I still remember that conversation with my dad when I was sixteen. We were in the sitting room after dinner. The generator was humming outside. I looked him dead in the eye and told him I was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong. I said it with so much confidence, like I had life figured out. He just nodded slowly and didn’t argue.

Two years later we had another talk, this time in the car on the way to my school. His eyes was on the road and simply said, “You’re old enough to make your own decisions now.”

That was when it started to click for me what adulthood actually is.

It doesn’t knock. It just shows up. One day you’re still trying to find your footing and suddenly everyone expects you to know what you’re doing. What you are supposed to be doing at a particular age, what your mate are already doing and You’re supposed to go with the flow even when you haven’t figured out where the flow is taking you yet.

I remember the first time I noticed how people move. There was a friend from secondary school who would come to my house almost every evening. We would talk for hours about everything and nothing. The day my dad lost his job and things got tight at home, the visits became shorter, then stopped. No big fight. Just silence. That was the first time I understood that some people only stay when the light is good.

You start seeing it everywhere. Some people stay. A lot don’t. You learn that not every conversation needs to go past “hi.” You start recognising who your real friends are, who you can actually trust, and who you should quietly stop calling a friend.

God abeg! So many lessons!

I used to think adulthood was simple. I thought it was when you got the biggest piece of meat at the table on Sundays. When Mama finally let you use the glass plates instead of the plastic ones. When younger cousins began to call you “Aunty” or “Uncle” with that small respect in their voice. And especially when the elders stopped sending you out of the room and actually let you sit and listen, sometimes even speak.

I thought it was just about being treated like a grown-up.

But it’s not.

The real thing is when the decisions become yours. Fully yours. You’re on your own now.

I remember the first time I had to choose between helping my mum in her shop and taking a small weekend job that paid better. I chose the job. The money felt good in my hand that first week, I turned the little I had into something slightly more. But the look on my mother’s face when I said I couldn’t come home that Saturday still sits with me. That was the day I understood that every choice has a cost, even the ones that look smart on paper.

Deciding isn’t easy. Sometimes you genuinely can’t tell if a choice is right, almost right, or completely wrong. You weigh everything and just hope you’re making the best call. You learn that the way people see you can quietly start changing the way you see yourself.

Then the conversations change. People start talking about relationships, standards, marriage, the future. I remember sitting with two friends on the balcony one Harmattan evening, talking about the kind of person we would want to marry like we were already experts. None of us had been in anything serious, but we spoke with such certainty. People who watched us grow up started praying that we “marry well.”

And slowly, you begin to know your own standards. That you’ll accept. What you will never accept.

Then that question comes, usually from an auntie or a lecturer who thinks they’re being helpful:

“Where do you see yourself in the next five years?”

Some people have a full answer ready. Others just say, “When the time comes, I’ll cross that bridge.”

But the scariest part of growing up is realising the bridge is a lot closer than you thought.

I used to watch my older cousins and think their lives belonged to another world, jobs, rent, serious relationships, adult problems. Then one afternoon I caught myself calculating how much I needed for transport and feeding for the month, and it hit me: I had already stepped onto that bridge without noticing.

Maybe that’s what adulthood really is. Not having all the answers. Just learning how to live with the questions. Nobody gives you a manual. You make choices, you mess up, you learn, you adjust, and you keep going. You’re still figuring yourself out while the world keeps moving.

At sixteen I thought being an adult meant knowing right from wrong.

At eighteen I thought it meant being trusted to decide for myself.

Now I’m starting to see that adulthood is knowing there is often no perfect decision, no perfect timing, and no guarantee that the path will turn out the way you planned.

You just choose. You take the step. And you hope you’re ready for whatever is waiting on the other side.

Because the bridge is nearer than you think.

And sometimes you don’t even notice you’ve already started walking toward it.

If I received a birthday party invitation in the late 1990s, I would slip into a satin gown, rock my hoop earrings, style my hair just right, and finish the look with matching low heels and a tiny handbag. But if it was a proper Yoruba wedding, where the real battle of gele, fila, and exquisite lace took place, I would wear a full iro and bùbá made of Swiss lace, step into my heels, tie my gele to perfection, add my accessories like coral beads, gold jewellery, and matching bag, and make a grand entrance. How you no go know say I don arrive?

That era, from the late 1990s into the early 2000s, was the golden age of Nigerian style. It was elegant, colourful, and uniquely ours, a seamless blend of deep cultural roots and Western influences.

Lace was the undisputed queen.

Among fabrics like Ankara, Damask, and George, lace stood at the very top — the ultimate prestige material and the real ticket to any owambe. No quality lace, no proper entry. Available in different types: dry lace, Swiss lace, cord lace and French lace. Women transformed it into stunning iro and bùbá, elegant skirt-and-blouse sets, or flowing gowns, always completed with a perfectly tied gele, coral beads, statement jewellery, and a matching handbag or clutch. Men held their own in rich lace agbádá with sokoto and a sharp fila. Whether at weddings, naming ceremonies, or high-profile parties, lace and the full traditional accessories announced your presence before you even spoke.

Then there was the music, the heartbeat of the time.

Fuji, Apala, Juju, Afrojuju, Highlife, and the emerging sounds of Hip-hop, R&B, and early Afrobeats filled the air. Legends like the late Sikiru Ayinde Barrister (the father of Fuji), K1 De Ultimate, Sir Shina Peters (king of Afrojuju), King Sunny Ade, General Kollington Ayinla, Yinka Ayefele, Tony Tetuila, 2Face Idibia, P-Square, D’banj, and Styl-Plus dominated the scene.

Their songs did more than entertain — they told stories, praised achievers, taught morals, celebrated love and struggle, and kept Yoruba culture alive. Live bands took it to another level. The booming gángan (talking drum), bàtá, guitars, and percussion turned ordinary venues into unforgettable arenas of joy. International influences like Michael Jackson, Madonna, Celine Dion, R. Kelly, Brandy, 2Pac, and Sean Paul, mixed seamlessly with local sounds, creating a soundtrack that still moves generations.

Hairstyles celebrated African beauty unapologetically: kòróbá, ṣùkú, tiny weaving, Ghana weaving, and intricate braids that remain timeless today.

The cars and finishing touches completed the picture.

Mercedes-Benz (affectionately called “First Lady”), Peugeot 504, 505, and 406, Honda “Baby Boy,” Toyota Avalon, and the iconic Volkswagen Beetle (Ijapa) ruled the roads. Tokunbo imports from Europe and America became symbols of success. People took pride in spotless, polished rides. When an important guest pulled up, heads turned. Cars were intentionally packed by the owners where everyone would see, indeed they were the talk of the town.

Western fashion added its own flavour. Ladies rocked bootcut jeans with sequined camisoles, tube tops, denim jackets, capri pants, mini skirts, satin dresses, and low-rise jeans, paired with pointed heels, platform sandals, hoop earrings, chokers, glossy lips — and those signature tiny handbags or embellished purses that completed every outfit. The guys flexed in oversized jeans, baggy trousers, leather jackets, denim-on-denim, polo shirts, jerseys, Timberland boots, durags, bucket hats, and gold chains. Sun shades/tinted glasses of different shapes and sizes, were often used even when there's no sun. Looking fresh wasn’t optional, it was the lifestyle.

The late 1990s and early 2000s weren’t just a period; they were a complete culture of elegance, rhythm, and celebration. Whether you were draped in lace and gele with the perfect matching bag at an owambe or stepping out in satin and denim for a birthday party, you showed up looking your absolute best.

What’s beautiful is how today’s Gen Z now borrow heavily from that era, rocking iro and bùbá, lace, aso-oke, bootcut jeans, satin gowns, hoop earrings, tiny vintage-style bags, old-school hairstyles, coral beads, and even hunting down clean Tokunbo rides or “First Lady” Mercedes just to flex. The music too is back on heavy rotation.

In short, the children are not only home, they came with their own spices, plenty of TikTok energy, and sometimes questionable gele-tying skills. But the faaji? The faaji never left. It was only waiting for new legs to dance on.

Those truly were the days.

Femi took me to the doctor himself. He said the man was discreet ,a “family friend.” As we drove there, one question kept ringing in my head: How many girls has he brought here before me?

Before the procedure, I closed my eyes and whispered a desperate prayer.

“God, if You see me through this, I promise I will never go back to him. I will never make this mistake again.”

The abortion was successful. Physically, I healed. Emotionally, I buried the pain under Femi’s constant reassurance. He stayed by my side, promising me the future I wanted so badly to believe in.

“We’ll get married,” he would whisper. “This was just bad timing.”

By the time I entered my final year, life had almost returned to normal.

Until the second pregnancy.

This time the fear felt heavier. I was in my final year, graduation so close, yet I wanted to keep the baby. I begged him. But Femi used the same calm logic, my education, my parents, our future together. “Just one more,” he said softly. “Then we’ll settle down and have as many children as you want.”

Against every voice inside me, I agreed.

The third pregnancy came even faster. By then I was exhausted in body and soul. When I told him, he held me and repeated the familiar promise:

“Just this once more. We’re almost there, baby. I can’t wait to call you my wife.”

I let him convince me again.

Three pregnancies.

Three abortions.

Three pieces of me I would never get back.

Yet I still stayed. I still believed in “us.”

Then one afternoon, while Femi stepped outside to take a call, his other phone buzzed beside me on the bed. I wasn’t snooping, but the screen lit up.

*Baba* : _Three sacrifices completed. The blood of the rejected ones has been accepted. Your wealth and long life ritual is now sealed. Bring her for the final thanksgiving._

The words refused to make sense. A cold sweat broke across my skin. My hands shook violently.

Every “I love you.”

Every promise of marriage.

Every gentle reassurance after each procedure…

All of it was a lie.

What if I had only been a vessel for his ritual?

The room began to spin.

I heard his footsteps returning.

I quickly placed the phone back and forced myself to look normal. When he walked in, he smiled at me the same way he always did.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

For the first time since I met him, I was terrified of the man I loved.

Where do I even begin?

How was I supposed to say it?

A million thoughts raced through my mind, but none of them sounded right.

I texted Femi.

"I need to see you. It's very urgent."

He replied the following morning, saying he was already in front of my hostel.

We sat in his car in silence. My heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear myself think.

"I went to the hospital," I finally said. "I'm pregnant."

To my surprise, he didn't panic.

He didn't raise his voice.

He simply sighed and looked straight ahead.

"I think you should abort the baby."

The words hit me harder than I expected.

He went on to paint a picture of what my life would become if I decided to keep the pregnancy.

"You are not the first person to get pregnant in a situation like this," he said quietly. "And you definitely won't be the last. Think about your parents. Imagine how disappointed they'll be. Your siblings... your friends... your education. Everything you've worked for could change overnight. Eventually, you might even begin to resent both yourself and the baby."

I sat there, staring at him.

Then I asked the only question that mattered.

"And where do you fit into all of this?"

He turned to me and said,

"I'll be with you. As much as I'd love for us to have a family someday, this isn't the right time. Keeping this baby will change both our lives forever."

A voice inside me wanted to scream back at him.

Another part of me wanted to believe he was right.

I was confused.

I didn't know what to do.

Time wasn't waiting for me. Every passing week brought me closer to the moment when my secret would no longer be mine to hide.

As painful as it was, I found myself thinking about everything Femi had said.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe keeping the baby would turn my life upside down.

Then I remembered my mother.

Shehad called me not long before all of this. She prayed for me, advised me, and reminded me to be careful. At the time, I brushed her words aside.

Now they echoed in my heart.

The guilt was unbearable.

I felt like I had failed her.

Failed myself.

That night, after hours of crying, praying, and wrestling with my thoughts, I made a decision I never imagined I would have to make.

I decided to end the pregnancy.

Little did I know...

That decision would become the beginning of the darkest chapter of my life.

On this fateful day, I visited Femi in his apartment after he texted that he wasn’t feeling well. His voice on the phone had been so weak I didn’t even think twice. I rushed over with a spare key, moving quietly so I wouldn’t wake him.

I headed straight to the kitchen. Omo, things we do for love. I prepared his favourite pepper soup, the aroma filling the small apartment like a warm hug.

When the food was ready, I gently shook him awake.

“Food or you?” he asked, voice hoarse but eyes playful.

I rolled my eyes and laughed. I sat beside him, kissed him… and the kiss lingered. One thing led to another. Clothes came off slowly, almost reverently. He paused, searching my eyes.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. “Are you really ready for this?”

I nodded. In that moment, I gave myself completely to the man I believed would be my forever. My heart was doing the thinking instead of my brain.

…

Weeks later, the nausea started. Morning after morning I was bent over the toilet. I told myself it was malaria. I bought drugs, took them religiously. Nothing changed.

Then my period didn’t come.

My heart began beating differently, like it knew before my brain did. I bought a pregnancy test but couldn’t bring myself to pee on it. Instead, I went straight to the hospital.

The doctor smiled warmly after the test. “Positive. Congratulations!”

I stared at her, the room spinning. She kept talking, register for antenatal, come with your husband for the scan, you didn’t impregnate yourself, etc, but her voice sounded far away.

Ésìn dé.

How do I tell my parents?

What happens to my education? What about my dream...my career...my future?

Everything I had worked for suddenly felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

That night, I lay in bed replaying every sweet moment with Femi, the way he introduced me to his friends and how they call me "Our wife” how safe I felt in his arms. Now those memories tasted bitter. I imagined what my parents reaction would be, how disappointed they would be, I have bought shame to them.

I finally sent him a message: “We need to talk. It’s very urgent ", but he was offline.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

Once again…

My village people has succeeded.

What have I done?

When I finally got back to my room that night, the weight of what I had done hit me. I wished I could undo everything, but some mistakes can’t be reversed. I felt cheap. I had almost had sex in an open area with a guy who hadn’t even asked me out, let alone talked about marriage. That night, I prayed earnestly to God to take Femi off my mind and out of my path.

I didn’t reply to his texts. My phone kept buzzing until it felt like it would explode. Eventually, I blocked him, hoping our paths would never cross again.

We didn’t cross paths for a while. I felt relieved, yet his absence somehow distracted me even more. I kept replaying mental conversations: What is he doing now? Is he kissing another girl? Does he ever think about me?

I never told my friends or anyone what happened, it stayed between me and my conscience.

I thought I could hide forever, until that bright sunny Wednesday afternoon. I had a 3 p.m. class I wasn’t excited about. I arrived early, sat in front with my headphones on, waiting for the lecturer. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him, Femi.

My breath caught in my throat. He smiled and gently rubbed my shoulder. The lecturer’s voice snapped me back to reality, but I couldn’t concentrate. The lecture felt shorter than usual. Then he took the seat right next to me. I was pressed. Omo, village people are really after me.

He leaned in and asked why I blocked him. I stayed silent. He continued softly, “I *never regretted the time we spent together, especially that night. It wasn’t a mistake. But if my company makes you uncomfortable, I’ll respect that. I just wanted you to know how I feel about you. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a long time.”*

I was stunned. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad. He kissed me lightly on the cheek and left.

That was when I realized the whole class had been watching. My friends immediately started teasing me, giggling. “Spill the tea!” “He is so fine!” I couldn’t help but smile. I told them he had basically asked me out. After listening to their excited advice, I went back to my hostel replaying his words. Maybe he is the one for me. I love him, and he loves me too.

Two days later, I unblocked him. When I called, he sounded so happy. If only I had known…

We started dating with one clear agreement: no sex. He accepted. We spent time together and were genuinely happy until that fateful day…

I find myself doing the very things I judge other girls for.

I had just broken up with my boyfriend of one year of talking stage and three months of actual dating. Men will stain your white cloth, I swear. I was sad and broken, but I forced myself to move on. I acted like everything was cool. I wore my makeup perfectly, slipped into my sexiest clothes, hoping that if he ever saw me, he would regret everything. But I never saw him.

One evening, I went for a walk to clear my head. That was when I noticed someone following me. My heart jumped. I quickly hid my long Android phone deep in my inner pocket. He kept coming closer until we were walking side by side. Then he smiled at me and God, that smile was like a dream. He asked for my name and I told him without thinking twice. His eyes were so innocent, like a puppy’s. He was a few inches taller than me, dark-skinned, with a fresh haircut, and he smelled like morning spring rain.

He asked for my number and walked me all the way back to my hostel. Before I even entered my room, his text came in. I was beaming like a small child promised ice cream. We started talking that night. He texted and called like his life depended on hearing my voice. My heart began doing gbim-gbim rhythm, but my brain kept whispering, “You don’t even know this boy.” Omoh, I never learn.

We started hanging out, evening walks, movie dates, random outings. It felt like I was dreaming. My friends noticed the change in me. They were happy but warned me to be careful. He was a year above me in school. I began seeing him as more than a friend, and I hoped he saw me the same way. I didn’t even know if it was love or lust, but I told myself to just flow with it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Three months of sweet, cool moments. One evening, after walking for a while, we sat in a quiet, hidden place. He was staring at me so deeply I had to ask why. He said, “If only you knew what I want to do to you right now.” I smiled like a fool. Before I could think, we were kissing, it was deep, hungry, and intense. I found myself on his lap. He held me tightly, pinning my hands behind my back, caressing my neck and the nape of my ears. His other hand slid under my gown, moving slowly up my thighs.

I wanted to stop… but I was already lost between heaven and earth. His fingers pushed my underwear aside. The moment he touched me there, a soft moan escaped my lips. His eyes were filled with raw pleasure, mine with lust, while my mind was already heavy with regret. This was the exact thing I had promised myself I would never do until my wedding night. 😭

He stopped when we saw a figure approaching. We quickly adjusted our clothes and left. I felt ashamed and pleased at the same time. He walked me back to my hostel. That night was the beginning of it all.

Damn it,

that cold sea is where true healing lives,

its depths dark and merciless,

yet the only place where broken things mend.

We were too cowardly to face it,

too afraid to plunge beneath the skin of waves.

We skimmed the surface of love like cowards,

barely brushing its salt and fire,

feeding each other hollow excuses —

Time and distance

sweet, pathetic lies

while our ship groaned and splintered,

timbers cracking beneath our feet,

sinking slow into the black.

I felt it then,

the moment we lost all control,

the hull giving way,

panic rising like freezing water,

helplessness swallowing the sky,

the devastating finality

crashing over me.

My heart shattered in that instant,

a thousand pieces lost to the tide,

and still the sea calls,

cold and honest,

waiting for the brave.

They return in pieces,

not as they left,

but exactly as they were—

unpolished, alive, refusing to fade.

In laughter that came too easily,

spilling over quiet rooms like sunlight,

in arguments that burned too bright and fast,

leaving smoke in the air for days,

in silence after too much was said,

and the heavier silence of all that wasn’t.

There were smiles that felt like home,

warm thresholds I could step through,

and moments that tasted like leaving,

the door half-closed, the light shifting.

Sharp edges of words we regretted,

soft apologies whispered in the dark,

hands that held too tightly,

as if grip alone could stop time,

hands that let go too soon,

slipping through mine like water.

Now it all comes back in flashes,

unexpected and unbidden,

a voice without a body,

echoing in ordinary places,

a scent that arrives on the wind,

a feeling without a name,

settling heavy in the chest.

The good stays, luminous and stubborn.

The bad stays too, honest and raw.

Woven together, thread by thread,

inseparable, unfinished,

a tapestry I keep returning to

in the quiet hours before sleep,

in the crowded hours of the day.

And somehow, in all that remains—

in the empty chair, the unread messages,

in the songs that still play and the stories I tell—

so do you.

In my little red dress,

he caught me in his gaze.

He approached, took my hand with quiet grace,

and asked me to dance.

I had never felt so seen.

I said yes.

The night turned golden.

We spun beneath soft lights,

our laughter weaving through the music.

He walked me home and draped his jacket over my shoulders.

It carried his scent—warm, familiar, almost heavenly.

I kept it.

From that spark, our story unfolded.

Bacon sizzling on quiet mornings.

Coffee waiting on my desk with a handwritten note.

Fancy dinners. Movie dates beneath flickering screens.

Flowers on Tuesdays, simply because.

I read my poems aloud.

He listened as though every word was sacred.

We fought.

We forgave.

We laughed even harder.

He was gentle with my heart.

Then one day, he knelt on one knee.

We built a life together—two beautiful children, quiet mornings, loud holidays, and the privilege of growing old hand in hand.

A tap on my shoulder.

I startled back to the present.

He was only a passerby,

already disappearing into the crowd.

And still, I smiled...

holding on to the ghost of his jacket.

Smile, say cheese,

Chakam.

Flash.

Words from the photographer,

clicking away like he owns the light.

The camera captured every happy moment—

perfect teeth, raised glasses, laughter frozen in time.

But it left the quiet unhappy ones behind:

the tremble in my hands, the silence after the jokes,

the way my eyes drift when no one’s watching.

When everyone leaves, the music dies,

I remain just me,

returning to my crib full of thoughts that won’t shut up.

A side no camera can ever capture,

no filter can soften,

no caption can explain.

I thought I could fly.

So I stepped off the golden edge,

arms wide like the stories promised.

The wind rushed past, cold and honest.

Nobody cried.

No one even noticed the fall.

If I could change the way I see myself—

strip away the expectations, the borrowed smiles,

the weight of every “you should”

I wouldn’t let anybody know.

They only want pieces they can use,

a little light to warm their own hands.

And I don’t want to dim down.

Not for them.

Not for the frame.

Not even for the version of me

that learned how to smile on command.

Iya ni iya mi,

Abiamo gbo ja gboro gboro.

My mother — a rare and priceless gemstone,

The quiet miracle I get to call my own.

For nine sacred months you carried me in your womb,

Bearing every discomfort, every pain, every fear in silence,

So I could come into this world wrapped in your love.

Even when your back screamed from exhaustion,

You tied me close and kept walking,

Feeding me from your own body —

The warm, selfless milk that gave me strength and life.

You sacrificed your sleep, your comfort, your peace,

Waking in the cold hours of the night

Just to watch my chest rise and fall.

When fever turned my small body into a furnace,

Your heart broke a thousand times in one night,

Tears hidden while you whispered prayers over me.

No one else has loved me so completely.

No one else has given so much without ever asking for anything in return.

Your sacrifices run deeper than the ocean,

And sometimes I lie awake wondering how I can ever repay such pure love.

Through every storm you looked at me with tired but hopeful eyes and said:

“Cheer up, my child. Lift your face and face life.

No matter how heavy the load, never forget to smile.”

The road is rough, life can be cruel and unforgiving,

It has knocked me down more times than I can count.

But in every dark moment, I remember your voice,

I feel your unseen hand on my back,

And I rise again — because I carry your strength inside me.

Maami, you are my first home, my greatest blessing,

My unbreakable anchor in every raging sea.

Even when words fail me, my heart overflows with gratitude.

Thank you for choosing me, for loving me, for never giving up on me.

I love you more than yesterday,

And I will love you even more tomorrow.

The first one felt like love,

a strange flutter in my chest,

my heart learning a dangerous new rhythm.

They called it love, so I gave it a chance.

It was sweet, but short-lived.

When it ended, I thought I could never stop loving him.

Maybe I never have.

The second came to bury the ghost of the first.

My heart raced again, desperate and hopeful.

He treated me well, gave me almost everything I wanted,

but I was still not enough.

So I slipped back into loneliness’s familiar ache.

The third arrived like a promise.

He found me when I had sworn I’d never love again.

I let him in.

Then he vanished without a goodbye,

leaving my heart shattered across the floor.

Yet still I dance, love’s willing fool,

in rapture’s sweet, unending school.

I love love,

but experience has taught me it isn’t the gentle storybook lie.

Maybe it isn’t real,

or maybe I simply cannot earn it.

Perhaps I’m too fragile—too quick to mistake

a spark for something eternal.

It is easier to love than to be loved.

Every time I open my hands and pour myself out,

I end up empty once more.

I fear I’ve given away all the love I had left.

My body resists. My mind resists.

Only my heart still leaps—reckless, ready.

I don’t want to fall anymore.

I’ve learned to choose myself first.

Because I no longer believe

I’ll ever be enough for someone to stay.

So I step back.

No more regret.

Just me, quietly guarding what remains.

She’s her mother’s day,

blooming slow then sudden.

It starts with height — legs stretching past old hems,

then her body parts awaken,

curves signing a contract she never read.

Now she is recognized as woman,

a topic whispered in the market square.

Everyone embraces her growth,

hands clapping like they own the harvest.

Men call her pretty, voices low and sticky.

Younger ones look up, measuring their future against her waist.

Her peers envy in silence,

green eyes sharp as broken bottles.

The society names her Ripe.

But the truth is heavier than praise:

it was never only her body that changed.

Her friends shifted like seasons,

some staying, some falling away.

Her lifestyle cracked open — new rules, new eyes.

Her thoughts grew teeth overnight,

biting into questions she once outran.

I used to think adulthood was freedom,

wide as the sky, sweet as stolen mango.

The largest portion served on a special plate,

big meat glistening, no one to say “enough.”

I thought it would be easy,

just walk through the door and the world hands you the key.

Now I see the plate is heavier than it looks.

The meat comes with bones you must break yourself.

Freedom is not the absence of chains

but choosing which ones you carry.

The world that once looked away

now watches every bite you take.

She walks taller these days,

but some evenings she folds back into yesterday,

small girl behind her mother’s legs,

safe from the hunger of being seen.

Other mornings she rises anyway,

learning the strange power

of a body and a life

that can no longer be hidden.

I was talking with a friend recently when he asked about my dreams. I shared mine openly, but he admitted he wasn’t sure about his own. That conversation stayed with me and raised many questions: How does one actually achieve their goals? How does one become their ideal self? Do we truly know ourselves? And how do we discover our real dreams and purpose in life?

The answer is simpler than it seems: your purpose already sits within you. Your dreams are right there in your palms, you just have to uncover them. Life is dynamic. At different stages, we chase different versions of ourselves.

In primary school, I wanted to be almost everything. A lawyer, doctor, pilot, accountant, journalist, music producer, even a basketballer — despite knowing almost nothing about the game. Those dreams felt so real and exciting because they represented possibility. I admired the confidence of lawyers arguing in court, the respect doctors commanded, the adventure pilots embodied, and the creativity I saw in musicians. They were inspired by stories, television, and the successes I witnessed around me. Childhood dreams like these are beautiful because they come with no limits — just pure wonder and belief that you could become anything.

Some people actually fulfilled those early ambitions. Others drifted into completely different worlds. And many are still figuring it out.

I finished primary school set on becoming a lawyer. By secondary school, that dream had shifted. I was good at math, so I convinced myself engineering was the way. “Shebi na only math I go need,” I thought. When it was time to choose a department, I picked science. Not long after, I started regretting it , especially when chemistry introduced me to the nightmare of salt analysis. 😂 I whispered to myself, “I for don go art class jare.”

By the end of secondary school, I had fallen in love with a new idea: becoming a therapist or psychologist after reading a book that changed how I saw the human mind. But when JAMB time came, the allure of the title “Doctor” won. I chose Medicine and Surgery. My result, of course, was nowhere near the cutoff.

When I decided to switch to Psychology, I faced strong societal pressure. People told me I wouldn’t find a good job and advised me to either change my university or resit JAMB. I could have succumbed to that pressure, but I knew what I wanted was not what society wanted for me. The truth is, many people’s lives are shaped more by what society expects and how society will react than by their own inner perception and desires.

Today, I’m studying psychology and I’m at peace with that choice.

This is not a polished success story. It’s an honest reminder: you must choose what you love. Life has a way of quietly robbing you of your choices and leaving you with comfortable excuses like “I don’t have a choice.” The truth is, there is almost always a choice. You just have to see it and take it. The universe will take from you if you are not ready to take from it.

Life is like hide and seek. You play, and along the way, either you find yourself or life finds you and hands you an alternative. That alternative may bring comfort, status, or even luxury. But what is luxury without happiness? What is success when regret quietly eats you from the inside?

At every crossroads, remember this: the decision you make will either build you or haunt you for years. Life has already decided many things for you. It is time to fight back.

She’s Black,

Young and beautiful,

Her beauty born of quiet strength.

Skin like glistening diamonds,

Silky under the sun’s honest gaze.

Talented. Rare. Precious.

The best thing in this world.

She never dreamed of being anybody’s wife.

They told her she belongs in the kitchen,

She belongs at home,

Obedient, silent, grateful.

Traded for an expensive dowry,

Her body no longer her own —

Spread your legs when he wants,

Birth children like a pig,

Cook, clean, and disappear.

Society said: “Be thankful.

Not every girl your age marries rich.”

At night she sobs alone,

Quiet storms rattling her chest,

Dreams denied, opportunities buried,

Forced to live a life she never chose.

Years folded into decades.

Brown skin now etched with rivers of time,

Hands once trembling in secret tears

Now strong, calloused, steady.

She raised the children,

Watched her dreams dissolve in steam and sacrifice,

Buried a husband with the weight of expectations.

Society still called it duty.

She called it survival.

Yet on the old veranda, under the same moon

That once witnessed her silent cries,

She rocks gently and tells her granddaughters:

“Never let them trade you for gold and cattle.

Your wings were never made for cages.”

Her beauty changed form ,

No longer fresh diamonds,

But deep-rooted mahogany,

Scarred, wise, and unbreakable.

She never became the wife they demanded,

But she became the ancestor they feared —

The Brown Skin Girl who planted quiet rebellion

In every daughter brave enough to dream.

It’s 3 a.m. again.

I’m lying in my room, staring at the ceiling swallowed by darkness,

a faint dim light barely breathing in the corner.

Headphones pressed into my ears,

hands trembling, tears sliding silently down my face.

I’m running from myself ,

from the thoughts that won’t let go.

Trapped again. Nothing reaches me anymore.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling:

emptiness… depression… anxiety…

or just the heavy fog of all three.

Maybe I’m overthinking.

I imagine it, replay it, and it becomes real.

Please don’t wake me.

This imaginary world is the only place I still feel safe.

I live there now.

Words have grown heavy and useless.

Talking doesn’t help anymore —

it only reminds me I’m not the only one drowning.

My heart pounds like it’s about to stop,

like something unseen is chasing me through the night.

I can feel it in my chest.

I’m sinking.

The Moon mocks me with its cold glow.

The sun burns too harshly when it rises,

and the stars have lost their shine.

My patience has been stretched thin,

tested beyond what I thought I could bear.

There are truths I may never know.

I keep asking if life is worth this endless labor.

I overthink without thinking clearly.

I’ve been lied to, denied,

and told I would be fine —

but when?

Weeks ago, a friend of my roommate died. I barely knew him, yet when the news reached her, it left my roommate deeply sad, Her laughter faded, her eyes grew heavy, and somehow her grief quietly became mine too. It’s true what they say another person’s mood can seep into you without warning, like an invisible current. In that moment, I felt a kind of mudita in reverse: not sympathetic joy, but sympathetic sorrow. Her sadness opened a flood of questions that I’m still carrying with me.

Why do we grieve people? Is it because their absence reminds us we will never see them again, never share another conversation or moment? Or does it whisper that we ourselves are one step closer to our own death, that life is more fragile than we admit? I wonder if the people we lose are truly at peace wherever they are now. Do they watch over us? Would they want us to cry and carry this weight for a long time, or would they prefer we find peace and continue living fully?

Grief looks different on everyone. Some people pour out their sorrow openly: they cry, wail, and mourn for days, weeks, or even years, letting the emotions flow like a river. Others retreat into quiet stillness. Their faces become blank, showing neither deep sadness nor forced happiness. No tears, no dramatic scenes; they simply endure, going through the motions of daily life. Does this mean the ones who cry loudly are being dramatic or overly emotional? Does the silence of others make them seem nonchalant or cold? The truth is simpler and kinder: we all grieve differently. There is no single right way. Our personalities, cultures, past experiences, and even the circumstances of the loss shape how we respond.

These moments of loss make me pause and reflect on bigger things. How often does death visit our thoughts, randomly in the middle of an ordinary day, or only when it forces its way in through bad news? Most of us know, at least intellectually, that death is inevitable. Yet many people live as if it can be avoided, outsmarted, or pushed into a distant corner. Is there truly another world beyond this one? If so, I hope it is beautiful and peaceful, far removed from the cold and often cruel realities we face here. Will we come back in some form after we die, or is this life a one-time journey?

It surprises me how strongly people crave heaven. Like the promise of great riches, everyone wants it, yet not everyone feels certain they will reach it. I’ve seen loved ones collapse in tears and wails when they lose someone close. Some even say in their pain that they wish to follow the deceased. Yet the deeper truth remains: almost no one truly wants to die. We hold tightly to this life despite its hardships.

Burials reveal the heart’s contradictions so clearly. At the graveside, raw pain takes over. People cry as the body is lowered for that final look, the moment heavy with finality. Then, often quite soon after, the same people gather at the reception. They eat, drink, share stories, dance, and even laugh as life begins to move forward again. You hear words like “He lived a good life,” even though none of us can truly know the complete story of someone else’s days—its joys, struggles, and private moments.

We pray for the departed with sincere hopes: that they are in a better place, that God shows mercy and overlooks their human shortcomings. But the teachings in the Quran, the Bible, and traditional (Ifa) are clear about accountability. Whatever we do in this life, we will reap the results. Judgment comes, balanced with the possibility of grace.

In the middle of all these questions and contradictions, I’m slowly learning that grief doesn’t need to be solved or fixed. It is part of being human—a reminder of how connected we are, and how important it is to live with more kindness, presence, and appreciation while we are here. The world stays complicated, but these reflections bring a quiet kind of understanding.