Don't worry, I am not here to scare you, i just want to believe that you'll open that window, see me and maybe say my name the way you used to, and I will probably come to my senses

Goddd!! I miss you.

I miss talking to you, I miss the way you nag at me. Imiss you so much it hurts. Everything reminds me of you.

Sometimes I swear I see you in a crowd,I hear your voice every time the house goes quiet. I see you in my dreams, and I wonder whether to call it a nightmare or fairytale. Most times I wonder if I am losing my mind. People seem to think I am. They say I need a therapist, which is ironic because you were my therapy.

They say I am better off without you because you hurt me greatly, but the more days I spend without you, the more I want to kill myself.

A few days ago, I went to our spot, I stayed there for three days, hugging the grass, hoping I could somehow find your scent in it. Unknown to me, my family had the police searching for me.

Sometimes I wish I was really mad. At least then, all this would make sense.

But I'm not.

I stare at the scar on my thigh sometimes. I remember the bottle, I remember the sound it made when it hit you. I remember the blood and broken glass. I am so sorry for all I did to you….

I started smoking again, you worked so hard to get me to stop, but I just could not bear it anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if you miss me too, then I hate myself for wondering.

Because how could you? How could you miss someone who almost killed you? You probably sleep peacefully now, you probably wake up and don't think about me.

Or maybe you already found someone else…

The thought of that makes me want to peel my skin off. Do you tell them about me? Do you ever say…

“I used to know someone who…” who used to beat me.

I hate that I did that and this is not new but I am genuinely sorry.

I deleted your pictures yesterday, It took me hours to that. Every picture felt like an evidence, an evidence that we were happy once.

I kept one picture though, it was the first picture we ever took together, you looked so innocent and happy in it. You had no idea what I was going to become and I had no idea that one day the person standing beside you would become someone you were so afraid of.

How did we go from you laughing at my stupid jokes to you flinching when I raised my voice? I still don't understand how I could love you so much and hurt you so badly.

How did I derive pleasure from making you miserable? I hate thinking about the things I did to you.

The shouting, the apologies, the promises.

The way I wouldswear it would never happen again, only to find myself saying the same words a few weeks later. And you always forgave me.

God, I wish you hadn't. Maybe if you had hated me sooner, I wouldn't be sitting here wondering where I went wrong.

Maybe if you had left the first time, I wouldn't have gotten so comfortable believing you would always come back.

But you did. Every freaking time.

I keep looking at that picture and thinking about how innocent we both looked unaware of what the future holds, I had no idea that one day I'd be sitting here, telling you my last words through a voicemail.

I didn't come here to traumatise you, I came here because I wanted to see your face one last time.

I don't know if you can hear me anymore, The wind is so loud, I know why this place was your safe space

And I know I am a coward for doing this but I just wish you would open the window.

Goodbye, my love.

Well, a writer who has not written anything in months or read a book, in fact.

“I have been busy!!”

“Doing what?”

My father would always tell me excuses are never permitted. I mean, I have been on holiday for three weeks now, so what exactly has kept me busy?

For starters, I completed my 300-level exams. Officially a 400-level student, unfortunately not a finalist. Then I…

“What did you do, Doyin?”

Well, I did what any exhausted student would do after surviving another academic year, absolutely nothing.

Yep. Nothing.

Of course, by “nothing,” I mean falling sick, two weeks internship, finalising ideas for my new business, thinking about what beaded bag I want to make next, going to church, watching thousands of TikToks, rereading Dream Count, visiting a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and starting a new 2000s series.

Yeah, I have been doing nothing for the past three weeks.

Nothing at all!!

“Well, I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

That is thing, you wouldn’t, but I would. Because somehow, in between all of these things, I haven’t written.

Not a poem. Not an essay. Not even one of those random paragraphs I usually type in my notes app. Not even a random story in my head.

And I haven’t read a new book either. Which is ironic because I planned on reading at least 36 books this year.

Well, I think I have read like seven.

But this is August, I doubt 36 is going to happen.

At this point, I’d be happy with 15.

“Well, I am happy for you. You are writing now.”

What?

This doesn't count.

I had other plans in my head. This is just one of those random newsletters I never actually finish.

“I think you are being too hard on yourself.”

Who are you to tell me I am being too hard on myself? You don't even exist.

A whole year since I decided to take writing “seriously” and I don't have anything to show for it, and you call this being too hard on myself?

We had a dream, Doyin.

Last year, we wanted to be featured in magazines.

We had a plan to write a whole book, the one we were supposed to release immediately after graduating.

I doubt you even remember the name of the book.

What happened to redefining African literature? What happened to all those big ideas? What happened to the girl who couldn't stop writing?

“Um, I think I am going to go now.”

Yeah.

That's all you do.

Run when things get serious.

Well, byeeee.

Decided to write something random since I can't think of anything.

There is a particular kind of comfort that exists only in the place that raised you. In school there is worry, fear of what to become. Deadlines after deadlines. It feels like time is not enough. Everything seems slow, but at home there is this pause that feels so right.

I am home for just a week holiday and, to be honest, I don't want to go back to that place called school. And I have come to the realisation that it is not just about the food that changes, it is basically everything. The atmosphere, the view, the silence, the peace that comes from within.

Even though there are assignments and lectures you have not revised, it feels right to put them aside. And this is not just simply about coming back from school. Even when you simply step out to visit a friend, you find yourself yearning for the warmth inside your home.

Because being at home is different. The roof becomes a blanket over you. The walls feel familiar and even safe to touch. The bathrooms are cleaner, the bed is wide enough to roll, everything feels softer. Home asks for nothing from you except that you be there. Even your bank account is at peace.

Of course, there are times you want to go back to that place of knowledge. Times when home begins to feel too familiar and you miss the independence and freedom that comes with being away. Times when your name is called a bit too often.

And this repeated phrases that slowly frustrate the school out of you:

"Where are you going?"

"When are you coming back?"

"Help me bring that thing."

"Since you're doing nothing..."

"Doyin!"

"Doyin!!"

"Doyin!!!"

Sometimes the holiday can become an employment without wages. However, it is not enough to make you want to leave. I mean, you have no choice but to go back anyway but at least for now, enjoy being loved at home and loved by home, at least until it is time to return to that institution of learning and pretend you understand whatever is going on in law of commercial transactions.

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It all started when I received a call from Mr. Wale

“Hello, is this Adedoyin that wants to collect a package at Challenge bus terminal in Ibadan?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I will soon leave Lagos.”

Innocently, I replied, “Alright,” as if I was speaking to a man who valued time and basic human decency. The very first mistake I made was to treat him like a person.

Two hours later, I called.

“Hello, Mr. Wale, where are you now?”

“I am almost at Ibadan. I will soon get to Challenge terminal.”

In Nigeria, “almost” is a spiritual location. It exists somewhere between I have not left Lagos and I might not even bring your package. Soon, another two hours passed. Lagos to Ibadan had now become Lagos to Canada.

Then he called.

“You want the package at the bus terminal, right? Start coming; I am almost there.”

Like a foolish girlfriend, i went to the terminal.

On my way, my phone rang.

“Hello, so they have stolen your package. I am trying to use my car to chase them down,” he said, shouting like it was real.

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes me want to kill myself for even leaving my house, the silence that screamed, “God, abeg, what is this?” “Why always me?”

“What do you mean they have stolen my package? I am almost at the bus terminal.”

“Come to Iwo Road, i am chasing the theives.”

The call ended, Just like that.

No explanation,No context. Mr. Wale must be mad.

How does a package get stolen mid-journey…

I called back.

“What do you mean I should come to Iwo Road? I have no idea where that place is.” Now I become Mr. Wale and start lying.

Because in Nigeria, lying has to be your friend.

“You better look for how my load will get to me,” I added, trying to sound like I am not wishing d×××× upon Mr. Wale right now.

“If you cannot come to Iwo Road, then that is your problem. Your package will not reach you. Come to Iwo Road.”

Ah! Now I confirm it. Mr. Wale is mad.

Already at Challenge, I found somewhere to sit. I called him again.

“Okay, if the package is at Iwo Road, send it through another driver then, because I don’t know where that is.”

“I will bring it myself,” Mr. Wale said.

Another lie from the pit of hell.

Thirty minutes later, after roasting under the sun, I called him again.

“Hello, where are you?”

“Go and meet OJ Logistics in Challenge; your package is there.”

Like a foolish girlfriend… I went to OJ Logistics.

“Please, I want to collect my package.” “Your pacakage is not here, ma’am,” the attendant replied after looking for a package that never existed.

Of course it wasn’t. Why would it be?

I was talking to a mad man after all.

I called him again.

“Hello, my package is not here.”

“I am coming do not worry. Stay there.”

Do not worry. The most useless sentence in Nigeria. When a Nigerian says don’t worry, best believe you should worry. Infact, go to Warri if you can.

So I stood. And stood. And stood.

Another thirty minutes passed.

“I have been standing for almost an hour where are you?”

“I am coming.”

At this point, even “coming” had lost its meaning.

I have heard it more than 20 times now.

Now something else started happening.

People were staring.

Sorry—MEN were staring at me.

They were giving me those kind of looks that makes me want to curse Mr. Wale and his entire family.

I could no longer think about the package; all I could think about was:

What if someone follows me home? What if my phone gets stolen? What if I get raped?

Because being a woman outside in Nigeria, standing alone, waiting for a man who may or may not exist, is not just stressful, It is dangerous and it is life threatening.

Thirty minutes later, a new number called.

“I was told to give you a package by a rider. Where are you?”

At this point, tears began to form. I felt like screaming, but I couldn’t do that because now I would be the mad one and not Mr. Wale.

“I am at Challenge.” I answered the new man

“Okay, I am coming.”

Of course he is. The new rider calls again and said,

“Go and stand outside the terminal gate,” like he was there waiting to free me from this torture.

So I went outside, like that girlfriend that just refuses to be wise.

“Hello, I am here, where are you?” “I am coming.” Twenty minutes later, the new rider arrives. I got the package.

No apology, No explanation. In fact, all I got was an extra demand for money.

I left home at 11 a.m. to collect a package, only to go back by 6 p.m. Nigeria my country.

To collect simple pacakage, my time and energy was wasted. To collect package, I was so scared and anxious like i was at the den of lions.

I went to collect a package but I also collected stress, confusion, trauma, and for some reason, this is normal. Infact, I was told to thank God that I received my package.

Nigeria is not real because if it were real, then Mr. Wale should be rotting in prison for misrepresentation, for breach of contrac, for the emotional stress he put me through, he should be drowning in lawsuits right now. But since Nigeria is not real, I the victim, should be the one thanking God Mr. Wale did not stress me more than that.

I should be the one thanking God that the men looking at me like I was a prey did not actually pounce on me.

Mr. Wale may God punish you.

To the men that stared and made me feel like I was going to get raped then and there, may He give you triple punishment.

To the ones who destroyed Nigeria, may God punish and continue to punish you.

I recently read a book titled Adanna.

The novel is heavy with pain and traumatic experiences. The book is about Adanna whose life is marked by violence at the hands of men, rape, exploitation, maltreatment, every form of domestic violence imaginable. The kind of trauma that makes a reader shatter just by turning pages. Page after page, the story forces you to sit with her suffering. Nearly ninety-five percent of the book is Adanna being used: as a sex slave, a punching bag, an object of shame. This girl was nothing but a rag in the hands of a father and his son.

My anger is not the tears I cried or how the writer played with my emotions, what angered me was when the book ended. It did not end with healing or growth not even revenge………. It ended with love. Love!!!!!!!

I had to sit and stare at the final pages of the book……… How was that even possible? A woman who went through hell in the hands of men is given a happy ending that is, once again, defined by a man. After everything, the highest form of restoration the author could imagine for her was falling in love and getting married.

I screamed while reading those last pages.

What do you mean that after more than twenty years of brutality, Adanna still wants to be in the hands of a man?

I would have been more satisfied if the book ended with her killing everyone who ruined her life and ended up in prison. At least that ending would have made more sense than love

All Adanna did with her life was get married.

She did not return to school, She did not reclaim anything that was taken from her.

She did not even confront the woman who betrayed her.

She did nothing. Nothing but love

The story simply closed, as though marriage was explanation enough. As though marriage erased trauma. As though having sex with a man again is supposed to be normal for her. As though a ring could resolve years of violation.

And I began to wonder:

Who decided that marriage is the only happy ending available to women?

In every story, every fairytale, it is always she found love and lived happily ever after never she escaped and built an empire or even she chose herself and healed.

Who said marriage is the only way a woman can feel whole again?

Who said achievement must always arrive in the form of a husband?

There is something deeply troubling about how often women’s stories end this way. No matter the form of trauma a woman goes through, it is suddenly healed once she get married. Pain is covered with romance. The woman survives, yes but only to become someone’s wife.

Marriage becomes a reward.

A consolation prize.

Proof that despite everything, she still found love.

Thunder fire love.

Adanna lived with monsters, only to be handed another one, and the writer expects readers to accept this……….

A question I have turned into a rhetorical one, because no matter how often I ask it, I cannot seem to find an answer.

Most people would probably say death or bankruptcy. But the greatest fear I have ever witnessed lives in hospital rooms. It lives in cries, in screams, in the excruciating agony of people in pain. I cannot find a proper name for this kind of fear.

It is very scary to watch someone suffer, to see them cry and repeatedly tell you how much pain they are in while all you can do at that moment is stare. You come to a painful understanding that your love, pity, or sympathy cannot save them. Neither your words nor your tears can stop or reduce the pain.

The most frightening version of this fear is hearing your mother cry over the phone, screaming about the pain she feels, while all you can say is “sorry.” You say the word like a fool knowing fully well that it does nothing. You clench your teeth and swallow your own tears because you know it would hurt her even more to hear you cry.

This fear is watching your friend roll endlessly on the bed, screaming as pain spreads through her body, crying until you can't understand a word she is saying. The nurse would then say there is nothing more they can do, they have given her everything. All that is left to do now is to pray for her to be fine.

Then suddenly, you remember that you have a mighty God in heaven the one you forgot to call upon at the beginning of the crisis. You start to pray, believing that God is powerful enough to heal her yet your hands tremble, your thoughts contradict your prayers. Slowly, your prayer points change and you start asking God not for healing, but for temporary relief. A mini miracle just enough to get her through the night, just enough to survive another day. You cry at the realization that desperation has reduced you into asking the king of kings for a temporary miracle. Your faith has become a desperate bargain.

The cruel truth is that none of this is my greatest fear.

My greatest fear is myself.

It is the thoughts that move quietly through my mind during moments like this. The kind of mental picture I visualize when my hospitalized mother doesn't pick my call. The stupid hunch I feel when I can no longer feel my friend breathing on my neck. My mind would gradually and deliberately wander into the darkest places. I punish myself with the imagination of the most grievous possibilities. I assume endings before they happen, rehearse grief before it happens.

I fear how insane I would get if one of my worst thoughts ever comes true. I fear the trauma that would instantly destroy me. “What if my mother never picks up my call again?” “What happens when my friend doesn't open her eyes?” The agony of a future that has not yet arrived shrinks me.

Most of all, I fear the guilt that would follow me all the rest of my life, the realization that all I did was stare, all I did was hold the phone listening to my mom cry, all I could do was pat my friend’s back as she screams, I even forgot to pray which is basically the least I could have done.

I fear the silence.

The silence that comes when the crying stops and all that is left to do is to confirm your worst.

That silence is my biggest fear.

This is my worst nightmare.

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“Being born in Nigeria, you’ve already lost life’s lottery.”

The painful reality of those words hits me in a way I can’t shake off. Just by being called Nigerian, you are unlucky… and yet somehow you are not allowed to act unlucky.

Your mental health is expected to be perfect, even when you are on the edge of running insane.

Being Nigerian is thanking and hailing the government for paying you minimum wage, as if they have done you a sacred favour.

It is watching people celebrate the bare minimum because we have learned not to expect more. Nigerians will vote a politician again simply because he decided to install street lights.

It is stepping out of your house and giving a testimony on Sunday because you were not kidnapped because surviving the week has quietly become a miracle. Insecurity has gradually become our way of life.

It is being pushed to the back of the line of a queue again and again, yet still finding a way to start a carnival.

Nigerians make memes out of their sorrows since laughter is cheaper than therapy.

Humour is our coping mechanism.

We dance with broken hearts, laugh with cracked voices, and pretend the wounds don’t sting.

The more we dance, the more our leaders add salt to our wounds testing how much we can take, then turning a blind eye when we scream in pain.

The paradox of being Nigerian is that the country squeezes you, frustrates you, exhausts you, yet somehow we always find a way to laugh, to joke, to sing.

We must turn our grief into TikTok content.

Beneath all of this happy spirit, there is tiredness that doesn’t go away.

Amidst trying to have hope, people still walk around with fear that they may be killed.

Section 33 of the Nigerian Constitution has shifted from being a right to becoming a negotiation.

Amidst the carnival at the back of the line, there is a harsh truth: many may never reach the front the line.

We pretend to be used to how expensive things are, yet we still cry the moment we realize we can no longer afford the things we once bought without thinking.

Garri is no longer a snack it is now full course meal for some. Survival is now luxury.

We laugh loudly, but our cheeks are hurting from the fake smiles. We try to hope, but the ground beneath us is crumbling. We dance at the back of the line knowing the line may never move. We give testimonies for safety in a place that should have protected us without applause.

We live, we adjust, we endure but deep down, there is a quiet hopelessness we rarely admit.

This country is a wound we are forced to live inside, and no matter how much we try to heal, the bleeding might never really stop.

And yet we keep pretending.

At a very young age, Doyin was aware that her body was different from her mates. She was constantly reminded that her legs were too big, her feet too wide, her stomach too round for a ten-year-old.

At first, none of this really got to her. She occasionally received sarcastic compliments like:

“Oh, I love how you devour all your food at once! My daughter barely eats a spoonful.”

“Your cheeks are as big as a donut , how I wish mine weren’t so perfectly defined.”

Even though those words didn’t feel right to her, she didn’t think too much about them. Everyone said she just had baby fat and that it would disappear as she got older.

At the age of twelve, the sarcastic compliments turned into full-time insults.

“Oversized purple balloon.”

“An over-soaked bread.”

And many more she can’t even bring herself to repeat.Her nickname became “orobo” or “eke.” Those voices shaped her. They became her personality.

Slowly, she began to see herself exactly as they called her. She blamed her thighs for being too big, her stomach for being too soft, too round for clothes to fit. Her shoulders for being too broad.

Everywhere she went, she knew people would see her body before her, they would limit her abilities before she even spoke.

At fifteen, the voices became questions ,the kind that made her want to hide or throw up everything she had ever eaten.

“Don’t you think you should start watching your weight?”

“You’d be so pretty if you just slimmed down a little. Don’t you want to look fit?”

She never knew how to answer those questions, she would just stare and silently pray to evaporate.

At sixteen, her body became a problem, a big, fat one at that. She tried starving herself for a week, She tried exercising. She even drank miserable concoctions the internet swore would “melt fat fast.” None of it worked.

And honestly, she wasn’t that interested in dedicating her life to suffering anyway.So she decided if people were going to keep judging her body, she was ready to live a lonely life.

At seventeen, in university, she got confused when she saw people twice her size carrying themselves with confidence, dressing up, laughing, taking pictures,loving themselves loudly. She began to wonder how they could look like her and still be so happy.

Then new voices came:

“You are beautiful, Doyin.”

“You should love your body as it is only then can you be comfortable in it.”

Those voices brought confusion. All her life, she had always seen herself as Doyin the fat girl. Now suddenly, she was just Doyin.

Then it dawned on her, all her life, she had been at war with herself because of other people’s words.Her body was never the enemy.It was the battlefield she had found herself in.

So, at nineteen, she decided to write a letter.

Dear Body Shamers,

You don’t know me, but you’ve known my body all my life. You’ve talked about it, laughed at it, pitied it, compared it. You’ve called it names and wrapped your cruelty in compliments.

You said it with smiles:

“You eat too much.”

“You should try slimming tea.”

“You’d look better if you just lost a little weight.”

And I believed you, for years, I carried your words like weights.You taught me how to hide, how to shrink myself, how to avoid mirrors, photos, tight clothes, and people who looked too ‘perfect’ to be near.

But you didn’t break me,You only delayed my becoming.

The best time of my life was the moment I stopped listening, the moment I realized your words said more about you than they ever did about me.

My body has carried me through every season of my life ,we laughed together, cried, healed and even got through your heartbroken words together.

It has bent and stretched and mended itself again and again. It is not perfect. But it is mine. And that’s enough.

So, as long as this body is healthy, I’m doing whatever I want with it because it is not yours. It is mine.

So here’s to the thighs you said were too thick they still walk me into every room. Here’s to the belly you mocked it still rises and falls as I breathe. Here’s to the body you shamed it’s still here, still breathing, still mine.

— Doyin

To all my ladies who have been victims of body shaming:

Whether they told you your body was too slim, your hips too flat, your chest too small, or your thighs too big, your yansh is too small:

Your body does not need permission to exist.It doesn’t owe anyone beauty or perfection. You are allowed to love it as it is,to grow in it,to change in it,to take up space in it.

You are not “too much.” You are not “too small.” You are simply enough.

I have always struggled with the word feminism. For a long time, I never really thought about it, nor gave it much meaning, until recently. But the more I paid attention to conversations around it, the more confused I became.

What does it actually mean to be a feminist?

After reading countless articles and listening to discussions, one thing seemed to stand out: many women who called themselves feminists are that mainly because they had been hurt by men, or for some reason, just hate men.

Now feminism has become a means just to show anger and hatred.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie defines feminism in her essay and TED Talk We Should All Be Feminists:

“A feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there’s a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.”

She also breaks it down a little simpler:

“Feminism is the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes.”

This brings clarity to me that feminism is not about eradicating men or creating a world where women dominate. It is about equality, and nothing else but equality.

I have seen women who call themselves feminists attack other women for making personal, harmless patriarchal choices. And now a lot of people take misandry for feminism.

And the truth is if misandry continues to spread under the banner of feminism, it will affect this coming generation a lot.

Boys will grow up hearing that their gender automatically makes them villains. And girls will for no reason run from their opposite gender.

This generation would start to believe that masculinity is toxic. Instead of raising men who respect women, we would be adding hatred into their innocent hearts.

Hatred cannot build equality, It can only create more walls.

If we truly want a fair future, then we must raise both boys and girls to see each other as partners not enemies.

Feminism should be taught with love, not bitterness. Let us remind boys that respecting women does not mean losing their dignity, and remind girls that seeking equality does not mean despising men.

Because in the end, feminism is not about women winning over men, or men winning over women.

It is about all of us winning together.

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I cried so much reading Tomorrow I Become a Woman. I don’t even know if I cried more because of the story itself or because of how close it felt to real life. The book broke me, pieced me back together, and then left me hanging at the edge. I hated the ending. After following Uju through all that pain, the book expected me to imagine what comes next. I wanted closure, I wanted justice. I wanted a happy ending that would make all the tears worth it. Still, despite everything, it was a beautiful read.

The person who should always be your biggest supporter is your parent. Parents are meant to guide you, protect you, be a safe place. But what happens when your biggest hater is your own mother? When nothing you say matters, when your tears are dismissed, when your screams are ignored? What happens when the person who should be your shelter becomes the very storm you’re trying to escape?

That’s what broke me about Uju’s story. As traumatic as it was, it could have been avoided. If only her mother had listened. If only her mother had, even once, pretended to support her. Her life might have turned out differently. All she needed was one person to tell her that leaving an abusive marriage wasn’t shameful but necessary. But when she ran to her mother, all she got was insult for daring to leave. Her mother ignored her every scream and blamed her for not being “woman enough.”

And that’s the heartbreaking part ,it’s not just Uju’s story. It’s the story of too many women whose lives are stolen by silence and shame. Too many mothers, too many parents, still choose reputation over their children’s lives. They tell their daughters to endure for the sake of family name, appearances, culture. They hand down suffering as if it’s inheritance. They call it love, but it destroys lives.

Parents can mentally drain their children all in the name of “training them for the future.” And when those children try to do something differently, they are insulted, disowned, or called bastards. Sometimes, the saddest truth is this: your mother can be the one who ruins you. Not because she doesn’t love you, but because she loves culture, tradition, and appearances more. And sometimes, even her love, even her fear for you can become the very thing that drags you down.

In the end, Tomorrow I Become a Woman is more than fiction, it’s a mirror reflecting the daughters whose parents chose tradition, culture and norms over their children’s lives and that reflection is quite familiar.

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It would be an understatement to call this a fairytale.

Photo credit: José Villa/ Vogue

2025 has to be the year of weddings. Everywhere you looked ,Instagram, Facebook, TikTok there was another set of pre-wedding pictures, another hashtag, another extravagant hall filled with chandeliers, imported flowers, and a lot of designer asoebi.

Some weddings I truly stan, and some I honestly don’t care about. Yet among all the noise, there was one wedding that stood out for me, not because it was the loudest, and not even because I’ve been a big fan of the couple since I found out they were dating, but because it carried a certain calmness that made me pause.

It made me to constantly search on Google, reading every single article I could find about their big day, never leaving the Vogue’s website, just so I could keep staring at the ninety-nine photographs shot by José Villa, zooming in on every picture to take in every little detail of the beauty that was captured.

A wedding I will always hold close to my heart: Temi Otedola and Oluwatosin Ajibade’s(also known as Mr. Eazi) wedding. If I had to define it in two words, I would call it silent noise

Photo credit: José Villa/Vogue

Temi and Mr. Eazi right from the beginning, have always been low-key. They aren’t the type to constantly flaunt their relationship on social media. Their love existed in its own little bubble, away from pressure, away from performance. So it wasn’t really surprising to see their wedding carry this same calm energy. In a year where weddings seemed like a competition, theirs won without even trying to compete. Instead of screaming, the wedding whispered and somehow, that whisper echoed louder than anything else I had seen all year. It became the most expensive Nigerian wedding of 2025 without needing to prove anything to anyone.

I have thought a lot about why this wedding means so much to me that I even feel the need to write about it. Maybe it’s because I love Temi, and I’ve admired her for years. Or maybe it’s simply because their wedding felt like a breath of fresh air in a year where everything else felt suffocatingly loud. Scrolling through those pictures, I didn’t just see two people in love. I saw peace, patience, I saw a love that had been nurtured over time, not rushed, not forced, not displayed for applause.

And it made me reflect too. In a world where everyone is trying to prove something by making noise, maybe the real power lies in calmness. In choosing peace over performance. In creating moments that don’t need the world’s validation to be real. And so, while the world screamed about wedding after wedding, I will always remember Temi and Mr. Eazi’s wedding as the one that whispered and somehow, whispered louder than them all.

Photo credit: José Villa/ Vogue

What do you call a church that feels more like a courtroom?

Every Sunday is basically hell for me. I wonder how I survived 19 years going to such a toxic place.

Church was supposed to be a place where I would be happy to go, a place to connect with my Father. But for me, church became a courtroom. A place where my life was constantly monitored, where I was expected to submit a weekly report sheet of how I’d lived.

Instead of peace, I got questions:

“Are you a virgin?”

“Do you have a boyfriend now?”

“Why are you wearing short clothes?”

“Doyin, you now wear jewelry o.”

I answered every of them with a forced smile, never daring to confront or even look up at them. I was never enough in church. Always too rude. Too proud. Too something. They claimed the reason I didn’t associate with my mates was because I was full of myself apparently, coming to church and minding your own business is a sin.

When I didn’t pray aloud or when my mind drifted, they concluded I was lazy in prayer. Here, praying silently is not considered prayer at all.

Over time, I learned how to mold myself. Even though I was still not enough for them, I learned to ignore the side remarks. I tried to fake confidence, even though their stares made my heels shake. I never missed the early morning elders’ greetings, always answering their fake caring words with a smile. I carried the grandmamas’ bags after service, always wondering where their own children were. I nodded at comments I didn’t agree with. I became quiet, invisible but not too invisible. Obedient. I even forced myself to talk with my so-called “mates” who once bullied me, thinking maybe then they would stop looking at me like I was a problem that needed fixing.

But the truth is, in that space, nothing I did would ever be enough. The clothes I wore were never appropriate. The confidence I tried to show was mistaken for pride. The silence I kept was seen as disrespect. And deep down, I knew most of their comments came from envy, not care.

I carried that weight for years. And it made me question not God, but the people who claimed to speak for Him. How could a place meant for healing make me feel so wounded? How could people who preached love make me feel so unloved? How is it that every week I came with a smile on my face, but always went home sitting in silence about the pastor’s comment about me?

It took me 19 years to see it clearly: going to church was not the same as worshiping God. I wasn’t going for Him. I was going for them, for their satisfaction. So I wouldn’t be blamed for missing a Sunday service. So I could a new dress that no one could complain about. So I could please my parents. So I could fit into a place I was born into but never belonged.

I want to leave that place, but the truth is I am still scared. Scared of what my parents will say, scared of the endless questions. For now, I stay quiet, but in my heart I know I’m done.

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Nnu Ego’s story made me sad, heartbroken, traumatized. I hated how the story turned out. I hated every single man that existed in the novel. But then I asked myself this question: what if I were the main character in this story, what would I have done? Would I run back to my father where I was well respected, or would I continue to stay with the man that saw no value in me, except as a tank for bearing children?

And do you know what the answer was? It was that I would have done the same thing Nnu Ego did. Why? Because, just like Nnu Ego, I was raised to never break the rules. I have gotten so accustomed to traditions that I would never dare, or even think of, confronting them. Because all my life I have always heard things like:

“A woman should never be too ambitious if she wants to have a happy home.”

“Once a woman is married she must stay for her children no matter what she goes through.”

And to be honest, I have seen a lot of women go through so much just because of these so-called children. Some actually do benefit, while some unfortunate ones like Nnu Ego die in vain. Women who decide to flee from their husbands are called shameful, just because they are “too weak” to fight for their children. Women who run away with the children are called foolish because how can a woman take care of her children without a man? Meanwhile, a woman who stays and suffers like Nnu Ego is given great honor, even if she becomes nothing but a walking dead.

The irony of it all is that women who break the rules always somehow end up happier. In The Joys of Motherhood, the second wife, Adaku, who chose to look for ways to train her children herself, ended up far better than Nnu Ego, who chose to suffer with her husband. Adaku's daughters became successful and stood by their mother, while Nnu Ego’s sons the very children she sacrificed everything for forgot she ever existed.

On TikTok, a female pilot once explained that because of her busy career, she had chosen not to ever have children. And because of that, people bashed her. Of course, I had to “support” her, even though deep down I wondered why she would not want children because of her career. Can’t she just take one or two years off to take care of them? It was absurd to me, really. Children are the greatest gift after all.

The novel raised a lot of questions within me. Will a woman’s worth ever stop being measured by the fact that she has children? And will women ever get the chance of being seen as a person even if they decide to stay unmarried? Because I have seen how women who have no husbands are treated not to talk of women who have no children. Where I come from, it is one of the biggest curses to be unmarried and childless. If you choose to adopt, then you might be termed a witch who willingly chose not to have children.

I know some people might say, “That novel wasn’t even written in this era. Things are different now.” But the truth is, many of us are still living in the past. These traditions are still being upheld in our homes. The scariest part is that even though the chains does not exist, they live inside us shaping every choices and decisions we make, and even the way we judge other women.

And that makes us just like Nnu Ego: even when the walls of tradition fall, we will still be too afraid to step outside of them.

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In almost every place I find myself, schools, at home, in church I’ve always been the odd one out. No matter how hard I try, there is always something that makes me stand apart, something that makes it hard to fit in.

In church, I am always seen as the girl that is not religious enough. Every activity of mine is monitored. On the streets, I am the girl who doesn’t dress like her mates, tagged with the nickname “Mommy G.O.” In classrooms, I am always the girl that is not smart enough even when the results proved otherwise, they were never enough. With friends, I am always the one that never truly belongs the extra wheel in every circle. At home, I am always the disrespectful and lazy one, no matter how much I try the efforts are never rewarded. And within family circles, I am the misunderstood one, the girl labeled wrongly again and again, even my tears are called fake. To my peers, I am the different one, the girl who never seems to get the script everyone else is following. With my classmates, I am the invisible one, the girl they probably do not even know exists. To outsiders, I am the odd one, the girl who stands out for reasons she never chose. In my own head, I am the broken one, the girl who keeps asking why she can’t be like everyone else.

I always try to fit in. I always try to prove that I am just as smart and determined. But instead of acceptance, I get laughed at. Fingers pointed at me. Everywhere I turn, the voices follow: “You don’t fit in.” Every step I take, whispers trail after me: “Don’t try to be different.” “You don’t belong here.” Their voices never leave me free. It got so bad that it started to shape a personality I’m not even sure is mine. I began looking back, searching for the girl that once existed before she was silenced, searching for where I once belonged but I couldn’t find her. Not even in myself. I became a stranger to my own body.

There are nights I lie awake, replaying every label, every whisper, every moment of being pushed aside. The weight of all those voices presses down on me until it feels almost unbearable, like I am sinking under words I never chose but somehow carry. I wonder who I might have been without them, what parts of me could have blossomed if I hadn’t been told, again and again, that I was never enough. And yet, even in that heaviness, a small part of me refuses to let go the quiet hope that one day I will no longer be defined by their voices, but finally by my own.

Photo credits: Pinterest

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The sound of the alarm startled me awake, but something feels strange.

I feel… comfortable.

I’m not covered in sweat.

Wait

Is it just me or did my bed just get ten times larger?

I sat up on the strange bed, trying to think if was I kidnapped?

Because the last thing I remember was sleeping on that two-and-a-half mattress in that store my school calls a room

Now I’m here,In this large

I can’t even.....

Suddenly a knock on the room sorry my room.

“Doyin, are you awake? You need to get ready so your dad can drive you to campus.”

Wait.

Is that my mom?

And did she just say… my dad is driving me?

Oh, this is definitely a dream.

But everything feels way too real.

I head into the bathroom.

There’s a mirror.

Is this me?

Why do I look so slim?

Where did my cheeks go?

Did I get dementia or something?

What is happening?

Lo and behold, I go downstairs and see my dad in the living room, brushing the hair of a little girl who looks so familiar.

“Doyin, are you done?” he asks.

“Be fast so we can take your sister to school first then drive you to campus.”

Wait my sister?

My dad?

Driving me?

What is happening?

Then my mom comes downstairs.

“Doyin, you have to go and see Steven o. He’s been knocking on the door for hours.”

Who is that?

I’m genuinely confused.

“Your boyfriend” my dad says.

“I told you, you don’t have to hide him anymore. You’re old enough to have a boyfriend, and I trust you both. It’s fine. Go and meet him before he kills himself waiting.”

My mom says

She walks off joining my dad telling him to brush my sister hair well.

What is happening?

I go outside and see a man even his back view is breathtaking.

He turns around and his face looks like the sun

But as I move closer it gets hotter and hotter.

Then I hear his voice.

“Doyin… Doyin… Doyinnnnnnnnnn…

Guy, we have class! Wake up!”

And it hits me.

It was all a dream it was all fictional

Now I’m soaked in the expected sweat.

My roommate is staring at me wondering what in the world happened in my head

“Let me get ready for class,” I mutter, standing up.

Death is not a topic I talk about often. In fact, I hardly ever think about it. But recently, two people I never imagined would go….. died.

The first was a pastor I admired deeply. The second, a lawyer I had told myself would one day become one of my mentors since I am a law student. Hearing about their deaths was heartbreaking, I was surprised by how much I cried, because I didn’t even cry when my grandparents died. I never imagined I would cry for people who weren’t directly my family.

Today, I went to the lawyer’s home to visit his family. It took all the courage I had not to cry. When I saw his wife, she didn’t look the way I remembered her. She looked worn out, tired… the confident woman who once drove her husband’s jeep now stood before us in a black, baggy top, looking like someone who had been stranded in a desert for years. Her voice was faint she could barely utter “amen” to our prayers. All she did was stare, as if silently wishing we would leave because she was too exhausted for another meeting like this.

What broke me completely was when their youngest child came into the room while we were talking about her father. She kept looking at us then back at her mother, as if waiting for her mom to break down in tears. I could tell this wasn’t the first time she had witnessed moments like this. I stared at her… I have never seen a young girl look so sad. I wanted to hug her, to cry with her, to promise her that everything would be fine even though I knew I couldn’t erase her pain.

When she followed us to lock the gate, I saw a tear slide down her cheek. And all I could say was, “Don’t cry.” As if those two words could fix her world. As if they could bring her father back.

On the way home, I kept thinking about how cruel death is to take such an ambitious, kind man. I wondered what could have gone wrong. Why him? What could he have done wrong? Why the pastor who truly worshipped God and lived his life by God’s principles? Why did they have to die?

I don’t have the answers. I may never have them. But I pray that:May death not knock on our doors.May none of our loved ones be taken from us so abruptly.And to anyone who has lost a family member, I pray that the Lord blesses and strengthens your heart.

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One random Sunday, I found myself heading to a school I never imagined I’d step foot in.

I remember how I used to rebuke private universities with my full chest in secondary school. But you know how God works His plans sometimes drag you into places that never even crossed your mind.

I came here with no expectations. The school was not even part of the top 10 universities I wanted to go to, so I did not really know what to expect. I only came because I was tired of sitting at home and for some reason, federal universities just don’t like me.

The day I resumed, I wanted to go back home the moment they showed me the rooms. I remember crying to my dad because there were no bathrooms in each room. But the fees had already been paid, and it was too late to turn back and I guess you can’t always be comfortable.

The first week crawled by, it was slow, quiet, and confusing. I was alone and had no idea what was going on. But you know the saying: just go with the flow.

Luckily, I made a friend from my department, and we started registration together and from there, things started making sense, I got assigned two roommates who were just perfect for me, and I had the friend i made from my department so it was good. I was happy, I was living the university life.

But the happiness didn’t last,for no reason, they took my roommates out of the room and replaced them with someone who, unknowingly, made 100 level a living hell.

Me an introverted girl who enjoyed peace and quiet (at least to an extent) was now paired with an extrovert who became popular the second she entered the school. My friend group went from 3 to 50 overnight. The once quiet room that had just three girls became a noisy hangout where girls talked about boys and random things till midnight.

These girls would would judge me for literally everything my outfits, how I walked, how I spoke, even the friends i make. But it was all fine because according to them, real friends just tell each other “ the truth.” So they would playfully laugh off every insult and abuse like it was nothing and claim that “I was too sensitive,” or “ just a baby who takes everything personal.”

I couldn’t join their boyfriend gist since I never had one and i did not understand why to them having a boyfriend is a life achievement. One of them even said I was lying and just pretending. I didn’t fit into their lifestyle either. They called me “local” and said I had a “poverty mentality” all because I told them they were wasting money on things they could have gotten at cheaper prices. Sorry o, my parents taught me financial management.

100 level wasn’t the best for me. I was mostly sad, constantly comparing myself to others. Before I did anything, I would always think of what my roommate and her friends would say or what their reactions would be. Later, it became so unbearable that I just wanted the year to be over so I could go home.

To be fair, I had fun with them sometimes. There was never a boring moment when the whole group was in the room especially moment when it is not you that is being insulted. But most of the fun came from gossip, backbiting, and shaming people who probably didn’t even know we existed. There were no academic talks, no Godly conversations. Just gist, insults, and noise.

And yes, I laughed. I joined in the noise. Because God forbid a girl just want to know more about what goes on in her school.

But as they say, too much of everything is not good. And once you realize an environment is doing more harm than good? Abeg, run.

Things got a bit better when my third roommate joined us. She was from my department, and I finally had someone to talk to when I felt left out and later we got so close that we did everything together. Things were not looking so bad even though I was still taken for granted.

These girls continue to playfully insult me while using my stuff. They would go through my things when i am not there and use whatever they want, and not even bother to arrange it back. One of them even stole my charger and denied it when I confronted her.

But it was “fine.” Because it’s Doyin. She’s nice. She won’t care.

And the truth is, I didn’t want to offend anyone. I didn’t want anyone to hate me. So I let them do whatever they wanted.

Later into the year, I got tired, seriously tired. Tired of the constant abuse,tired of the bullying,tired of being too nice. I never thought I’d say this, but I even got tired of the gossip.

Looking back now, I’m glad I walked away from all that toxicity. Because if I hadn’t, I never would’ve known how sweet real friendship can be.

100 level taught me a lot thoug, It taught me that not everyone who smiles at you likes you and not everyone who likes you is meant to be your friend.

Still, amidst all the madness, 100 level had it own good vitamins. I met two of my most precious friends that year.

I realized I was not actually dumb (yes, I used to believe I was an olodo story for another day).

I learned that you need God for everything. Yes,every single thing.

Because honestly? If not for God, I swear I would’ve run mad that year. That year made uni feel like punishment. But God stepped in quickly and He changed my environment and brought me too the right people.

Anyway, that’s 100 level for me in a nutshell.

I skipped a lot of details sha, but I’m happy with how this turned out.

See you guys in the next chapter

Quick question: How was your first year in uni?

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I remember my first day I was coming to school I was really scared In fact, i was terrified. I kept telling my mom “Let’s just go back home” even though I had already spent two whole years at home doing nothing.

I had so many doubts, but the money had already been paid and my dad definitely would not smile at the idea of backing out.

So, I did what I had to do I forced myself into KolaDaisi University.

Fast forward to October 13, 2025 the beginning of 200 level (Don’t worry, the full gist of 100 level is coming soon I have three-month break to be jobless)

This time I came back to school with a different vibe. The fear that was there at the start was not really there anymore, I was no longer a fresher,I was now what they call a “staylite.”

I was happy,I had friends now,I knew all the ins and outs of my tiny school and to top it all I already knew who my roommates were going to be and that alone made me joyful. But what I didn’t know was that 200 level had both sweet goodies and serious bitter leaf waiting for me.

There were Challenges I didn’t see coming, joy I didn’t think I deserved, tears I didn’t plan for and laughter I’ll never forget.

200 level has to be my best year so far in uni

It started off like a regular year attending lectures, getting food, and heading back to my hostel the same old routine, first semester came by so quickly I can’t really remember what actually happened, I lost one of my favourite friends.

You know it’s such a weird thing to be so close to someone and then within months saying hi becomes uncomfortable especially when it’s a friend you imagined spending five years in university with her by your side. But sometimes you don’t see how toxic someone is until you finally let them go.

200 level second semester was the highlight of my second year.

A lot happened within those three months words can’t even explain how magical and exciting it was,I had a lot of new experiences I can't wait to talk about. It was the semester I found myself, the semester I finally found the confidence to post my writings even though there were just random thoughts, the semester I realized I am worth more than I think I deserve.

I started speaking up more,showing up more,joining clubs,Attending conferences,dressing the way I wanted without worrying what others thought,took my walk with God seriously. Walking with confidence without thinking of how they once mimicked my steps in 100 level to be like that of a crippled girl trying to be a model.

I was becoming the girl my younger self would call a star. I made a lot of new friends,rekindled with the ones I thought I had lost.

I learned to stop thinking so much about what people thought of me or maybe I am still learning. Any way It was the happiest three or four months of my life. Of course, there were times I broke down in fact, I broke down almost all the time.

But thankfully I was surrounded by the most amazing people who never made me feel stupid even when I was the one at fault

Looking back now, I’m proud of myself. Proud of the girl who stepped into university terrified, unsure, and quiet. Proud of the girl who stayed, the girl who pushed through Who kept becoming.

Four semesters gone, six more to go but deep down I know I would be just fine.

Anyway, that’s just a small preview of what two years in KDU looks like. I still have a lot to rant about, so you guys should prepare yourselves.

Campus Confessions has only just started so stay tuned for more. Thanks for reading.

When this year started I made a resolution: to stop crying

It felt like an achievable goal I cried a lot the previous years due to some stupid and valid reasons and honestly I was tired of how easily tears ran down my cheeks it became something so easy and normal for me to do I could cry if someone stepped on me and forgot to say sorry. So I told myself that 2025 would be my year of no tears.i mean I am smarter, older, more in control an I am happier than I was two to three years ago. Handling emotions should be easy peasy right??

Guess what?

I cried on the very day I made the resolution.

It was New Year’s Day, and I cried because I didn’t want to go to the cinema I can't even remember why or who or what happened that very day all I know is I later went I even enjoyed the movie but at that moment it was really intense and I had to cry

Now we are halfway through the year and I am almost certain I have cried 2,000 times or a lot more than that actually.I know dramatic, right? But that is my problem I am very dramatic I turn every moment of my life into a Zee World show. (Extraordinary Everyday)

I cry a lot every time I talk to a certain person (someone I won’t mention). Every conversation with that person always leads to tears and I know it is toxic. But there are some people that are just stuck to you no matter what. Even the Bible forbids you from disrespecting them.

I cried because I thought my aunty hated me. I mean she is my favorite aunty I can't have her hate me. (I won't tell you what I did to think that though.)

I cried on my 19th birthday because a friend didn’t want to watch a movie with me. Okay this time it was her fault. Three hours to my birthday, I told this girl, “Let’s continue the movie we were watching,” and she said no. Like, how could she say no when it was almost time for my birthday?? The tears were valid, right? I was the birthday girl you shouldn't say no to me na

I cried because of my grade even though it was a wrong grade and then again when I found out my real grade even though it was actually better than the first one I still cried don't judge me none of the two grades I saw represented the hard work I put into that exam. (Yeah i started reading a week to the exam so what? Hard work is hard work.)

I cried every single time my roommate fought with me I have this roommate all she does is fight with me, and I love her so much. Like I am not someone you are supposed to fight with. You are supposed to love me right?? (My dad calls this feeling “entitled.” A little bit of entitlement is not bad Dad)

I cried because of a movie. (The main lead actor died. Died!)It was an Indian drama I had to cry

I cried because of a book I read. (The title is Dream Count and Zikora’s part of the story was really traumatizing. Men are scum sha.)

I cried because I did not know what to do Every day I keep thinking of what to do when I finish 200 level I don’t know I do things and drop them I am tired of that (and yes this is a valid reason to cry)

I cried because I kept wondering if I am good enough (People my age... you know what? I’m skipping this one But you get the point)and yes I know I shouldn't compare myself with others

I cried because my family refuses to give me attention or maybe because I just wanted more attention than they give. Like hey, I am right here talk to me It is not hard, right?

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It feels a little ridiculous in fact childish when I see all of it written out like this. But in those moment the tears always feel valid most times, I regret crying

I hate myself for crying every time like it was not that deep Adedoyin my love

But this habit has become a stupid addiction I can't stop.

I even cried before writing this.

I don’t know if I’ll stop crying this year or the next two years sef

I just want to own my emotions and be emotionally strong you know?

But as you guys say it nowadays...

I’m just a girl

So maybe I’ll keep crying.

Maybe I’ll cry 2,000 more times.

(Bad ending I know I’ll update this when I actually stop crying Byeee.)

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Sometimes we get to used at seeking validation we forget who we really are

Today I am writing about something personal,something I have ignored for so long even though it was quite obvious. Something that has slowly become a part of my skin.

I paid money today for something I already had the right to I gave something to someone for a task that was already her duty the task that she did for my mates without asking for a pin. All she had to do was say a few cunning words to get it. It was small something intangible in fact but it woke me up, It reminded me of something I always avoid admitting.

I always say yes even when everything in me wants to say no.

I always act in a way that only shows my good side, the side that makes people say “She is nice,” “She is perfect” I do things I don’t normally do just to please people. Imagine me, someone who originally hates house chores fetching water from a well simply because I didn’t want to say no to someone I had paid a tangible amount to in order to learn a trade from. The funniest part? I gained nothing during the two months I was there.

I always overlook my rights just so other people can be comfortable.

Lately, I’ve come to realize something that’s hard to admit that I am just gullible, they don’t see me as nice they see me as someone they can easily step on, Someone they can give the least to and will still gladly accept it I have become their go-to yes woman.

Now I don’t know who I am anymore,I can’t tell if this is truly my personality or if there is something else in me that wants to be seen. A friend of mine told me, “If you act the way you are people will respect you.” But how will they respect me if I don’t say yes to them? If I don’t try my best to make them notice me? How will i even act the way i am if I don't even know who I am.

I am tired. Tired of discovering parts of myself I thought I had already let go of during those wretched six years of my life. Maybe I need help. Maybe I need a therapist whatever way I need to stop this stupid habit of mine.

😭😭😭😭😭

Seeking validation has become something many of us have but don’t realise.

An addiction that shapes our choices in ways that won’t benefit us.

A disguise that comes as love.

I just don’t want people to get angry.

I just want to keep peace.

But deep down, all we really want is to be loved, to be enough, to be perfect in people’s eye

forgetting that with every yes, a thing or two is being removed from us.

I’m not someone who can give advice because as I said earlier, I possibly need a therapist.

But I recently learnt this that when we constantly seek approval,

we lose little parts of ourselves just to stay seen.