It was after evening prep in your dark classroom, the generator that powered the classes had been shut off about three minutes ago, and the boy you usually tutored every evening had used the opportunity to assault your mouth with his tongue as you packed your Literature textbook into your backpack.

You still remember the distinct taste of fried fish that must have hitched on his breath after your dinner of rice and fish stew from the cafeteria.

At first the kiss had stunned you, but you had expected it after his repeated hints at how beautiful your glossed lips looked, and his passive comments on how plump your lips were.

You try hard to lean into it, to enjoy the onslaught, but all you can think of is how much warm salt water you’re going to gurgle and how hard you’ll brush your tongue when you get back to your hostel.

His left hand reaches to cradle your face and you wince, praying for the torture to end. You wonder where your friends are, you all walk back to your rooms together, why haven’t they looked for you today? Today when you desperately need their meddling affection.

At this point you feel like you’ve been at this for hours, but in actuality the kiss hasn’t gone on for even two minutes. There is no need for the matron to start looking for you, he still has time to exact his damage.

Your mind drifts away to how you’ll have to explain your swollen lips to your friends, and your absence from the daily ritual of walking to your hostels together.

You know you’ll never look at fish stew the same way again, the taste still reminds you of the cold January night in SS2B, and the struggle against the boy’s sloppy mouth.

He finally breaks away when the light from one of the security mens’ flashlight casts a shadow through one of the windows. He barely gives you time to catch his breath when he scampers out of the class with his backpack half open, leaving you sitting there, the lower half of your mouth swollen like you’d been stung by a bee, and still trying to process what had just happened.

It was in that moment you promised yourself to never again lock lips with another soul, you had suffered enough tragedy

.

It’s a cool harmattan evening, and Moremi hums along to the smooth R&B music that flows out of her vintage vinyl record player. Her hips sway to the rhythm as she stirs the pot of egusi that’s been bubbling away on the stove. The silky soft wraps of pounded yam have been mounted into her favorite flask as she waits for her loved to get home from his long day of work.

Her paintings are dusted, her plants are watered, and her phone is set to Do Not Disturb. Acrylic bangles clank against her slender wrists as she places the finishing touches on the dining table.

She has put two bottles of Chivita Berry Blast and one bottle of wine in her fridge to cool, and the table is set to five-star perfection. Scented candles line the kitchen island and dining room, giving the room a romantic hue, and filling the air with wisps of vanilla and lavender.

Everything is set to standard.

She turns off the burner and heads to her room to freshen up, and that’s when she hears the front door open and Adinoyi’s voice mixes with the music and climbs into Moremi’s ears. A large smile breaks across her face, her lover is home. They greet with a kiss and soon enough they settle down to eat.

Dinner is filled with tales from Adi’s day at work; from the customer he had to take to the police station because he had an outstanding debt of 500k, to the business deal he had closed which would land him a turnover of 7 million Naira. Moremi tells him of her client who had invested 2 million Naira into a pyramid scheme which had crashed and was seeking to sue his co-worker who had begged him to register under him.

Slowly the conversation snakes into more intimate tales; fantasies of their forthcoming marriage, of children running around their house, of growing old together in matching rocking chairs.

Moremi stands and drags Adinoyi to sway to the soothing music with their wine glasses in hand. As Adi sips his wine and stares into Moremi’s eyes, Brandy’s ‘I Wanna Be Down’ plays, and for a moment she believes perfection exists, and it exists in her love.

I lost my mother when she called me witch when I was nine. I was dutifully washing the plates we had used to eat dinner when my grandmother’s China slipped through my tiny fingers and crashed to the linoleum floor. My father had to physically restrain her from beating me with a turning stick after I had turned limp on the kitchen floor. My body might have healed from the beating, but the title of ogbanje floated over my head forever.

The next time I had lost my mother was when I got my first period. Eleven years old, limbs jutting out, acne plaguing my face, and the promise of breasts on my once flat chest. I ran to her room in the early hours of a Saturday. She snores lightly until I gently shook her by the shoulders. ‘Mummy, there is blood, I have started my period.’ I could barely register the movements my hands were carrying out, the words my mouth was saying, my head was delirious with pain, no one had ever told me I’d feel this much pain. ‘What is it you this girl? Can’t you see that I’m sleeping? Are you the first person to start menses? Leave this place!’ I was dumbfounded, but slowly found my way to the bathroom and took some of her pads.

‘Kehinde Sybil Ayomikun, overall best graduating student!’ I slowly walked up to the podium, expecting my mum to rush and take pictures with me. Perhaps this was the next time I lost my mother. I didn’t smile in a single photo.

Perhaps the next time I lost my mother was at my friend’s daughter’s naming ceremony. I had seen the longing in her eyes when Fareedah held her daughter in her arms. The accusing look that said ‘Why can’t you be like Fareedah ehn? What kind of girl wants to become a petrochemical engineer?’ The way she danced and drank to hide her jealousy and sorrow. The way she threw the jotter we had been given as a souvenir.

I had lost my mother when I told her about a job offer overseas. ‘Ah, you are going to work in Germany keh? Me and your father nko? Why is God punishing me like this?’ Not once did she offer her congratulations. Not once did she pray for me like she did when my cousin got married. At this point it was clear what my mother thought of me, I was a punishment for all her sins, a form of retribution for her shortcomings.

The last time I lost my mother was when I stared into her face as she lay in her mahogany casket. She looked like she was asleep, her skin was ashy, not the glossy portrait I was so accustomed to seeing. Her hands laid entwined on her stomach, the gold wedding band she and my father had exchanged thirty-seven years ago still shimmered in the low light of the funeral home. She had aged over thirty years since I last saw her twelve years ago since I left for my job.

Perhaps the first time I had lost my mother was not when she lost hers. Maybe it was when she had spent the most grueling eighteen hours of her life birthing the precious twins she had waited nine months for, only to be told that only one survived. Maybe it was when she held Taiwo’s lifeless body in her hands and trembled from shock and sobs. Maybe it was when she realized that her son had not survived, and she had been left with the alternative. That was probably the first time I had lost my mother, and all it did was make me lose her over and over again.

.

Uwaifo knew that as she stared at the steady stream of blood that gathered into a pool on the patch of red earth. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew that her friends were dead.

All her life she had been told that tragedy followed her wherever she went, from her mother dying after her birth, to her best friend killing herself at 17 years old, and her father’s house bursting up in flames when she turned 20. Uwaifo had almost started to believe that the curse of tragedy had left her after leading a peaceful life for the past 6 years, but life was oh so swift to remind her that destiny is not merely a line drawn on paper, but a statement written in stone.

Her nostrils filled with the acrid fumes from the burnt tires, and leaking gasoline, and the metallic smell of blood.

The banging in her head had played a rhythmic tune that woke her up from her accident-induced sleep. The reflection from the car’s headlights hurt her eyes.

She wanted to call out to her friends but all she could manage was a weak moan.

Uwaifo knew she needed to get out of the wreckage, find her way back to the road, get some help for her friends, but she could not muster the strength to get up, but for some reason she couldn’t.

Her vision swam before her eyes, and all she could hold on to were flashes of memories, of the night before, of the actions that led to she and her three friends laying in an upturned car in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.

She slowly dragged herself out of the open car window with all the force she had left in her, and a helping from a kick of adrenaline. Maybe this was the end.

Maybe she’d never get a taste of her mother’s catfish pepper soup again, maybe she’d never hold her sister’s son again, maybe she’d never dance to The Cavemen with Obembe again.

A cough startled her from her reverie, followed by a weak ‘Ifo, they are gone oh’. Uwaifo turned to look at Akin, a large scar running the length of his forehead had painted his face with blood, and streaks of tears had ran through his blood-covered face.

‘Bimbo was pregnant, she told me last week, she was so happy, so, so happy,’ Akin’s voice broke on the last word.

Uwaifo’s heart broke into a million pieces all over again.

Guilt washed over her like a flood, she had convinced Bimbo to come along, she felt every bit responsible for her unborn baby’s life.

Uwaifo heard an ear-piercing scream, and it took her a while to realize it was coming from her. Akin slowly pulled her up from the crouching position she had taken and held her as she sobbed, slowly rubbing circles in her back.

She didn’t want to look back at her and see their mangled bodies. She wanted to preserve their memories, to always think about Bimbo’s smile and Onye’s scowl.

‘What do we going to do Akin?’

‘I don’t know Ifo, I don’t know.’

As the gentle waves of the ocean lick her toes and graze her ankles, all her fears are manifested.

Even as the stars twinkle their thoughts to her and the moon radiates her beauty, her heart is heavy and her soul is troubled.

She has forgotten what it’s like to really feel, to live in the moment, to be happy.

She is slowly fading, and no one knows it.

As the clouds drift in the skies and the wind rustles the leaves of the hibiscus bushes, all she can think of is her broken heart, her broken life.

She is falling apart, and no one is there to catch her.

The music she once loved and cherished is nothing but noise to her ears, she hates all her favorite things. “This could be depression” she thinks.

And it is.

Her heart is heavy, her soul is tired.

But she must go on, and so she will.

She will push through the pain, the tears, the meltdowns.

“Everything will work out eventually”

But will it?

No sooner does she crawl of the dark hole, she is plunged back into the icy embrace from the claws of the deep.

“This needs to end”

And so she ends it, right there at the spot where the waves once kissed her toes. She walks on and on into the body of water, allowing the waves to hug her ankles, thighs, waist, chest, and finally her crown.

She knows how to swim, she remembers how to swim, but she only stares into the pitch black void of the never ending ocean.

The salt starts to sting her eyes and the water starts to fill her lungs. Soon she hears the familiar voice of her long lost loved ones calling out to her from beyond the veil.

She does not scream or kick or struggle for air.

“This is it, I’m free”

Slowly her memories play out in front of her, and all she can see is pain.

She is free from the pain.

Free from her mortality.

As her last breaths leave her lungs and her body drifts off into the ocean, she starts to feel the familiar warm feeling of an embrace.

She no longer feels fear, pain, anger, sadness.

And the only thought that envelopes her mind:

“I am home”

At the far end or the ward on a bed that had definitely seen better days sat a woman old enough to have witnessed Nigeria’s amalgamation, Independence and Civil War in her lifetime.

Cataracts had conquered her eyes, and even after several surgeries she could just barely make out the faces in front of her. Her coffee skin was as wrinkled as leather put through a washer, and the arthritis made her bones weak and her movements labored, that didn’t stop her from adorning her wrist with several bracelets. From the way her long, silver hair was wrapped in the red gele atop her head you could tell that she was a beauty back in her day. Traces of her youth still lingered in her gentle smile and melodious laughter.

She stared at her six year old great-granddaughter as she animatedly told her stories of her friends and how much she loved primary school.

Her second daughter dished the Jollof rice and plantain-her mother’s favorite meal-she had cooked into a blue, plastic bowl even a child could eat from. There once was a time where she only used ceramics, but even age forced you out of your favorite habits.

Her grandson-in-law read a passage of The Pilgrim’s Progress to her. It had been her favorite book ever since she first read it in the dusty library of her missionary school in 1916, and hearing the words brought her peace.

As she spooned the spicy grains of rice into her mouth she recounted the stories of her youth, of meeting her husband, of going to university, of her job in the publishing company, of Independence, of Biafra, she had never run out of stories to tell them.

It had become clear to her that when you lived long enough, you became a living and breathing library of all sorts of beautiful stories.

The doctor had said she didn’t have much long. She was okay with that. She had lived a long, beautiful life, fulfilling life. She was 98 years old, she’d experienced more than most, and she was grateful for that. Even if she would die at that moment, she’d be glad knowing she died surrounded by people she knew loved her.

Her smart, talkative great-granddaughter and her patient, gentle father.

Her ill-tempered, adventurous daughter.

Her stylish, inquisitive son and his two adopted daughters.

Nightfall quickly descended, and most of her loved ones said their goodbyes and good nights; promised to visit tomorrow. She was left with just her second daughter, who fluffed her pillows and adjusted the fan to fit the weather.

She slowly yawned and her eyes drifted off to stare at the square tiles that lined the ceiling, her thoughts floating around.

Suddenly she felt it, her time had come. Death was not painful at all; to her at least. It felt somehow like falling asleep, she could vaguely feel her daughter holding on to her wrinkled, arthritic hands and begging her to at least say goodbye.

As her soul dipped out of her body, she could see the tears slip out of her daughter’s eyes. She looked over her body and it-she-looked peaceful. Her soul no longer felt the heaviness of her limbs, the stinging pain in her joints, the cloudy film over her eyes no longer bothered her.

Her daughter made calls to her two younger sisters and brothers to break the news. ‘Mama is gone’. Their sobs passed through the phone speakers.

And when the morgue attendants came to wheel her body away, she felt an odd sense of comfort with the way they handled her body.

It didn’t matter that she had lost her first ever baby as an infant; It didn’t matter that her husband died without ever seeing his only son; It didn’t matter that one of her daughters couldn’t face her after running away with a manipulative musician when she was nineteen; all was forgiven now. She was free from her tragedy.

That was it, Daisi was finally at peace.

In your lifetime, you’ll come across so many different people, the ones that make you laugh, the ones that feel like home, the ones that see you for who you really are, those are your soulmates.

I’m of the strong opinion that soulmates are not only romantic in nature. The universe does not cross the path of souls for romance alone, because romance isn’t the only form of love to exist.

You could have a friend that you’ve experienced every possible emotion with; anger, sadness, joy, fear, jealousy. They could be your soulmate.

The one person whose soul is bound ever so closely with yours, in the absence of a romantic relationship. They could be your soulmate.

The one sibling you always get up to shenanigans with, the person you laugh with so hard until tears leak from your eyes. They could be your soulmate.

Limiting soulmates as a concept just to a romantic interest you spend the rest of your life with is rather boring in my opinion. You could live a thousand lifetimes and fall in love a thousand times, and none of them would be your soulmate.

Maybe the soul connection you strive so hard to find is rooted in the friends you’re pushing away, or the sibling you’re avoiding.

I’ve experienced a lot of friendships, and you could quote me anywhere when I say my friends are my soulmates. In our friendship i have found the purest bonds of familiarity, like running home to the arms of your family after being stranded at war. In our friendship i have found a safe space to confide my deepest darkest feelings and secrets. In our friendship i have found a love so pure.

And in the end this is what soulmates are about, like two halves of a heart, destined to meet no matter the circumstances, made to be there for each other despite the trials, and bound to love each other till the end of time.

Even if I don’t find a romantic soulmate in this lifetime, I’d gladly die knowing fully well I met other pieces of myself in several beautiful people. ❤️

Pain is one thing I’m too familiar with. The pain of a dying friendship you know will never be the same, the agonizing realization that everything is falling apart around you, and the heartbreak that comes with losing someone you love, even though they’re still alive. These kinds of grief dont come with a manual, and it took raw experience for me to find that out. Sometimes I wonder how I function despite the grief, despite the anger, despite the turmoil.

Maybe it’s the hope that things will get better, or the recurring presences in my life that remind me there is something worth living for. Either ways, I’ve survived the present hurt, and almost sure I’ll conquer everyone that comes after it. The only horror is that it persists, the pain. There is no one day that it stops hurting, every day I wake up and there is something twisting a jagged knife into my heart and I am sick of it.

It’s funny how all it takes is one trigger to send you spiraling into oblivion. One scent, one song, one phrase, and you’re back to square one. Back to the roots of your grief, back to the hill you planted the seeds of your sadness on.

When you love someone so deeply and they are taken from you the love doesn’t disappear, it doesnt just get up and leave, it stays. And soon enough that love turns into something else, some other emotion… fear, anger, hatred, pain.

This pain becomes your love in practice. It slowly clouds your emotions, and soon enough your mind becomes overthrown with the “what if’s”, the “if only’s”, the promise of those that never were. It’s sick and hopeful at the same time. It’s torture.

One day, all the people who loved you will gather around in black and mourn the person you were, the weight you held in their lives, the little things that made them love you.

One day, the world will go on, the sun will keep on shining, the wind will keep on blowing, the clock will keep on ticking, everyone will keep on living, but you won’t be here.

So why not live a little?

Travel. Write that book. Confess your love to that boy or girl. Listen to your favorite music. Cook. Have fun. Write that song. Be cringe. Drink lots of water. Believe in what you want to.

Because one day there is going to be a world, and you’re not going to be in it. People may grieve for a while, your memory will definitely live on, but your soul will drift onto an eternal plane, and your body will become one with the earth and soil.

So why not live a little?

People’s judgement and perception of you is exactly that, and why does it bother you so much what they think of you, while your stay on earth is just like a dot in the timeline of the universe? You were not made to live up to a certain standard set aside for people of the world, you were made to be you, so live a little.

Life becomes so beautiful when you let go of people’s standards, when you embrace your true passions and when you do things for your own joy and whimsy.

Fall in love with your life, romanticize the little things, the purpose of your life is experience, so experience everything.

Your life should definitely not be centered around the world’s expectations of you, because you’ll never be perfect in their eyes. The world will always find something to criticize you for.

There is no such thing as a perfect life.

So do what you want.

Write poetry. Paint. Bake. Draw. Take long walks. Plant your gardens. Get that tattoo. Wear those clothes. Adopt that pet. Watch that movie.

Live a little.

I almost fell in love again.

With the ways her eyes held questions.

The rain that caressed the windows of her home.

The forgotten photos of her hidden in the dusty albums.

With the endless flowers that dotted her gardens.

I almost fell in love again.

With the clumsy steps she took while music drifted through the stereo.

The gentle stream of water flowing through her fountains.

The warm glow of the sun on her chocolate skin.

The passionate paintings scattered round her walls.

Nothing compared to the way her smile lit up a whole room, and probably the whole world. Nothing prepared me for the sweet serenades that drifted off her tongue and into my ears. No one warned me that I would be captivated by her very being.

I almost fell in love with her. Almost.

I was a mosaic of different pieces of her love, a puzzle of separate building blocks of her affection. And she made me feel alive. I was drawn in, captivated, obsessed with her. I held her heart with trembling hands, too afraid to let it shatter beneath my careless touch.

I miss her and I love her, no, I almost loved her.

I hope I breathe her in every whiff of air that passes by my nostrils. I hope I see her in every cloud that drifts by the perfect blue sky. I hope to feel her in every violent gust of wind. I hope I read her in every line of poetry i lay my eyes upon.

I love her, no, I almost loved her, and maybe that has to be enough.

P.s I don’t know why I couldn’t place the song at the end of my newsletter today, so you’ll just have to listen to it from the beginning i guess😗

I thought that that was his romantic way of saying we were meant to be, that I was the best thing that happened to him.

That was until I saw her letters.

Hundreds of them. Dating from even before I met Garba. All addressed to one woman. Nifemi.

‘If only I was running my hands through your hair…’

My arms travelled to my thick locs.

‘I miss the sweet scent of your lavender shampoo…’

A picture of my vanilla scented shampoo flashed through my mind.

‘I saw a yellow bubu today and I couldn’t help but remember that yellow was your favorite color….’

I hated yellow.

‘When I look at her all I see is you…’

Everything she was, I was not.

Who was this Nifemi woman?

Whoever she was it was clear that my husband’s heart belonged to her and her alone, there was no space for anyone else. There was no space for me.

‘I love you, Nifemi, I always have and I always will.’

It was then realization dawned upon me. My husband didn’t me because he loved me, he married me because for some cruel reason he couldn’t marry whoever this Nifemi woman was.

He had settled. For me.

And despite everything I was still madly in love with him, just like he was still madly in love with Nifemi.

Time was such a strange concept. He had been away from Nifemi for more than twelve years, it showed from the dates of his first letters; and yet it felt like his love for her burned more and more with each passing letter.

I could not understand it.

There was a certain finality in accepting that the person you would lay your life down for would do it, but just not for you.

It didn’t change how they felt about you, but it made you stop putting your neck on the line for them.

He was my soulmate, but I wasn’t his. His soulmate was Nifemi. With her long, luscious soft hair and her lavender shampoo. Nifemi who loved all things yellow.

Not me, never me.

He had consciously looked for someone who was the exact opposite of his beloved Nifemi.

I stared at the letters, the ink stained with the tears I had been crying. I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe my bloodshot eyes.

So why did he never mail them? Why leave them here for me to find? Why torture me with the certainty that his love lay elsewhere?

He owed it to Nifemi to send these letters. He owed the truth to me too, and he owed it to him to free himself from the burden of his secret love. That was the least he could do after everything.

To be the object of one’s longing.

To be the art and not the artist.

The written and not the writer.

The muse and not the maestro.

The wanted and not the wanter.

Desire was a beautiful thing to be felt, a cruel thing to be craved.

I had grown to long even the slightest sliver of recognition.

Maybe in the end all I wanted was love. To love and to be loved.

This yearning was my undoing, the search for something pure, true, burning adoration. The yearning that keeps my wandering heart searching for something more, something beautiful, something real.

Regardless of the circumstances, one thing was certain, two things were sure; i was searching for a passion worth pursuing, and I wouldn’t stop till I found it.

The hope i possessed was the kind that begged, begged to be seen, to be held, to be felt.

Despite the tragedy, I persevere. I still am, despite the longing, despite the yearning, despite the hoping.

For what am I made up of if not hope and tragedy? Tears and anger? Love and grief?

Noun: strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties

Verb: to feel great affection for

Love Love Love Love.

If I had to talk about love, here’s what I’d say.

Love is when my sister gives my brother the last cookie, even when he’s eaten more cookies than she has.

Love is when everyone but my mum gets a piece of meat, because there were just four left.

Love is when my dad buys Ribena whenever he’s coming home from work, because he knows it’s my favorite.

Love is when my brother helps me iron my clothes when I’m packing for school, because he knows how much I hate ironing.

Love is when I share the top slice of bread with my brother, because it’s our favorite part of bread.

Love is when my friends do everything in their power to cheer me up whenever they notice I’m down.

Love is the girl’s group chat, bursting with messages, advice, and updates about our different lives.

Love is me reading that book you recommended to me.

Love is me sharing my playlists with you, because music is my love language.

Love is taking random pictures and videos of me, just because you thought I looked cute.

Love is me adding your name to my favorite contacts, so you can reach me even when I want to shut the world out.

Love is me sharing my bed with you, even though I hate sharing my personal space.

Love is the excitement in Champion and Murphy’s eyes whenever they see me.

Love is me keeping a streak with you, and sending snaps about every single part of my day.

Love is me crossing the road to get to you, even when I’m terrified of crossing roads.

Love is me being goofy around you.

Love is me biting you.

Love is me writing about you, and to you.

Love is me singing all my favorite songs around you(despite claims that my voice is awful).

Love is arguing about the most mundane things, and laughing about it afterwards.

Love is me prepping a hot water bottle and drugs for my sister whenever she’s battling with cramps.

Love is laughing till I get a stomach ache with my friends.

This is a gentle reminder that love does not always come in the form of “I love you’s”. Love is friendship, love is family, love is you and me.

10 People I Don’t Play About

• My mum, my rock

• My dad, my hero

• Moses, my baby brother and fight buddy

• Precious, my big sister and best friend

• The Delusional Girlies

• Room 8 Kids

• Big Becks

• Hermosa

• My friends

• Jesus

9 Things I Love

• I love love

• I love music

• I love reading

• I love writing

• I love women

• I love art [making and admiring]

• I love my pets

• I love Christianity

• I love laughing

8 Songs I’d Like To Be Played At My Funeral

• Forever Yours by Kaestrings

• Meet Me At Our Spot Live by Willow, The Anxiety, and Tyler Cole

• Preach by Sondae

• Out Of Time by The Weeknd

• Peace In Your Heart by Obongjayar

• Nazarene by Anendlessocean

• Heaven Can Wait by Michael Jackson

• Are We Still Friends by Tyler, the Creator

7 books I’d love to read for the first time again

• The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

• Half Of A Yellow Sun

• These Letters End In Tears

• Thirteen

• An Evil Mind

• The Song of Achilles

• A Broken People’s Playlist

6 Places I’d Love to Visit

• Italy

• The Caribbean

• Greece

• Brazil

• Ethiopia

• Mexico

5 Things I Hate

• I hate Nigerian politicians/politics

• I hate waiting

• I hate walking under the sun

• I hate heat

• I hate pressure

4 Movies That Made Me Cry

• Me Before You

• Five Feet Apart

• The Fault in Our Stars

• Infinity War

3 Quotes That Cross My Mind

• I love you and I know the same way you know, that I will never be happy without you.

• There was this ache in her heart, too heavy for tears, too heavy for words.

• I believe poetry happens to a poet long before they ever write it.

2 Colors That Paint My Life

• Blue

• Maroon

1 Thing I’ve Always Wanted To Do

• Write a Book.

Even 13,967 kilometers away, I could feel every inch of corruption that led to the tragedy that was now my reality.

I had lost everything.

I am standing in my living room, almost hyperventilating, my focus trained on the envelope that sits in my hands-the envelope that was delivered six weeks later than it was supposed to.

In those six weeks I had heard about exactly what was in those letters, yet the pain felt fresh.

The embossed letters had bled out, my tears had stained the rich cream paper.

Adanna was dead.

My wife was dead.

My soulmate was dead.

She was no longer alive, no longer breathing, she was never going to smile again, never going to run her hands through my thick locs, never going to kiss the scars that peppered my back and legs.

My sweet, sweet, Ada.

‘The mother died of complications our doctors encountered during the delivery of her child. Both mother and infant did not survive. Mother passed due to several birth complications including excessive blood loss, and the infant died due to birth asphyxia….’

My attention trailed off from the next string of letters as my tears blurred my vision. They referred to her as if she was just another woman in the ward; another patient and not the absolute love of my life.

How could they not know that we were woven from the same threads and cut from the same rope? How could they not know that they were talking about my entire being and existence?

I knew I should have never left for the masters course. After getting the scholarship letter Ada was elated. I wanted to stay behind and help her prepare for our first baby but she insisted I took the once in a lifetime opportunity, now I wish I never opened that cursed email.

Maybe I would have had the chance to hold her in my arms one last time, smell the coconut shampoo she loved to use, trace my fingers around the stars tattooed on her collarbone. Eat chocolate covered bananas one last time with her.

One day we were building forever, and now I’m learning how to live without you.

I see her everywhere, in the moon when the sky fades to black, in the beautiful melodies of the birds as they sing their familiar tunes. In the waves of the ocean as they kiss the sands of the shore, and in the sun as it reflects off the ripples of the water. She is in everything beautiful.

Maybe if I stayed behind i wouldn’t have lost the love of my life and our beautiful daughter.

Maybe Maybe Maybe.

No one tells you the ugly part about loosing your soulmate. You no longer have that one person to tell your day about. No more random calls, silly selfies, gossip sessions, random thoughts, NOTHING.

You just stare into the abyss and wish it took you instead.

The night Ada died, a half of me died with her-the better half. And I was forced to keep living.

Grief is a cruel, wicked thing. It comes in waves, and today I am drowning.

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About two years ago I was holding a conversation with someone, he complained to me how something had gone wrong with his plans and I apologized…. And he said something along the lines of “You don’t need to apologize, it’s not your fault. I think you apologize too much, for things you aren’t even responsible for.”

You tell me you had a bad day- I’m sorry my love.

You don’t know where you kept your wallet- Chai sorry.

You’re having a hard time at home- I’m sorry you have to go through that.

A friend is going through a rough patch- I feel so sorry for you.

Maybe I do apologize too much, and for things that aren’t even under my jurisdiction.

After that first interaction two years ago I consciously tried reducing the random apologies i dished out whenever people complained of minor inconveniences, but it obviously hasn’t worked and the conversation I had with my sister proves that. (I even said sorry to someone while typing this out).

Apologies are only valid if they are genuine. Otherwise they are just empty shells of words fished out to placate someone who’s angry, or sad, or frustrated. I don’t want to be someone who says sorry just because I can, or because it might make whoever is receiving the apology feel better. I want to be someone who says sorry because I feel empathy for your situation, because I carry genuine hurt for what my actions or the actions of others might have done to deter your mood.

Reading this out after a while makes it feel a little corny, but if a little corniness is all it takes to be a sincere person, I’m down for it.

I want to say “I’m sorry,” from the deep depths of my heart and mean it. Not use it as a phrase to get out of uncomfortable conversations or dismiss someone’s feelings.

I want to say “I’m sorry” and mean it.

Posting this song because it’s beautiful 💕

‘We tend to become what we are called’. That basically sums up how impactful words are, and how little compliments or insults tend to shape someone’s perception of themselves and of the world.

Words are powerful.

No matter how cliche or annoying this may sound, it’s painfully true. There may be a part of you that refuses to bloom, refuses to shine, refuses to just be, because of a careless comment someone may have made one, two, or even five years ago about you. About your height, weight, skin color, tge way you talk, walk, eat, live. They may have forgotten that conversation ever even happened, but here are their criticisms shaping the outline of your life today. Making you second-guess everyone’s perception of you, dimming your shine.

And we allow the words of others to dictate our lives even after time has passed, even after the wounds the daggers of their words left are healed, despite the fact that we know deep down, in the end of it all, they were just words.

But sometimes these things aren’t just words. Maybe it’s a careless observation here or a friendly banter there, you may have taken it to heart. And if there’s one thing about the mind, it obsesses over the things that bother it, and soon enough, these careless words start to rule out reality. That’s where your fear festers… fear of being ‘too loud’, ‘too oncoming’, ‘too proud’. And you retreat into a shell, you have second thoughts of everything-‘What will people say?’ ‘What will people think?’ ‘Hope they haven’t noticed’.

The correct question is what haven’t people said? What haven’t they thought? You could be living life in the sweetest oblivion and one person’s comment on your appearance, actions or inadequacies comes along to shatter your self esteem and bring you back to square one.

In everything you do, try your best not to point out what might grow to be someone’s biggest insecurity. There is someone out there who never smiles in pictures because they’ve been told their teeth are too crooked. Someone who always wears snap backs and beanies because his friends have laughed one too many times at his hairline. There is someone who waits until she’s at the verge of fainting before eating, and even then she eats just a little portion of food, all because someone’s words cut a little too deep.

Words are never ‘just words’ they replay in people’s heads over and over again even after a conversation or encounter is forgotten. It’s important to always check yourself, and refrain from saying things that might break someone else’s heart, season your words with love and kindness. The mind is a cruel place that holds on to the things that hurt it the most. Because despite what you may think, we tend to become the things we are called… and these things are not always pretty.

Most times when I mention how many books I have under my reading belt people are surprised. They ask me questions like “Ah, don’t you read for school?” Or tell me things like “You must be a really smart girl oh”. While I don’t disagree with the second statement, I just feel like most people see reading novels as too much of a chore or a thing of boredom, so when someone mentions reading a novel they automatically assume they must be talking to some sort of rare gem (bring back reading pleaseeeee).

I think that’s enough yapping sha, let’s get into it now. (BTW, these rankings are in no particular order).

1. Gaslight by Femi Kayode 8.5/10

I love when authors keep me guessing and wondering what’ll happen next in a book, and Femi Kayode did just that. The plot was well structured and I enjoyed the fact that it was a Nigerian mystery book. Like how often do we get something like this published? He weaved real life issues into his writing so perfectly, it’s crazyy. Overall I liked the characters, their interactions and the way the story weaved all the details together seamlessly, I would totally recommend this to anyone looking for a Nigerian book that focuses on a different genre.

2. The Midnight Library by Matt Haig 7/10

I cried. I cry a lot while reading but that’s not the point. It has a beautiful storyline-a woman dies and then is taken to a library where she can explore different alternate realities of her life. It brought me so much warmth and reminded me that there are so many ways one single person could turn out, and different choices we make in life determine those outcomes.

3. The One by John Marrs 8.5/10

I read four books written by John Marrs this year, and it was hard making the choice but this one got the cake (get it, the title of the book is The One….. No laughs? Tough crowd). It was told through multiple POVs, and it circles through the lives of five? Six? Different people. In the books’s universe, people are able to know their soulmates due to the presence of a specific gene only they and their soulmates possess….. it’s a page turner and is fast paced, so I got through this book really quickly. I would recommend to anyone interested in science fiction sprinkled with a bit of thriller.

4. These Letters End In Tears by Musih Tedji Xaviere 9/10

You guys, the letters actually ended in tears oh (for me, at least). I cried when I got to the end… once again i cry a lot but that’s not the point. This book. It brought out raw emotion. You know when you love someone so much that no matter how far or how long you’ve been away from them your heart still yearns for them? That’s how our protagonist felt. She climbed every mountain and swam every ocean just to be met with tears. Hot tears. The kind that makes you fall sick and lose interest in everything and everyone. And she had to go through her terrible heartbreak alone just because she was different. This book taught me how grief could be the rawest forms of emotion and how far love really takes you. A truly beautiful book. The quotes had me sobbing my heart out.

5. The Immortalists by Chloe Benjamin 8.5/10

You know how you can feel it in your bones when a book is going to have a gut-wrenching plot even before you finish it? That’s how I felt about this book. It’s set between the 1970s and 2000s(I think) and it revolves around four siblings who visit a fortune teller that predicts people’s deaths. From there onwards each of the siblings go on to live their lives but each of them keep the predictions of their deaths at the back of their minds. It was so beautifully written, and I wish I could read it again for the first time.

6. Welcome To Lagos by Chibundu Onuzo 9/10

When I first started this book, I couldn’t get into it so I decided to give it a break and try it again. When I tried it again, I couldn’t put it down. It has a ‘found family’ kind of situation going on, and the plot was something that captured my attention immediately. The book had all the ingredients to keep you invested, and I liked the way the author weaved the rowdiness of Lagos, the corrupt mess of Nigerian politicians and the search for true justice to birth this beautiful story.

I think that’s all for today because I feel like this newsletter is getting a bit too long (and tbh I’m getting tired of typing, I’m half asleep) I’ll probably drop the rest of my top 10 (and a few honorable mentions) before the end of this week. Till then I hope you enjoyed reading my reviews. Let’s all pray I get the strength to type out the rest soon.

And here’s a song (just because I feel like it today).

All this reminds me of a tweet that said something like “ e get some kind dreams wey you no fit pursue if dem born you for Naija”. At the time it might have been funny, but it’s the reality of millions of Nigerians who have dreams they want to achieve. Dreams that would have been a walk in the park if only those accountable for the well-being of the public would actually do what they were meant to.

Some time ago I used to believe that this country wasn’t beyond fixing, but considering the turn of events recently, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news but I don’t think we are ever recovering. The average Nigerian can’t get access to basic healthcare. They can’t own a house without stealing or borrowing money. They can’t afford a 2015 car model. They can’t eat 3 square meals a day.

Even if all the political, economic and security problems were solved, we’d still have a long way to go as a country. Let’s face it; the average Nigerian is wicked and cunning, always looking for a way to defraud their neighbor and be seen as the person with sense. It’s exhausting. You can’t be a good person without getting called names or being seen as slow. Not to mention the suffocating tribalism. Why must this person have to be your tribe before you help them? Why must he speak your dialect before you vote him in? Why must she come from your state before she marries your son? With this mentality are we even ready for what a working country entails?

Whenever someone complains about the state of the country the next words you hear are “ If you’re tired of the country just japa now” as if it’s 10k that you’ll use and relocate abroad. Mtcheww. Even if one individual decides to japa what about their family? Their friends? They’d just go and start afresh in a country they know next to nothing about, while working several hours to make ends meet and struggle with homesickness. Imagine every single person going through these struggles. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Well stupidity is one thing Nigeria knows how to exhibit.

And I don’t even want to get started on the politician worship because if there’s one thing Nigerians know how to do well, it’s kiss the ass of a rich man. You and I know it’s true. I think this whole ritual stems from the mentality of “if I worship this rich man, maybe he’ll pity me and bring me out of my poverty”. Disclaimer! Disclaimer!! Mr Rich Man will do no such thing, you’re just a mere tool of inflation to his already puffed up ego, he will NOT wake up one day and decide to make you rich. This is a concept many Nigerians need to grasp. Classism has taken over almost everyone’s minds and it’s so crazy, because as a country with 62% of it’s citizens living below the poverty belt, you place a whole lot of value on material things. Material things that you don’t have money to buy. Why is one man in the market calling me a rich girl because I own an IPhone. A mobile phone. Not a mansion Im Lekki, not a Lamborghini Urus, not 50 acres of land, an IPhone. I will never understand it. Nigerians will do literally anything to maintain an image of affluence to the public; from taking disgustingly huge amounts of loans to selling family properties and all this stresses me out. Well to be honest the whole country stresses me out but that’s already common knowledge. Why can’t you just be yourself and embrace your financial state till the actual money comes in? Why must you spin a web of lies to keep up appearances?

When I tell you this country is utterly and truly fucked, I mean it from the bottom of my heart. If you’re not from Nigeria and someone ever explains Nigeria to you and you understand, I assure you that person did NOT explain this country correctly, because only someone facing the realities of Nigeria can truly understand the place.

Citizens who have tried protesting for change only got their lives taken from them, so it’s hard to take action in a country where your life isn’t seen as something of importance by those in power. Maybe one day we’ll tell ourselves the truth and this place can actually change for the better, but till then we will cry, wipe our tears, pick up the broken pieces of our lives and slowly carry on.