​I pulled out a heavy wooden drawer, sliced open a taped box hidden inside, and began rearranging the dusty notebooks on the lower shelf. Behind them, wedged deep against the dark mahogany backing, my fingers caught on something cold.

​A metal lockbox. This was entirely unlisted in his estate ledger.

​"Tobi, leave the bottom shelves for tomorrow," Yejide called out, the sharp snap of brown packing tape echoing off the bare walls. She didn't look up from the box she was sealing. "We need to clear the desk before the movers get here at eight."

​"Look at this first," I said.

​I pried the latch open with the edge of my pocketknife. It gave way with a rusted groan. Inside was no money, no title deeds, no sign of the modest inheritance he had spent his final years preaching to us about. There was only a thick bundle of airmail envelopes, bound in yellowed string, addressed to a woman whose name had never once been spoken in our household.

​Yejide finally stopped. Her tape dispenser hovered mid-air. She stepped over a stack of yellowing journals, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of the faded postmarks.

​"Put those back," she said, her voice dropping into that dangerously flat tone she used whenever our family’s neat stories began to slip.

​"Yejide, look at the dates," I said, slipping one letter free from the string. "These are from the exact months before we left Ibadan. He didn't lose his business to the economy. He didn't pack us up in the middle of the night to 'start fresh.'"

​"I don't care," she snapped, stepping in and reaching for the bundle. "He’s dead, Tobi. Whatever was written thirty years ago belongs in the fire, not on this table."

​"You knew," I whispered.

​She paused, her hand frozen inches from mine. The ambient hum of the afternoon traffic outside seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of our uneven breathing.

​"I knew that he kept us safe," she said softly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. "And I know that some truths are just luxury items for people who didn't have to carry the weight."

​She pulled the letters from my grip. For a second, I thought she would rip them in two. Instead, she laid them back into the dark metal box, closed the lid, and set it firmly between us.

Genesis 1: 27 says

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness:…….

Like, the Supreme Being looked at everything He had created (even the beaches and landscapes we all admire) and said, "No oh, I have to create man." What a good God!!

I think you get the gist now….abi?

Then man fell.

It's funny how disobedience is the first sin and is still the most popular, mainly because all other sins are birthed from it (I think I want to write about this, maybe….maybe not).

Before I keep digressing, let me keep my thoughts in check.

When man sinned, the relationship between God and His Image was ruined. Why? Because God cannot dwell where sin thrives.

This went on for years. But because of the immense love God has for us, He decided to give us a medium for him to dwell with us.

Before then, not everyone had direct access to talk to God. If He wanted to give instructions or speak to man, He had to create special encounters just so we could have access... this love is too muchh!

Where do creatives come in?

Well, when God wanted to create the medium for him to dwell amongst human, guess who he used?

You guessed right— creatives!

Let's talk about Bezalel

Exodus 31says

1. ¶And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying,

1. See, I have called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah:

2. And I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship,

3. To devise cunning works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass,

4. And in cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of timber, to work in all manner of workmanship.

5. ¶And I, behold, I have given with him Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan: and in the hearts of all that are wise hearted I have put wisdom, that they may make all that I have commanded thee;

6. The tabernacle of the congregation, and the ark of the testimony, and the mercy seat that is thereupon, and all the furniture of the tabernacle,

7. And the table and his furniture, and the pure candlestick with all his furniture, and the altar of incense,

8. And the altar of burnt offering with all his furniture, and the laver and his foot,

9. And the cloths of service, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest's office,

10. And the anointing oil, and sweet incense for the holy place: according to all that I have commanded thee shall they do.

Bezalel was an artisan from the tribe of Judah. God appointed him and Aholiab, from the tribe of Dan, to build the ark.

The importance of their job was so important (I know what I did there…) that, for the first time in the history of man and ever recorded in the Bible, the Spirit of God was bestowed upon man.

Creatives include artists, writers, musicians, dancers, spoken-word artists.

Infact, all humans are inclined to creativity because we are all created in the image of the most Creative Creator.

​So yes, as creatives, we have one of the most vital roles in the grand scheme of the Gospel. We create things that speak directly to the soul of man—and trust me, the devil knows this too. You can only imagine how much work that guy puts in just to make us feel irrelevant in ministry.

How many times have you looked at your canvas, draft, or project and wondered, 'Is this even making an impact?' Or worse, felt completely drained trying to create out of your own strength?

Notice that God didn’t just give Bezalel a task; He gave him His Spirit first. We spend so much time trying to manufacture brilliance, forgetting that true creative authority comes from resting in the Creator.

So the next time you feel like your art, your writing, or your ideas are ‘just a side project’ or ‘not spiritual enough,’ remember who laid the blueprint first. Your hands are creating room for Him to dwell.

Inspired by CMDA LASUTH Editorial Departmental meeting July Edition

This is just a post to let you know I'M BACK!!!!

Expect weekly posts.

I just completed my first editorial series with my brand

Check it out.

Hey Tribers,

This week, I caught myself doing that thing again, calling it “waiting for the right time” when, in truth, I was just scared to start. It’s funny how we dress hesitation in elegance and call it patience. “I’m still preparing,” we say. But sometimes, the preparation starts preparing us instead, to get too comfortable doing nothing.

I’ve always believed in becoming — in growing slow, learning deeply, letting life shape you layer by layer. But I’m learning that time isn’t always the ingredient. Sometimes, it’s just the excuse.

There’s a thin line between becoming and just… stalling.

We like to call it patience. We give it soft names so we don’t have to face what it really is; hesitation. Fear. The quiet comfort of not moving. Because waiting feels safe. It feels noble. It lets you believe you’re still in control.I used to be that girl who’d say, “I’m just waiting for the right time.” I told myself it was maturity, that I was learning to take things slow. But I wasn’t waiting for timing, I was waiting for courage. I was waiting for a version of myself that wouldn’t fail.

The funny thing about “becoming” is that no one tells you how uncertain it feels. There’s no warning label that says this part will feel uncomfortable, and you’ll want to run back to what’s familiar. You’ll convince yourself you need a little more peace, a little more planning, a little more confidence.

But sometimes, procrastination wears the same outfit as preparation. You’ll call it “getting ready,” but all you’re doing is stalling motion because you’re scared of not being enough once you begin.

And it’s tricky, because rest and delay look almost the same from a distance. One heals you; the other drains your time quietly, like a leak you didn’t notice.

Time doesn’t wait for your readiness. It doesn’t pause while you figure yourself out. It keeps moving, quietly collecting all the chances you said you’d take “someday.” And before you know it, the person you wanted to be starts to fade into the person you’ve settled for.

I’m learning that growth doesn’t come with a grand announcement. It slips in through small, scary steps — the message you finally send, the application you finally fill, the dream you stop romanticizing and actually begin to build. You won’t always feel ready, but that’s exactly how you know it’s time.

Becoming takes time — just not all the time you have.

Because if you keep waiting for perfect alignment, you’ll miss the messy, holy middle where transformation actually happens.

Life doesn’t hand you perfect timing — it gives you moments. Half-open doors. Tiny nudges. Inconvenient beginnings. And you get to choose whether to keep waiting for confidence or to start walking with your knees shaking.

Because waiting doesn’t make you ready; practice does. You don’t learn consistency by deciding, you learn it by structuring it. That’s where most of us miss it: we dream in months, but grow in minutes.

Don’t just say, “I’ll be consistent this month.” Break it down until it’s realistic. Say, “I’ll record my video on Monday, edit on Tuesday, and post on Wednesday.” Or, “I’ll write 500 words each morning for a week — one chapter at a time.” That’s how you turn discipline from pressure into rhythm.

When your goals are specific, your effort has direction. You stop negotiating with yourself every day because the plan is already waiting for you. You don’t need motivation when you have structure — structure creates momentum.

So maybe it’s not about waiting for the right mood, but building the right map. Because becoming isn’t just about starting — it’s about knowing how to keep going when the excitement fades.

Hey my Tribers 😌

It feels so good to be back here again. Honestly, it’s been forever. Life’s been doing that thing where it throws everything at you all at once, and you’re just there like, “okay… wow, this is a lot.”

Between exams, stress, and just trying to stay sane, I’ve missed writing here. Like, really missed it. Writing has always been that one thing that clears my head, you know? So being away for this long felt weird — like I paused a part of myself.

Anyway, I’m back now. Not in a dramatic way, just in a “let’s pick up from where we stopped” kind of way.

So yeah! Hi again, my people. I’ve missed talking to you.

Me and God in That Season

You guys, let me just say this — this semester really showed me pepper!!😭

I got rushed to the hospital straight from my exam center, literally right before my batch was supposed to enter. I remember lying there, thinking, “God, this can’t be happening right now.” They rescheduled my paper, and boom — I was sick for almost two straight weeks.

Two weeks! Me that never even fall sick for more than a day.

And guess what? I still wrote my paper that day ohh! They just rescheduled my time, but I was bombarded with injections and drips for that to happen.

And amidst all those sick days, I still wrote my exams. Somehow. Don’t even ask me how, I just did.

It was wild because I wasn’t used to doing anything when I was sick, I’m the type that just lies down and lets my body rest. But this time, rest wasn’t an option. Exams were back-to-back, and this one was a big deal. It was cumulative with last semester’s results, and we had to hit the pass mark to transit to full medical school.

To make it worse, there was a limit to how many people would be accepted. So yeah, everyone was reading like their life depended on it — because honestly, it kinda did.

Food tasted like cardboard, I caught a cold, and every night I was still up reading till 4 or 5 a.m. I was exhausted, weak, and honestly just done. But somehow, every morning, I still woke up. I still showed up.

Then sometimes I couldn’t even pray completely, just whispers, because there was no more strength left. But God was still there.

And that’s when I realized, maybe that’s what a relationship with God really looks like sometimes.

Not the loud faith, not the “everything’s fine” kind, but the quiet one where you’re sick, tired, frustrated, and you still whisper, “God, please, just carry me through this next one”. At that point ehn, “God abeg” was looking rude😭

Old Roots, New Branches

Somewhere in the middle of all that madness the sickness, the sleepless nights, the pressure, I met people who made me see friendship in a new light.

You know how we always talk about low-maintenance friends? The ones you don’t speak to every day, but when life starts shaking, they show up? Yeah. Those ones.

There were people I never even expected to cross paths with properly this semester. We’d just been classmates or “hi-hello” people before. But somehow, they became my people. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it mattered — a lot.

Then there were the old friends. The ones that, even when we didn’t talk for days or weeks, still showed up the second I needed something. No explanations, no guilt trips — just presence. That’s when I realized friendship isn’t about constant chatter. It’s about connection that stays steady, even when life gets crazy.

They made me realize how powerful it is to be surrounded by people who don’t just talk about growth — they actually live it.

Resilience

You know how sometimes you don’t even realize you’re being strong until the storm starts to calm down?

That was me.

While everything was happening, I wasn’t thinking “wow, look at me being resilient.” I was almost saying "Lord, let this cup pass over me" . Just doing the next thing that needed to be done. One small step, one long night, one whispered prayer at a time.

But looking back now, I see it differently. I see that strength doesn’t always look loud. It doesn’t always feel like confidence.

Sometimes, it looks like tears on your notes at 2 a.m., or dragging yourself to class when your body says no. Sometimes, it’s just not giving up today, even if you’re unsure about tomorrow.

And it’s not just about school.

Resilience shows up in every corner of life. For me, it was reading, pushing through the exhaustion when my body was screaming for rest, and now it’s me sitting here writing to you guys, even though I promised myself I’d rest when I got home.😂

For you, it might be something else.

Maybe it’s waking up in the middle of the night to finish that project, or editing that video you’ve been scared to post.

Maybe it’s joining that group you’ve been putting off, or finally starting that small business idea that’s been sitting in your notes app for months.

That’s the thing about resilience — it grows quietly.

It’s not built in the easy seasons; it’s shaped in the ones that drain you, stretch you, and make you ask if you’re still capable.

And when it’s all over, you realize you were becoming something stronger the whole time, not because life gave you a choice, but because you refused to stop showing up.

Community

I grew.

I connected with people.

I bonded.

I networked.

And honestly, that surprised me. I’ve never been someone who naturally seeks out new people — I liked my corner, my bubble, my quiet. But this season showed me something different: community isn’t a distraction. It’s a mirror. It’s a space that reflects parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there.

And it’s not just about surviving school. It’s about life. I saw how people who care, people who are aligned with your energy and values, can help you grow without even trying. They challenge you, they inspire you, and they hold up the parts of you that feel weak or tired. I learned that letting people in doesn’t make you less capable, it makes your capability multiply.

From all of that, I learned three things I’ll carry forever and I want you to do that also:

1. Growth isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s messy, uncomfortable, and unexpected. You stumble, you overthink, you stretch — and that’s okay. That’s how you evolve.

2. Connection is part of becoming. The people around you shape you, sometimes quietly. Every genuine conversation, every laugh shared in the middle of chaos, every small act of care adds up.

3. Don’t isolate yourself in the name of independence. You can be strong, yes. But collaborating with others doesn’t make you weak. It multiplies what you’ve already got inside.

Community taught me that strength doesn’t always live in solitude. Sometimes, it’s in showing up together, supporting each other, and letting other people remind you who you are when you forget. And sometimes, it’s in realizing that these connections —old roots, new branches— are just as much a part of your growth as your own persistence, your own hustle build, your own quiet nights of work.

I’m Backkk

Y’all… I’m back!

After all the chaos, the sickness, the sleepless nights, the exams, and the growth (both painful and beautiful), I’m finally here, sitting down to write to you. And wow, it feels so good.

I wanted you to see everything I went through, not for sympathy, but because there’s a lesson in every messy, tiring, impossible-seeming moment. I wanted you to see how resilience, friendships, and community all played a role in getting me here. And now, I get to share it with you, my Tribers.

This week, my takeaway for you is simple: life will test you. It will push you past what you think are your limits. But when you keep showing up, for yourself, for the people who matter, for the small steps that feel meaningless in the moment — growth happens. Connection happens. Change happens.

So here I am. Back. Writing. Sharing. And I can’t wait to keep going with you.

Next week, a new topic, a new lesson, a new story. But for now — just know that showing up, even when it’s hard, always matters.

Love to me is sitting beautifully, lost in the rhythm of the one who is home. Watching with intense peculiarity and mastering how he smiles when he’s extremely happy, how his eyes dance in twilight when he does something he loves, how he walks when he feels confident, or when his shoulders slump lower than they usually do, without his hands in his pockets, when he’s emotionally tired. Love doesn’t mean I should make you happy, even if I would make the stars sing his name just to see him smile. His laughter when he says a joke, the tingling excitement when he talks about people who dwell in his heart, I’m glad to know the universe gives him people to find solace in, even if I’m not one of them. He couldn’t handle my depth, because he was just beginning to love for love and not to be in love, while I was ready to write letters for every time I thought of him, seal them with kisses, and gift him open letters just to see the tingling in his sharp, soft eyes — eyes deep enough for me to get lost in. I don’t hate him, and I never wish to. I don't wish to see those eyes and begin to see their depth as deception, or to hear the laughter that mesmerizes me as horror. I want to bask in the love, dwell in it, soak and purge myself until I write letters to read even in eternity. The voice, the one that makes my usually articulated tongue run out of words, I get lost in his deep, subtle voice but still consume every word that comes from him.

Love starts as a feeling, grows into a choice, and eventually transforms into commitment. For him, it is all in one, the immense feeling of joy when he opened up to me, choosing to stay even when silence broke the atmosphere and prideful lust tore the soft silk our love was wrapped in; the many promises that were made, the songs and playlists shared, the midnight talks, and the feeling of having someone to hold on to when times were against the strength I once never needed a reminder to carry.

From the first day he spoke directly to me, I chose him.

And I still do. Lurking in the shadows, penning down my existence of him and carving every single word in reminiscence of every part of him.

I don’t need him to be in love with me. I just need to see the love in his eyes even when he’s in the arms of another. I chose to love him, not because my heart couldn’t be in denial of how much I wanted to mark his heart with words from mine to his. I wanted him, and I’m staying, even in the deadbeat silence. I’m going to live with so much love and joy, and even after eternity, my soul will forever be happy.

So yes, love to me doesn’t have to be reciprocated. I love you because I love you , and not because I want you to love me too.

And even if you do love me, love me because you do — not because I love you .

— Abísádé

He doesn’t know what he took.

She doesn’t talk much anymore.

My sister.

She used to light up rooms without trying. Smile like she meant it.

Then he found her.

Dissected her confidence in quiet, calculated ways.

Told her she was too much. Then not enough.

She stopped singing. Stopped trusting her own voice.

They call it emotional abuse.

I call it war.

I studied him like a disease. Symptoms, patterns, spread.

He's not just manipulative, he’s sloppy. Leaves digital fingerprints everywhere.

He thinks charm is a shield.

Tonight, I take that from him.

I’ve laid the groundwork—anonymous reports, forged receipts, shadows in inboxes.

His downfall won’t be explosive.

It’ll be precise.

He walks into the room like nothing’s wrong. Laughs too loud. Touches too much.

He doesn’t see it yet. The shift. The weight in the air.

But he will.

The first phone buzzes.

Then another.

Then silence.

He glances around. Nervous.

I sip my drink. I don’t blink.

He looks for someone to blame, someone to explain.

But this isn’t a lesson.

It’s justice.

I tilt my head slightly—just enough to see her.

The girl across the room.

Still. Cold. Watching.

Not part of the crowd. Not surprised.

Our eyes lock for half a second.

We don’t nod.

We don’t smile.

But we both know

He deserved this.

It’s done.

The room still smells like expensive perfume and tension.

Voices lowered. Eyes widened. Phones lit like stars in the dark.

His name is everywhere.

But not in reverence.

Not in praise.

They speak it like a warning.

Whispers laced with disgust.

"You heard what he did?"

"He’s sick."

"How was no one seeing it before?"

I sit back. Watch them pull away from him like his skin burns.

I don’t need to speak. Don’t need to gloat.

The humiliation works best when it echoes.

And it does.

Every screen carries his fall.

Every glance reminds him: you are not a man anymore.

You’re a headline. A cautionary tale.

I exhale.

For the first time in a long time, my jaw unclenches.

My fists don’t twitch.

My sister’s face flickers behind my eyes—still tired, but maybe, just maybe, safe.

HER POV

She had a soft way of existing.

Never loud. Just warm.

She passed me once in the dorm hallway and said, “You look tired.”

I never forgot that.

She was kind without effort. A rare kind.

And he found her.

Ripped her open from the inside with words that left no scars, just echoes.

He made her question her worth, her memories, her place in the world.

People said she was “too sensitive.”

No.

She was just his target.

And I?

I don’t forgive that.

I followed him without him knowing.

Watched his patterns. Saved screenshots. Gathered what the world would believe.

I never wanted to be seen.

I just wanted the hum in her voice to come back.

He walks into the party like it’s his stage.

Smirks. Greets. Pretends.

But his story’s already being told.

I made sure of it.

The evidence is dripping into inboxes.

The past is knocking on his timeline.

And all he can do is stand there, unraveling by the minute.

I don’t smile. I don’t flinch.

I just watch.

And then I see him.

Not him. The other. The boy. The one who isn’t watching for fun.

He’s watching with purpose. With precision.

Like me.

Our eyes meet.

It’s quick.

Like lightning behind the clouds.

Recognition without words.

He’s here for her.

I’m here for mine.

And the man between us?

Already ruined.

We don’t nod.

We don’t speak.

But we both know—

Some justice doesn’t need a gavel.

It’s over.

And it’s beautiful.

I watch them walk past him like his presence is offensive.

Mouths tight with judgment.

Eyes heavy with disgust.

They say his name now like it tastes rotten.

Like saying it might curse their lips.

I hear it whispered in corners—

"He’s a monster."

"Not even God can save that one."

"We let him smile too long."

And in that moment, I feel it.

Peace.

Not the sweet kind.

The cold kind.

The kind that only comes when the world sees what you always knew.

He’s not feared.

Not loved.

Not admired.

He’s marked.

And I did that.

Tribers, exclusively yours💕

She let the words sit there.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t even move.

Because she wasn’t sure what to say—what to feel.

Anger? No, that had passed.

Sadness? Maybe. But it was buried under something else.

Something closer to exhaustion.

What Honesty Sounds Like

Her phone buzzed again. Another message.

I shouldn’t have pulled away like that.

But I didn’t know how to stay either.

She exhaled slowly.

Because there it was again—that brutal, quiet honesty. The kind that slipped past defenses before she could stop it.

And for the first time, she let herself wonder

Had it been hard for him too?

Had he hesitated, just like she had?

Had he missed her, but convinced himself it was better this way?

And if that was true

Then why was he here now?

A Question That Changes Everything

She didn’t ask him to explain further.

Didn’t tell him it was okay.

Because it wasn’t. Not yet.

But she also didn’t push him away.

Instead, she asked the one thing she really wanted to know.

So why are you talking to me now?

And this time, he didn’t make her wait.

Because I don’t want to lose you.

Simple. Direct. Too real.

And it made something inside her tighten, because

What was she supposed to do with that?

The Edge of a Decision

She had two choices.

She could believe him. Let him back in. Pretend they weren’t both carrying the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Or she could walk away before they repeated the same cycle again.

Before she got pulled back into something that had already hurt her once.

And the scariest part?

She didn’t know which one was the right answer.

But maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to decide tonight.

Maybe, for now, it was enough that he was here.

And that, for the first time, she wasn’t the only one trying.

Hey Tribers 💜, so I have a confession 😔.

This series has 14 chapters 😭. Remember when I said I had many drafts well here it is. I just started writing and didn't know how to stop till it was complete. There will be other letters in between but I'm going to keep posting this series every Saturday until it's 14. If you want it twice in a week, please tell me in the comments. I want to know how you feel.

She stared at the screen.

The message wasn’t long.

Not a paragraph, not an explanation—just a few words, plain and direct. Too careful. Too neutral. As if he was trying to step back in without stepping too close.

Hey. How have you been?

A simple question. One that could mean nothing—or everything.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind spiraling through a hundred ways to answer.

She could ignore it. Leave him in the same silence he had left her in. Make him feel the weight of his own decision.

Or she could respond—act unaffected, as if nothing had shifted, as if she hadn’t spent nights wondering if he’d ever reach out again.

But neither option felt right.

Because the truth was, she wasn’t fine.

And she wasn’t indifferent.

And no matter how much she wanted to pretend she didn’t care—she did.

A Conversation That Isn’t Just a Conversation

She took a breath, exhaled slow. And then, before she could overthink it—

I’ve been good. You?

No warmth. No bitterness. Just enough.

The reply came faster than she expected.

I’ve missed talking to you.

Her chest tightened.

Because that wasn’t what she had prepared for.

She had expected small talk, polite distance—not honesty.

Not him saying the one thing she had refused to let herself admit.

Because she had missed him too.

But missing someone didn’t erase what happened.

So she didn’t say it back.

Instead, she typed—

Then why did you stop?

And just like that, the silence returned.

Not because she had ignored him.

But because now, he didn’t know how to answer.

Truth or Excuse?

Minutes passed. Then more.

She almost regretted asking. Almost wished she had let things stay light, easy.

But then, finally—

It wasn’t about you.

It was about me.

She frowned.

A classic line. One people used when they didn’t want to say the real reason.

But before she could roll her eyes, another message appeared.

I thought pulling away would make it easier.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

Something in her chest twisted.

Because he wasn’t lying. She could tell.

And for the first time since this whole thing began—she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be angry anymore.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t about right or wrong.

Maybe this was about two people trying to figure out where they stood—without losing themselves in the process.

Heyy my loves, I know it's late today. I'm sorry 😔

The world didn’t stop.

That was the strangest part.

She still woke up the next morning, still got dressed, still went through the motions of her day as if nothing had changed. As if something inside her hadn’t cracked open, spilling into the spaces where his presence used to be.

It wasn’t heartbreak—not exactly. More like an ache, a quiet discomfort. The kind that sits in your chest and makes everything feel just a little too heavy.

But she didn’t text him.

Didn’t ask if he meant it.

Didn’t reach out, even when her fingers hovered over his name, muscle memory begging her to undo the silence.

If he wanted distance, she would give it to him.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t notice when he started to hesitate.

When his presence lingered, even in absence.

The Things We Pretend Not to See

It started small.

A message that he almost sent—“Typing…” flashing at the top of her screen, then disappearing before it could become something real.

A hesitation, a pause, a moment where she could almost feel him wanting to break the silence.

But he didn’t.

And neither did she.

Because what would she even say?

That she missed him? That she felt his absence like an empty space beside her?

No.

Instead, she buried herself in everything else, anything other than staying still.

And yet—she still felt it.

The weight of something unfinished.

The way endings never quite felt like endings when they weren’t fully accepted.

The Moment That Cracks the Distance

She hadn’t expected him to break first.

But one night, her phone lit up.

And there it was—his name.

Not just a like. Not just an almost-message.

A real one.

She stared at it, pulse picking up, nerves winding tight in her chest.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He had ended things. He had been the one to pull away.

So why did he come back?

Her hands hovered over the screen.

Because suddenly, this wasn’t about him anymore.

This was about her.

Did she want to open this door again? Did she want to hear whatever he had to say, let him step back into a space he had once walked away from?

The answer should have been simple.

It wasn’t.

So she took a breath—one that didn’t steady her, not really—

And she opened the message.

She had felt it before she saw it.

That slow unraveling, the shift in rhythm. The way things had started to feel less certain, less easy. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it was there—like a thread being pulled, unraveling something she wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

And now, it was in front of her. A message.

Not like the others.

There was no teasing in this one. No effortless banter or half-hidden affection. Just words, careful and deliberate—like something he had rehearsed before sending.

Her pulse picked up, but she told herself to breathe. It’s nothing. It’s fine.

Then she opened it.

And she knew—it wasn’t fine.

This isn’t working.

Just that. Simple. Uncomplicated. A conclusion disguised as a sentence.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t react. Not yet. She just sat there, rereading it, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something softer.

They didn’t.

Truth or Excuse?

He didn’t leave it at that. He kept going, offering reasons, logic, justifications.

And she could see it—the way he was convincing himself just as much as he was convincing her.

Because if you say something enough times, maybe it starts to feel true.

Maybe if you list enough reasons, you can silence the part of you that doesn’t quite believe them.

But she wasn’t going to be the one to fight for them alone.

So she didn’t.

Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, waiting to see if he would fill it.

He didn’t.

And that was when she felt it—the ache of something unfinished.

An Ending That Doesn’t Feel Like One

She could have asked. Could have said, Is this what you really want? Could have called out the hesitation in his words, the contradiction between his message and the way he always pulled her back in.

But she didn’t.

Because some things aren’t about what’s said. Some things are about what’s felt.

And right now, she could feel it—this wasn’t over.

Not really.

Maybe he thought it was. Maybe he needed to believe that.

But something told her—this wasn’t the last time they would find their way back to each other.

Not yet.

I'm sorry it came this late

Not yet.

So, I'm writing to you guys from my bed lying sideways(very much not comfortable), my phone battery on 8% while charging with my long cord connected to my extension on my table. These information looks irrelevant but I love updating you guys when writing so yes, it is very much relevant.

I was doom scrolling on social media and decided to stop thinking of how much Airtel has dealt with me this week; guys I was as close a needle hole is to tears 😔. I read this particular…. I don't even know what to call it I'll say it's a series ‘cause they're 3 parts…..by Ebun writes. I have never been a fan of happy ending but thissss!!!!! I was really hoping it would only fo my hopes to be shattered to no repair.

I think I'm going to talk about my uni shocks as a first year student fresh from secondary school in my next yap session.

They postponed the exam I was supposed to sit for on Saturday and it was shifted to the exact day I have MAT 101!!! The expressions from those around me is like

“Why now??”

“After all my reading”

“They should shift Math too”

That comment right there got me. Shift what?! See ehn at this point I don't even care what they put together again they already did their worse by putting BIO 101 and PHY 101 on the same day. That is tragic enough, whatever they do I just want to go home.

I've been running on at most 5 hours sleep for almost 2 weeks now and I still have 3 more weeks to go, my body and brain needs factory reset.

I almost forgot to tell you guys about how I didn't collect my faculty id card today…. sorry yesterday

So apparently, we already paid for it and to assume that all our student reps are supposed to be same and humane we're to collect it today. I went there and saw a minimal crowd….me already happy that I'll just do my thing and go back to my hostel. Alas! I was totally wrong, they told us to download an app before registering our names (on top what I paid for?!). That was enough to even get me irritated, then they told us that for my department, ours isn't ready (so you mean that me coming today is just waste?). As if that's not enough damage to my mental state that was really affected from walking to the library to get my library card with the sun acting up like it was being cheated on the moon to have longer nights and shorter days(bro you're literally the main guy now, I can't even remember when last I had long nights), back to our conversation, despite all these, the rude guy that was supposed to check the apps and register our names was na saying “you guys should move back first, move back!! I'll pick you guys myself 5 each”(you say??? After everything I've been through today, Oga if I start, they'll have to have to hold both of us ohh ‘cause I might regret what I said later but I will still say it)…no, today is definitely not one of those days, I don't have strength, I just looked at him and said “Oga don't shout at me ohh on top the fraud you're doing, you still have pride” and left immediately before it will escalate (I only said that cause I was in front him so he could heard me clearly). At the end, I left school back to my hostel with an empty hungry stomach, tired brain and body, irritated and still had to trek because I didn't find shuttle.

Good night Tribers 💕, or good morning, whichever suits your situation

It was strange how easily he became part of her days.

Not in a way that was obvious to anyone else. Not in a way that could be explained. But in the quiet spaces—the moments between tasks, the seconds before sleep—he was there.

Their conversations weren’t constant, yet they felt endless. Some days, they spoke as if the world outside didn’t exist. Other days, there was silence. But even in the pauses, in the waiting, there was something neither of them could ignore.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t defined.

But it was something.

And maybe that was enough.

“Why Do You Like Talking to Me?”

One night, when the world was still and time stretched slower than usual, she asked, “Why do you like talking to me?”

She didn’t expect an answer right away. He wasn’t the type to give easy ones.

There was a pause. Then, finally—

“I just do.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t argue. He rarely did. Instead, he said, “You make things feel... different.”

She blinked at the screen.

Different.

It wasn’t a grand confession. It wasn’t something meant to sweep her off her feet. But somehow, it felt more real than any love-drunk words she had ever heard before.

She should’ve left it at that. But curiosity was a dangerous thing.

“Different how?”

She imagined him thinking, turning the words over in his mind before settling on a response.

“I don’t know. Like I don’t have to be anything else when I talk to you.”

And just like that, something inside her shifted.

She hadn’t realized how much she had been holding back, how much she had been waiting for someone to make her feel seen without asking for anything in return.

She told herself it was just words.

But she knew better.

The Problem With Getting Too Comfortable

The closer they got, the more dangerous it became.

She could feel it—the way she started noticing the little things. The way she paid attention to how long it took for him to reply, the way she cared in a way she hadn’t planned to.

And the worst part?

She knew she wasn’t the only one who felt it.

He wasn’t the type to spill his thoughts recklessly, but it was there, in the pauses. In the way he answered when he didn’t have to. In the way he stayed.

But the more something mattered, the more fragile it became.

One day, everything was easy. The next, there was silence. A shift so subtle that she almost didn’t notice it at first.

Almost.

But she did.

Because when you’ve learned to guard your heart, you recognize the warning signs early.

And this—this silence, this distance that came without reason—felt like a warning.

The Game She Refused to Play

She wasn’t going to chase.

Not because she didn’t care, but because she had promised herself she wouldn’t be that girl again. The one waiting. The one hoping. The one wondering if she had imagined everything.

So she didn’t reach out.

She told herself that if he wanted to talk, he would.

Days passed. Then, finally—

His name on her screen.

As if nothing had changed.

She stared at the message longer than she should have.

He wasn’t apologizing. He wasn’t explaining. He was just... there, again.

And the worst part?

She was relieved.

She should’ve been angry. She should’ve ignored it. But instead, she answered.

Because no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise—

She wasn’t ready to let him go.

Tribers💜,

I hope you love this. Let me know your thoughts in the comment section

She noticed him before she ever spoke to him.

Not in a dramatic, heart-racing kind of way. No stolen glances across a crowded room, no sudden realization that fate had placed them in each other’s path. It wasn’t like that. It was quieter.

He was the kind of person who didn’t demand attention—but somehow, he had it. Not because he was loud or outgoing, but because he carried something different. A stillness. A presence.

She wasn’t looking for him, and maybe that’s why she noticed him.

At first, he was just a name. Someone she had heard in passing, someone who existed in the same spaces as her but never quite collided with her world. But once she noticed him, it was impossible to ignore him.

And then, one day, their paths finally crossed.

Not with a grand moment. Not with anything extraordinary. Just words—simple, effortless, as if they had spoken a hundred times before.

She wasn’t expecting to feel anything.

She wasn’t expecting to be curious.

But she was.

And that was the beginning.

Something That Didn’t Need a Name

It started slowly.

A message here, a passing conversation there. It wasn’t instant, wasn’t rushed. And maybe that’s what made it feel real—because it wasn’t something they were trying to force.

She wasn’t sure what to make of him at first.

He had a way of talking that made her listen. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it stuck. He wasn’t the type to fill silence just for the sake of it, and she liked that. She had spent too much of her life around people who spoke without saying anything at all.

And he? He didn’t push. Didn’t demand.

He was just there.

And maybe that was what made her let her guard down, little by little, without even realizing it.

One message turned into two. Then three. Then four.

Then, suddenly, he was part of her days without her even noticing when it had happened.

She liked talking to him. Not in the way you like a new distraction, but in the way that makes you check your phone without thinking. The way that makes you want to share little details about your day just because he would understand.

And the strangest part?

It didn’t scare her.

Not yet.

The Problem With Comfort

She didn’t realize how much she had let him in until the first time he wasn’t there.

It wasn’t a fight.

It wasn’t anything dramatic.

Just a silence that stretched a little too long.

She told herself she didn’t care. That she had other things to focus on. That she wasn’t the type to sit around waiting for someone to speak first.

But still, she checked her phone.

And still—nothing.

She knew this game too well. She had played it before, been the one who cared too much while the other person cared too little. And she had sworn she would never be in that position again.

So, she didn’t reach out.

And neither did he.

And that should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Because when he finally did speak again—casually, like nothing had changed—she answered.

And she didn’t know why.

Maybe it was because she had missed him.

Maybe it was because she wanted to see if he had missed her too.

Or maybe—just maybe—because a part of her already knew.

Their story wasn’t meant to end here.

Not yet.

How's life treating you, Tribers 💜

Love is in the air today—at least, that’s what they say. Maybe you woke up to sweet messages, surprise gifts, or a bouquet of flowers that made you feel special. Or maybe the only thing that greeted you was your to-do list, a pile of assignments, or the same old routine. Either way, I want you to know this: you are loved. Deeply, truly, and in ways that even words can’t fully capture.

Even if no one wrote you a letter today, Apostle Paul left you many. Letters filled with wisdom, encouragement, and a love that transcends time. Letters that remind you that you are seen, cherished, and known.

Even if no one gave you a gift, Jesus gave you the greatest one—His life. A love so relentless that He chose you long before you could even choose Him. A love so vast that no human gesture could ever outshine it.

And even if you didn’t get flowers, complete your day with the love that never fades—the love of God. Because while flowers may wither, His love remains constant, unshakable, and always enough.

So, whether today feels sweet or silent, whether your heart is full or a little heavy, remember this: love is not measured in chocolates, gifts, or grand gestures. Love is measured in the One who first loved you and in the way we carry that love into every single day.

Happy Valentine’s, Tribers. You are loved beyond measure.

Abisade💜

I know, I know—it’s been weeks, and you’re probably wondering if I vanished into thin air. But fear not, I didn’t run away or get kidnapped by my textbooks (even though they’ve been holding me hostage). The truth is, exams are knocking on my door like persistent Nigerian aunties asking, “When will you marry?”—and I’ve been buried in notes, formulas, and all things brain-draining.

I didn’t mean to ghost you all, and I feel bad for going silent. Trust me, I’ve missed writing as much as you (hopefully) missed reading! But duty calls, and for now, my brain is on a strict diet of schoolwork.

That said, once I’m done fighting for my academic life, I’ll be back with even juicier letters. So, don’t go anywhere! Thanks for sticking around, and wish me luck—I need all the prayers, good vibes, and maybe a little miracle.

See you in the next letter, Tribers. Stay awesome, stay dramatic (because why not?), and don’t forget me just yet!

Abisade 💜

By the way, I've got so many letters drafted out. I'll edit and post back-to-back.

What do you all think about a love letter to you tomorrow? 😘 (Let's consider it as a compensation to show how apologetic I am 😔)

For the very first time since I resumed, I woke up, had my bath, pulled into a plain shirt and a jean and stepped out of the hostel into the university campus like I knew where I was going to.

Writing this I'm on the walkway that leads to (oops I don't even know where I'm going to)

Listen to Lawrence Oyor’s chants on full volume, I feel so calm and surprisingly the campus isn't as busy as it used to be

I just passed by someone introducing herself as Chiamaka Promise— my namesakee. Oh yh, you guys don't know me as Promise, yes my first name is Promise.

As a very self conscious person, I assume everyone I'm passing by stares at me- maybe they are, maybe they're not I don't know and I'm walking with all my consciousness. Maybe they're staring at my slippers I didn't remember to change cause I didn't think I'll walk this far.

I don't know why it's called “Love Garden”. It doesn't look like one to me 🤷. Before resumption I thought it place with flowers and you know something that describes love garden but I was rather disappointed, it doesn't even have enough benches!! It does have trees but no flowers. Credit for the fresh air through.

Some people are having a picnic behind me and I'm like “should I take a picture?” Nothing will hurt if I do

Did I tell you guys I want love photography?

I don't think I have. I'm pausing a bit to absorb the music

And to think I was having writers block a few days ago. I guess we'll be doing this more often.

I want to walk but if I do what would I explore next time. I'm becoming so comfortable, I don't want to stand up!! But it's 3pm. I guess the guy beside came to chill too, he looks like he has a lot to think about.

Bye guys I think I'm going to leave soon.

See you in the next letter.

Some days, I’m standing in front of the mirror, staring at all my clothes, trying to decide whether to stick to my commitment of dressing classy and modest or just pick whatever I see. I know I’ve made a promise to myself, but sometimes, it feels like such a drag. Who’s really even gonna notice? Other times, it’s about choosing between mini twists or micro twists—because why not just make my life harder with hair decisions, right?

And let’s not even talk about the kitchen. Should I whip up something delicious, playing into my love for cooking? Or should I just give in to the craving for garri and save myself the trouble of actually putting effort into a meal? It’s so easy to just fall into the comfort of what’s simple and familiar, but that’s not always what I want to do.

But wait, it gets better. I’m sitting here thinking about whether I should create a vision board for the new year—something I’ve been planning for weeks—or just let the year flow, and see what happens. I mean, who says I have to have every little thing mapped out, right? Isn’t that the point of new beginnings, to embrace the unknown?

And then there’s the real kicker: Should I stay at home where I feel comfortable, or should I go to that outing I spent weeks hyping to everyone? Yeah, I told everyone about it, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m not sure if I really want to go. The thought of leaving the house is like, ugh, but at the same time, I don’t want to back out. I’ve been that person too many times.

I know, I know—I’m probably overthinking everything, and these are all small decisions in the grand scheme of things. But here’s the thing: these little moments of indecision? They add up. They reflect a bigger picture of who I am or at least who I think I should be. They show me the constant battle between wanting to live in the moment and trying to plan out everything to the smallest detail. It’s this constant push and pull between wanting comfort and wanting to push myself out of my comfort zone.

It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. And it’s something I’m sure you’ve all been through too. The feeling of standing still, not knowing which direction to go, even when it’s something as simple as choosing which hairstyle or meal to pick. The weight of these small decisions starts to feel like a mountain when we stack them all together.

So, here’s the deal: we’re all in this together. It’s okay to be indecisive and take time to figure things out. But at some point, we have to make a decision and move forward. Because standing still, as easy as it feels sometimes, won’t get us anywhere. And while it might feel like the world is pressuring us to have everything figured out, it’s okay if we don’t.

Let’s stop letting these small choices define us. Let’s start choosing to move, even if it’s just one step at a time. Whether it’s choosing what to wear, what to eat, or whether to show up to something we’ve been dreading, we can make a decision and learn from it.

And if you’re stuck in this cycle too, trust me, you’re not alone.

What's the story today, Tribers 💕 ?!