As in, shey o like spicy indomie?

I know half of y'all are foodies because you don't mind swallowing eba early in the morning before going to work.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your popular celebrity, Jide Kosoko, has asked why you need to eat thrice a day.

According to him, you're good to go once a day.

I know your thoughts are as good as mine: how did he get a pot belly if he hasn't been stuffing himself to stupor more than three times a day sef?

He made this statement on Friday, 16th October, a few days before the memorial of the victims of EndSARS.

The people who bled for this country must be writhing in their graves if they can see how much things have deteriorated.

Sad innit?

On Tuesday, I watched all of us upload our statuses reminding ourselves of the true heroes of the past, the harmless protesters.

But can we, for a moment, think about what the EndSARS protests actually achieved? Personally, I would say it brought about a naming ceremony.

The SARS unit was renamed, and they probably shared biscuit and groundnut among themselves.

That's all, ofone!

The #EndSARS movement called for an end to police brutality, extrajudicial killings, extortion, torture, and the impunity enjoyed by abusive officers.

It began as the #5for5 demands, focused on police brutality, before growing into a seven-point agenda, commonly called #7for7.

Here, let me help you list the 7for7 demands:

🔹Institutional Reforms (Security)

🔹Cost of Governance

🔹Constitutional Reforms

🔹Education Reforms

🔹Health Reforms

🔹Youth Affairs Reform

🔹Public Office Reforms

Guess what?

Nigeria was way better in 2020 than it is now.

Oh, the labour of my fellow youths was all in vain!

The IMF's 2025 assessment reported that 31 million Nigerians were food insecure in 2024.

According to the World Bank, 63% of Nigerians are estimated to live below the national poverty line in 2026.

That's nearly two out of every three Nigerians.

A July 2026 report by Punch, citing the World Bank, stated that 33% of Nigerians were ultra-poor, meaning they were unable to meet basic caloric needs even if they spent all their income on food.

The World Bank also estimates that 50.8% of Nigerians, approximately 123 million people, were living in extreme poverty in 2025, using its international poverty measure.

Let's move to the health sector. Have you seen Aproko Doctor's video where he went to a health centre and they were using torchlight to work because there was no light?

I mean, it baffles me that the government of Nigeria has not been able to pick one sector of Nigeria's problems and solve it.

What's more shameful is that the same things they promised my grandparents, they promised my parents too, and now they're using the same things to campaign to me.

Yorubas say, "Ìran mẹ́ta, ọ̀gbọ̀dàn yàn l'ọ́ṣì," but that one nor concern Nigeria.

Immediately this government assumed office, subsidy was removed, the same thing they fought the previous administration over.

And the supporters are telling us that this government is doing well.

I guess they have table manners; you know you don't talk while eating.

I keep saying Nigerian politicians won the jackpot by coming to a country where they're not held accountable.

A country where they can tell you a snake swallowed money, or faint during questioning in court.

In big 2026, hospitals still go on strike because the government cannot pay them or meet their needs, yet it can pay politicians millions.

This cost us a popular gospel singer, Toluwanisings.

Earlier this year, Ifunanya Nwangene, popularly known as Nanyah, died of a snakebite.

The last recorded death in the UK from a bite by a native venomous snake, the European adder, was in 1975.

Did you see the year difference? We are still living in people's 1975!

What do you mean health centres do not have antivenoms?

So many deaths in Nigeria are avoidable, but because they don't care about us, it's every man for himself.

You provide your own water, your own food, your own security and every single thing.

What then does the government do for you?

We don't even have roads at all.

We suffer so much in this country that I keep wondering when we'll reach our limit.

I think right now we are not even begging for electricity; we are begging them to just give us security so we can keep struggling.

But no, they've decided to let us escape death by ourselves.

When you travel, you carry money in case of kidnappers, so ransom can be paid.

This is unheard of in a sane country. A report by the Financial Times, published in March 2026, cited conflict-monitoring data from ACLED indicating that nearly 30,000 people had been killed in violence in Nigeria since 2023.

And we are not even a war-torn country.

Who are we fighting for, crying out loud?

We can't even talk about digitalisation as a country when we haven't solved the problem of industrialisation and basic human needs.

Here's what the government wants to do: strangle you so you'll leave them alone. They want you so disinterested in the country, so drained of your passion for a better nation, that you'll choose not to vote again or be interested in politics.

But we will rise with all we have and defend our land, because we believe in our nation.

So the big question is: it's six years now. What has changed after EndSARS?

I know you're tired. Me too, I'm tired.

But we will still get our PVC and vote!

Egbéwavbomwen but amaréne, arene mehn!

We're in a write-relationship now, and honestly? It was love at first write. So, let's Taló.

Do you remember your first love letter? The one you wrote to someone, or received?

Well, if you've never written one or received one, I'm about to change that in a few minutes.

I want to write you a love letter.

I started writing to you a while back. Even though I've always loved writing, I hid myself from you at first. I just scribbled my stories on pieces of paper. But one day I thought, why not share it with you? What's the point in hiding the gift of African fiction I have in me? From one subscriber, we grew to the number of subscribers we are today.

I chose the name Ink and Opinions to reflect my thoughts, but I saw it was all over the place. Turns out many people had the same idea. So I had to rebrand my story into something more personal.

Today, we have OSE Taló.

OSE is simply my initials, standing for Obahor Sharon Eseoghene. Taló is the Bini word for talk. Simply put, OSE talks, and what a joy it will be to talk to you every weekend.

You don't know how I feel sitting behind my desk, ready to share stories from our everyday lives in Nigeria with you. As our community grows, know that I'm thankful to everyone who reads my stories and drops their two cents.

This isn't a newsletter. This is a little corner for stories, opinions, observations, and the strange, funny things that make us who we are.

It's the write-story that reflects everyone living on this side of the Atlantic.

For everyone whose name has ever been underlined in red by a computer that couldn't pronounce it, recognise it, or mind its business.

Taló means talk. But really, it means us, because talking to you never gets old. I'll be happy every weekend knowing someone is on the other side, on a Saturday, eating akara and akamu while reading me.

And I'll keep falling in write with you. Every single week.

You know, talk is cheap, but mine's just better written.

I'm here to give you stories worth telling.

...now let's begin.

When I walked into the principal's office with Mr Uduak, I saw Mrs Theodora, the teacher in charge of our school fellowship, sitting on the opposite side, and I knew that "water don pass garri."

"Good afternoon sir, good afternoon ma," I greeted the both of them with a bowed head.

"Good afternoon, Idara," the principal said. Mrs Theodora just acknowledged me with a wave of her hand, but I could see the disgust written all over her face. I tried to read the principal's expression, but it was blank.

I suddenly felt the urge to pee.

"Have your seat, Idara. Mr Udo," the principal said, then cleared his throat. "I don't know if you already know why you were called to this meeting, but if you don't, I'm going to spare you the whole guessing game. Or do you, Miss Idara?"

I didn't know what to say. Should I tell him that yes, sir, I know my nude is circulating around the school currently? Or what if I was here for another reason entirely, and I ended up casting myself? So I shook my head in the negative.

Better to play it safe.

"Miss Idara," he continued,

"Just a while ago, Mr Uduak here drew my attention to a picture he was shown by a student in your class. I was shocked that some of you had phones, despite the rule against phones on the school premises. We have confiscated that phone, and today we will do a clean sweep of all the hostels, your belongings will be checked for contraband. But that's not the issue at hand.

We appreciate the student who reported such an illicit photograph, despite putting her device on the line. But what shocked me more was the fact that you were the one in the photo, with, errrrr," He scratched his head, probably trying to find the appropriate words, though even the situation was inappropriate. "Errrrm, those pictures exposed your bosom, and you were the last person I expected to be there. I don't even know what came over you. I've been thinking for the last thirty minutes, because you are our model student, but we will not spare you disciplinary action either. We do not practise favouritism. You'll therefore hand over your prefect badge to Mr Uduak. You're hereby suspended from your duties until the school disciplinary committee issues its verdict," he concluded.

Mrs Theodora peered at me over her glasses. "It's such a shame that your exams are next month, and you chose to disgrace yourself like this. From the Christian body here, you are relieved of your role as vice president and suspended as a member. When you attend meetings, you'll sit at the back for four weeks. May God have mercy on your soul."

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Miss Idara?" Mr Udo asked.

I shook my head again. What defence did I have against such glaring evidence? I handed my badge to Mr Uduak and went outside.

I met Martha waiting for me outside. The moment she saw me, she enveloped me in a big hug. I wanted to cry, to sit on the ground and pound my body on the floor, never mind the students passing by. It seemed like Martha knew, she always knows what I'm thinking even before I voice it.

"Hold it in, Eyes. Don't give them the show they're looking for," she said.

She held my hand and we both went to class, because it was time for our physics period.

I couldn't concentrate through the whole class. It felt like everyone was watching me, of course they were, and they must have noticed that my badge was gone. The class kept whispering.

The teacher had to caution them more than twice.

After class, I felt queasy and told Martha I was going to the restroom.

She wanted to follow (I guess she felt she needed to protect me now against bullies), but I told her to relax, I'd be back soon.

When I came back, just in time before our last period of the day, I met Martha waiting for me outside the classroom. She dragged me aside.

"Guess what I just found out," she said.

"Another nude of me flying around," I responded.

"Not funny," she said. "Anyway, I just caught the person who circulated your picture. Turns out it wasn't Enobong after all."

My ears perked up. "Who the hell did that, and how did the person even get the pictures?"

"So, when you went to the restroom, I was talking to Emmanuel about how things had suddenly escalated. In fact, I called him to break up with him, but he begged me not to, and in exchange, told me who did it. I broke up with him anyway."

"So how did it happen?" I asked. I wasn't interested in any Emmanuel story.

"You know Emmanuel, Enobong, Michael, and those two other guys in art class are very close friends, in fact, they have a boys' group chat where they share gist. So the other guys were talking about whose babe had the best body, and started teasing Enobong and Emmanuel, as usual, that they'd never touched a woman or seen their babes' bodies. Those other guys are very naughty, and Emmanuel usually ignores the banter, but you know how proud Enobong is, he said yours looked better than theirs. Then he claimed he'd actually seen it, that he 'does it all the time,' which we both know is a lie. They asked him how they were supposed to believe him, and he sent your picture to the group chat. He did send it as view-once, but that doesn't excuse his stupidity. And he couldn't even get the guts to confess to us."

"So how did the picture leave the group chat?" I asked.

"Turns out that while they were viewing it and commending him for 'being a man,' Michael was with his girlfriend, and you know he's dating that evil girl, Sonia, the one in our class who contested against you for head girl. She asked to see the picture, and she got angry that he was impressed by your body. She said you'd already snatched the head girl position from her, and now her boyfriend too. While they argued, Michael apologised, but the phone was still in her hand. She asked him to get her some water, and while he was gone, she took a picture of the photo from his phone, he knew nothing about it. Michael told Emma today that he noticed in the group chat the photo had been posted from a number with Sonia's private line. She joined the group chat with it, he's the only one who has that number, since it's a CUG line they both use for calls. He confronted her, but by then it was too late, she'd already shown Mr Uduak."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was so angry I could literally feel smoke coming out of my ears, angry at myself for being gullible enough to send a nude, angry at Enobong for being egotistical and stupid, and angry at Sonia for being vengeful and evil. I raised my head and saw her entering the class for our last period.

"Speak of the devil!" I shouted, and before Martha could stop me, I lunged at her.

"Idara, nooooo!" I heard Martha screaming, trying to hold me back.

But it was too late, I had already glued myself to Sonia and pinned her to the ground. I'd never fought in all my years in school, so I don't know where I got the strength to beat the hell out of her that day. She was taken by surprise and didn't even get the chance to defend herself.

This was a rare sight at Citadel, since fighting was highly prohibited, and to think the law-breaker was a senior, a prefect no less, the excited students made no move to separate us.

They clapped and cheered.

Someone finally pulled me off her. "Do you want to kill her?" It was Enobong. It looked like Martha had gone to call them.

A teacher was already at the scene, and for the second time that day, I was taken to the principal.

At his office, Mr Udo took one look at the battered Sonia and asked, in frustration, "What has come over you, Idara?"

Still, I remained mute.

How could I explain the whole story, that she was the one who'd shared my nude? I had done a thorough job beating up Sonia, and she was taken to the school clinic, where she was admitted for two whole days.

I, on the other hand, was put in a separate room from the rest of the students, the room reserved for detention of erring students. I never in my life believed I would end up in detention at Citadel.

My case was judged, and I was found guilty of assault and sexual misconduct in school. Nobody bothered to ask how the photo had gotten out, or who I had sent it to, so everyone else involved in the mess scaled through unscathed.

My parents were invited to the school, and the principal told them that his initial decision had been to simply relieve me of my head girl duties and allow me to write my exams, since I was leaving school soon anyway, and he knew that everyone made mistakes.

As a young girl, I'd made a terrible one, which was forgivable, seeing as I had been of good behaviour, I deserved a second chance. But assaulting a student to that extent was against the school rules, and no one was above the law.

I was therefore expelled from the school with immediate effect; I was to pack my belongings and leave the premises.

My parents begged him, but he said the decision hadn't been taken by him alone, the school disciplinary committee had come to the conclusion together, so he couldn't overturn their judgement.

The school also had a name to protect, because if Sonia had died during the assault, it would have been something else entirely.

Her parents had even been begged not to press charges against the school for negligence, but they insisted it was on the grounds that I was expelled that they'd let it go.

That was how I took my belongings in shame and left Citadel Private School.

Martha cried bitterly and clung to me beside my parents' car.

She cried that she wouldn't even be able to reach me until after graduation, because all their phones had been confiscated, and the school had promised to expel any student who didn't give theirs up.

All my dreams of coming out as valedictorian were washed down the drain.

My plans for graduation and prom, all dashed, because of a silly mistake.

To make it worse, I couldn't write my final exams or enrol in another school, since the registration period had passed, I'd have to wait until the next year.

The ride back to our house in Uyo was awkward and quiet.

The silence was so thick you could slice through it. My parents didn't speak to me, and I would have preferred it if they'd voiced their anger at me instead of this silence.

I'm sure they were wondering what kind of monster their perfect daughter had become.

When we got home, my dad called Uncle Mfon (his younger brother, who had lived with us since I was in primary school) to open the gate.

When we got to the sitting room, I couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Mom, Dad, I'm sorry," I said.

"Kub inua mfo!" my dad screamed, followed by a litany of Ibibio so thick I could barely understand.

"Are you happy now?" he asked.

"I had an important meeting at the office today, only to be called to the school because my daughter had an emergency. I was wondering what your outstanding performance had to do with an emergency, only to be slapped in the face with this."

My mom sank into the sofa.

"So, because of a boy," he continued, "you jeopardised your future. Tell me, how long have you been sleeping with him?"

Uncle Mfon coughed.

I bowed my head and said nothing. The next thing I felt was a loud knock on my head. The pain was so excruciating that I fell to my knees and started to cry.

"So you're having sex and fighting people now," my mom spoke for the first time. I felt the raw pain in her voice, but I didn't defend myself.

"Since it's a man you like, and you no longer want to go to school, we'll stick to your wish. We'll look for a man to marry you," he concluded, and stormed out of the house.

My mom went after him, and I was left with just Uncle Mfon. I stood up and went upstairs to my room.

When I got in, I fell onto my bed and wept. I heard someone call my name and open my door. I sat up.

"Sorry, I heard you crying, so I wanted to check on you," Uncle Mfon said.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. You can go."

"No, you're not," he insisted, and walked to the bed. "It's okay, you can let it all out." He said, rocking me. "I know how boys can be, I was a teenager myself, and it's just unfortunate that yours got out. Was he gentle with you?"

"I didn't do anything with him, Uncle," I said.

"But they saw your nude," he countered. "How are we supposed to believe you?"

"Uncle, I promise, it was just the pictures. Nothing else."

"Let's find out," he said.

I was still trying to process what he meant when he flipped me onto the bed and pinned me down. I was too shocked to fight. He raised my gown and yanked my panties down.

"I've always wanted to feel these," he said huskily.

I swung my legs and hit him in the face.

"Ouch!" he cried out.

Before I could scramble off the bed, he dragged me back down and said,

"Scream as long as you want, we're the only ones in this big house, and no one is going to believe that I raped you."

And he was right.

Who would believe that the demon-possessed, nude-leaking, school-fighting Idara had been raped by the ever-calm Uncle Mfon?

So I stayed still and let him have his way. I was no match for him, he was twice my size and stronger than me.

When it was over, he stood up and said, "I'm sorry, Idara, I never knew you were a virgin. Now, let's not let this weigh us down, the deed has been done, and you can't cause my brother further grief. For the sake of peace, let's keep this between ourselves. And if you choose to bring it out, I'll deny it." With that, he walked out.

I stood up and changed my bedsheets, then went into the bathroom and scrubbed myself until I was hurting. I couldn't walk properly, so I didn't come out of my room, even when I heard my parents come back home later that evening.

I stayed in my room for almost a week. I rummaged through my things and found some provisions from school (cornflakes, sardines, whatever I could find) and kept nibbling on them when I was dying of hunger.

On the eighth day, my phone rang. I didn't want to pick up, but I did, because I hadn't spoken to another human being since. Even my parents hadn't checked on me. It was Martha on the other end.

She had begged our English teacher to let her use her phone to speak with me. Miss Gift had always liked us, and she was the only teacher who had come to say goodbye to me, I even caught tears gathering in her eyes as she waved.

At the first hello, I burst into tears.

I realised how much I'd missed school.

Martha joined me in crying. We cried for a few minutes, not knowing what to say to each other, before she asked, "How are you holding up, Eyes?"

"I'm fine," I whispered.

For over a week, no one had called me that. But how could I tell my best friend that I'd been raped, and by a family member at that?

We spoke for a few minutes, and she gave me updates on things going on at school. She promised to call back the next time Miss Gift allowed her.

I went back to my solitude. It felt like I was waiting for something to happen. I avoided Uncle Mfon and my parents, waiting until they went out before I came downstairs.

The day of our final exams came, and that month, I didn't see my period.

I went to the pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test kit, and the woman on duty looked at me and shook her head in pity.

I didn't need her pity, I had seen enough in just one month. I went back to my room, did the test in the toilet, and it came out positive.

I laughed out loud, and I knew my parents would be wondering what was amusing me.

Well, I didn't want to keep them in the dark, so I went downstairs.

My dad was watching the news on Channels, Uncle Mfon was on his phone, and my mom was crocheting.

"I'm pregnant," I simply announced.

My mum's knitting pin dropped to the floor. Uncle Mfon shouted, "What?!" while my dad just turned off the TV and went to his room.

For two days, nothing was said.

On the third day, my mom called me for a meeting. She said she and my dad had decided that I would have the child with my aunt in Lagos. I guess they didn't want me to add to their disgrace in Uyo.

My dad hadn't been able to go to work since, and he looked like he'd aged ten years.

Aunt Ene came to pick me up the next day. I didn't pack much, just a few essentials. My mom raised a brow when she saw my bag, then quickly hugged me before I left.

My dad stayed in his room and didn't come out. I guess solitude, or denial, was his way of coping.

Aunt Ene lived alone in Lagos.

She was my mom's younger sister, a fresh graduate of UNILAG doing her internship with a fintech.

She took good care of me and tried to convince me to start therapy, but I told her nothing was wrong with me.

I became withdrawn and wallowed in guilt. I no longer took Martha's calls when she tried to reach me on Miss Gift's phone. I know she must have been worried sick, but I wanted her to focus on her exams.

Aunt Ene spent every evening and weekend with me. I was forced to ask her if she didn't have a social life, but she said she'd rather socialise with her niece. Still, I didn't get better.

I knew there was no way I could live with the knowledge of what had happened to me. I knew there was no way anyone would believe me, but maybe Aunt Ene would. I also knew I would never love this child growing inside me.

I needed to put an end to this miserable life of mine.

So, on the third month of living there, with my belly already budging, on a fine Monday morning when Aunt Ene had gone to work, I wrote the last letter of my life.

I wrote this story to you, hoping you would believe me. Hoping you, and everyone I let down, would forgive me. Hoping my parents would find happiness, despite dying in old age without a child. Hoping that you would avenge my death by making Uncle Mfon face the consequences of his crime. Hoping that cyberbullies would one day be held accountable for their sins, instead of the naive victim being shamed. Hoping that Martha would find another friend and be the happy girl she once was. I hope she never doubts my love for her, not even for a moment. Hoping that the next girl who says she was assaulted won't have to pay for being believed with her life. Hoping that another girl doesn't make the same mistake I did and even if she does, I hope the world is more forgiving of her.

As I drank the last drop of the sniper and my insides began to twist, I knew that what I was doing was selfish, and that my Creator wouldn't want this for me.

But I needed this chapter to close.

And this is where my story ends.

The two girls who were about to enter their hostels turned, saw that I was the one calling, and ran towards me.

"Good evening, Senior Idara," they both chorused.

One of the girls was shivering from fear . She hadn't expected me to catch her sneaking into her room during prep time.

"Aren't you both supposed to be studying? What are you doing in the hostel?"

"Ma, we came to collect sanitary pad, we are sorry." The one who looked bolder obviously lied.

"Now I give you five minutes to get that. Before I open my eyes, you both should run out of this place."

"Yes ma," they said, running.

Dear reader,

My name is Idara Ifiok. My friends call me "The Eyes."

It's just a mimic of my initials, which begin with I, and partly because I have the most beautiful round eyes and nothing goes past my vision.

I see everything, I also have the most photographic memory.

Once the teacher writes on the board and I see it, fiam! In̄wọghọ ke iwuod tutu amaama!

I'm the girl your mother will always compare you with.

"Does Idara have two heads?"

"Why is she always taking first?"

"Why is she the neatest student?"

Yes, I have two heads, and as long as you're in my class, you cannot beat me.

Oh, I'm also the Head Girl of Citadel Private School, the most elite boarding school in Akwa Ibom, and the Vice President of the school fellowship.

You see, I'm the perfect daughter you cannot be.

I'm that girl you want to be!

"The Eyes!"

"Enobong!" I waved shyly.

The disciplinary prefect was out with two friends, also doing routine checks for erring students.

I forgot to mention that I was dating the hottest boy in school.

I know, I know, I'm the fellowship Vice President, but we weren't doing anything. He has been asking me out since we were in SS 1. He is literally obsessed with me and my best friend Martha convinced me to give it a shot, since we were leaving secondary school soon.

At least I'd say I experienced teenage love. As long as we kept it low-key, and weren't rehearsing what our parents do, I was fine.

We didn't even kiss like French kissing — I only pecked him on the cheek and lips once in a while.

I liked him a lot though, no I was in love with him.

I knew most of the girls would be jealous if they found out we were dating. Scratch that, they were already jealous, and they knew he liked me.

In public, we just pretended like nothing was going on.

"Focus, babe, before you drool," Martha yanked me.

Oh, I forgot this girl was standing here. They call her my shadow because anywhere you see me, you'll definitely see her, or she's just a few steps away.

"I wasn't drooling," I insisted to my bestie.

We'd been friends since JSS1, and she was the sanitary prefect.

"If you keep looking at him like that, everyone is going to find out you're dating. At least wait till it's dark before you give him the eyes, or you can text him on your phone," she added.

"Shhh," I motioned with my hand covering her mouth. "Do you want the world to know we've phones?"

Phones were contraband in my school, but we still found a way to sneak them in and use them without detection.

After dinner that day, before it was bedtime, Enobong texted me to meet him at our usual spot.

"Hey babe, I've missed you." He hugged me tightly.

"Calm down before someone sees us," I protested, even though I enjoyed the hug a little too much.

"No one is going to see us here," he said. "Besides, it took everything within me not to drag you aside this afternoon and kiss you. You looked so good."

"Martha made my hair," I said, as he traced his fingers through my shuku.

"It's beautiful. Can I kiss you?" He asked.

I hesitated, because I knew he wasn't asking for our usual pecks.

I really did want to kiss him. Our exams were starting next week, I might not have the time for all this hide-and-seek with him again, so I nodded.

He looked at me for a moment, like he was waiting for me to change my mind.

I didn't.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my face. My heart was beating so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

I nodded.

His hand gently found mine before he leaned in. Our lips met softly, almost tentatively, as though neither of us wanted to ruin the moment by moving too quickly.

For a second, everything else disappeared.

I was breathless, his tongue found mine and he drank the contents of my mouth hungrily.

I rested my hands against his shoulders, feeling the nervousness I'd been carrying slowly melt away.

When we finally pulled apart, neither of us spoke.

I made to leave before I did another stupid thing, he sounded husky when he said, "See you in class tomorrow Eyes".

They called me The Eyes because I saw everything. Funny how I didn't see this coming.

The dining hall was crowded as usual, with students having lunch. I tried to look for Martha who had gone before me and I found her at our usual table.

One girl was pointing to our direction and whispering to her friend who was laughing.

I took my tray and sat beside Martha, who was already eating and had a frown on her face as I approached.

"Why are they staring at us?" I asked.

"They're staring at you," she countered.

"Why? Is my hair too fine? Enobong mentioned it yesterday."

"Jeez, they're not staring at your hair! Where have you been? Haven't you checked your phone since morning?" she asked.

"I've been swamped with a lot of work this morning, I haven't even had time to check my phone. You know I can't check it here, when we go back to the hostel, I will. But why don't you just tell me what's going on?"

"How could you be so careless, Idara?" Martha asked.

She never called me by my name. This had to be serious.

"Can you stop beating around the bush and tell me what's going on?" I asked, exasperated.

"Babe, your boobs are all over the internet," she declared.

The girls from the next table laughed. Martha glared at them.

I dropped my cutlery and ran outside.

I found the ladies' room, and Martha was on my trail.

"Oh my God, he did it. I'm so stupid," I cried. It felt like the ground should open and swallow me. How was I going to get out of this mess?

"Abasi mmi mbọk."

"It's fine, Eyes, we'll pull through this. It'll blow over." Martha rocked me.

"No, it won't be fine, can't you see. Everything I've worked so hard for is over," I cried harder.

"No, it's not. The school authority knows nothing about this, neither do the juniors. It's just our class. Exams are approaching fast, everyone will get busy by next week, and before you know it, we're out of this school."

I wasn't listening to her. I pulled out my phone and saw ten missed calls from Enobong, the son of the devil who leaked my nude. I opened the class group chat and found my boobs all over the place. Someone had even turned it into a sticker.

One girl said, "And she dey do like Virgin Mary ooo."

Another said, "Na dem fuck pass."

"Glad she's off her high horse," one boy remarked.

It was surprising how all these people that wanted to be my friend so bad turned on me. Enobong didn't even comment to defend me. Anyway, the ashawo-calling was too much, how many people could he fight off?

"So tell me, how did this happen?" Martha asked again.

"You know yesterday, Enobong called me to meet him outside, as usual, before bedtime, and we had our first French kiss. My lips were quivering, so I stopped."

"Soooo..." Martha prodded.

"When I got to the hostel, just before lights out, I got a message from him saying how he enjoyed the hug and the kiss. He then said my boobs felt so soft, and he'd like to see them.

Of course I said no. He begged, saying he couldn't see them physically, which was why he didn't ask me in person, so I wouldn't be uncomfortable. He just asked for a picture. So I went to the restroom, took a mirror selfie, and sent it."

"My God," Martha breathed, and placed her head in her hands. "Why didn't you tell me? I was right beside your bed. Even if you wanted to send a nude picture, why would you let your face show? If your face wasn't showing, we could have denied the body. And to make matters worse, you didn't even send it as view-once."

"He said I should send it as a normal picture, that his gallery and WhatsApp are locked, and his phone is always with him," I said.

"No na, you don't trust boys like that! Look where it's landed us!" Martha cried.

I noticed how she said "us." This girl really loved me.

"So what are we going to do?" I asked.

"Firstly, I need you to lay low. Then we need to go confront the bastard and see why he did it." She said.

On our way outside, the girls we met on the road snickered. It seemed the whole school knew. I was a laughing stock.

"Your body na meat pie," Solomon, the guy who always came last in my class jeered at me as I was leaving the dining hall.

The boys at his table roared with laughter.

One said, "But the babe package sha, her boobs are so fine."

I wanted to die.

Je ho vah

We found Enobong outside talking to one of his friends. Martha went to meet him and pulled him away. We walked in silence to the big mango tree far from people. As soon as we got there, Martha gave him a very hot slap. Even I was shocked.

"Martha, shit. What was that for?" he shouted.

"For posting my friend's nude in the class group chat," she replied.

"I swear I didn't do it," he said, holding his face.

He looked so sincere that I wanted to believe him.

"Then who did?" I asked. "I trusted you, and yet you did this to me. Why?"

"Babe, I swear I'm not lying," he said.

"If you call her babe again, I'm going to pounce on you," Martha screamed.

Martha had always had my back. She was the most assertive of the two of us, and she didn't take nonsense from anyone.

"I blame myself for telling her to date you. I thought you were a decent guy, like my boyfriend. Who knows, maybe Emmanuel is like you too. I should break up before he talks me into doing something stupid like this," she continued.

"Martha, I swear on my father's grave, I didn't do it. You guys should believe me."

I watched the two of them arguing about me like I wasn't even present. It felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. How could someone's life change in just twenty-four hours? Yesterday I was the envy of many; today I was nothing but a harlot to them, a spoilt goods.

I've spent six years building this reputation and it took only one night to destroy it. My Parents would kill me if they heard of this. Thank God like Martha said, if was only among the senior students.

I was deep in thought, so I didn't notice my maths teacher walking towards us.

I heard Martha and Enobong say, "Good afternoon, Mr Uduak," and I looked up.

"Good afternoon to the both of you. To think I was coming to look for our head girl," he said. "Good thing I met you on the way."

"Hope there's no problem, sir," I asked, visibly shaken.

"Well, it looks like there is one. The principal wants to see you immediately," he replied.

"Me?" I asked.

"How many head girls does Citadel have?" he asked sarcastically. "Only her." He said to Martha when she made to follow me. "The both of you go back," he shouted.

"Omo, mmekpa!"

Do you know that an afro is unruly and highly unfit for a work or school environment?

Picture frames. First: African students at boarding school, hair trimmed low "so they can learn properly." Second: white kids with hair in slick ponytails, because theirs is somehow more appropriate.

Now how did this come about?

In the 18th century, as Western education spread like wildfire across Africa, everyone was forced to cut their hair to fit European ideas of cleanliness, discipline, and what a "proper" schoolgirl should look like.

Hair had cultural significance in African societies, and missionaries were also trying to transform how Africans dressed, behaved, and presented themselves. Research on missionary education shows that European standards of appearance were deliberately taught alongside Christianity and Western schooling.

And here's the twist, the practice survived the missionaries themselves. Nigerian schools kept enforcing variations of these rules long after independence. I can imagine the European ancestors laughing themselves silly in their graves at the foolery of African educational systems.

In 2009, when I was about to start Junior secondary school, I was mandated to cut my hair. I cried, because my hair was pretty long.

That's me, with my low cut, in senior secondary school. My friend suffered the same fate, and so did a thousand other girls, not just in Nigeria, but across Africa.

It's bad enough that another man tells you your hair isn't hygienic. It's sadder that you uphold that value yourself.

They didn't just criticize the afro; they demonized dreadlocks, and any guy who kept his hair was branded a "bad boy." I don't see European men shaving their heads bald, so why should a Black man's choice to keep his afro or locs be a problem for you?

I strongly believe cutting one's hair should be a choice. In 2023, I cut my hair again after chemicals ruined it and had it twisted at intervals — that was absolutely my choice, and it shouldn't be mandated by any institution.

Even then, some people still complained about why I'd had it twisted.

It doesn't stop after school.

Grow up, keep your hair, and you're expected to relax it or texturize it to make it more "acceptable."

Earlier this year, a video went viral of a corps member rejected by her PPA because she showed up with her afro in a bun. You needed to see the comments, women asking why she didn't just plait her hair or wear a wig. The same women who keep their own wigs in buns because it's "slick" and doesn't grow towards the sun.

My friend once worked with an ushering agency and was constantly reminded not to come to work with her natural hair or cornrows. Strictly braids or wigs, they said. This is Mercy's hair, by the way. You mean she's not allowed to style this beauty? You mean she has to hide it?

On September 15th, it was World Afro Day, and I was proud — proud of how far the afro has come, how many more women are wearing their hair to work despite the shaming, how African women no longer have to suffer chemicals that ruin their hair just to look "acceptable." Proud of the guys carrying their kinky hair, short haircuts, taper fades, or full afro.

We have to break down these stereotypes. Even the police stop guys just for having hair. You people have upheld "abolo" as the standard for too long. Apparently, your head must shine like the moon before you'll be considered responsible.

Haba!

For most of this year, I wore my hair in micro twists and cornrows, and honestly, I loved the freedom that came with it. But people would see me and ask, "When are you making your hair?" That's a very stupid question. If my hair is even just tied with a shoelace, it is made.

When I was a kid, there was a white girl in my area. She'd tie her hair back and go to school with the rest of us Black kids, no wahala. I'm not complaining; that's cultural appropriation or whatever y'all call it, but the Black kid shouldn't be forced to cut hers for the same school. Is she in mourning? What is she shaving for? Should she wear sackcloth while she's at it?

Recently, a guy asked me what's wrong with a kid cutting her hair for school, and I realized just how damaged we've been. Everything is wrong with it. No, it does not make her neater. It does not make her more obedient.

If they've drummed it into our parents for years that our hair is scruffy, it's time we rise and flaunt a head full of it. It's time schools let girls make their hair. I see the natural hair community doing the work, bringing back shuku, threading, patewo, and the rest, and they are absolutely beautiful.

Why did we ever think they weren't?

I'm not against relaxing your hair; if it helps with maintenance, that's fine. And I'm not against wigs either.

What I'm against is organizations telling me I can't style my hair unless it's relaxed, or forcing everyone into wigs for work. As long as it's neat and well-managed, we should be allowed to flaunt it!

Somebody should just make me Minister of Education already. First thing I'd do is eradicate the rule that makes girls cut their hair for school.

So guys, I have checked for all the problems with afro hair and why they should be kept out of school and the workplace.

Guess what??

I found none!!

You are discharged and acquitted, free to carry your afro anywhere you deem fit.

If anyone tells you otherwise, shove your afro in their faces!!!

PS: All photos are of my beautiful friends and me.

Fat, slim, muscular, short, tall, dark and fair.

I do not discriminate whatever form they come in. And maybe that's why they love me too the way I show them so much attention and do not belittle those whose manhood seem less of the size society adores. Rather, I teach them how to use it effectively, because the usage is much more important than the size.

Or maybe they love me because of how good I am in bed too. I love to see them cry out in ecstasy, lost, begging me to stop punishing them. And of course, I'm handsomely rewarded.

So nothing irritated me more than this text that I just received on my phone.

"Please, I come to you as a woman, leave my man alone. I beg you. Jhoor, nitori olorun, I'm on my knees. We are already engaged, about to be married, please don't bring shame to me."

You come to me as a woman and so what? Make I come dey fry akara??

Makachi!

If not that it's your man that bought me the iPhone 17 I'm using, I would have sent you a message to tell you how miserable you are in bed. How your man complains that you never satisfy him, you just lie down like a log of wood and expect him to do everything.

If you took care of your man, would he come to me?

Ehn??? nzuzu!

Funny how I'll be meeting the same man this afternoon.

This woman has threatened to tell the whole world that I was having an affair with her man, that she'll print our picture and post it on a billboard so all of Lagos will see our shame.

Omo, I wanted to panic but I did not.

Firstly, we weren't the first people doing this. Secondly, if she does it, she'll not only disgrace me but her man as well. Who's responsible for all her foreign vacations and building her parents a new home? All these privileges will be cut short. She'll go back to the slum she came from, and every engagement picture on social media will turn to her shame.

I'm sure someone must have talked sense into her, because she did not follow through with the threat.

Better to cry in a Lamborghini than to cry inside a keke. Innit?

I looked through my clothes for a suitable trouser to wear with my vintage shirt. My eyes went to the pair on the chair, Akin likes it on me. He says the material is soft, so it's easier for him to grab my butt, unlike other denim. But I wore it just yesterday, which I regret. It wasn't dirty, I was only out a few hours, but it wasn't clean enough for the wardrobe, so it stayed on the chair.

I changed my mind. I wanted something fresh for him.

Walking to the wardrobe, my leg stepped on soft fur.

Biko púo n'úzó, I hissed. I hadn't been looking, and I'd almost crushed Jack, my puppy.

I dressed up, sprayed my favourite perfume, and ordered a Bolt. I did not like it when Akin came to pick me up. I'm sure my aproko neighbours in the next flat always have their noses pressed to the window, and his car was too luxurious for this street. It wasn't a bad neighbourhood sha, I was on the island too, but Akin was part of the 1% of the 1% in Nigeria. If you know what I mean.

You see, I've not always been into men. My first encounter was in 200 level.

I am an extremely pretty human. People would stop and stare, and the girls couldn't believe I was single. I was the quiet type, I don't speak in class, so lecturers barely knew me in my crowded lecture hall. But one day I came late, and the lecturer shut the door.

This man was very strict, miss a class and you were in soup. I'd overslept, and to make it worse, my group had a presentation that morning. If I wasn't standing in front of the class with them, he'd strike my name from the group and cut marks from an already difficult exam. I stood outside with six other latecomers, and thought: what's the worst that can happen, he'll shout at us. So I knocked.

The others outside warned me to stay quiet, don't get us all in trouble. I did it anyway, because it was almost time for my group to present.

"Who's the idiot knocking at the door?"

The deep voice boomed from inside. Everybody kept quiet, you could hear a pin drop. He opened the door.

"I say, who's the fool that knocked?" They all pointed at me.

Furiously, he turned to me but his face softened. "Why're you just coming, oyinbo?"

"Sir, I went for night class and overslept," I lied.

"Night class, meaning you studied almost till daybreak."

"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir. I wouldn't have disturbed your class, but my group is presenting."

"I'll let all of you in, because your group has a presentation. But for disturbing my class, I'll make sure I disturb you too. See me in my office later."

"Okay sir," I said, gleefully.

All through the presentation I could feel his eyes on me.

Chai, Chineke!

I was just praying he wouldn't ask me any question, he never did. I guess he knew I hadn't contributed to the project. The moment it ended, he asked me to help carry the materials to his office.

His office was in a secluded corner, away from the busy department building. It wasn't dingy or spilling papers like the others, shelves were labelled, not a single book out of place. The desk had just his laptop and a few texts. He opened his fridge, poured me a drink, asked me to sit.

"What's your name again?"

"Chisom, sir."

"Chichi," he mused.

I hated being called Chichi, I'm not a ten-year-old. But I didn't say so.

"Chichi, I have to be honest, I like you. If it wasn't you who knocked this morning, I would have dealt with that student. But when I saw a fine oyibo, my thing just rise," he said, holding his manhood.

I felt like I wanted to puke. He looked not a day older than forty-five, bald, not bad-looking.

Thinking about it now, I smirked in my ride. Maybe bald men love better. The Bolt driver gave me a quizzical look in the mirror. Oga, abeg face your front, I said in my mind. Outwardly, I gave him a reassuring smile.

I'd sent Akin the album on Spotify, bald men love better, it's actually my favourite even though I couldn't understand the language in the other songs.

“Shine your head, it's a crown

Don't let nobody ever put you down

You need a bald man to love you better”…

Anytime Akin hears that line, his head goes to burst, his abolo shines better. Then I'll rub his beard and he'll sigh. Does that foolish woman do this?

So, back to my Prof.

He waited for my response, but what could I say? I'd never done this, never imagined myself in that situation with a lecturer.

Then he said, "See, we can make this easy. I'll help you pass this course, I know you don't understand it properly, you couldn't even speak during the presentation. I'll speak to my friends to help you with your other courses too, if you behave well."

"Omo, me I cannot ooo, sir, can I go now?"

"You can. Also, prepare to write this course again next year."

"Haaa, sir, but I've not written it na, why are you talking like I've failed?"

"Because there's nothing in your head. If I set the exam, you'll fail. You need an extra year to prepare."

I went to the hostel and told my friend. She advised me to do it, just once, and I'd forget about it, but if I didn't, I wouldn't just be writing it again next year, it would follow me till final year, and he could convince his friends to fail me too. She had a point. I contacted Prof and said I'd agreed.

He told me to meet him at a hotel far from school, he didn't want to risk being seen with me. When I got to room 410. He let me in smiling, already in his boxers, pornography playing on the wall-mounted TV. I turned my face in disgust.

"Calm down," he said. "I noticed you might be a novice, so I wanted us to watch together, you can learn some things, set the mood."

I heard noise in the shower. I looked at him, puzzled. "Do we have company?"

"Yes, one of my babies likes it when we do it as a threesome. Besides, I wanted you to watch us and learn."

Can this get any worse? I held my head. The person walked in.

"Mide!" I screamed.

My roommate. When it was all over, Mide wanted to share a ride back to school. I refused. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that Mide had been Prof's baby the whole time. What a sneaky devil.

Bold of me to think it would end in just one sexual escapade. Prof soon got addicted to me, said he loved me, and we met regularly at different places, he'd go first, I'd meet him after. In return, he took care of me till graduation, rented me an apartment so I no longer stayed with Mide, and helped me with the second-class upper I have. I forgave Mide. We even had more joint encounters with Prof before relocating to the UK after graduation.

I've had more partners since. I'm yet to get a job, so this sorts me out. Akin keeps me afloat as well.

My phone rang, I smiled seeing the caller ID. Akin must have gotten impatient waiting, already in the hotel. I was just outside the gate, so I decided not to pick up, it would make him long for me more.

The moment I opened the door, Akin hugged me tight and locked it.

"It's been four days, I missed you so much. Couldn't wait to get back from my trip." He squeezed my chest. "You've got more muscle now."

"I've been spending more time in the gym since you no longer have time for me," I whined.

"Don't talk like that. You know how Moji always wants to keep me around, so I had to give her some time also the wedding preparations and all. But I was thinking about you the whole time."

I considered telling him about Moji's text, but in that moment he kissed me so deep I forgot about it.

Breathless, I asked, "So what happens to me after the wedding?"

"Nothing will happen to you. You know I can't come out and say I want to marry you, not in our society. Many men in Lagos do this, they get married and still keep their preferred partner. Moji understands, she won't say anything. I'll find time for us."

"Okay baby," I said, pacified.

But it was easier said than done. Once Akin married Moji, she started squeezing herself into every gap in his time. Whenever we tried to meet, he had excuses; when we did, it was a quickie and he was running back because Moji was pregnant and acting like the world was ending. After the baby came, things got worse between us.

So I found myself another man, a fine bobo from the UK.

Omo, this boy is fine ooo.

We met in a Twitter comment section where he was being dragged; I went to his DM and told him he was right, I couldn't say it openly, for fear they'd drag me too. We exchanged numbers, started dating online. Then he invited me to the UK.

Me, from Isale Eko?

I wasn't in Isale Eko anymore, but I came from there. I'd fought my way to the island. Akin never took me on an international trip, but he made sure I lived my best life in Lagos. This was elevation, omo.

I had the best time of my life in the UK — London, We went to Buckingham Palace, the British Museum, West End shows. I peppered everyone in my Snap.

I came back after a month. Then, suddenly, a call from Akin.

"Ahhh, fine boy, so you still remember me."

"Where have you been?" He asked

"I should be asking you."

"Chisom, this isn't the time to argue. I'm asking because I care about you, and your pictures have been flying all over the blogs for the past thirty minutes. I wanted to call some of them and use my influence to take it down, but too many pages have it now, I can't control it. You were kissing a white guy in it."

Everywhere first, blurrrrr.

No wonder my other phone had been vibrating non-stop, I'd wanted to rest after the trip, so I'd been ignoring my public line. Akin was calling from the private line I share with only a few people.

It felt like the ground should open and swallow me.

"Please, I'll call you back, let me see for myself."

Every gossip blog in Nigeria had my photo with Dylan flying around. We were locked in a French kiss at the beach. I remembered he'd asked someone to snap us, for memory's sake. I didn't know he was going to post it.

This guy had ruined my life. I was trending on Twitter.

Someone wrote: "Nor be this guy wey I know for Isale Eko, make I nor catch am for Agege, I go kill am!"

I called Dylan. The moment he picked up, I screamed, "You've ruined my life! I told you how homophobic Nigeria is, it's against our law, yet you posted the picture. Why did you do this to me?"

"I posted it on my Snap, not on a public platform. I just wanted to feel happy, the picture looked cute," Dylan said.

"I hope you're happy now, because apparently someone in Nigeria had your Snap, saw the pics, and blogged about it. Now it's everywhere. My phone is blowing up, I can't even go outside with all the death threats I'm getting."

He apologised. What could his apology do for my ruined life?

I stayed indoors for over two months, hoping it would blow over. Akin really tried for me, brought foodstuffs, everything I needed. I knew Moji would be happy about how I'd been disgraced online.

God will punish Mide and Prof, wherever they are, for introducing me to this kind of life.

In the third month, Akin said it was enough and took me to a private club. It is members-only, for the rich, cool, "many of them like us." I really enjoyed myself. On the way back, his car broke down around 3 a.m.

I was scared, with all the bad boys in Lagos, and with my history, none of them would hesitate to recognise me from the viral photo and finish me. Akin found a hotel nearby ten minutes' walk. I asked that we book a ride instead.

"Haba, Chisom, you're getting too jittery, it's just down the road. I'm the one who should be scared, only God knows if I'll meet my car tomorrow if these thieves haven't looted it. Thank God we're in a safe area, I doubt we'll meet trouble. Let's go, jhoor."

We walked. Before we'd taken a few steps, a torch shone on our faces from the darkness.

"Heyys, where una dey go this night?"

Not again. Police checkpoint. I wasn't a fan of the police, and I knew what this night would cost us.

"My name na Akin, my car spoil for up there, so we nor fit go house this night. We decide to lodge for Hills Hotel for front there."

"Where una dey come from?" the companion asked.

"We dey come from club, sir."

"So una be yahoo boys," the man said, flashing his torch over us.

"Haaaa, oga, we nor be yahoo boys ooo," I almost shouted.

"Will you shut up, you scallywags!" apparently the only grammar the man knew.

His companion added, "They're both nuisance in the environment, they're under arrest."

"Oga, just like that?" Akin asked. "We are law-abiding citizens ooo, I'm a businessman, I can show you my card."

"When we get to the station, we'll discuss that."

"Akin, give them something now," I told him. He was furious, he hated bribing the police so he said he'd rather follow them to the station and let them show him why he was arrested.

That's how we got handcuffed and taken in. At the station, the first officer looked at me properly and said, "Nor be you oyibo, dey burst your yansh that day wey dem show for Twitter."

Omo, gbege!

They'd recognised me. He saw the fear flash in my eyes, and smiled. "I said it, you're a criminal. I was right."

He took my phone and the little cash on me.

Constable Ola, POV

This boy is very foolish, thinking I wouldn't recognise him.

We've caught a very big fish today. Back in his office, he locks the door, opens the phone he'd made Chisom unlock, goes through the gallery for what he's looking for. He knew the boy would have it, he doesn't keep such videos where people might find out he's bisexual. He opens a small drawer, brings out the Vaseline he keeps there, removes his belt after muting the video. If he's exhausted everything in this phone, he'll sell it in Computer Village after.

Chisom, POV

They made us sleep in a cell that night. In the morning, Moji came to bail Akin. He asked that they let me out too, but they said she should come for me in the evening, I had questions to answer.

When he left, Moji came back to see me, said I was going to rot in jail for all the pain I'd caused her, especially the months her husband had spent with me. Somehow I believed her, but I trusted Akin would come.

Before I knew it, I was transferred to Kirikiri, without trial. They gave me a blue uniform. The first night, the man they called chairman of the cell raped me, then flung me to the corner, said I wasn't tight enough. My cellmates laughed.

"Lie say you nor enjoy am, them talk say na wetin you dey do be that, so no dey form."

I stood there crying, even though I'd slept with men before, never like this. I puked on myself. The place reeked, I had to keep my nose to the small gap by the door.

After a month, I was told I had a visitor. I was curious, my family had cut me off, no one would look for me, and Akin had gone silent.

It was Moji. She laughed when she saw me. "Omo, see fine boy ooo, how are you enjoying your new home?"

"Chisom, you really underestimated me. I begged you to leave Akin, you refused, now you're serving the sentence for Senator Mamud's son, the one who raped a girl. He was only sentenced to pacify the public rage, his son has already been smuggled out of the country. They needed a replacement, and I found you for them. I was rewarded handsomely for it. Akin will never guess you're here, he thinks you were released and went into hiding. Our life is better now."

"When you've served the sixteen years, you'll know not to mess with people." She walked away.

I broke down. No wonder, at roll call, they kept calling me Shola Mamud and when I refused to answer, they'd beat me, laughing.

I decided to make good use of my years there. A church group came every Wednesday to preach; I gave my life to Christ and joined the prison chapel. I remembered I used to drum, as a teenager, and started drumming for them. I kept good behaviour, and soon the warders came to love me, even the preacher started bringing goodies for me.

I know I'll get out someday. I don't know when.

And when I do, I don't know what the future holds for me.

One thing I do know is God has forgiven me. His love is big enough for me.

Well, after reading my story, you might say I'm the wicked one.

But do I sound as if I care about your opinion?

I honestly don't give two cents about what you people say anymore.

All I care about right now is that you listen and you subscribe too.

Maybe you can drop your opinion in the comment box sha.

And if you have been following all my stories since come closer and chop kiss.

Oya pop it into your mouth.

Reading for free is cute but subscribing is better!

So yeah, story story.

Oya, say: Story!

Once upon a time.

Time, time!

You see, I'm a spitting image of my mother. If we were the same age, I think people would have mistaken us for twins.

My mom was an exceptionally beautiful woman. I heard she gave my father a hard time before agreeing to marry him.

And her voice! She could sing like a canary. That's where she first caught his attention.

He said the first day he attended church, she was the one who led the solo of the song. He still plays it the song regularly. He'd blink back tears whenever he got to the part where she raised her voice an octave higher.

'Cause I am a seeker and you are a keeper

You are a leader, won't you show me the way?

I am a vessel, that's empty and useless

I am a bad seed that fell by the way

I am a loser that wants to be a winner

And you are my last hope, don't turn me away.

I believe Papa doesn't hear Dolly Parton when those words play. Instead, he hears Mama.

Iyekekpolor, my sister, says she's sick of hearing that song every time, but I think she's inconsiderate, seeing that Mama is dead and that's what draws Papa closer to her.

It seems like Iyekekpolor hates everything that comes from our parents.

She makes faces when Papa tells stories about his dates with Mama and doesn't hide her boredom by yawning.

In fact, immediately she got into University, I heard she changed her name to Catherine.

What the hell is Catherine?

She says Iyekekpolor is a very ugly name and that our parents don't like her. That's why they give me more beautiful things.

For example, she asks why they gave me Omosede. She says the name is better than hers.

Broooo, how am I supposed to know?

I know my dad might show me some preferential treatment, but I don't think it's his fault.

Mama died while giving birth to me, and since I'm her doppelgänger, it's understandable that Papa is attached to me.

Papa said he held me for days, crying. While growing up, I'd catch him staring at me with teary eyes.

I had Mama's long hair as well, while Iyekekpolor had my dad's features.

Like him, she struggled with her front hair. She eventually settled for a low cut, which made her look so much like a boy.

Well, not so much because, boy oh boy, was she fat!

She tells me later that she was eating out of depression. She'd stuff her mouth with food every time I saw her. Her mouth was always busy, either chewing or talking.

Papa never remarried, but he tried to take care of us as much as he could.

My sister was seven years older than me. They say Mama had secondary infertility, so my coming was a miracle.

I think my sister hated my arrival, like I took the attention off her.

I'm sure she would have preferred if I'd died alongside Mama in the hospital.

She says I took the life of our precious mom and the attention of her dad away from her. And whenever people came to visit us, they'd always dash me money.

These her comments and attitudes was beginning to make me hate her.

You might say “but she’s your big sister na, you can’t hate her.’

Big sister my ass!

I’m done!!

When I was eleven, the day before Iyekekpolor left for school, we went to buy foodstuffs for the house.

She was showing me to all her customers so I could pick up from where she left off.

While she haggled with the meat seller, he said,

"Na because of this your oyibo sister na why I dey give you for this price oo."

"So you mean you wouldn't have given me that price even though I've been patronising you for years now if I hadn't brought my sister?"

She hissed through her teeth.

"Yes now," the man joked.

Omo, my sister dropped the meat and started walking away.

"Lare na!" the man called out.

I had to run and catch up with her.

She ignored me for the rest of the purchases at Oba Market.

Did I mention that she refused to apply to the University of Benin?

She didn't inform Papa of the school she chose until it was time for Post-UTME.

She put the University of Lagos as her first choice and the University of Ibadan as her second choice.

She later gained admission to UNILAG to study Business Administration.

She never came home for the whole four years.

I know Papa might have unknowingly hurt her, but couldn't she at least look past his sins of neglect?

I remember one Christmas, Papa bought us two giant teddy bears and asked me to pick the one with my favourite colour.

I chose pink.

Iyekekpolor insisted that she preferred the pink one to the red one, but Papa said I was a kid and she should learn not to drag things with me.

She didn't speak to me for four days.

It took me appeasing her with suya and sweets that Papa brought for us before she ended the malice.

Well, I wasn't such a saint either.

I remember when she'd hit me for an offence and I'd cry until Papa returned. I knew he would either caution her or beat her for hurting me.

He said she should be a mother to me, but she insisted that motherhood should not be forced on her.

Only I stayed with Papa until he died from prostate cancer in my penultimate year studying Nursing at the University of Benin.

My whole world shattered the day he heaved his last breath at the University of Benin Teaching Hospital. That night he had asked me to put his favourite song on repeat, he had smiled saying mama would once again sing for him.

I was shuffling between classes and caring for Papa.

Although Iyekekpolor called often and visited once, she spent a few days at his bedside before returning to Lagos. She also sent money.

One thing she could never fault Papa for was how he provided for his children.

Even though he wasn't pleased that she had decided to school in Lagos, he regularly sent her money and made sure she lacked nothing.

She'd gotten married immediately after school to her university sweetheart and returned to Lagos to live with him. He'd opened a supermarket for her.

Papa's sickness drained most of his savings, and by the time we were done with his burial, I was left with almost nothing.

In my final year, I needed a lot of money to sort myself out, both for my project and all my departmental expenses.

I called Iyekekpolor, and the first thing she told me was that she was an orphan just like me.

Osalobua!

And she'd a family to run, which was double my expenses.

But she sent half of the money I needed.

When I asked her how I was going to get the rest, she said,

"Has everyone not always called you a fine girl? Now it's time to put your beauty to work."

I had to beg friends and an uncle I barely spoke to.

God bless them. They completed the money.

After graduation, Iyekekpolor called me.

She said I should consider doing my nursing internship in Lagos.

I was excited because, honestly, I felt so lonely there in Benin and it was hard trying to get by.

And this was a good opportunity to bond with her.

I packed my things and travelled to Lagos.

Oboy!

My sister was living the life.

She was on the Island with her husband, and her shop also had assistants.

I knew her hubby was loaded, but I just didn't know how loaded they were.

Another thing I discovered was that she was heavily pregnant.

Her husband, Dayo, said they were expecting twins.

That was when it dawned on me.

You see, my sister has always been uncomfortable with strangers, so she didn't want to hire a maid. She wanted me to help out with the twins when they were born.

Well, as long as I'm well cared for, I don't mind helping my sister with omugwo since we don't have a mother.

Her mother-in-law was no more as well, and her hubby had just brothers.

That was how I ended up living with my sister.

But omo, I saw shege!

I mean premium one oo.

To think that one of my friend back in Benin sent me a DM saying “You just dey lalobor oo”

Omo, me wey dey sokpan!

Just because I posted myself in that cute hospital on my Whatsapp status and she was still struggling to get a place of internship she thought I have arrived.

My sister has always been lazy.

A cleaning service usually came twice a week to pick up after her, but since she was close to delivery, she said she didn't want them around when her kids came.

She had unnecessary paranoia.

Her hubby was a quiet man, so he complied.

I ended up being the cleaner of such a big house despite my tiredness from my shifts.

I had no option. Even if I wanted to leave, the hospital she got for me was on the Island.

I'd have to rent a crazily expensive apartment on Lagos Island, not to mention taking care of my other needs.

And she warned me never to call her Iyekekpolor again, but Catherine.

When it slipped out occasionally, she'd almost kill me with her eyes.

I did all the cooking. I never had time to rest.

When the kids finally arrived, it was like my whole life was over.

My sister told me that she was going through postpartum depression and, as a nurse, I should understand.

I literally ran the house and took care of the kids.

She said she was glad I was a nurse and would understand caring for babies better.

Recall my sister runs a supermarket. So one day, I told her I'd run out of skincare products. I wasn't even using very expensive products, and I knew she had these things in her shop. I expected that she'd call her girls to bring them for me or even send me to get them.

But guess what?

She said, "Business is not really doing good right now. Plus, with the arrival of the twins, things have been so difficult, so I can't guarantee that we can give out those products for free. But I have an alternative, though. Give me a minute."

She went upstairs to her room and returned with one bar of Premier soap and one big cup of Vaseline.

I'm like, Is this girl okay?

But outwardly, I said, "Sister, you know I can't use Vaseline on my face now. And Premier soap? Haba."

"But people use it na," she replied. "When I was in school sef, there was a time I was so broke I had to have my bath with Viva detergent, and I did not die. It didn't even ruin my skin. Or is it because you see me using Korean skincare now? Don't worry, your time will come when you'll be able to afford it. For now, this is what I can give out. The Vaseline will even make your skin shine."

Her husband looked at her in surprise. I'm sure even he couldn't believe what he was hearing. They definitely weren't in difficult financial times.

I had no choice. I had to accept it.

After Iyekekpolor went back to sleep, Dayo told me to text him all my skincare products.

I asked him not to worry, as I was okay with what my sister had provided.

"That's nonsense," he said. "I insist you send me everything you need. You've been very helpful with my kids, and I do not take it for granted."

I obliged.

The next day, when he was returning from work, he brought everything to my room.

I thanked him very well.

I lacked sleep. Truly, Kehinde was a crybaby. Taiwo was easy to put to bed, but Kehinde was a different story entirely.

I'd stay awake with her, petting her until she fell asleep.

Dayo came to check on the child and took her from me.

"Go and get some sleep," he told me.

I was already fond of the babies, and I knew there was no way Dayo could effectively pet her because they were used to me.

So I asked him not to worry.

He decided to keep me company.

"Why does she treat you like this? She hates you, you know."

The question threw me off balance.

"Who?" I asked, stalling for time to think of a reasonable answer.

"Don't pretend like you don't know who I'm talking about," he said.

I stared at him.

I'd always wondered how my sister was able to bag a man like him.

He was so handsome. The real tall, dark and handsome.

He was rich and, most importantly, compassionate.

I realised I was staring, so I shook my head and said, "She doesn't really hate me. It's just normal sibling rivalry. Every sibling fought as kids."

"But you guys are no longer kids," he countered.

"Well, let's just say she hasn't gotten over it," I said.

"Tell me about this sibling rivalry with her," he continued. "I've often asked her why she treats you so, but she has not given me any good excuse."

"Because there's none," I said. "I should get some sleep. Kehinde is sleeping now."

When I made to leave, he stopped me.

"You'll tell me tomorrow while you tend the kids, won't you?"

It wasn't really a question because, with that, he walked away.

And so it became a routine.

Every evening, while I was taking care of the kids in the nursery, Dayo would bond with the children as well as listen to my stories about my childhood with Iyekekpolor.

There wasn't much to tell, as we were never close.

And in all honesty, I didn't try to paint her as a bad person.

I said it as it was and even excused her behaviour because of Mama's death and Papa's neglect.

Dayo still insisted that it didn't make it right.

He soon started getting me gifts and sending me money.

I didn't mind because I was damn broke.

Iyekekpolor barely spent time with the kids.

She never breastfed even though her breast was big enough to feed a cow, she extracted her breast milk just so I could feed them.

She only attended to them when I wasn't around.

It was obvious that she never wanted to be a mother and did it for Dayo.

One time she said, "Thank God I had my two girls simultaneously because I don't want to carry another pregnancy again."

"What about our boy?" Dayo asked.

"What if I get a girl again? Lahor semwenae."

He laughed it off.

While Dayo was spending time in the nursery, he wasn't just bonding with the kids.

He was also bonding with someone else.

Their aunt.

That was the genesis of the whole problem.

We began to look for opportunities to spend time together—in the kitchen, the nursery, and, very soon, in my room.

In all of these, Iyekekpolor did not notice anything.

She just said she was glad Dayo was close to the kids as well.

All she cared about was her supermarket, which she monitored twenty-four-seven from her phone, even though she also had a control room there with security watching over everything. She visited the place often too.

I know you already know where my story is going.

Yes.

One thing led to another.

One hot Sunday afternoon, after I'd put the kids to sleep, I was lying in my room in my underwear when Dayo entered without knocking.

"I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "I didn't mean to. I was looking for you because Catherine stepped out. I wanted to know what we were having for dinner."

Still, he stood at the door, not making any move to leave.

And I did not pull the covers over myself.

I just stared back at him.

He took a step inside.

Our eyes were still locked.

Then he said, "You've got the most beautiful body."

My legs tingled.

It shouldn't.

This is not right.

He's my brother-in-law.

Oh my God.

What am I doing?

But I didn't stop when he climbed onto the bed.

I didn't stop him from kissing me either.

What happened next was a line neither of us could uncross.

We slept together.

And it didn't stop that day.

It happened regularly whenever Iyekekpolor went to the supermarket.

While we were in the parlour watching a movie on DSTV, Dayo laughed so hard at a scene and touched my arm affectionately.

I was sitting beside him, I lifted his hand, laughing.

"Dayo, calm down."

Iyekekpolor raised a brow.

She was on the longer cushion, holding Taiwo, one of the few times she did so.

Omo, I don lose guard!

I quickly shifted and focused on the movie.

I never called him Dayo, it was always Brother. So the whole scene must have put her off.

Later that evening, when I went to bed, Iyekekpolor came in.

"What was that between you and Dayo? When did you two become cosy like that?" she asked.

"Ahhh, we are not cosy oo. Sorry, Sister Iye—Catherine jhoor. I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing," I said.

"I don't want to see you talking with my husband again, except he asks you a question. And should you want to talk to him, you can meet me first. I'm not about to lose him to you like I did Dad." She warned me.

"There's nothing to worry about. It wouldn't happen again." I apologised.

But omo, there was plenty to worry about.

Because a big problem had just happened.

I say, yawa don gas!

I found out the next week that I was pregnant.

Ovbe sa kpo!!!

I told Dayo, and I said I would abort it.

"God forbid," he responded. "I am pro-life."

"Dayo, you're pro-life, but you've been committing adultery. Iyekekpolor will kill me ooo!"

"What if it's a boy?" he asked. "I love my girls, no doubt, but I'd want to have both sexes. And your sister has said in clear terms that she doesn't cherish the idea of getting pregnant again."

"Okay, what if we find out it's a girl?" I argued.

"Doesn't matter. I'll have another princess. Besides, I love kids. This one is even a plus, a very beautiful princess at that."

"Dayo, you're not being reasonable. Everybody will crucify me. I'll have no one. My sister might forgive you as her husband, but what about me? What about my life and career?"

"That's easy, then," he said. "I'll have you flown to the UK. You'll start your life afresh there, away from the judgment of everyone, and I'll make sure you and my child lack nothing. We just have to keep this a secret."

I saw sense in what he was saying. And really, I didn't have any relationship of my own or anybody helping me, so this was a ticket to a stress-free life.

And that's how my visa application started.

Dayo pulled all the strings he could to make it faster.

By my second trimester, all my documents were ready.

But...

As much as I tried to hide it, my sister found out that I was pregnant because, of course, there were changes in my slender figure.

One day, while we were having dinner and I was pushing my food around my plate because I was fighting another bout of nausea, she blurted,

"So when are you going to tell us who's responsible for the thing you're carrying?"

I was shocked.

Shocked that she was aware all this while.

And angry that she'd refer to my baby as a thing when I'd always regarded hers as precious.

"Are you shocked that I know?" she asked. "I'm a woman, and before you forget, I have twins!"

"Firstly, Sister, my baby is not a thing. And I was waiting for the right time to tell you."

"Oh, when's the right time?" she fumed. "Is it on your EDD? And I can damn well refer to a bastard the way I please. From what I gather, no one in the family knows the father. You're a disgrace to our family. Oh, see my father's golden child, She mocked. See the one who took my mother away, being reduced to a mere baby mama. I'm sure they'll be twisting in their graves."

By now, I was visibly angry.

"Of course you know the father!" I shouted.

Dayo coughed.

She stared at us.

And it dawned on her what had been happening right under her very nose.

I regretted what I had done immediately. I shouldn't have allowed her to get to me. I should have left the country quietly.

She flung her plate of half-finished meal at me.

I ducked.

She stood up and lunged at me.

I dodged it.

My reflexes have always been sharp.

"You fucking whore!" she screamed. "I'm going to kill you today. The only thing you're good at is taking what does not belong to you."

"Calm down, Catherine. You'll hurt her and our son," Dayo said, he had been forgotten in the whole fiasco.

She turned, as if just remembering that he was also guilty. That I did not steal his sperm and insert it in me.

"You adulterer! Are you not ashamed?" She shouted at him.

"Be like you dey craze! Ogun gha gbue! Oni Kure! Sopono lo ma pa e!"

She went into a litany of curses—in Yoruba, Bini, English, Pidgin and every vile vocabulary she was familiar with.

While she went after him, I escaped and ran outside.

That night, I slept in a hotel.

Dayo came to join me and brought some of my things.

I didn't step outside for fear that she could kill me.

Honestly, her rage was justified. I know my sister, and I did not know the extent to which her anger could go.

Daniel was careful so she wouldn't trace me.

He swapped my hotel three times, and by the next month, I was flown out of the country.

Like I guessed, she forgave her man.

After all, he was the one literally caring for her and her lazy ass.

Plus, kids were expensive.

I heard she switched back to using the agency and brought in a mature woman of over fifty to be a live-in nanny and care for her home and kids.

My son will be three years old today.

My sister has not responded to any of the messages I've sent her apologising for the past four years.

My uncle and other extended family members have ostracised me.

Not that I care.

I just got my licence to practise nursing here in the UK.

Dayo sends money monthly for upkeep, and he also sponsored my education here.

He comes to see his son three times a year.

He says he has an agreement with Catherine never to speak about him in the house.

We've never had sex again.

I was truly sorry for what I did.

But I don't know...

If we could turn back the hands of the clock, I think I would have done it all over again.

My son is very cute, like his dad.

He has my long hair, though, and I didn't cut it. I make cute cornrows for him.

I'm in a relationship with a white guy.

His name is George.

We love each other and he's good to my son.

We plan to hold a small court wedding next month.

We won't be coming to Nigeria for any traditional marriage since I'm not in the good side of my family.

The only person I invited is Dayo. We have become good friends and great co-parents over the years. Although he once said would have preferred being married to me and George was a lucky guy.

I met George at work, he's a Doctor.

Life has never been better.

I do not regret every path that led me here.

Now you can drop your two cents, Adviser Nowamagbe!

Oya you've heard my family gist, subscribe!

A small smile tugged at her lips.

She had done it.

Not that convincing Segun to marry her had been difficult. The man had been in love with her since their school days. The problem had always been her.

She had never liked him like that.

Who would have thought she'd eventually marry him?

Eeewww.

Not today, Satan. Not today.

Today was not the day to resent her husband.

She mentally shook the thought away.

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“Emeka, God will punish you anywhere you are!!”.

“Did you say something?” Segun asked.

“The corset,” she lied. “It's too tight.”

“I'm sorry, baby.” He kissed her forehead. “You should have gone for a freer gown.”

She smiled.

Segun had been looking for every possible excuse to kiss since she agreed to date him.

His kisses were…endurable, not terrible.

But they were certainly not the heart-wrenching, knees-weakening, Lord, take me now kind of kisses Emeka used to give her.

Emeka had a sweet mouth. Both literally and metaphorically. That man could say three sentences and make her forget she had a functioning brain.

Six months later, he still had her in a chokehold.

Chukwu kpó gi ókú.

It wasn't really her fault, sha.

Emeka had been her lover for seven years.

Seven whole years!

She had given that man seven years of her life, only for him to dump her on her thirtieth birthday with a text message.

And now she was married to Segun.

“Are you different from him?”

A small voice in her head asked.

“Didn't you just lie to everyone that you're in love with Segun when you don't even like the man?”

She ignored the voice.

It was her wedding day. She deserved peace.

Besides, didn't they say it was better for a woman to marry a man that was in love with her than a man she was in love with? She'd followed the one she loved before and look how it turned out.

Chidinma had actually met Segun before Emeka.

They grew up in Lagos. Segun's father used to patronise her father's spare-parts business at Ladipo Market whenever his old Camry, which had clearly seen better days, needed repairs.

Back then, Segun's family had been struggling. Infact, sapa was a member of their family.

And the mumu boy had thought he was going to become a musician. Maybe he felt he was Wizkid from Ojuelegba.

Unfortunately, the music industry did not agree.

The first time Chidinma realised Segun was actually an artist, he had come to her father's shop blasting one of his songs from the old car.

She stepped outside with Tochi, her father's apprentice.

“Who dey play that yeye song?” she asked. “This artist no fit blow lai lai.”

Tochi burst out laughing.

Segun quickly denied the song.

“Actually, the song is rubbish. Spotify just selected it automatically.”

He changed it immediately.

“Na now you dey play beta music,” Chidinma said. “Nor be the incantations wey you first put.”

She had no idea that the song was Segun's.

It was only after he drove away that Chisom, her friend told her.

“That was Segun's song.”

Chidinma stared at her.

“His song?”

“Yes. He just released it. He has been posting it on WhatsApp for his fans to stream.”

She felt slightly bad.

Because Segun was also hopelessly in love with her.

He had told Chisom and Chisom had told her. But Segun himself had never had the courage to say it.

Probably because her father was always hovering around whenever his family came to buy spare parts.

“Ahhh, that Yoruba demon!” Chidinma had screamed when Chisom told her.

“Han han. Don't talk like that. Segun is a good guy.”

“It’s like this boy paid you money to talk to me.”

“No nau! I saw him in town and he told me. Why would I be bribed before bringing good things your way?”

“Biko, apumaka. This your good thing is not my type.”

And indeed, Segun was not her type. Physically or otherwise.

He was lanky, wore dreadlocks, had fake braces on his teeth and tattoos on both arms. He also wore two enormous fake ice chains around his neck.

Chidinma was convinced that if lightning ever struck, Segun would be the first casualty since he was wearing iron Cuban and not ice. He also had both ears pierced.

The first time they met outside her dad's shop was at the University of Lagos.

She had just gained admission to study nursing. She'd bumped into him at a cyber café in school where she was trying to print some of her documents for departmental clearance. Turned out he also just got into school to study theatre arts.

She'd wanted to pretend that she did not see him. She knew the guy still had a crush on her and he talked too much. But he'd struck up a conversation with her and exchanged contact. Turned out he wasn't such a bad friend. Infact they became very close and spent most of their free time in school together. However, she was determined to keep things platonic.

Until one rainy night in 200 level.

She had gone to visit him, and the rain became so heavy that leaving was impossible. Segun had only one bed. He offered to sleep on the tiled floor. But the rain was freezing, and Chidinma felt bad.

“You can sleep here,” she eventually said.

He asked if she was sure.

She said yes.

That was how the two of them ended up sharing a bed.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, she realised Segun was awake. And apparently, so was another part of him which was currently poking her.

Jeez, dude had an erection. Maybe it was the heady feeling of control she felt over him that made her feel reckless.

She turned around and slightly touched him.

He flinched. She did it again. He gasped her name.

Then he kissed her hungrily. Like he'd been waiting for this moment all the years of life. As he was caressing her neck she pushed him away.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I need to do something.”

She took off her rosary.

The Blessed Virgin did not need to witness what was about to happen.

She wondered briefly whether she should confess the incident to the priest or add it to her numerous sins of omission.

She knew he had two piercings on both ears and one on his belly button. But finding three extra on his body was a huge turn off.

She stared at him.

“Segun, are you a belt?”

“What?”

“Why do you have so many piercings?”

He grinned in the darkness.

“It's part of the show.”

She shifted to the end of the bed. And that was the end of that.

He'd thought maybe the encounter had made her soften towards him and they'd probably date. So the next day when she got home, he sent her a lovey dovey text. It probably sounded romantic to him but it was very cringe to her.

Extremely cringe.

Even remembering it right now made her cringe at the memory.

It said:

“Some people want to boil their eggs, others want to fry theirs, but me I want to fertilise your egg. I want us to be together, baby. Text me when you are settled in.”

Chidinma stared at the message for a full thirty seconds.

Then she replied.

She told him, in very clear terms, never to send her anything like that again. Nothing happened that night. And nothing was going to happen. End of discussion.

Second semester of 200 level, Chidinma met Emeka. And suddenly Segun became irrelevant.

Emeka was everything she wanted. He was handsome, intelligent and confident. He was also from a well-to-do family.

They met during a medical outreach organised by an NGO for rural communities in Lagos where they provided free medical care to senior citizens.

Chidinma was the head nurse for her team while Emeka was the student doctor in charge. They made good team leads and exchanged numbers after the program.

Then they started dating. It was beautiful. They were the picture of a perfect couple.

Segun, naturally, was not impressed. He insisted Emeka was a playboy.

Apparently, Emeka had a famous ex in his department who had accused him of roaming around campus with other girls.

The both of them were a popular couple in school.

She had caught him in his apartment with the girl and a fight had broken out between Emeka and his ex. They'd fought dirty and eventually broken up.

Chidinma dismissed it.

“Those are rumours from a jealous ex.” She trusted her man and loved him. He had never given her any reason to doubt his loyalty.

Then one day Emeka casually mentioned how beautiful fair-skinned Igbo girls were. Chidinma on the other hand was caramel-skinned. Her face card was, frankly, criminal. Emeka had commended her lethal face card the first time they met but apparently, he liked his women very light skinned. From the photos Chidinma saw of his ex, she was on the lighter side. By now she was already in love with him she wanted to do everything to keep her babe.

“Madam, abeg give me cream wey go make my skin glow,” she found herself saying.

But her eyes said bleach.

The woman understood and smiled at the forbidden word.

A month later, when someone eventually commented that she looked three shades lighter, she laughed.

“It's my real colour. The UNILAG sun just made me darker.”

Emeka seemed pleased. He complimented her even more. And Chidinma took it as confirmation that she had made the right decision.

Love will make you do crazy things.

Emeka graduated when she entered her final year.

He did his housemanship and youth service. Then his parents sponsored him abroad.

Before he left Nigeria, he proposed to her.

“Sope purrrrr!” Chidinma screamed as she posted her engagement ring.

Life was sweet. He got a good job abroad. Money came, gifts came. He delivered surprises.

She lacked nothing. She was the envy of her friends.

Then, on their seventh anniversary, which also happened to be her thirtieth birthday, Emeka sent her the biggest surprise.

“Chidinma, happy 30th birthday. I'm sorry, I can't keep you waiting any longer. It's been seven years. I have a two-year-old child now. I'm married. I couldn't bring myself to tell you. I'm truly sorry.”

Chidinma stared at the message.

Then at the iPhone 17 he had sent her as a birthday gift.

Then back at the message.

Her brain briefly disconnected from her body.

Them came the rage, she screamed so loudly that her mother came running.

For days, she ate nothing and simply stared into oblivion.

And when she went to Emeka's family to demand answers, she discovered something even worse.

His parents knew.

They had supported the marriage. They said he had married the other woman partly for permanent residency. And told her if she was in his shoes, she'll do the same.

How could they say that?

Apparently, everybody had known except the woman who had been faithfully waiting for him for seven years.

“Haaaa! Emeka, obi tara gi mmiri! Igaghi enwe obi útó n'ndu gi a!”

"Isi gini? Mechionu!!" His mother shouted. "Biko, akpókwana nwa m iyi oo!”

Then she asked, "Are you the first girl to be jilted by a man? I did not marry this first man I dated, so what's all this noise about? Is it every relationship that'll work out? Instead of you to pray to find your own husband you're here wishing my son bad luck. Nothing will happen to my son ooo. No wonder he did not marry you, we dodged a bullet.

Chidinma left the house heartbroken.

She knew she had become a laughing stock.

One month later she ran into Segun. His mother had been admitted to the hospital.

Segun came to visit her and was shocked to discover that Chidinma worked there. Then he noticed her engagement ring was gone.

His eyes lit up.

The man did not even waste time. He took her to lunch.

She told him Emeka and she had not worked out and simply decided to go their separate ways. But he did not seem to care.

He proposed again.

This time, however, Segun was different.

The lanky boy with dreadlocks was gone. The fake chains were gone. The piercings and dreadlocks as well.

He looked like he has been in the gym for a long while now and he filled out nicely.

He was now a grown man with a construction company, government contracts and enough money to look like someone who had finally figured life out. His family had serious government connection now. His uncle had won an election that had promoted Segun to open a construction company with an Engineer in charge while he was awarded the contracts. His dad had also gotten a good position in their local government.

Chidinma had sworn off men. She didn't want another relationship. She only wanted children, maybe one or two to keep each other company.

She had already started looking up fertility clinics and sperm donors. And the beautiful thing about her igbo culture was that there are no bastards in Igbo land. A child born to an unmarried woman traditionally belongs to her father's house and lineage, bearing her family name or integrating into her kin group. There'll be no stigma as well.

But then Segun came along, she had a rethink. She realised babies were expensive.

Marriage, however, could solve that problem.

So why not?

She could get married, have her children, stay for three or four years, fabricate a good story in court of pray for one to occur in the four years and leave with her children and a good alimony from a catch like Segun.

She didn't need romance.

But it'll be nice for her children to have a father and steady financial support.

When Segun introduced her to his family, most of them were happy.

His Aunt, however, was not.

“Omo Igbo ke? Is there no Yoruba girl in the whole of Lagos?”

Then she whispered to Segun's mother:

“Wo bi omo yen shey wo wa bi aguntan Ilorin. Mi o like awon omo Igbo.”

Unfortunately for her, Chidinma understood Yoruba and her voice did not have the volume required for a whisper.

She quietly muttered under her breathe.

"It's you that's an atulu.”

Segun's mother told the woman,

“Han han! Ma so be, she's a good girl, we all know her!”

Thankfully, the parents supported the marriage. Why wouldn't they? When their almost wayward son has finally decided to settle down and bring a wife home.

And Chidinma wanted the wedding over with quickly. She requested a small wedding.

Segun's mother laughed.

“Ni kini? Small wedding ke? After I've bought asoebi for almost everybody's child in Lagos and contributed money to the women in my meeting when their children are getting married.

Ó serious! I'll invite the whole of Lagos to my son's wedding. I'm not broke, God has blessed us. Mo ma ko everybody wa!

And everybody came.

That's how she found herself today in a hall filled to the brim without her knowing almost half of the guests. Her mother had been worried that she'd moved on quick though but she was happy that her daughter will not be an old spinster.

At the altar, Segun suddenly began to cry.

The crowd collectively melted.

“Awwww!”

But he wasn’t crying for joy.

He was thinking of how she would never bear a child, at least not with him.

He was impotent.

During his rugged years in school. He'd gotten into a fight at the club and someone had given him a brutal kick in the groin that almost ended his life. He'd been lucky to survive but not with his balls.

And there was no way he was ever going to tell her.

He knew the tears he was wiping from his eyes now were crocodile tears.

And she smiled, almost laughing beneath the veil at what a cry baby Segun was.

People thought the bride was genuinely happy

But she knew her laughter was as fake as a hyena.

And there was no way she was going to tell him.

The crowd clapped for the two of them as they entered the biggest trap of their lives!!!

Subscribe. I promise not to marry you for your moneyyy

Our Ancestors!!!

I can imagine all the ancestors of the Urhobo Kingdom writhing in their graves. 😩

Oghene biko. 🤲

Mother confessor, I’ll confess.

This matter is too much for me to keep within me anymore.

You too like aproko. Subscribe first jhoor.

Let me call on the 24 kingdoms of Urhobo to have forgive me, for I have sinned. 😭

Biko, vwo ghovwu vwe.

Oh before I start confessing I just want to tell you guys that today's service in church was power packed!

The WEIGHT of his glory fell....

Ok ok, my confession.

Shame just wear me Delsu convocation gown😭

If you’re Urhobo and you come across this story, please just drop a comment saying you’ve forgiven me.

Because what happened exactly a week ago…

Hmm.

Let me start from the beginning.

It all started as an argument between my Edo friend and me.

I have always boasted to him that Urhobo Owo soup—or Oghwo, as some of us call it—is better than Benin Owo.

I have told him this thing for YEARS.

And every single time, he disagrees.

So last week sunday, he asked me, “Okay, what exactly is the difference?”

Now, Deltans, I strongly believe, are the custodians of Owo soup.

It is usually eaten with starch, although some people eat it with plantain or yam.

But the Binis? From what I know, they strictly eat theirs with plantain.

And whilst we Deltans don't put tomatoes in our Owo, the Binis put tomatoes in theirs.

Tomatoes.

In Owo ke???

Meselo! God forbid🙅

When I first found out, I screamed:

“What sacrilege is this to our sacred oil soup?!”

😭😭😭

Anyway, I told my friend that he absolutely needed to taste Owo the Delta way.

And that's how we found ourselves at the market last week, buying everything we needed to make this legendary soup.

What I conveniently failed to mention to my friend was that I had never actually cooked Owo by myself before.

Mad ooo

Despite the fact that Owo was something my Urhobo mother cooked quite often while I was growing up.

But you know African mothers.

There is always that one particular traditional meal they will make and say:

“Please, I'll make it myself.”

My mother is like that with her Owo and starch.

She also prefers preparing herself in the traditional way her village people.

She'll na serve it in a native black plate called evwere.

Smoking hot.

Omo.

Even as I'm typing this, the memory is doing me one kain...

I'm salivating. 😭

Anyway, we got back to my apartment, arranged everything in the kitchen and.....

I called my mother on video.

My friend looked at me like:

“???”

In Jennifer voice, "What's going on here?"

I said:

“Ah, sorry oooo. I've not actually made this soup before, but I've been there when they make it all the time. So chilax. I gat you.”

And just like that, my friend chilled like Chivita.

Mummy was naa supervising from the phone.

Me: "Mummy is this water okay for the oil?”

Mummy: "Is that cup of water not too much?”

Me: "No, I want to make plenty soup. We bought plenty ingredients.”

Mummy: "Okay. Put it. Just make sure the potash and garri you're adding makes it thick.”

Perfect.

I proceeded to add the garri and potash or akaun, as we call it to thicken the soup.

Everything was going beautifully.

Until I turned my face for approximately two seconds to look at the camera.

I turned back.

Oni me!!

Half of my Owo was boiling out of the pot and pouring on my gas, down to the kitchen floor.

Everywhere fess blurrrrr

“Mummy ooooooo!”

“My soup is pouring away! What should I dooooo?! 😭😭😭”

“Focus on it now that you've put the potash. It will always boil over, reduce the heat and make sure you keep stirring.”

Okay.

Fine.

Crisis averted, or so I thought.

I decided to taste the soup, I hadn't added salt yet. I took one taste.

Wetin be this?

I just weak like someone that wrote rubbish in exam hall.

The soup slapped my mouth.

KAI!

Why is this thing slapping me naaa?!

I called my mother.

“Mummy, this soup is somehow.”

She listened to my description and immediately said:

“It’s like you put too much potash. Don't add salt again.”

At this point, I knew things were going south. But I had faith. I can salvage the situation, abi nor be me again?

I finished cooking the Owo and made eba because, apparently, I can't find starch in Abuja.

Ladies and mentugen…

The soup was still slapping my face anyhow😭.

Walahi.

I went to meet my friend, who had been patiently waiting for this supposed culinary masterpiece.

I looked at him.

I looked at the food.

And I nearly cried.

“I'm so sorry. The soup did not come out well.” 😭

But then I remembered something. Our moneyyyyyy.

I mentally calculated everything we had spent on that pot.

Fish, meat, ponmo, crayfish. Every single ingredient.

In this Tinubu economyyyyy.

Ewooooooh!

Pour me water guyyyy😭😭😭

It looked good though but because of the akaun, neither of us could eat it.

So I did what any responsible Urhobo woman would do after committing such an ancestral offence.

I threw the entire pot of soup away.

I still had to angrily wash all the oily pot and clean the gas😭

And because it was already late in the evening, there was no alternative meal waiting for us. I sent him to his apartment in hunger. Oh sorry I offered him cornflakes ooo.

He dinnor chop.

We sha slept hungry.

Throughout that night my stomach was just singing because it was a long day at church coupled with the cooking stress.

When I woke up on Monday, I dinnor have strength.

But before I went to bed, I still told my friend:

“Urhobo Owo is still the best sha.”

😂😂😂

I will find a way to prove it again. And I'll reduce my potash😂

Disclaimer: I'm actually a very good cook that's why he had faith in me, I'm not always like this, I promise😂

Now that you've laughed at my downfall. Subscribe!

My favourite love song to him was being sang. I shuddered thinking of how much he loves me.

Yes, he loves me.

I don’t have to do anything to make him love me. I wasn’t holding him up, so there’s nothing I can do to let him down.

The good part of this is that I can be absolutely vulnerable with him.

Come for the gist, stay because you caught feelings. Subscribe.

Some of us remain in a shitty relationship where we only experience pain. We are like a girl that ties a scarf, she has constant headache with it but because it looks good she doesn’t want to drop it. She believes good things, beauty, comes with pain, that the ache was the price.

(Well, suitable pics cos the author of this story as shown above often has head ache from scarfs but tie them anyways😭)

Oh how did I even get here??

Back to story.

Let’s rewind.

You see, many a times, as a girl I’ve often felt the need to be in a relationship. I mean, to seek validation from someone, anyone.

Most especially a guy sha.

Yes, I know you want to say

“Queen, you’re perfect the way you are.”

“You don’t need a man.” Bla bla bla.

Easier said than done.

But have you considered being from a home like mine?😭

Growing up in a home with an absent father. Oh he was always around, but I’d rather he stayed out.

Because the few times he’d stay back, he’ll drink himself to stupor, then beat my mom to a pulp for the slightest offence.

I was the eldest child, but being a girl, I often wished I was a boy so I can stand up to him and challenge him.

Haaaaa.

I did that.

You cannot even begin to imagine the satisfaction I got. But it landed me in a family meeting that had my mom thrown out of the house.

So, back then, my dad returned one day and after asking for his meal, my mom, who would often cook with the little money she had and even keep a portion for my irresponsible dad that provided nothing but sperm for her, resulting in six children in our crowded room and parlour apartment with peeling blue paint and constant queue in the toilet.

I really hated my life.

So when daddy came in and saw that there was no food for him as usual on the table, he stormed into the room and opened the pot in the cupboard, but it was all empty and shone like it has never been used, his bloodshot eyes shone with anger.

He screamed. “Mama Naga! Where my food?”

My mother’s only indication that she knew her husband had returned from work, or just from a drinking spree spending the money he got from “Lebuke” daily, was that she stirred on the bed.

I and my brother and one of my sisters slept on a battered foam in the parlour that usually leaves particles of shredded foam in our hair when we woke up.

We would go through the ordeal of picking them out.

My other three brother slept on the cushion in the parlour, which had his sleeping mark forever engraved in it and constantly smelled of sweat.

While the last twin girls slept on a mat in the room with my parents.

I’d suffered through the ordeal of the conception of my younger ones, especially the twins.

I knew when my parents usually had sex, at midnight, on days when my dad was in a good mood.

My mom never refused him, and he grunted and made irritating noise throughout the ordeal, which I believed my mom suffered through.

I believed she did, because my dad’s breath constantly smelled of beer and he slept without taking his bath. I would stare at the ceiling and count till they were done while my younger ones were fast asleep.

When my mom did not respond to my dad, he spanked her butt hard and she yelped.

“Iye oooo.”

Their fights were constant, so no one cared to separate them, not even the neighbours.

“Did you give me money to cook? None of us ate this evening, we all slept with hunger.”

For emphasis, she called out. “Osasenaga, u ri'evbare nẹ a?”

“Ẹro”, I lied in response.

But the aroma of the concoction rice we quickly ate an hour ago still wafted strong in the air, and my dad did not believe her.

“Why is the room now smelling of food,” my dad asked. I imagined him squeezing his ugly nose in the air while asking that.

I was lucky not to have inherited that part of him, as it would have ruined my beautiful face, but my younger sister wasn’t so lucky. His nose was like a beak, and I would often say he sapped all the oxygen whenever he was in a room.

He did take our breathe away though, literally.

She replied, “It’s the hunger that’s making you zuan zuan for our neighbour’s food. They’re the ones that cooked and it’s smelling in here.”

“Are you calling me zuan zuan? I have long throat? “

Tuah!

I heard the first slap land on my mother’s jaw. I imagined her black face would be purple with bruises the next day.

“ú khian gbe mwen wá á.”

We heard my mom scream. Then we no longer heard her loud shout, she was grunting now.

Someone touched me. It was Osas, my brother.

“Sister Naga, I’m tired of this nonsense. He will kill mummy if we don’t stop him.”

Osas stood up and stormed into the room. He pushed his 16 year old frame into my dad, who staggered and fell, I feel more out of shock than actual effect of the fall. It wasn’t hard to overpower him as he staggered from the influence of the drink.

I gave him a dirty slap on the face. He winced.

He was too stunned to respond.

Even my mom, who curled at the end of the bed beneath the hanger drooping with clothes stayed immobile.

Osas held him down while he asked me to fetch a rope.

I brought the one the twins usually used to skip, and we tied him up. We stuffed his mouth with a cloth to prevent him from shouting as well.

Before I left the room, I returned to give him another dirty slap. That first one was for all the pain he has caused us. The second one was for refusing to enrol me for WAEC, which I finished secondary school without, last year.

While this drama was unfolding, my younger ones had woken up. Odion and Ovbokhan (the twins) kept crying while the other two watched us in amazement.

I was really happy and I did a little dance with my brother while returning to my bed.

My dad was left in that position till morning. We didn’t know what to do with him.

If we released him now that he was no longer drunk, he might deal with us, so we ran out immediately it was daybreak, to the next street.

I heard my mom was the one that untied him.

I imagined she’ll bear our sins, but my dad didn’t do anything to her.

He walked away from the house and returned in the evening with some of our family members.

That’s how I found myself in a kneeling position. I, my brother, and my mom were there for five hours while the matter was deliberated.

The word “azen” was flying up and down.

My mom pleaded her innocence and blamed her possessed children for putting her in this difficult position. She said she never raised her hand on her husband and she did not send her kids.

My dad insisted it was a planned work. He said she didn’t release him all night. The family agreed with him.

I started crying and said it was the devil.

Of course I was pretending for my mom's sake.

My wicked Aunty saw through my veneer and asked me to shut up.

She told me my eyes looked like sughu sughu at the family house last year because I eyed her when she gave her kids one meat each and told my brother and I to share one one. She believed I was manifesting like a sughu sughu now.

My brother was motionless while my mom’s eyes were red rimmed. They ignored the obvious beating mark on her face and focused on our own sins.

I was yawning and eventually slept in that position because I’d barely slept the previous night with all the excitement in my belly.

“See the bastard wey do bad dey sleep.”

“Ọmọ nama biẹ se!!, she's not even remorseful”

It was my Aunt again, pushing me awake. Q

“It’s your child that’s a bastard”

I said in my mind.

Outwardly, I argued I wasn’t sleeping and put up my best remorseful face. Why were they focusing on me as if I was the only offender?

Shuuuu!!!

Can all this be over already?

The Okaigbe stood up and said they had deliberated the matter in the family house before coming here, and if not for God, we would have killed their precious brother. To avoid further occurrence, we must follow our mother and leave the house.

“Iyee ooooo.”

My mom screamed. “My enemies will laugh at me. Where will I go from here? Brother, Lahọ wowo yobọ ima, iwin’esu nọ. I promise we will not try this again.”

All our pleas fell on deaf ears. We were given that week to leave.

I realised that despite not footing bills, my dad paid rent, and we had nowhere to go. My mom’s petty shop was mostly used for feeding, we couldn’t rent an apartment.

Throughout the next day, she sulked around the house and blamed Osas and I. She said I was the worst culprit, because as a woman I should have respect, and she didn’t ask for aid.

My dad moved to the family house for the one week ultimatum he gave us, so we wouldn’t kill him.

When it was two days remaining, I had had enough blame from my mom, and I knew dad wasn’t changing his mind.

So I had to meet Osayande for the money. Even though he had been asking me out at the shop where I learnt tailoring and I've refused his advances ever since, but now I was desperate.

“I go give you the money na, money for hand back for ground. Pikin wey like party rice nor supposed to fear dance,” he said.

I gave him my virginity in return.

I returned home to my mom with the money, and extra for feeding. She looked at me like someone that knew what I’d done, because she knew. She hesitated, but later snatched it from my hands.

“Na now you dey do like senior pikin, not like that your useless father that cannot provide.”

I continued sleeping with Osayande or let's just say he automatically became my boyfriend.

I found out that he was cheating on me when I got an infection. I confronted him.

He told me I’d no right to accuse him, cos for all he knew maybe I’d given him the infection. I showed him evidence also, from his chats, and called him a public toilet.

Let’s just say my sharp mouth put me in trouble again, cos I found myself not only treating infection but swollen eyes from the blow he gave me.

He later apologised and bought me a sewing machine, because I was almost done with my tailoring. No, I couldn’t leave him. My mom would not even hear of it. When she saw my bruises, she said unlike my father, he provided, and I should mind my business and stay away from men’s phones cos all men cheat.

One of the side chicks eventually got pregnant for him, and her family forced him to marry her. My mom said I was a very dull girl, as I didn’t know that I was supposed to be the first person to trap him in pregnancy.

After him, I dated multiple guys. All in a bid for validation, because it wasn’t even about money anymore. At least, I’d a handwork that paid my bills, even though half of it was used to run the home, but I lacked love.

I’ve never really experienced real love.

When one of my favourite customers, Sonia, started inviting me to church, I obliged, because of the number of people from her choristers she brought. I sewed most of their uniforms, and I wanted to humour her.

You see, all my life, I’ve always had to give something or do something in return for people to have me in their lives.

As long as I did what my dad wanted, we could stay in his house.

As long as I provided, my mom was okay with me.

As long as I gave sex, I could be with Osayande, and Tunde, and Shedrach, and the other guys that came after.

I’d to do something to earn their validation.

Sonia did not ask me for anything before telling all her church members that I was the best tailor in Benin.

No, she didn’t, when she introduced me to the music director at their headquarters, saying they should patronise me for their next uniform.

Or is it how, as a client, she checks up on me, when it should be the other way round. It was as if she knew I was yearning for a friend.

And today, at the Sisters’ meeting organised by her church, the Sisters’ coordinator seemed to know what was wrong with me.

She sang Travis Greene’s song while I mused over the lyrics.

“Daddy’s home...home home... I am that I am says I am here for you. I call you daughter, I am your father.”

By the time she started singing the one you love by Maverick City, I was weeping loudly.

“You take me just as I am. You choose me all over again. I am the one You love. I am the one You love. I don’t have to prove anything. There’s room at Your table for me. I am the one You love.”

She asked anyone who needed a genuine hug to come forward.

I needed that bear hug, not the one you get with sex attached. One that gives relief. I was the first to stand up and she wrapped some in her arms.

The truth is, listen homie, God has never missed a ball game. Granted, there are times when we pray it feels like we are alone, but then even a teacher sits silently during a test. I knew I didn’t have to win a trophy for God, I just had to play the game because I chose to. He was proud of me anyways.

When I wiped my tears and stood up, I mulled over the text she read, Matthew 11:28.

“Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I’ll give you rest.”

I've always told myself that I was a strong independent lady and carried every burden myself until I found a dependable God.

Indeed, I’d found rest.

I am Osasenaga.

I am daddy’s girl.

Jesus loves you but substack needs your email address. Subscribeee

He really annoys the hell out of you.

Epa wants you to change your major in school from Physiotherapy to Pharmacy. You say you don’t want any transfer, but he keeps nagging.

You regret coming home for the holidays.

Iye tells you to listen to him because he only wants the best for you, the job market for pharmacists is wider, she says.

You can’t seem to catch a break.

You call Osahon and tell him you’re coming over.

Subscribe before we go to Osahon's place😭

You book a Bolt to his house at Ugbiyoko. Along Ekenwan Road, the police stop you. You’re already in a bad mood and don’t have time for this nonsense.

You show them your UNIBEN ID card and tell them you’re a student.

They ask to search your bag.

You hate the police, and you swear you’ll never let them check your bag without a warrant.

The man asks for your phone and where you’re headed.

You snort and say you’re going to see your friend — and you’re not giving him your phone, which is buzzing right now.

What you don’t know is that a robbery had occurred there just an hour ago, and the description given to the police says the suspect was wearing a black shirt with black trousers, just like you.

You're always dressed in black, which is your favourite colour....

The police ask you to step down.

You do.

He says your gang member is calling you, and if you don’t hand the phone over, he’ll shoot.

You pick up the call.

Osahon asks if you successfully got “that level” when coming, “level” actually meant barbeque in this context, just a stupid coded way of talking.

You say yes.

The police say you’re a criminal.
You laugh.

They drag your bag; you try to ward them off.

He cocks his gun.

You smirk, thinking he wouldn’t do it — but he does.

The Bolt driver tries to run, and they shoot him too.

You’re dying, but you hear one of the policemen shouting, asking the other why he shot.

The first one says, at least they’ve caught someone and won’t be bugged at the station again.

They put a pistol in your bag and take out the barbeque.

You smile weakly, because you know you’ve won your father’s argument.

You’re never going to become a pharmacist.

Subscribe, I promise the next one might have fewer casualties🙂

The ringing of her phone jolted her out of her thoughts. It was an unknown number. She hesitated, she rarely picked those, but something nudged her, so she answered.

“Are you there, Princess?”

She froze.

Holy Heavens! That voice. That name.

Samuel.

The reason you're single with no calls is because you've not subscribed!

Samuel, the same guy she watched from afar every fellowship day. The one whose voice thundered during prayers, whose tongues sent people weeping, whose aura reeked of fire and depth.

God had been partial with him: a spiritual powerhouse, first-class student, fine like morning sun, and brainy beyond reason.

This was her first-ever conversation with him, and her name had just danced off his lips. She tingled inside.

He was calling to ask why she hadn’t shown up for the prayer walk. She considered lying, saying something neutral to not sound unspiritual. But his concern was warm, not judgmental. So she told him the truth: she was struggling with her prayer life, and she feared she'd look weak among those who could pray fervently for hours.

He didn’t mock or shame her. Instead, he said softly, “It’s okay to feel that way. I’ve been there too. I understand.”

Then she asked what had been tugging at her since the call began.

“How did you get my number? And how did you even know I was absent?”

He chuckled lightly. “I’ve noticed you. Every fellowship day. You’re in ushering, it’s hard not to see how calmly you attend to people. When I didn’t see you today, I checked the attendance list and saw your number.”

She said she’d save his number. But she did more than that, she memorized it.

From that day, they spoke every single day. He made her a Spotify playlist filled with chants from Lawrence Oyor and Theophilus Sunday. He shared prayer resources and asked her to listen to sermons from Apostle Joshua Selman, which she summarized for him every evening.

Prayer became easier. But more than prayer, she began to enjoy his presence, the way he said "Amen" like he was stamping heaven's approval on every sentence.

Soon, their calls stretched beyond prayer. They talked about their day, their struggles, their dreams. He began helping her with her academics, even inviting her to night classes. She had always hated night classes, cold classrooms, hard chairs, the fear of theft, but when Samuel said, “Let’s go to night class,” it felt like “Let’s go on a vacation to the Maldives.”

She didn’t even fully understand what he taught. She just liked being beside him, away from the watchful eyes of fellowship members. He’d let her rest her head on his lap after studying. That alone made it all worth it. This was the life she had dreamed of, friendship, fire, brilliance and affection all wrapped in one person. She thanked God every day for the day she missed that prayer walk.

Soon, she began cooking for him. She’d bring meals to class in her small cooler; the next day, he’d return it, empty and grateful. He couldn’t get enough of her Egusi soup, she'd make it regularly even though it made her purge.

He once said, “You’re the only ‘Princess’ I’ve met who actually carries herself like royalty. I’d watch you at fellowship, floating around like the space was your kingdom.”

It took everything in her not to burst into tears. She was sure, very sure, that it was only a matter of time before he’d ask her to be his partner. Not girlfriend, that sounded too carnal. She’d already started thinking of kingdom names for their relationship, maybe they’d be like The Winlows someday.

Then one Saturday after four months of talking daily, he called.

“Are you less busy?” he asked.

Never too busy for you. Out loud, she said “not really”.

“I’m not feeling strong and I need someone around, just in case of an emergency”.

Her heart skipped. He was inviting her to his place for the first time! Well not exactly an invitation to Netflix and chill but if baby sitting him would bring her closer to him, she'll gladly take the role.

“Give me a few minutes, I'll be there”.

She rushed into her wardrobe, changed quickly, and headed for his hostel.

When she arrived, he was lying on the bed, weak and wrapped in a duvet. She touched his forehead. It felt warm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I was in such a hurry to come that I couldn’t bring anything.”

But she couldn’t just sit there. She got up and began to make rice and stew with whatever she could find.

Afterward, she washed the dirty plates he’d stacked in his sink. The room wasn't looking any better because he had clothes that looked like a month overflow from the waste basket, since she had no plans to return to her hostel anytime soon she set to work. She washed them and mopped the entire room, it was filthy. She was sure the sickness of just this week this not cause the whole mess in his room, he wasn't exactly a neat person.

“Boys will be boys, domestic work is not exactly their thing”, she mused.

When she was done, he looked at her with tears in his eyes.

“No one has ever cared for me this much,” he said.

She smiled and told him it was nothing. God was simply using her to help a brother in need.

Then she excused herself to use the restroom. When she raised the toilet seat, she was shocked. It was an actual disaster, urine stain formed a ring in the bowl. She called out to him.

“Samuel, the toilet is messed up. I should clean it.”

He responded softly, almost gratefully, “Princess, you’re an angel. I’ve been meaning to clean it, but I haven’t had the time. Then I fell ill. My fiancée is coming tomorrow, and I’m glad she’ll meet the house in a clean state. You know how women are about dirty restrooms. Thank God you came.”

The toilet brush fell from her hand with a loud thud.

Your decision is worse than Princess if you're yet to subscribe.

it is not an isolated incident.

It is becoming a pattern.

Last week, I saw the video first and sent it to my friend, Osahumen.

"Have you seen this?"

A few minutes later, he replied. He had just watched a young woman recount how she was allegedly raped by a content creator who reportedly admitted to having a fetish for virgins. The lady became depressed and committed suicide.

Do not only support women's rights. Support their writings. Subscribe!

The next morning, he sent me this.

Osahumen

Dear Men,

Where do we go from here?

At what point did some of us begin to see a woman's body as territory to conquer instead of a human being to respect?

We were raised to believe men are protectors. Yet today, many women say they would rather encounter a bear than a strange man in the woods. As painful as that sounds, can we honestly say we don't understand why?

We have built a society where women are forced to assume the worst because assuming the best has become dangerous.

Dear Women,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that walking home at night means gripping your keys tighter.

I'm sorry that footsteps behind you make your heart race.

I'm sorry that your "No" sounds like "Convince me" to some of our brothers.

I'm sorry that pepper spray has become as essential as your phone or your handbag.

And while false accusations do happen, weaponizing those rare cases to silence every victim only makes it easier for predators to thrive.

Dear Humans,

Who raised these men?

Perhaps that is where the conversation should begin.

The family remains the smallest functional unit of society, and what we normalize at home eventually becomes what we tolerate outside.

Teach your sons that strength is not domination.

Teach them that masculinity is not measured by conquest.

Teach them that consent is not optional.

Teach them that women are not prizes, possessions or proof of manhood.

Teach them that wealth obtained through exploitation is failure disguised as success.

Teach them that good and evil know no gender.

When I finished reading his message, I sat quietly for a while before replying.

Sharon

Every time something like this happens, the first instinct of society is to put the victim on trial.

"Why did she travel to see him?"

"Why did she go to a hotel?"

"What was she expecting?"

Perhaps those are questions worth asking for personal safety.

But there is another question that should be louder than all of them.

Why couldn't he simply accept "No"?

Why couldn't he hear someone crying and stop?

Why do we spend so much energy investigating a woman's decisions and so little asking why a man believed violence was an acceptable response to rejection?

To every woman reading this:

Please protect yourself.

Not because the responsibility belongs to you, but because this world has shown us repeatedly that it may fail you when you need it most.

Share your live location with someone you trust.

Tell people where you're going.

Keep your conversations, having disappearing messages on WhatsApp is a big NO!

Avoid isolating yourself with strangers where possible.

Because when the unthinkable happens, society too often asks, "What were you doing there?" before it ever asks, "Who did this to you?"

That isn't justice.

That is survival.

And while reading through the comments, something else broke my heart.

I came to realise how many women were enablers of sexual predators.

One woman shared that after moving in with her sister, her brother-in-law raped her, got her pregnant, and instead of protecting her, her own sister allegedly gave her pills disguised as malaria drugs to abort the pregnancy without her knowledge just so she can help cover it up to preserve the family's reputation.

Imagine surviving the assault only to lose your family too.

Women do not raise only daughters.

We raise sons.

If the previous generation failed us, let ours be different.

Teach your boys empathy.

Teach them boundaries.

Teach them that another person's body is never theirs to claim.

Yes, there have been false allegations. Cases like Mirabel's have made headlines.

But statistically and morally, those rare cases should never become an excuse to dismiss genuine victims whose greatest fear is often that no one will believe them.

Most people who report sexual violence are telling the truth.

Believe carefully.

Investigate fairly.

Judge honestly.

Do not mock someone simply because speaking up makes you uncomfortable.

And finally, to the men reading this:

If your friend boasts about assaulting women and you laugh...

If you know he drugs girls and you keep quiet...

If you know he is dangerous and you keep introducing women to him...

You are not neutral.

You are an enabler.

Silence has never been innocent.

There are bad men.

There are good men.

There are women who enable abuse.

There are women who fight against it.

Evil has never belonged to one gender, one tribe or one religion.

But we must also be honest enough to acknowledge that the overwhelming majority of sexual violence is committed by men. Admitting that reality is not an attack on men. It is the first step toward protecting everyone.

The goal is not a gender war.

The goal is a society where no girl has to text her location because she's afraid she may never return home.

Where "No" is a complete sentence.

Where parents raise sons who protect dignity instead of violating it.

Where justice does not depend on screenshots, disappearing messages or public sympathy.

And where no one has to wonder whether telling the truth is worth the price of being doubted.

Truly,

I'd rather write about happier things. Society keeps assigning homework.

Read. Reflect. Rage appropriately and Subscribe!

Let's talk about work.

Because, in all honesty, job hunting is a full-time job.

Omo!!!!

The frustrating part is that no matter how exhausting it gets, you cannot even stop.

As in, them nor born you well to stop.

See ehn, I've tasted unemployment, employment and doing a job you don't like.

If you ask me which I recommend, I'd still choose working even when you're unhappy with the job.

Better to squeeze your face at work than cry in the grocery shop.

Subscribe. HR might not choose you, but you can choose me.

THE DELULU STAGE

You know that delulu feeling?

You see a job opening, click Apply, and immediately your brain starts calculating your salary.

"If they pay ₦800,000... I'll save this, buy this, finally move house.... I'll order everything I want from Temu...."

Especially when it's a high-paying role.

Mehn.

I've been there.

Then... it doesn't pull through.

Oops.

Anyways I pray all your delulu come trululu.

THE SILENCE

One thing that has always bothered me is how many HR departments (especially here in Nigeria) simply disappear after receiving applications.

I understand that you receive hundreds, sometimes thousands, of emails. Responding to everyone may be unrealistic.

But many international companies either tell you why you weren't selected or send an automated message explaining they'll only contact shortlisted candidates.

Many local companies don't even do that.

I find it rude.

It's like calling your neighbours for help, watching them knock on your door, then pretending nobody is home.

Even worse are the companies that invite you for interviews and never give feedback afterwards.

Very terrible behaviour!

Those candidates gave you their time. The least they deserve is closure.

Please, HRs.

If you must reject people, let them down slowly.

Don't throw them down from the moon.

Subscribe. It's free. Unlike transport to interviews.

THE ABSURD REQUIREMENTS

Today's rant isn't even about the organisations looking for a maximum of 25-year-olds with four years of experience for an entry-level role.

I honestly laugh every time I see those requirements.

How did you expect people that maybe wrote JAMB multiple times to get their desired course, then do one year mandatory NYSC to meet up with that?

The math is not mathing.

Then there's the job description.

They advertise for a Communications or Public Relations Manager.

Fair enough.

Then you keep reading...

Must know graphic design.

Must edit videos.

Must manage social media.

Must handle community management.

Must create content.

Must run campaigns.

Brooo......

That's not a Communications Manager.

That's an entire communications department trapped inside one human being.

And don't get me started with the competitive salary because the only thing your salary will be competing with is POVERTY

If it's competitive post it!

Because after all that.

Salary: ₦150,000.

I genuinely don't know who used ₦150k to swear for Nigerian employers.

If you've not seen such ads you'll think I'm exaggerating.

Let's do better.

On top of that some of you will be pressuring young people, asking them when they want to marry.

How exactly is someone meant to raise a family on that in this economy?

Omo if hunger hits, the parents will not only cry more than the baby, they'll shed more tears than Neymar, Ronaldo and Messi did in this world cup🌚

Nor let anybody pressure you ooo

THE HUSTLE IS NOT OPTIONAL.

In this country where the odds are not exactly in the citizen’s favour neither do we have a woleing government. You need to hustle like madddd

Or lock in as they call it now.

Wo, sha do something extra.

Well, this is why everyone keeps saying you need multiple streams of income.

You need like 31 streams of income.

At this point, my friends and I generate business ideas every market day.

The only thing we haven't considered opening is a police station😭

Not because the thought hasn't crossed our minds.

We just don't have guns.

Humour aside, many companies still ignore basic labour standards; fair leave, allowances, bonuses, proper disengagement processes and decent working conditions.

Need I mention those that have been working diligently without getting promotion or a raise in their salary.

I've seen people lament this and ask for just a few thousands of naira added to it but if it's workload or extra time at work they'll add it.

Sometimes you just sigh and say,

“All these things going on in the Nigerian labour market, There is God oooo”.😩

THE PART NOBODY TALKS ABOUT

Everyone tells you:

"Keep pushing."

"Keep applying."

"Your breakthrough is coming."

And they're right.

But if they've never been unemployed, they rarely talk about the disappointment that comes with rejection after rejection.

One rejection email can spoil your entire day.

Another one makes you question yourself.

Then another.

Eventually, you become tired.

But what else can you do?

A moving person must meet their luck someday.

So keep moving.

Your Time Will Come

Maybe it feels like everyone you graduated with has gone ahead.

When you meet them on the road they'll ask you, "what do you do for a living??

Maybe it seems like life forgot your address.

It didn't.

Your time will come too.

As Ayi Kwei Armah beautifully wrote:

“Let those who are blessed with the power and the soaring swiftness of the eagle and have flown before, let them go. You will travel slowly, and you too will arrive."

Keep applying.

Keep learning.

Keep showing up.

One day, one email won't begin with "Unfortunately..."

It'll begin with "Congratulations...."

Come close let me tell you a secret.

If you know you've still not gotten the job you want and you'd rather not get married

Just go and do your Masters.

At least everyone will say you're busy.

Thank me later😂

My darlings,

You might not be doing the right job yet but….

At least you're in the write-relationship. Subscribeee💛

I have a story to write.

I don't know how to begin.

But I'll begin anyway.

Once upon a wrong time.

Sighs....

I once read a sentence that felt like someone had been spying on us.

You were the 28th of February. I was the 29th. Close as a day, yet four years apart.

That is the closest language has ever come to explaining what happened to us.

We were never separated by distance.

Only by timing.

The day I found you, I wasn't looking for anyone.

Perhaps that is how life performs its cruellest magic, it lets you meet the right person only after quietly arranging everything that makes loving them impossible.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with recognizing the right person, then looking around and realizing you're standing on the wrong side of life.

...

Writers survive on delusion and subscribers. Help me with the latter.

People ask if I've ever been served breakfast.

I never know how to answer.

Because you never left me with heartbreak loud enough to hate you.

Instead, I tell them about the day I met you.

I tell them about the months that followed, and how they quietly became the happiest days I have ever known.

I tell them you were wonderfully insane.

That you said the most random things, things most people swallow.

That I answered with the parts of myself I had never introduced to anyone else.

Some people arrive like strangers.

But it felt like I'd known you but I did put up a fight.

Double sighs...

You're the sort of person one only meets once in a lifetime.

Once when you're too young to keep them.

Or once when it's already too late.

...

As I write about us, I notice something.

The ink keeps breaking.

The words refuse to stay whole.

The page begins to resemble us.

Our love story is a skipping pen.

It begins.

Stops.

Begins again.

Leaving broken lines where complete sentences should have been.

The ink refuses to meet itself.

It refuses to connect one thought to the next, as though even our words have grown tired of believing they could become a future.

Still...

We keep writing.

Not because the pen works.

But because neither of us has found the courage to put it down.

We don't throw it away.

We don't refill the ink.

We simply press a little harder—

Damaging our paper.

hoping that somewhere between the broken strokes,

love might become legible again.

Maybe every page had been trying to tell us the same thing all along.

Not every story is written in complete sentences.

Some survive in pauses.

In gaps.

In unfinished paragraphs.

In words that almost reached each other.

Ours is one of them.

Not every love has the shape of heart.

Ours is the shape of an unfinished love story.

We never learned how to love each other completely.

We loved in fragments.

In borrowed hours.

In unfinished conversations.

We survived on almosts.

Because when we first found each other, neither of us chose us.

Perhaps we couldn't.

Perhaps love isn't always defeated by the absence of feeling.

Sometimes it is defeated by timing.

By responsibilities.

By fear.

By the versions of ourselves we hadn't yet outgrown.

We know tomorrow does not belong to us.

So we spend today remembering yesterday.

We know we'll meet other people.

We'll laugh again.

We'll build lives.

We'll probably even be happy.

But somewhere, quietly, we will always wonder if anyone will ever shake the earth beneath our feet the way we once did for each other.

The tragedy wasn't that we loved too little.

It was that loving each other demanded a price neither of us knew how to pay.

Triple sighs.….

I don't believe in reincarnation.

If I did, I would spend every lifetime looking for you until one of them finally got the timing right.

So instead, I borrow hope from quantum theory.

I like to imagine that'll somewhere, in a universe gentler than this one, we made it.

There it's a cold evening.

Dinner is on the stove.

You just allowed me win you in Scrabble.

Our favourite book lies open between us.

You're reading aloud while I pretend to listen, because I am too busy watching the way your eyes soften whenever you smile.

The food grows cold.

The room doesn't.

Music begins to play from somewhere neither of us remembers turning on.

You reach for my hand.

We waltz slowly across the kitchen floor.

No audience.

No hurry.

No wrong time.

You look at me the way people look at home after years of wandering.

And when the song ends, you kiss me—

not because we're running out of time,

but because, in that universe,

time finally chose us.

...

But not here.

Here, the ink skips.

The sentences break.

The story ends where it should have begun.

And perhaps that is all we were ever meant to be.

Not a love story.

Just proof that two people can be right for each other...

and still arrive at the wrong time.

We are,

and perhaps have always been,

broken lines.

Too late to pretend we are not in the write-relationship. Subscribe!

I've been thinking about that line a lot lately.

Honestly, ever since I entered my twenties, I've had this strange anxiety before every birthday. People are usually excited for birthdays, and they should be. It's another year on earth, another chance to live.

But my overactive brain always whispers something else.

"It's not only a year gained; it's a year lost."

This birthday feels different.

It's my first birthday away from my family. I moved to a new city late last year, and it was one of the biggest decisions I've ever made.

I was scared.

Very scared.

I hate travelling. I hate relocating. Sometimes I think I'm a lot like Young Sheldon. I love routines. No, I don't want to try your new food. Please just give me my usual order and let me go home.

But somehow, I survived.

I made a few friends. Although, if I'm being honest, I still spend most of my time in my room writing, exactly as I'm doing now.

For years now, a few days before my birthday, instead of planning photoshoots and trying to be Barbie like many girls my age, I sit down and write.

I audit my life.

I ask myself difficult questions.

Am I doing enough?

Am I doing anything right?

Should I learn a new skill?

Should I learn a new language?

A few years ago, I picked French. This year, I finally started taking it seriously on Duolingo. I also learn from Judy's YouTube channel. She explains things very clearly.

So at least I can proudly say:

Je me souhaite un joyeux anniversaire.

I have a streak of over 365 days now, and if you're learning French too, maybe you can be my language buddy.

As I grow older, I realise I have a lot of fears.

I'm scared of my parents getting old.

I have so many plans for them. I want them to be healthy enough to enjoy the things they've spent their lives sacrificing for. I call them often and try to do what I can, but sometimes it feels like we spend so much time praying that our parents will eat the fruits of their labour without giving them the little fruits we already have.

As I'm writing this, I'm staring out of my window.

There's a beautiful tree outside, and whenever I don't know what to write, I look at it.

I love that tree.

Sometimes I don't.

Birds perch on its branches and see their reflections in my window. They peck at the glass and wake me from sleep, and I get up and shoo them away.

Maybe we're not so different.

Maybe they're also confused by what they see.

Maybe growing older isn't only about accumulating years.

Maybe it's also about becoming comfortable in your own skin.

This year, I took my natural hair journey more seriously. I think I want to ditch wigs completely someday. Not because I think they're bad. They are, in fact, very beautiful and come in handy on days when you want to rush out—but I think I'm more comfortable in my own hair.

Since January, I've mostly worn twists. I also tinted the tips of my hair brown. It was a big deal for a conservative person like me.

One day, I was walking with a friend when a random man stopped us just to tell me that I should "learn to make my hair" because my friend looked prettier in her wig.

A surprising conversation for 2026, isn't it?

But you'd be shocked by how many people still think that way.

Before I leave my house these days, I tell myself something.

My hair is already made.

Even if it's in one bun.

Even if my afro refuses to cooperate.

Even if it's all over the place.

My hair is already made.

Still on the topic of conservativeness, I fixed my nails for the first time in adulthood (because I don't think the French tips I did for a few hours in 2020 for a photoshoot count). They were a pretty burgundy colour. They felt heavy at first, but I got used to them.

I took them off after a week, though.

Still on first times, I contemplated being a pet mum for the first time. Maybe because I was a little lonely.

My neighbour's cat had just given birth to a litter of kittens, and she offered me one.

But then I quickly told myself that one of us was going to be hungry in this economy, and it was definitely not going to be me.

So I turned down the idea.

Besides, despite how cute cats are, those eyes can be pretty scary.

I also tell myself that I want to get my master's degree before I'm thirty.

I want to publish my first novel before then too.

Thirty is still years away, but I like giving myself targets.

The funny thing is, I actually finished writing my first novel this year.

I was so excited.

Then I found out how much publishing would cost.

The excitement disappeared after that conversation.

But the book will come out.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But one day, it will exist in the world.

This year, I also worked on a project that failed.

I sat alone in my room and cried.

Then a friend sent me a kind message, and somehow I smiled again.

Sometimes people tell me how much they admire me, and I honestly don't know what they see.

I look around my life searching for the achievements they must be talking about. Granted, I've pulled off a few admirable stunts in my life, but I still don't think it's enough.

I don't know if I'm too hard on myself.

Or if I'm not hard enough.

I think being Nigerian adds another layer to all of this.

Sometimes it feels like we have to work twice as hard just to stand where others begin.

It isn't only that we're in Africa. There are many African countries doing better.

We battle poor electricity, insecurity, and an exhausting cycle of bad news.

I want my family to be safe.

I want my friends to be safe.

I want every Nigerian to be safe.

Sometimes I cry because of it.

I cried when those children were kidnapped.

I cried when I saw that teacher with a gun pointed at her face.

I cried in church when my pastor asked us to pray for their safe return.

Even now, writing this, I can feel tears gathering.

I want to be happy, but sometimes happiness comes with guilt because I know so many people are hurting.

The only thing I know I can do is vote next year, even if many of us wonder whether our votes count.

Speaking of churches, I joined a new church this year. Well, I had to attend two before finally settling into a congregation.

I like my new church and the way my pastor explains the Word of God. Sometimes I feel like my heart will burst with love for Jesus.

I miss food from the South. For example, I can't find banga here, so I haven't eaten banga soup in a long time.

I have other cravings too, like starch, but I can't even find them.

I want to try new foods, but when I tried one, I wasn't pleased.

Like I said, it's really hard to adjust my taste buds.

So I stick to the usual egusi, ogbono, and okro.

Personally, I'm fairly happy.

But happiness doesn't stop me from noticing how much is broken around me.

The Edo State Government just announced that schools in Edo North will be closed for a while because of bandits, and I'm wondering when this cycle will end.

I hope that by my next birthday, I'll be celebrating in a happier Nigeria.

Your twenties are such a confusing decade.

You watch your friends get married or relocate abroad while you're standing in your kitchen wondering whether to eat semo or rice for dinner.

I think I have japa-phobia.

I've always wanted to stay here, but the land keeps becoming less habitable, separating us from people we love with seas and continents.

But in all of this, my twenties have also given me beautiful things.

I have the most wonderful family.

I have friends who remind me to smile when I forget.

I have words.

I have hope.

And maybe that's enough for now.

Lenrie Peters wrote:

"Copybook bisected with red ink and failures..."

I understand that line.

I think many of us do.

We look at our lives and see mistakes, abandoned dreams, and things that didn't work out.

But I don't think that's the end of the poem.

I don't think that's the end of our stories either.

So if you're in your twenties and you're panicking because you're getting older, don't worry if your copybook has been bisected with failures.

There is still room for success.

Fall in love.

And if your heart gets broken, survive that too.

Learn a language.

Start over.

Move to a new city.

Write the book.

Wear your natural hair.

Call your parents.

Vote.

Cry when you need to.

Hope anyway.

And, most importantly,

Read.

I'm writing this on my birthday eve. I dread those few minutes that people sing to me over the phone on my birthday. It feels awkward, what do you do when you're sang to?

Anyways, when I'm confused, I either journal or arrange my room.

My room is already well arranged, so I write or talk to myself.

Sometimes, I have to use my earpiece on the road to make people believe I'm taking a call, meanwhile I'm having a conversation with myself. At least, they'll not assume I'm mad.

Despite all my fears, despite the panic of growing older, despite the whispers that say time is running out,

I think I'm beginning to understand that growing older is also growing into yourself.

Maybe that is worth celebrating.

Au revoir, mon ami, jusqu'à ce que je t'écrive à nouveau.

I want to say it.

But I'd rather ask if we should be.

Because lately, being Nigerian feels less like living and more like surviving.

It's not that I'm not grateful to have made it to the middle of the year (and before you say others have it worse, I know. That is part of the tragedy).

It's just that there is a certain tiredness that comes with being a Nigerian.

A tiredness born out of helplessness. The kind that comes from seeing things happen to fellow Nigerians and knowing you're too powerless to stop them.

Nigeria is like a mother that eats her own child. I've never seen a country practice filial cannibalism with such ease and consistency.

And for those who manage to survive, we're being numbed.

Conditioned to see people as numbers and statistics.

Taught to live with pain lodged permanently in our hearts.

We wet our pillows at night over friends, family members, and even strangers on the internet whom we may never see again because the land has swallowed them.

For those who cannot live like this, they are forced to flee. Some may never be reunited with their families. They may never again see the streets where they played as children, barefoot on the sand.

Who am I kidding?

Children can no longer play outside.

Today, you're told to keep your location on at all times. You're told to look left and right, not just for moving vehicles, but for suspicious bushes and lurking bandits.

Even our leaders cannot pretend to be crocodiles. At least crocodiles shed tears while devouring their prey.

Ours make merry, travel on vacations, and somehow have the capacity to track down citizens who speak against them, yet cannot track down the bandits and kidnappers carrying out atrocities in our forests and communities.

As Nigerians, we have endured difficult seasons before. We have lived through hardship, instability, and uncertainty. But I cannot remember a time when it felt this bad.

We have asked for electricity.

We have asked for good roads.

We have asked for water.

We have always asked for the barest minimum.

But having to beg for our lives was never something we imagined.

Watching kidnappers behead people and flaunt wealth openly was never part of the future we foresaw.

Every time we think we've hit rock bottom, we discover that every Nigerian is a geologist and there are still deeper layers beneath us.

Lately, the nights have been cold, especially after the rains.

I wrap myself in blankets and shiver, and then I think of the schoolchildren kidnapped and held in forests, lying on bare ground with nothing but their uniforms for warmth.

And suddenly, my blanket feels heavy.

I throw it aside, bury my face in my pillow, and cry for my fellow Nigerians.

Because honestly, no one deserves this.

How much more a child?

We often say that children are the leaders of tomorrow.

But our leaders of tomorrow are in the bush.

And at this rate, it feels like they will remain in the bush until tomorrow comes.

What future are we building when our children cannot safely go to school?

What hope are we preserving when the people meant to inherit this country are growing up surrounded by fear?

I am afraid.

Very, very afraid.

Afraid to live my life because I do not know what is waiting for me outside my gate.

I am not only afraid for myself. I am afraid for my family. I am afraid for my friends.

Every phone call that comes at an odd hour makes the heart skip a beat.

Every journey requires a prayer and plenty blood of Jesus.

Every delay in communication raises questions nobody wants to ask.

Sometimes it feels like we are living in a war zone, except nobody has officially declared a war.

Yet the fear is real.

The losses are real.

The grief is real.

When you call a Nigerian and ask, "How are you?" they reply, "Fine."

It's an automatic response.

Because we are expected to be fine amidst all this.

But we know the truth.

We know the land is killing us.

We know they are killing our dreams.

We know that, increasingly, we can no longer dream because we have become light sleepers.

We know that anybody can become the next headline.

We know no one is coming to save us.

And the painful part is that we have tried.

We have cried.

We have prayed for years in churches, mosques, and our homes.

We have marched in the streets and demanded change. During EndSARS, young Nigerians stood under the sun, raised their voices, and dared to hope.

We participated in elections. In 2023, millions voted massively because they believed a better Nigeria was possible.

So what have we not done right?

What have we not tried?

What sacrifice have we not made?

What should we do again?

Because what we do not know is how to get our country back.

So my fellow Nigerians, a very tired Nigerian wants you to tell her:

How do we get through this phase?

How do we reclaim the country we love?

Or na so we go dey dey?