor!” he shouted, slapping Chuka’s shoulder enthusiastically.

Chuka laughed. “Don’t start.”

Too late. Tobe grinned. “My cousin, the future surgeon!”

Emeka rolled his eyes. “The boy hasn’t even attended one lecture.”

Tobe ignored him. “First-year medical students are celebrities.”

After they helped Chuka unpack and tidy up his space. Tobe took them to his apartment off campus.

Inside, two girls sat at a small table covered in books. One barely looked up. The other glanced briefly, then returned to her notebook.

“This is my cousin,” Tobe said. “The one I told you about. The new fresher.”

The girl finally lifted her head. Calm, almost amused. “So you’re the famous cousin,” she said.

Chuka shifted, unsure if she was teasing.

“Medicine,” she added, leaning back. “Prepare to suffer.”

Tobe laughed. “Welcome to the club.”

Beside her, a younger girl read a magazine quietly.

“She’s Chioma,” Tobe said. “Going to the Nsukka campus tomorrow

studying English.”

Chuka blinked. English?

Tobe continued introductions. “This is my cousin Chuka, and his family member Emeka.”

Chinyere, introduced herself as Tobe’s wife.

Tobe clapped. “Alright, introductions done. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Chuka followed, glancing back once. Chioma hadn’t looked up again. She was still absorbed in her magazine.

Outside, the late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the campus. Students laughed, argued, and hustled between classes that hadn’t even started.

Emeka insisted on leaving for Onitsha the same day, as if he couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as Chuka.

But Chuka’s thoughts lingered on Chioma.

Something about the quiet intensity of that girl… made the afternoon feel heavier, charged.

The knock

Sometimes a person’s life can be altered and thrown into disarray. Sometimes it could be a grand defining moment. Sometimes it could be on an ordinary night.

It was one of those nights.

Rain was lightly beating the windows, drumming away on the roof as though it had no other place to be. The wind was shaking the loose pane on the sitting room window the same one that her father had been promising to get fixed ever since he had some time.

Talulah sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the television, half watching the movie and half watching the rain trace crooked lines down the glass.

Her father was on the couch behind her, fresh out of his hospital scrubs. One arm rested lazily across the back of the couch while the other held a bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously on his knee.

“You’re not even watching,” Talulah said after a while.

Her dad glanced back at her.

“I am.”

“You’ve asked me what happened three times.”

He shrugged.

“You know how these Nollywood movies make me feel, I still don’t know why I let you pick out this week’s movie.”

She chuckled softly, she loved the Friday Nights she spent with her dad. He always found a way to make time for her.

The power flickered once.

Just once.

Talulah looked up at the ceiling instinctively.

“Don’t start,” her father said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking NEPA will disgrace us tonight.”

“They will not,” he said confidently, then added after a pause, “hopefully.”

She smiled.

Moments like this were her favorite. Not because they were special, but because they were ordinary.

Just her and her father.

The movie continued playing quietly in the background. Someone on the screen was shouting dramatically about betrayal, Talulah was engrossed but her dad barely noticed.

Instead He listened to the rain.

Then

Knock.

It was sharp enough that her father turned immediately.

She didn’t.

Maybe she thought it was part of the movie.

“Did you hear something?”

He asked.

“Nope.” She said, her eyes still on the screen. The mother in law had slapped her son.

Another knock followed.

Louder this time.

Her father frowned.

“Were you expecting someone?”

Talulah shook her head.

“No.”

They both looked toward the door.

“Who could that possibly be at this time of the night?”

He groaned while he checked his phone for the time.

9:25pm

“Maybe it’s that your nurse wife”

Tallulah responded im a playful tone

Her dad didn’t reply

Visitors at night were unusual. Visitors during rainstorms were even more unusual.

“Should I get it?” she asked.

Her father nodded toward the door.

“Check first.”

She stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her shorts as she walked toward the front door. The hallway felt darker than usual. The light above the door flickered faintly as the wind pushed against the house.

Another knock.

Whoever was outside was impatient.

Talulah unlocked the door and pulled it open slightly.

A woman stood there.

For a moment, Talulah thought she might have opened the wrong door.

The woman looked like she belonged somewhere else entirely. Her hair was smooth and carefully styled despite the rain. A long coat rested elegantly on her shoulders, untouched by the chaos of the storm.

She held a leather handbag that probably cost more than all her bags combined.

The woman looked down at Talulah with quick irritation.

Then she sighed.

“Finally,” she said.

Before Talulah could speak, the woman extended the handbag toward her.

“Take this.”

Talulah blinked.

The woman studied her briefly, her eyes moving from Talulah’s bare feet to her oversized T-shirt.

Then she said, almost impatiently,

“What is wrong with these local house helps. Stop moping and take my bags in”

Talulah didn’t move.

The woman tilted her head slightly.

“Well?”

Talulah’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

“I—”

“Take my bag,” the woman repeated.

Something cold settled in Talulah’s chest.

“I’m not—”

But the woman had already stepped past her into the house.

“Chuka!” she called loudly.

Talulah froze.

Her father’s name echoed through the hallway.

The living room went silent.

Footsteps approached.

Her father appeared from around the corner, still holding the bowl of popcorn.

Then he stopped.

The bowl slipped slightly in his hands.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

The woman looked at him calmly.

Her expression was almost bored.

“Hello, Chuka.”

Talulah watched her father’s face drain of color.

The popcorn bowl fell.

And that was the moment Talulah realized something was very wrong.

Authors note.

I randomly came across a manuscript o used to write on wattpad a while back. Although I altered the story line because the first draft was literally 6 years ago. I still felt I could redeem it a bit. I’m not the best writer, I did kind of use a little help, God help me. I’m not the best at fictional writing But I’m learning. So how’d I do?

I learned something today about the idea of finding your soulmate, or “the one God has ordained for you.”

I used to believe that there was only one person for everyone. Your missing rib, for the men, and the person you stole your rib from. That was the framework I was taught, at least. Sunday school theology. Biblical archetypes. Hosea and Gomer, whose union served a divine purpose. Isaac and Rebecca. God-ordained love stories with clear beginnings and meanings.

I have been reading my Bible more recently. I may have missed a few weeks, but I am intentional about returning to it.

This is a debate I am genuinely open to learning from.

But lately, I have been thinking about the role of free will in our love lives. God has given us the ability to choose. So the phrase “God said you are the one for me” cannot possibly apply universally. At least, not in the rigid way it is often presented.

This thought has always stayed with me. A family friend lost his wife and later remarried. Does that mean he married someone else’s soulmate? Does it imply a mismatch somewhere in the divine pairing system?

The logic begins to contradict itself.

Someone you believe God ordained for you at one point in your life may later feel completely wrong years down the line. Does that negate the original belief, or does it mean that purpose is seasonal?

Perhaps the goal is not to obsess over identifying “the one,” but to seek God’s guidance continually—to meet the right person at the right time, rather than forcing a relationship to work simply because you believe it has divine backing.

Maybe this idea of soulmates is more cultural than spiritual.

I would not say today that my parents are soulmates. But they gave birth to me, and I was born with a purpose. Their union, regardless of its romantic framing, resulted in something meaningful.

At this point, I am aware that I may be confusing myself more than I am confusing you.

It is a controversial topic.

Then there is that familiar statement: If you love someone, let them go. If it is meant to be, they will come back to you.

But when you desperately want someone to be “the one,” that belief can quietly turn into emotional dependence. You begin to cling not to the person, but to the idea that they are divinely assigned to you.

Marrying once, and marrying right, is one of the scariest concepts to me. There is so much pressure attached to it. Maybe not for everyone, but for me, there is. I often tell myself that if I do not get married, I will be fine.

I hear conversations among our peers—Gen Z—about how difficult it is to find true love in our generation. Everyone is guarded, yet paradoxically loose. Emotionally detached, yet deeply yearning.

People say no one cares.

But I care.

I am not searching for “the one.” And based on what I am beginning to understand, maybe there is no singular “one” for everyone.

Not every love story needs to look the same.

Marriage may not be the ultimate fulfillment for every person.

Here is an example that feels odd, but necessary.

A man and a woman get married. They fall out of love. I personally struggle with the idea that people who truly loved each other can fall out of love, but I will not argue that today because I do not yet have the language or evidence to support that stance.

Their marriage fails. But from that union comes a child—a boy or a girl—who grows up to change the world in a significant way.

If those two people had never married, that child would not have existed. That destiny would not have been fulfilled.

This becomes even more ironic when I remember meeting someone who said they do not believe in destiny at all.

I realize I am presenting contradictions.

That is how my mind works.

I have many questions that overlap. Sometimes my thoughts are coherent. Other times, they are not. This is not me trying to provide answers. This is me thinking out loud.

This is my introspective.

Hence the title: Cheryl’s Introspective.

~Cheryl🤍