Being soft, being warm, being gentle.
Being wise, being sound, being articulate.
Being elegant, moving with dignity, beaming with grace.
That's her feminine energy.

Expressing love, expressing beauty, expressing ideas.
Being original, being worthy, being confident.
Being playful, being goofy, being real.
That's her feminine energy.

Bright smiles, storytelling, deep conversations.
Night walks, tight hugs, shoulder pats.
Nurturing, supporting, cheer-giving.
That's her feminine energy.

Being loved, being heard, being cared for.
Being chosen, being cherished, being carried.
Date nights, feet massages, forehead kisses.
Quality time, attention, affection.
That's her feminine energy.

Being healthy, being flexible, being pretty.
Sweet fragrances, skincare, sunscreens.
Morning routines, workouts, mobility poses.
That's her feminine energy.

Carbs, chocolate bars, and smoothies.
Sushi, yogurt, proteins, oats, and pastries.
Good food, soft drinks, fruits, and ice cubes.
That's her feminine energy.

Traveling the world, touring cities, creating memories.
Cute nails, mirror selfies, vlogs, OOTDs.
Jewelry, makeovers, dinner gowns, and sundresses.
Pounds and dollars, gold rings, silver bracelets, independence.
That's her feminine energy.

Setting boundaries, letting false hopes go, protecting her peace.
Resting, living without pressure, working on her own timeline.
Pausing, reflecting, reinventing.
Rebuilding, becoming, evolving.
That's her feminine energy.

Bagging degrees, building communities, lending her voice.
Restructuring worldviews, balancing tables, fixing old and wrong narratives of womanhood.
Strengthening pillars, supporting true leaders, protecting women's rights.
That's her feminine energy.

Being extraordinary, being exceptional, excelling.
Reaching milestones, celebrating her wins, shopping and gifting herself.
Hosting birthday parties, eating a full cake. Aging backwards.
That's her feminine energy.

Trusting God, praying, worshipping, and studying the Word.
Giving, interceding, devoting, and serving.
Preaching the Gospel, shining her light, healing the world.
That's her feminine energy.

Thanks for reading! Gem ❤️

Love my essays? You can buy me a coffee.🎀

Sometimes we cry because, in the swell of our emotions, words fail to fully bear the weight of our pain. Somehow, tears become the only language our heart can speak.

Sometimes our thoughts swirl like liquid in a blender, churning with so much unrest that tears again become our only voice.

Sometimes we cry because we are sad, overwhelmed, or simply because we've been holding out for too long.

Sometimes we cry because we've revisited the wounded places in our heart. Sometimes we are moved by someone else's story.

And sometimes we cry because our words are not enough, so our eyes say what our mouth cannot.

Other times, we cry and don't know why. A song fills our eyes with tears we cannot explain. Memories surface, our eyes swell, yet we can’t tell why.

Sometimes we know exactly why we cry, and sometimes we don't.

Sometimes we hide to cry. Sometimes we forget to hide because our hearts have grown too heavy to carry away from the crowd.

We cry because we have emotions. We cry because we are human.

We cry because our hearts have reached their limit and there is no room left for what we feel.

And sometimes, we cry because tears are simply feelings that our words could not explain.

Thanks for reading! Gem❤️

Love my essays? You can buy me a coffee.🎀

At my core, I've come to understand that, whether I like it or not, I am the villain in someone's story. I've been wrong too.

Subscribe now

Ninety percent of the time, I shift the blame to other people. When things go south, I tell myself, "It's all their fault, not mine," because in my eyes, I am a kind, loving person who would never step on an ant. At least I think so. But in reality, someone holds a log of entries about my flaws, how I've hurt them, how blunt I was, or how much I ignored them.

When I reflect on my actions in the past and when I genuinely look into a misunderstanding, I see that I haven't always been so kind and loving as I thought I was. I've been wrong too. I've misunderstood people. I've drawn false conclusions in my mind and with my words. I've somehow made someone, somewhere, shed painful tears.

I've been wrong too. I've made silly jokes without knowing they hit hard. I've forgotten to wish friends happy birthday. I've overlooked people's pain because I felt I was going through worse. I've been rude. I've been dismissive. I've chronically walked away from people. I've done the things villains do at least once, twice, or even more. Most times I never saw the wrong in it, and most times I was simply reacting to hurt.

I know now that I may never really know when a joke I said was taken literally. I may never know in whose story I am a villain until that someone confronts me to let me know how I hurt them, or even until I rethink my actions. Some people never confronted me, even though others did. And when I think about it, I haven't confronted or discussed everything that hurt me with the villain in my story either. I probably felt some things are better left unsaid. Yet other times, I blurted my opinions out of pain.

The pause and shift in all of this for me is self-awareness, looking within me, checking my heart. Simon Sinek said, and I quote, "Sometimes you're the problem. Take accountability for your actions. You can take all the credit in the world for the things that you do right, as long as you also take responsibility for the things you do wrong. It must be a balanced equation."

For me, self-awareness is the foundation of accountability. To be accountable for my actions means to understand what I did and how my actions affect others, and I can only do that by being self-aware. Self-awareness has made me see why I've been wrong too. I think I've caused pain because I've been hurt, or maybe because I felt wronged.

There's a saying that goes, "Hurt people hurt people." Another saying goes, "If you never heal from what hurt you, you'll bleed on people who didn't cut you." So I've probably been a villain in someone's story because someone has been a villain in mine. Maybe if I look within, I may find that little thread of pain firmly pulling everything apart, all because someone hurt me. Maybe I'd see the loops where I got it wrong. Maybe I'd realize I was just overthinking or overreacting.

I may never fully escape being seen as the villain in someone's story, but I can stop acting like one. I can become more self-aware. I can choose to heal and not bleed on others. I can be kinder with my actions and words. I can say sorry when I realize my fault. I can choose to be a lover. A lover forgives and chooses to be kind again. I can do that. I can retrace my steps daily and gradually heal wounds, both mine and others'.

I can love, forgive, and be kind again.

Thanks for reading! Gem❤️

Love my essays? You can buy me a coffee.🎀

Today, I am reminded to be grateful for the gift of men in my life. Although I have come across many toxic people, there are others I am genuinely grateful for. They may not be perfect, but their efforts are remarkable to me.

Subscribe now

I remember once praying to God to bless me so I could spoil certain people in my life because they truly deserved it.

Some people are God sent. They may not stay in our lives forever, but their brief presence always leaves light behind.

I still want to spoil those friends of mine. I still want to travel just to see them and spend time with them. I still want to keep showing up for them as they did for me, once, twice, and always. I want to do even more for them because they deserve it.

Younger me once said kind people deserved a good life, and I still believe that. Because in a world full of trauma, revenge, gender wars, chaos, and the rest, those who still love genuinely are rare gems.

I am grateful for the people who believe in me. They see the potential I do not see. I still remember when I gave my farewell speech as an outgoing NYSC corps member. I was then the coordinator of my CDS group. For me, my speech was simple and straight to the point. But when the group members were asked for a farewell message for me, one of them specifically commended me, saying that I speak so well and that I am very good at communicating.

I was stunned for a moment. That compliment has stayed with me to this day. I have had people say so to me before. I have seen people nod seriously when I speak. I had gotten simple comments like "I love how you speak" or "You have sense oh, you should be a speaker." But I never really took them seriously until that moment. Maybe I needed to hear it for the hundredth time to finally believe that yes, I am good at this.

Support my writing💌

Reflecting on this now makes me see why we should always compliment people genuinely. You never know, you might be the hundredth person to say it for someone to finally realize and believe in themselves. I think we should also learn to believe when someone compliments us. Sometimes we dismiss everything as teasing, not knowing that they were frankly pointing out the potential they saw.

On a second note of gratitude, I am grateful for the people who correct me. I believe that when someone respectfully tells me I am wrong, it can help me grow. It is rare to find people who pull us aside from the crowd and say, "What you did or said was wrong." I have had friends like that, and I am genuinely honored by them. They see my mistakes and calmly address them without hating or judging me. They are special people, really. I have also learned to correct people respectfully, because you do not have to be rude to make a point. You could write a note on a piece of paper and squeeze it into someone's hands, and it says, "I think you should apologize to xyz for xyz." That is correction without embarrassment or shaming.

If you find that you have friends who genuinely call you out when you do something wrong, buy them Coke and Okpa today. They are amazing people.

I am grateful for people who support my growth. They encourage me to learn, improve, take opportunities, and become better. I am very ambitious, so the moment you encourage me in what I am doing, I melt away. People like these are beautiful souls. They want to see others succeed as much as they do themselves. It is truly beautiful.

I have been told before that I do too much, that I am an "I too know," all because I always want to learn, improve, and do everything better. So when I meet people who cheer me up, I am so touched. I also do my best to encourage people. I remember going all out about a project a friend of mine told me she was working on. I suddenly became her motivational speaker. It makes me laugh because even now, I think I did too much. I carried the matter on my head like it was my own project. I love how it makes me feel. Supporting people gives you the enthusiasm to do so much for yourself too.

I am grateful for people who show up when it matters. Not necessarily people who are available every day, because we all understand it is not easy to show up for someone daily, but those who make an effort when you genuinely need them are sweet souls. They may not show up physically. It could be a call, a text on my birthday, or a little something for my graduation, convocation, and such. It just means a lot. And so I always try to reciprocate, so that they do not get discouraged about showing up for others. Some people stopped showing up for others when it mattered because when it was their turn, nobody showed up for them. The pain hits differently. So reciprocating is such a healthy act in this case.

There is more to the kind of people I am grateful for. I am grateful for people who respect my boundaries. They do not pressure me, manipulate me, or make me feel guilty for saying no. They have the capacity to understand when I need my alone time, and they ask questions without jumping to conclusions.

I am grateful for people who celebrate me without competing with me. They can genuinely be happy about my success without feeling threatened by it. If you have such friends, be grateful, I tell you. They are gems. Many people are in competition with everyone. They want to be the only ones succeeding. It is crazy, but it is real. Such people find it hard to appreciate and celebrate others for the progress they have made. If you have friends who celebrate you without competing with you, this is your sign to buy pizza for them today.

I am grateful for the people who give me opportunities, the ones who recommend me, teach me, introduce me to someone, or give me a chance. These kinds of people have a huge impact on my life. They are truly God sent. I always pray that God continues to bless and enrich them.

I am grateful for people who make me feel safe to be myself. During my service year, I made two friends with whom I completely felt so real. To this day, I am grateful for them. I do not have to constantly perform, impress, or pretend around them. I get to be me, playful, nosy, and dramatic. I get to talk until my lips curl shut. I think it is heavenly to have such friends. If you have such friends, buy them a Lamborghini. I mean it.

I have come to agree that some people are God sent. They are divinely channeled to do one thing or another in your life, and you should not take them for granted. Do not see them as ordinary. Do not take their availability for granted. Look at the people in your life. You may not be close to them, but among all of them, there are the ones God sent to you to encourage you, support you, correct you, compliment you, treat you well, open doors for you, and much more. They are not ordinary people. They are gems you should honor.

Buy me coffee🎀

In everything you do, make sure you reciprocate. Give back the love you have been given. They deserve to be loved too.

I have learned to be grateful for the kind people God has given me.

I have also learned to be the one God sent to people, to be kind, to support, celebrate, and show up for them. And I think you should too.

Thanks for reading! Gem❤️

Subscribe now

It has become clear to me that real growth is self satisfying. It gives a sense of accomplishment that does not fade, even when no one applauds it. When you post an article and it gets only ten likes, yet you are proud because your writing improved, you read it again and think, "I am getting better." That is growth, the real kind

But people pleasing wears a disguise that looks exactly like growth. It is when you post that same article and refresh every two minutes, checking if anyone liked or commented. You feel good only when the numbers climb. Your joy feels incomplete if people do not engage. It becomes clear that the growth was not about getting better; it was about getting noticed and approved.

I have come to understand that real growth is a change that shows we are better versions of ourselves. It comes with the knowing that our self worth is not controlled by people's opinions. We are who we said we are, and that is on period.

On a deeper level, real growth is when you take responsibility when you are wrong, but you do not accept blame that is not yours. You do not hide the truth or suppress how you feel just to keep others comfortable. You know when to speak up and when to stay silent. You express your feelings honestly because your opinions matter and your voice is needed.

Support my writing 💌

Real growth is also when you protect your boundaries, even when it makes others uncomfortable. You agree with people, and you also disagree, simply because you understand that everyone is made of different stuff and opinions can differ. So you do not try to sound like everyone else; you own your thoughts and voice them out.

Believe me, real growth is when we live fully because we know we cannot please everyone.

I have connected the dots and now see that every time change enters the chat, people pleasing often shows up as growth even though it is not. It looks like progress, yet it is simply performance. Sometimes we focus on pleasing people without even realizing we are doing it.

One easy way to know you are trying to please others is when you change to make people like or accept you, when you suddenly need people's approval to feel good about yourself. You apologize even when you did nothing wrong. You hide your true feelings to avoid conflict. You say yes when you mean no. You want to be at peace with everyone, even at the cost of your inner peace. You betray yourself by choosing what others want over what you truly desire.

It's a sad reality that makes you fear disappointing people, so you constantly ask yourself, "Will they be happy with me?" In the long run, you feel exhausted and unhappy because you lost yourself while trying to win everyone's heart.

Buy me coffee 🎀

I believe that being a people pleaser does not make you a silly person; it only shows that you cared so much about others' opinions that you forgot you had one of your own. It shows that you have been kind in the wrong way, caring so deeply about everyone else's smile that you forgot you needed to truly smile too. Maybe you did not know that you did not have to shrink for people to smile. You could be yourself and still make people smile. You were never meant to hide your authenticity. You were meant to be the real you.

Always remember, real growth is progress, not performance. It is becoming, not bending.

Thanks for reading! Gem❤️

Living in an extroverted space, you need to understand when to be silent and when to speak, because whether you like it or not, you will definitely encounter folly.

People will test your patience, trigger your trauma, break your arm, push you to the wall, and spit in your face, just maybe not literally. That is folly. It is part of life. Facing folly is inevitable, but it becomes avoidable when you embrace wisdom.

I believe every problem has a solution, and so does folly. You cannot stop people from being fools, but you can save yourself from becoming their prey.

You can choose how you react. You can choose to be silent or not. It is all on you to decide your response to what happens around you each day and every time. Your response will affect your life. It will either protect your peace or steal it. So it is worth knowing that you understand what your responses should be.

I used to believe silence was the best answer for a fool, but then I realized that sometimes it is, and sometimes it is freaking not.

Sometimes staying silent shows you are wiser and saves you from the stress of unnecessary arguments. But other times, silence can be misunderstood as agreement, weakness, or permission to keep treating you badly.

So it is just best to know when silence is wisdom and when speaking up is necessary.

Support my writing 💌

What made me realize that silence is not always the best answer?

Oh, I saw how my silence meant yes when I meant a no. I saw how my silence meant that I could take all the shit stuck on my face. I saw how my silence meant I was a weak, shy, and timid piece of trash that anyone could step on. In me, and for me, my silence meant peace, but to the people who embraced folly, it meant otherwise.

When I realized that my silence was not always the best answer, I chose to speak up when someone repeatedly disrespected me. I make sure to calmly establish my boundaries, because if I do not, I will be bound by their words of disregard, and they will keep bullying me and crossing my boundaries. They will take advantage of my silence and even do worse as time goes by. Why? Because I am silent. So I would rather speak up and let them know what I like and what I do not.

I also choose to speak up when someone lies about me. Life has taught me time and again that false accusations can seriously affect a person's identity. They have a way of making people see someone wrongly, and that is because people always believe the first story by default. It is natural. Even I do believe what I hear first before I go on to believe otherwise with proof. So I choose to always correct the false information, even if no one believes me. It is okay so long as I defend myself.

Subscribe now

But I have also learned that silence is the best answer sometimes. I choose silence when the person is clearly trying to provoke me. Some people will go to any lengths and use hurtful words to make you retaliate. They want a reaction. They want you to be loud and mad like them, but reacting often makes things worse.

I do not respond when people curse me because, I mean, the curses cannot make me lame. If they could, then everyone in the world would be lame. Their rude words do not actually matter. I do not have to respond to every foolish comment. I would rather put on my headphones or walk away, because they should have known better. Cursing someone is not the right way to express yourself even if you are pained. And if I cannot walk away, I will still be silent. Of course, I may get angry because I am being provoked, and my words would not be nice if I spoke. I may say something I would regret, so I would rather be calm.

I also learned to be silent when an argument is pointless. Some people are not trying to understand you; they simply want to win. So even if I explained myself ten times, they would still argue. There is no point speaking further. I have learned that silence will protect my peace. Sometimes walking away or not responding is the most mature response.

Buy me Coffee 🎀

So in an extroverted space, outside my peaceful shell, if I am ever approached with folly, I first ask myself these questions:

1. Will speaking up solve anything, or will it just give them the reaction they are fishing for?

2. Will staying silent stop their nonsense, or will they take my quietness as a green light to do worse?

In and out of silence, I just know that I have to protect my peace. I will always have that in mind. Silence is the best answer for a fool, and it also is not.

Thanks for reading! Gem🎀

I have always been curious. I question things. I ask why. I have always wanted to know something new. I think I questioned everything all my life. Today I remembered how curious I was about where Jesus was. Seasons later, I cried so much because of that question.

What made the curious cat cry?

When I was 10, I remember being disappointed and teary-eyed that I didn't see Jesus on the roof of my house. I cried so much, looking at the zinc roof, clearly frustrated. That day, my brothers' kpokiripo football fell over the zinc, so they climbed up to get it. So brave. They always did brave and audacious things. 😅 But when they were done, I climbed the big chair when they weren't looking. I didn't climb the zinc roof; I dared not. Small me was standing on the big chair that gave me a good view of that particular zinc roof, the spot where my mama pointed and said, "Jesus is up there." I had taken it literally and was so curious to get up there one day to see just how Jesus was doing up there.

Subscribe now

It had seemed impossible to get to the rooftop or perhaps see it, but what was really impossible was denying what I saw clearly. Jesus wasn't on top of our roof sitting in a meditation position as I thought he was. So I cried. I was heartbroken. Where is my Jesus? 😭

What did the curious cat do about it?

I don't remember asking my mama about it, but I know I later resorted to believing that Jesus was in the sky, in the clouds. Apparently I was wrong too, and so was anyone who'd made me believe so. 😤

Does the curious cat think mama deceived her?

No. I know Mama believed it would be uneasy for me to understand the spirituality tied to Jesus's existence, so she said, "Jesus is up there," pointing at the roof while we sat in the outside corridor beneath it. I had believed it literally. Now I'm grown, and I know where Jesus is. He's in me, not on the roof, so no crying anymore.

Three | From North to Zoya 🎀

From the gates, through the mansion's huge entrance door, Zoya hopped slowly into the living room and let her body sink into a soft couch, her favourite spot in the quiet room.

From a table beside her, she grabbed a small bottle of milk drink. Her palms wrapped tightly around it as she stared at it. The sight of it made her remember everything she had bought but lost in her race for safety. It was a memory she wasn't going to lose easily.

So, rapists are in… She paused her soliloquy as soon as Clara came in. Quickly, she covered her wounded knees with her palm, looking away from her.

Clara was her dad's informant, a somewhat adopted housemaid; at least, that was how Zoya perceived her. The two girls had the same build; only their characters differed. Zoya was fire; Clara was ice-cold, frozen by Zoya's attitude toward her. Zoya's moods were like passing clouds, always changing. She was a handful, but Clara was gradually becoming an ace at handling her, unfazed.

Clara came closer to her. She already knew what had happened and had informed Chief, her foster dad, Zoya's dad. Calmly, she dropped a painkiller and a glass of water for Zoya on a side stool and then sat down at the opposite end of the room, her eyes fixed on Zoya.

Zoya turned to her, then to the glass of water and the painkiller. She gave up. From attitude to meekness, her words slowly crawled out.

"Please, don't tell Daddy what happened."

"He knows," Clara said, her eyes blinking coldly.

Zoya's jaw dropped. This witch is after my life.

Rolling her eyes at Clara, she grabbed the painkiller and the glass of water, swallowed the drug, gulped down the water, and then drank the milk. Her frustration rose like heat beneath her skin. Her eyes reddened, but she refused to let the tears fall.

She sniffled. "Don't you want to go out sometimes?" she asked Clara.

"Are you not tired of living like a prisoner?" she asked again, holding back tears.

"No." Clara's voice landed firm. "I don't want to be chased by a rapist," she added.

"Huh?" Zoya jumped up and staggered toward her, wanting to scratch her face. But she could only yell at her, enraged.

In that moment, Zayden stepped into the house. He held Zoya, who ended up shouting and crying uncontrollably in his arms. Zayden's heartbeat was louder than the noise around him. Seeing that Zoya was safe made his pulse slowly return to normal. He'd been searching for her on the streets.

While Zoya pulled back a little, complaining and reporting Clara to him, he just stared at her, holding her to calm her down, his mind completely elsewhere.

How can I save Zoya from my mess? he thought, still looking at her.

He was going to tell Dad that he now agreed Zoya shouldn't go out. He was going to hide her from his boss.

Clara crossed her legs, her hands holding her chin. She scoffed, unfazed by Zoya's rage and her accusing fingers.

Zoya cried the more.

Then Zayden pulled her back into his arms.

"Stop, Zoya. It's okay, it's okay," he said, patting her head.

"This girl is... is... wicked!" Zoya stuttered to him, then slowly paused her endless rant for a moment.

Some voices approached the house, and there was Dad, Chief Zadok. He opened the door, paused there, staring at everyone in the room, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"Zoya." His voice was shaky as he came close to her, checking her arms and bandaged knees. Zayden let her off his arms, but she clung to him, hiding her face from her dad.

Chief Zadok was a 46-year-old, fair-skinned, grey-haired young dad. The neighbourhood added "Chief" to his name, unofficially, because of his impact in the area.

The moment he heard the news, he left the hotel where he had a meeting and rushed home like nothing else mattered. Now, he took a deep breath and sat on a couch, both hands clasped over his head. Many thoughts twisted his heart before he got there. The streets weren't safe for Zoya. He knew it, and that was why he asked her not to step out, but she'd insisted.

"We're going to the hospital for a check-up," he finally said.

"She's fine, Dad. Like it was nothing, really…" Zayden said.

If Zoya were to be outside, even with security, his chest would burst open. His boss was plotting something evil; he knew it, and the least he could do was keep Zoya safe and hidden.

"We still have to check her," Chief Zadok's PA said, holding the door ajar.

"Arrrrrrr!" Chief Zadok scratched his thick grey hair roughly. "Zoya, do you want to kill me?"

"Who wants to kill you?" Zoya snapped, pulling away from Zayden with a squeezed face.

Zayden sat down close to Clara, watching the daddy's-girl drama. It always had its own special series.

"It's you that wants to kill me, Daddy." Zoya pointed at her dad and started sobbing, her eyes dry.

"You don't allow me to go out. That's why I never knew that the bushy shortcut was risky."

"So it's my fault now?" Chief Zadok asked, looking up at her. He stood up and walked towards her.

"Don't you see what I've been trying to save you from?"

He paused an inch from her, hands on his waist.

"Zoya, what do you want to do outside? What exactly?" he asked calmly.

"Friends," Zoya barked. "I want to make friends…" She wiped her dry face with her arms.

"But you have Clara. She…"

"No, she's a witch!" Zoya retorted.

Clara scoffed, clapped her hands softly, folded her arms, and leaned back on the chair she sat on. No words, just silence.

"Hmmm." Chief Zadok breathed out, holding his eyes shut with his fingers.

"You are tired of me, abi? Me too, I'm tired." Zoya's last-born voice rose.

"Stop it, Zoya," her dad said, holding her hand. At this point, he really wanted her to understand him. He did. It was all about her safety. She was too pretty for the street life she wanted.

"Leave me alone. I will leave this house. I will go and stay with Mummy abroad," she sobbed, drawing back from her dad.

Zayden leaned forward from his chair. "Zoya, Dad just wants to protect you…"

"It's a lie!" Zoya barked, pushing her dad away. Still, Chief Zadok persisted and hugged her. His eyes were red like pepper. Then, finally, he let her be, and she sat on the couch, wrapping her arms around herself like she was protecting herself from the whole world.

Chief Zadok sniffled and squatted below her.

"Zoya, please. You are too young to be on the streets. I just want you to be safe," he explained.

Clara scoffed. The fact that he begged Zoya made her wonder what made her so special.

Subscribe now

In silence, Zoya's face twisted. She was tired of arguing about her freedom and getting the same answers every time. It wasn't helping.

Protection. What was that really?

When will I get to live life like Zayden? Two years from now? No way, that's too far.

She wiped her face.

"I love you, Zoya. I want the best for you, I really do," her dad said.

Zayden nodded. "Yeah."

Zoya was silent, gazing at the air. She was calm now. Her dad's love was still, as always, her mood tuner.

Softly, she said, "But Daddy, you let Zayden go out as he wishes."

"Zayden is 19. He's a man now. He can defend himself anywhere, anytime," her dad said.

"Me too. I can defend myself." Her eyes burned as she said it, looking at him.

"Zoya, no, you can't," her dad said. He sat beside her and hugged her, placing her head on his chest.

Silence. Everyone was quiet.

It was a daddy's-girl moment.

Clara almost sighed. But she stood up and left.

Zayden got a call. He ignored it, then a text came.

He stared at it, wagging his feet on the floor to ease the tension he felt.

He'd been given a task, one he dared not oppose.

He looked at his dad, and then at Zoya.

Chief Zadok was smiling as he shook his head, surprised by how Zoya slept off in a split second.

If you enjoyed my piece and would love to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee below.

Buy me coffee

Anne's hand shook like a leaf in a storm. Her feet stuck in front of the principal's office. At sixteen, she could tell when a man was making a wrong move on her. She knew being taken advantage of was the risk of being a pretty young girl. Just three months ago, a twelve-year-old neighbor was deflowered by a total stranger, and now everyone had forgotten, like it hadn't happened.

The world isn't really safe, is it?

Anne's eyes squeezed out tears; fear gripped her from behind. I can't get in here, he'd do something to me. Her words came out slow and shaky. Her heart choked, then raced like it was planning to leave her body.

Louis stood downstairs, in the dark passage that faced the staircase ending at the principal's large office. He had thought, why was the principal always asking him to call Anne after school? He suspected her; she was probably seeing him. The sugar daddy trend, innit. He had packed his backpack before following her, secretly, until she got upstairs and paused at the door. He watched from behind her in the dark space, wondering why she didn't want to go in.

Six minutes later, Lola, Anne's best friend, ran through the dark space past Louis and upstairs toward Anne. She hadn't noticed him. Her voice landed with playful excitement: "Let's go home! The principal isn't around." She said to Anne, dragging her down the stairs, smiling brightly. Louis hid, his whole body sticking to the wall.

Anne followed Lola, her eyes full of tears she tried to hide. Her best friend probably thought she was always being called to the principal's office for file documentation or something formal. She wasn't going to tell her; telling her meant telling the school. Lola was a radio, not an enemy, but an innocent girl who wouldn't mind exposing evil without thinking of the consequences.

Anne thought differently, deeper than her. She thought about everything before she'd take an act. Telling everyone would mean her classmates and the school would see her differently. So no, she didn't want to be a topic. And no, only her aunt should know.

Anne had just one adult closest to her, her twenty-six-year-old rich aunt, who was her safe space. Anne had left home to stay with her aunt because her aunt had once looked at her and said, "This public school thing is hiding your potential. Let's go to the city." Since then, it's been awesome being around bright minds in school, with healthy competition, weekly sports, and math club. Everything was perfect, except for the ordeal with the principal.

Anne's mind drifted back to the Monday after school, just four days ago, the first time the principal called her to his office. He had asked her to clean up the room. The room looked like it had been intentionally littered; wraps of snacks and rough paper lay scattered on the brown tiled floor. She bent to pick them before sweeping, but when she turned slightly, behold, the principal was smiling, looking under her skirt from where he sat on his huge office desk, his eyes stuck to her thighs.

She shook.

"Common, sweep fast!" he snapped, switching to a rude tone immediately.

Of course, she swept so fast and left the office. Then she ran home, one kilometer nonstop, not because she was being chased, but because her thoughts were all over. Her mind kept replaying what had happened. Running helped and her pulse normalized.

When Anne got home, she waited for her aunt to return. Six pm, eight pm, ten pm, her aunt wasn't back. Anne wanted to tell her everything that happened, and also that she wanted the male trouser uniform as soon as possible. Besides, some girls in school wore trousers, not skirts. She wanted to cry on her aunt's lap while explaining that she'd been having weird and scary thoughts since 4 pm after school, scared that the principal would find her house and come in and harm her.

Being a deep thinker, her mind had wandered through every possible worst-case scenario, leaving goosebumps all over her skin. She waited patiently in her room with a blinking blue light bulb showing her reflection on the wall, which she fixed her eyes on.

Later that evening, she got a call. Her neighbor came with a phone call from her aunt. "Baby, I won't be back today, OK? See you tomorrow. Make sure you eat well, OK?"

Her aunt had traveled urgently and asked her neighbor to look after her.

It's Friday now, four days later. She's walking home with Lola, hoping her aunt was back.

"Why were you crying?" Lola asked.

"Cramps," Anne lied.

"Ouch... Sorry... I'll cook for you today, okay. Don't stress, mama's here." Lola smiled, hands over her best friend's shoulder.

Anne smiled too, genuinely touched and glad that Lola would be at home with her, in case her aunt wasn't back.

At Anne's home, Lola rambled about school gossip, making beef stew for rice, while Anne cuddled under a blanket on a couch in the living room that faced the kitchen's open door. Lola's voice was loud enough to fill the room, but she'd still come to the kitchen door at intervals to rant more before getting back to the pot on the fire. Anne smiled and laughed softly, forgetting her plan to learn karate skills for defense against the principal if things went south next week.

Next week, on Monday morning at school, Anne joined the line for assembly while the head of staff was addressing the students. Her eyes drifted and landed on the principal, whose eyes were fixed on her, his face twisted with the kind of fury most principals wore unnecessarily. But she knew this wasn't that usual fury. She was caught. He was probably planning how to deal with her for not coming to his office last Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and even Friday, as instructed. Her stomach dropped. Heads bent low. Her hands shook.

After the assembly, Louis came to her. "Can we talk?" he asked.

"Ummm..." she stammered.

"See you during break at the canteen, OK?" He tapped her shoulder as if she had already agreed.

She nodded and then headed to class.

Lectures went well, except that she was lost in thoughts.

What if... what if he asks me to come to his office again?

She shook her head as if that would shake off her thoughts.

During break, she went to the canteen, her eyes scanning the busy room of students chatting and laughing in groups over their meals.

Someone tapped her. It was a little girl from JSS1. Her innocent, childish voice piped up: "Senior, the principal said that you should come to his office now."

"Huh?" Anne breathed in shock.

No way. No.

She nodded to the little girl, who ran off immediately.

Subscribe now

Anne scratched her head in frustration, then angrily rushed to the restroom. There, she looked into the mirror, assuring herself that things might not go south and that she needed to end this.

She planned to speak up, not to anyone, but to the principal.

"Sir, I do not like what you are doing," she rehearsed with a sharp tone, as though words of defense were enough.

"Sir, please don't look at my body," she rehearsed again, and then left for the office, breathing heavily.

Knock, knock. She knocked at the principal's door.

"Come in," his voice said.

She did, but stood at the door.

"Anne, how are you?" The principal smiled.

"Come, sit," he said, pointing at the chair opposite him on his desk.

Anne went forward and sat down, still shaking, unsure of what to do next. No greeting. No response. Her mind was racing.

Immediately, he stood up, went to the door, and bolted it.

Anne jumped up from the chair.

"Sir, what are you doing?" Her hands fidgeted on her skirt.

"Calm down, shhhh. See, you worry too much." He came closer.

"Sir... Sir..." Anne shifted.

"You know, you are a fine girl. You are too fine." He licked his lips, drawing closer.

"Stop!" Anne shouted, pushing him away. She ran towards the door, but he grabbed her hands with his firm fist. With a force that her little strength could not oppose, he pushed her to the wall and began pulling her skirt down.

Anne yelled.

She cried.

"No, no!" she continued to shout, pulling her skirt back up.

Down it went; up she pulled again.

The principal's fingers scratched against her thighs. He had more strength. A sixteen-year-old could not beat a fifty-four-year-old, could she?

He dragged her to his chair and pushed her into it. As he pulled off his shirt and his belt, Anne's hands grabbed the perfume bottle on the shelf behind her and hit the small bottle on his head.

He slapped her.

She bit him hard, and as soon as he tried to hit her again, she sprayed the perfume in his eyes. Puff, puff, she continued spraying.

He shut his eyes immediately.

It worked. He could not see anything.

"Hey, hey..." he yelled and stood back, touching things around him like a blind man.

Then Anne fell off the chair, crying and crawling away from him. On second thought, she paused, stood up, and then sprayed more perfume in his eyes.

He dodged his face, shouting.

Wrapping her torn skirt around her waist, she staggered out of the office, crying bitterly.

Outside the office, students who were playing around paused. All eyes were on her. Some peeped into the principal's office; others ran to call teachers.

Anne stuck her tears in. What she feared most had happened, but before it got worse, she would rather run away. She ran to her class, ignoring everyone, including Lola. She grabbed her backpack and rushed to the school gate.

Her female classmates held her tight, trying to calm her down. She pushed them, bit them, yelled like she had lost her mind, and rushed out of the school premises.

The security man tried to stop her too, but the head of staff signaled him to let her go. He then sent one of the female teachers to go after her and make sure she got home safe.

The head of staff had a look on his face, one that said this man must pay for his sins. His fist twisted, and he asked the teachers to maintain order. The whole school knew now, both junior and secondary. The principal was led out of his office, blind and speechless. Everyone knew what that meant.

The school chaos continued as Lola protested to the teachers.

"How dare you! How dare all of you!" She pointed at all the male teachers as though they were all guilty of the act.

"Wicked people, bad staff!" she yelled, her eyes red. For her, trying to maintain order after what just happened was ironic. "So you people want to pretend nothing happened?"

"No, Lola, calm down," one of the male teachers said.

"It will not work. Everybody will know. I will tell everybody, my mummy, my daddy, everybody will know. Wicked... wicked world..." She sobbed.

Senior students protested with her, refusing to be calm after what happened, while the junior students peeped through the windows of their locked classrooms.

At home, Anne opened the door, went straight to the kitchen, and took a knife. Back at the house door, someone stood, a young guy who had seen her crying as she went home. Worried about her state, he had followed her from behind, asking questions she ignored.

"Get away!" Anne yelled, pointing the knife at him.

Hands up, the guy nodded. "Sorry, I'm going. Keep the knife, please don't hurt yourself."

"Get out!" she yelled, and the guy left.

Then she fell to the floor and cried so much that her head ached; she could feel it. No words, just loud sobs.

Later, she took her bath and walked back into the living room, but instead of the couch, she chose the cold floor. She curled herself in her arms.

"Mummy, auntie..." her voice cracked like she would cry again.

She slept off.

By 8 p.m., a heavy knock came on the door. Anne jumped up.

"Anne, Anne!" her aunt's voice came from the door. She unbolted it immediately.

Then her aunt came in, flinging her shoes from her feet. She dropped her luggage carelessly aside.

"Anne, what really happened? The school called; they weren't being clear. What really happened?"

Holding Anne tightly in her arms, she rubbed her back.

Anne didn't say a word; she burst into a loud cry, her hands clenching her aunt's dress. She cried louder than a newborn baby, and her aunt didn't stop her. In silence, her anger tripled.

"We sincerely apologize for what happened to Anne. Please give us a chance to fix this, ma," the school had said to her on a call at noon.

What happened to Anne? She had asked them, but they didn't respond.

Even now, she didn't know what really happened. But her mind was made up. She was going to mess up anyone who had hurt her baby.

"Talk to me, baby, what happened?" Anne's aunt asked softly, putting her on the couch.

"I... I... I..." Anne stammered, crying painfully.

Words failed her. "Why me..." She cried some more.

If you enjoyed my piece and would love to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee below.

Buy me coffee

From my hospital bed, with my eyes tightly shut, I thought deeply about how my life had flashed before my eyes in a second. Just yesterday, I almost died.

At school, my lodge held general cleanups every Saturday. By 8:45 a.m. we were done, so I rushed into my room, prepared spaghetti jollof, and sat on the floor to eat. I was still sweating from all the stress, and my mouth had a sour taste because I had not brushed my teeth that morning.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. Then I smiled to myself. Would be nice if I stepped this food down with a chilled drink. I quickly covered my pot and dashed out with 500 naira from my purse, my last cash.

On my way out, I saw my roommate. Our eyes locked, and I looked away almost immediately. She was back from her night life, the lifestyle that cost our friendship. She didn't greet me, and so I didn't greet her either. I was always the first to reconcile after a quarrel, but I'd changed my mind. If she didn't want to talk to me, it was fine. Her sigh was loud as she walked past me in the passage. Typical her, a grudgeful soul.

When I got back, I rushed to my meal, sat on the floor, and ate from the pot like a hungry lion. At the third scoop, my throat tightened. My body went stiff, and white foam gushed out of my mouth.

No one was in the room. Not even my roommate. I was losing my breath until Chioma opened my room door, sniffing the air. "I know say na you..." Her voice paused when she saw me struggling on the floor. She'd probably wanted to tease me about oppressing everyone in the lodge with my aromatic food.

She began to shout for help. My neighbors gathered. I felt some muscular guy jack my big body up.

I felt the bumpy ride of the motorcycle that sped to the hospital, with the rider shouting, "You no fit die, God no go gree," as though I was his own child. I heard many voices. I heard Chioma's cry. But my eyes were shut, and my body was stiff.

***

Now, it's been a day in the hospital, and I thank God I survived. God answered the rider's prayers, even the strangers that prayed. He heard them.

I've realized that there are still kind people in this wicked world. I'm grateful for Chioma, my longer-throat neighbor turned bestie. I thank God for making me a bad chef that often drew her nose to my room.

There's someone else I am also very grateful for, the muscle man. I'm glad that he could carry me easily.

I'm grateful for the kind strangers that helped me, the motorcycle rider, and even the people that paid my hospital bills and sent me fruits, snacks, and recovery notes.

My eyes are swollen from crying. It's my first time being poisoned. It's also my first time being a patient. I never thought life could happen to me. I almost died that day. Remembering everything makes me cry even more.

Still lying on the hospital bed with my eyes tightly shut, I'm trying to answer the question I was asked. How did my food get poisoned? I'd told everyone I don't know, but it seems I know now.

According to Chioma, my spaghetti jollof had turned blue, and some people at the lodge said it was probably poisoned with acid.

There is only one person who had the room key aside from me. It was the one girl that'd once used a hot iron on her kid sister during a fight. It was my roommate. The girl I fought with on Friday.

I know now because Chioma mentioned that she'd seen my roommate leave the lodge with a big travel bag yesterday morning, some moments before I almost died.

Now that's unfair. So she traveled after plotting my demise.

The signs were there all along, but I lived blindly with her. I had to experience this so my second life would have wiser decisions, like living alone.

I almost died, but I survived. So I hope to meet her again, not to revenge, but to show her that she couldn't kill me.

This story is a work of fiction. It is dedicated to everyone who has helped a dying stranger. May God bless you always. This story is also a warning to students to choose roommates wisely, or better still, stay alone.

If you enjoyed my piece and would love to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee below.

Buy me coffee

Two | From North to Zoya 🎀

Through the thick bush, Zoya saw a narrow, root-tangled path that opened onto a street that looked like hers. The same wooden kiosks. The same mats of egusi seeds she had seen that afternoon, spread out by the roadside. She ran faster, burst into the open, and her toe caught on a thick stem. She went down hard, her phone still clamped in her fist. It was the only thing her fingers had managed to hold onto throughout the desperate race.

She lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, little thorns from weeds scattered across her arms. Her neighbors, passersby, and even children who had been playing ball gathered around in shock. Some helped her to her feet and settled her onto one of the long wooden benches nearby. Questions flew from every direction, but all she could do was breathe heavily as she pointed toward the bush she had fled from. Her knees burned as though fire ants were crawling beneath her skin.

Almost immediately, North emerged from the bush, dragging the strange man across the ground. He had beaten half the life out of him. His grip was tight on the man's collar while the man clawed helplessly at the clay ground. North pinned one of the man's hands to the ground with his foot, making the man cry out in pain. Then he shoved him flat and kept kicking.

"Hey!" the neighbors panicked. "He don smoke again oh. Hol am, hol am."

They rushed over and surrounded North and the man.

As the crowd shouted over one another, Zoya slowly realized that the hoodie boy had been chasing after her to save her from the strange man, the drug addict who had wanted to rape her. She looked around, surprised. Even the children knew. Everyone had known except her that a rapist had been living freely in the neighborhood.

Then her eyes fell on North. His hoodie was torn. His cheeks were scratched, dotted with tiny streaks of blood. Leaves clung to his tangled hair. What a fight he had had with the madman.

Guilt settled in her aching heart. "I owe him a lot," she whispered quietly.

The crowd held onto the man and some people took him away. Then everyone turned to North, praising him for how fiercely he had fought to save their neighbor. He kept smiling at everyone around him as though he wasn't hurt at all.

For a while, from where Zoya sat, she struggled within herself, trying to find the right words and the courage to walk up to North and thank him.

She felt a sharp, stinging pain on her knees. As she looked down, her brother Zayden was dressing her wounds. He gently wiped the blood cloths, carefully rolling a bandage around her knees. He'd heard the news already.

"I... I was going... going home..." she stuttered, short of words to explain how everything had happened.

"It's fine," Zayden interrupted, "but I'm sure Daddy won't let you go out again." He smiled without showing his teeth, the kind that wasn't a smile but a consolation.

"Argghhh!" Zoya jerked, pulling her knees from her brother. Her eyes reddened with pain, both from her body and the reality of becoming a prisoner in her home again.

"Sorry," Zayden said, patting her wound slowly as he knotted the bandages.

"Let's go," he said, bending over for her to climb his back.

"Please wait." She pushed him a little and then hopped on one leg towards North.

Before she could get closer to him, some women surrounded her, hugging her, stroking her cheeks, and thanking God that she had not been raped by the drug addict.

"Naso the boy dey always do. If he high like this, he go dey find young young girls..." one of the women continued ranting, recounting old stories about the drug addict.

Zayden wasn't left alone either. Some teenage boys in the street came to gist him on how the whole matter happened. One of them claimed he helped to save Zoya. Zayden scoffed; he knew that was a lie. He'd heard the news from a reliable source. It was North alone that saved his sister. So since he knew the neighbors just wanted money from him as usual, he squeezed a thousand naira to one of the guys.

"Heeyyy my boss!" The boy jumped, rejoicing, his loose short knickers almost falling from his waist. As he rushed to the store nearby to buy sachet alcohol, his crew followed.

Zayden's side smile paused as he saw someone he shouldn't. The boss. His boss, the drug addict. The man gave him a deep glare. He was mixed with the crowd and his men surrounded him. No one noticed him because he wore a black cap that covered his brows; only his cracked lips gave him away.

Zayden shook and dragged himself around the noisy crowd, looking hastily for Zoya. He knew something others didn't. There was trouble. There was fire on the mountain.

"Zoya!! Zoya!!" he yelled, searching the crowd.

Zoya smiled at North from where she stood amongst the women and neighbors, but she quickly looked away when her eyes met with his.

North noticed her. His eyes glistened and his lips curled into a smile. The neighbors around him would think he was only smiling because of them, but he felt really cool being admired by both Zoya and the neighbors.

The attention, the shoulder pats and the side stares from the rich girl were warming his cheeks for an embarrassing blush. Everyone was hailing him like he was a hero. It felt new. That wasn't how his neighbors treated him. Back on his street, he was the poor boy no one smiled at or spoke kindly to. Here, everyone treated him with respect. They probably don't know I'm poor, he mused.

His thoughts lingered amid the noisy crowd. There was a warmth and kindness in this neighborhood that was missing from his own street. Here, everyone was a friend to one another. On his street, everyone was in fierce competition.

North's eyes almost filled with tears as some women came to him with small nylons of foodstuffs, smiling. Some handed him juice packs. Others gave him fresh loaves of bread. Gifts came from everywhere. It felt like a miracle.

Slowly, the women drifted away from Zoya, following a crowd that gathered at one shop. News was that someone had stolen drinks from the store while the chaos lingered.

Zoya breathed out slowly, relieved that the women's attention had shifted away from her. Then she walked over to North, slowly limping. He was standing aside from the crowd with his hands on his waist, watching everyone.

Seeing that everyone called him North, she said, "North, thank you so much. I am very sorr..."

North sighed and walked past her, as though he hadn't smiled at her earlier.

Zoya gave up. It wasn't in her to beg beyond that. She was grateful to him, but following him around to beg wasn't what she wanted to do. She wanted to rest.

The noise in the street increased, and Zoya searched the crowd with her eyes for Zayden. Since she didn't see him, she limped toward home.

On getting to her house gate at the end of the street, she felt someone tap on her shoulder. Turning around, she found North standing behind her, breathing hard, holding what looked like her missing slippers.

"Oh, thank you."

She took the slippers from him.

Without a word, he simply turned to leave.

"North." She gently touched his shoulder. "I am so sorry for being rude to you."

North scoffed. "So you knew you were rude?" he asked, his small voice cracking slightly as he fixed his gaze at her.

"I am sorry." Zoya bent her head shyly.

He nodded. "Fine. Just be careful. The street isn't so safe, OK?"

"OK. Thank you," Zoya smiled.

Mama Zinny was standing a short distance away with bags full of gifts for North. She had rushed over the moment she heard what had happened.

Now, she giggled to herself in surprise. "So North sabi speak English? See this boy o," she muttered with a smile.

As soon as North turned toward her after waving goodbye to Zoya, she laughed, cracking up like she always did. Her teasing expression said everything she refused to say aloud. Then she said, "North, North, fine boy no pimple. You don see fine girl, you dey speak English."

North giggled and playfully nudged her aside. He took the heavy bags from her, and together they headed toward their own street, leaving the noisy neighborhood behind.

After a few steps, North glanced back one last time. What a rough, unforgettable day it had been.

If you enjoyed my piece and would love to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee below.

Buy me coffee

From the way the gossips paused, and from the corner of Mama Kayla's retina, North knew they had noticed: he was wearing the hoodie Nelson had worn yesterday, the one piece he shared with his brother. The brown fabric wore the exhausted look of a road walked too often. It hung loose on his smaller frame, its sleeves swallowing his hands, and its faded colour looked even dirtier, making him feel shy.

"When last them wash am?" a tiny voice whispered.

The stares bit at his heels until his legs trembled beneath him as he walked down the street toward his customer's shop. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead, he staggered past the gossips and Mama Kayla. Hunger, too, was an enemy. He was not going to greet anyone he passed; the poor boy was saving his last strength for the few steps ahead. The afternoon sun blazed, and sweat beaded on his forehead. His throat felt dry, his lips and his pocket too. Yet he pulled his hood lower over his face, as if that would hide his shame.

Ahead, Mama Zinny's shop appeared. The wooden sign above it had faded, reading ZINNY'S PROVISIONS AND FRIES, but she refused to repaint it. She said the fading made it look stylish, but North said it looked like a cockroach penthouse. At once, she threw a slipper at him.

As North drew closer to Mama Zinny's shop, his shoulders loosened. He was never shy around her. She felt like home, a kind soul, like his mother, whom he had lost in the Red Canteen fire outbreak of 2023. What she did not know was that, somehow, she was the poor boy's flicker of light, small but enough to keep the darkness from swallowing him.

In North's inner world, she was his mother, his first home with another face. Was he ever going to say that? No. Definitely not. He dared not draw her into the healing fragment he'd drafted in his solemn world. He knew his mother was truly gone, and Mama Zinny was just his kind customer.

North was ecstatic, so he paused dramatically in front of Mama Zinny's shop, arms folded. Then, with a beaming smile, he hailed her the way she liked: loud enough for the whole street to hear and dramatic enough to make her laugh. "The original exporter, importer, and manufactorer, Dugundun!" he shot into the air.

Heads turned, and some passers-by laughed at his theatrics.

Mama Zinny threw her head back and laughed, her whole round body shaking. "This boy, abeg, leave me. Wetin be this?" Her hands paused over the bowl of fine white garri grains. "It's manufacturer, not manufactorer, olodo!" she spat teasingly.

North laughed. "Anyhow, I don come again." He sat on her wooden chair, the one with the wobbly leg that always threatened to give up but never did. Then his eyes drifted to the frying pan hissing beside him, golden plantain slices swimming in oil. He swallowed hard.

"I don see you na. How e dey be?" Mama Zinny bent over her small stove, scooping out the fried plantains.

"I don tire," North whispered, stretching his hands over his head.

"Eh?" Mama Zinny turned to hear him clearly.

"I just dey. Nelson don recover." He sighed softly, rubbing his flat, hollow stomach as if to tell her that he'd been starving since last night. He'd watched Nelson take the last garri with his medicine. His stomach felt betrayed, but his heart was glad that Nelson was well now. No more cleaning up vomit in the dark.

Mama Zinny danced a little, lifting her hands to the blue sky. "Thank God, oh. Chai! Na strong boy!" She tightened her wrapper as she bent over her frying pan again, humming a joyful rhythm.

Smiling, North's eyes drifted back to her frying pan, then slowly wandered to the busy street. One of the neighbours was trying to catch his stubborn runaway hen, and a tiny laugh escaped him. Just in time, his nose caught the sweet aroma from the plate Mama Zinny placed on a wooden stool beside him: fried plantains with pepper sauce.

"For me?" he grinned, a broad smile that melted Mama Zinny's kind heart.

"Eat jare!" she smiled, packing another portion for Nelson into a disposable plate and wrapping it with a rubber band. "This one na for Nelson."

"Chai, Mama Zinny, God bless you for me." North's oily mouth moved from side to side as he ate.

"No choke, oh," Mama Zinny's tiny lips curled into another smile.

It was nothing. She'd do more if she could. His neck bones stood out, and his eyes were pale too. He wasn't going to fall sick like Nelson did, not on her watch. Quiet guilt had settled in her ever since Nelson fell sick. If only I'd remembered to send them some food that night, she thought. They wouldn't have eaten the neighbour's leftovers.

That night, it rained cats and dogs. Sadly, Nelson and North hadn't earned any pay after spending the whole day washing, cleaning, and hauling waste around the neighborhood. They went home with frail promises like, "No worry, we go settle later." Hoping all hope wasn't lost, the boys waited for Mama Zinny to send them dinner, just as she kindly did sometimes, but nothing came.

Time crawled to 11:45 pm. Still, there was no sign of her housemaid. No knock came on their rain-drenched wooden door. She'd probably forgotten. Maybe she thought they had been paid well since it was a Saturday.

Subscribe now

The streets were flooded with brown water, and the deep gutters waited to swallow stranded night crawlers. So the poor boys couldn't risk going to Mama Zinny's house that night. There was only one option left, and they took it. They begged their next-door neighbor for food, and the woman graciously gave them the leftover rice and beans she had, the food she planned to throw away the next morning.

Better than nothing, the boys swallowed hard, eating and scraping the messy pot clean. Taste doesn't always matter; food is food, they thought. But the next morning, Nelson's stomach twisted with painful cramps. Before noon, he was weak, shivering, and passing blood. By then, he was on the verge of losing his life. North, however, was completely fine.

That was when Mama Zinny stepped in. Their not-so-rich but kind customer bought Nelson medicine, gave them a small paint bucket full of garri, and even instructed her housemaid to send them dinner on each of the three days she'd be away. The housemaid knowingly did not comply, and North wasn't sure how to tell on her. He didn't want to sound entitled, so he kept quiet. Besides, Nelson was fine now, and the garri, though finished, had helped a lot.

"Twsss!" North blew hot pepper air from his mouth. His lips burned, and he quickly grabbed the sachet of water beside him, his throat making a grateful gulping sound. He could only wish he'd eat his favorite meal every day, for free, just like today, just like every mommy's boy.

Mama Zinny sang under her breath, putting off her stove and arranging the fried plantains she'd sell to her customers. She turned to North, wiping her oily hands on her wrapper. "Una garri don finish abi?" Before he could answer, she began counting cups of garri into a nylon bag.

"Yes, oh," he answered, scratching his rough hair and blushing. Then he cheered her on, his gratitude as dramatic as ever. "Mama Zinny! The international exporter and importer!" he hailed. "WWM. The World Wide Mama!"

A smile tugged at her lips as she kept counting. "Three, four, five..."

He stood up, determined to make her smile even more. "See, Mama, I will take you round the world." He spread his hands wide in the air.

She let out a playful, scoffing giggle.

But he didn't stop. "In fact, I go... I go buy you Lamborghini. See, I will spoil you."

"Oga, spoil yourself first!" She rolled her eyes at him, a teasing yet savage jab that sent him clutching his knees, howling with laughter. She laughed too, crackling like popcorn in a hot pan.

As the laughter faded, he giggled softly, pointing a playful finger at her. "Mama, you dey look down on me, oh," he said. But her silence was all the reply he got. So he crept behind her, pinched her, and ran out of the shop like he was begging for trouble.

Her mouth twitched, and she almost laughed. Instead, she hissed, paused mid-motion, threw him a side-eye, then calmly knotted the nylon of garri she held. Full of trouble, he crept back to pinch her again. This time, she raised her frying pan. He ran, laughing so hard that his foot landed squarely on someone else's foot behind him.

Slowly, he turned.

"You are very mad! Stupid boy!" a young girl barked in his face. She had fair, flawless skin that made her look foreign, and her slender frame made it obvious she was a teenager. She was Zoya, the one girl North was going to regret meeting.

For a second, the sting of her insult bruised his little ego. His body froze, his laughter died in his chest, and his apology hung dry in his throat. Irked, her face twisted in disgust as she shoved him aside.

"Fine girl, sorry, sorry, no vex," Mama Zinny pleaded, smiling as though her smile itself were an apology.

North sighed like a loser and stepped into the corner of the shop. Arms folded, he studied her from head to toe. She looked expensive and reeked of money, like the kind of girl who'd never known the taste of garri without sugar. Her nails were painted a soft pink, and she wore a short skirt, the type only baddies dared to wear. Her crisp white top was probably worth more than a month's rent.

Zoya turned, shot him a glare, and flicked her long braids over her shoulder, an attitude rich people carried. The beads at the ends of her braids rattled like tiny bells announcing her pride.

"Hmm," North exhaled heavily, almost a groan. Nonsense. Spoilt kid. Spoilt and pretty, though, he mused, shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

The silent battle didn't faze Mama Zinny one bit. Cheerfully, she packed the items on the list she'd been given. "Money first. Ego di mkpa, ego di mkpa," she sang and whistled, shooting North a teasing side-eye, as though that alone could cheer him up. Indeed, money was important to her, just as her off-key song declared.

North muttered under his breath with borrowed courage, "Your beauty na waste." His tiny voice cracked. A little argument to straighten his lowered shoulders. That's all he wanted.

Zoya scoffed, while Mama Zinny's eyes widened in shock. They had heard him.

Mama Zinny's eyes sparkled with admiration. In a bid to shift Zoya's focus, she said, "Fine girl, see as you dey shine."

Zoya smiled at her, ignoring North's nonsense. She counted out some money from a small bundle of cash, her lips moving without words.

Giggling like a child, Mama Zinny added, "We have chilled drinks, moi-moi, fried plantains, even fresh bread too."

"No wahala. Next time," Zoya replied with a forced smile. She paid for the things she'd bought and then walked away, with an attitude people call "shakara."

North's eyeballs remained fixed on her. Revenge was brewing, but only in his head.

"Na chief pikin. Leave am... Leave am," Mama Zinny said, tapping his shoulder.

Heading home, Zoya shook her head from side to side. "If my beauty na waste, then his smelly hoodie na wetin? Waste bin abi?" She'd wanted to scratch his face and maybe run if he tried to fight her, but she knew she'd only get into trouble.

It had been a bad day for her. First, she fought with her dad. Now, a smelly stranger had crushed her finely painted toe. She stopped and bent to look at it. Her big toe was still throbbing. A loud sigh escaped as she strutted forward. "Person go fine, con get body odour, still wear hoodie under hot sun. Nawa, oh!" she said almost aloud, not caring if anyone thought she was mad.

Dragging her feet, her eyes roamed the streets, the tall houses and the zinc-patched houses beside, a typical street resided by both the rich and the poor peacefully. It felt good to be outside, to see people and be seen by people too. The indoor life her dad wanted for her was doomed from the start. It was only day one outside, and she nodded to herself. I'm gonna explore.

Tired of trekking any farther, she turned into the bushy shortcut to her house. She had only used the track once, when her classmate escorted her home. Four and a half seconds after stepping into the bush, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned while still walking, and there was a man following her.

He looked normal but strange at the same time. He kept coming closer, licking his lips.

"Ahhhh!" she screamed and bolted into a run.

He followed, almost catching up with her. Her legs flew through the narrow paths like frightened antelopes fleeing a hunter. Her slippers slipped off her feet, but she left them behind.

At a slight bend, she saw the hoodie guy from the shop running towards her from behind the man. The two guys were charging at her. Her heartbeat tripled. "God, help me!" she screamed. "Somebody, help!" Her voice echoed through the bush. But it looked like her fast legs were all she had. The shortcut had become unbearably long.

Had she lost her way? She couldn't tell. There were no paths in sight, yet she ran through the bushes, panting heavily as her arms scratched against cassava stems.

If you enjoyed my piece and would love to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee below.

Buy me a coffee

God will never stop loving you no matter what. There is nothing you’ll ever do that will make Him love you less. His love is second to none.

His love has no last page.

God is love, He loves both the righteous and the unrighteous.

His display of love was sending His Son to die for His enemies.

His Grace (Love and Mercy) brought Salvation to the world, so that His enemies would become His Family, and share in the inheritance of His Son Jesus. God wants everyone to be become his family, yes! Everyone.

Share

One day, you’ll finally find someone that sees you truly, someone that feels your silence and fills it with peace. One that sees when you’re hurting or need to laugh, and finds a way, somehow, to brighten you up.

One day, the softness that kindness brings will be your new normal. You’ll find the voice that hypes you up, brags about you when you’re not there, and genuinely wants the best for you.

You’ll find a circle, one that stays still even in chaos, not broken by gossip or competition. One that births a closeness that feels tight, like the grip of a newborn. And these friends will stay; they’ll grow with you. They may not be perfect, but they’ll always show up. They’ll show up cringy, show up messy, show up happy, sad, strong, and even late sometimes. But they’ll definitely show up. When this happens, you’ll know it’s not just a sign, it’s a wonder. It’s not a period; it’s a season of being loved. And it’s a smooth ride that requires you to take the wheel too, yeah, show up too! And when you show up too, when you match their energy, when you remember their favorite thing, when you hold their silence, you’ll realize that loving them back is just as healing as being loved by them.

Share

You are becoming. It is a process, not a snapshot. People often judge based on a single moment. But you are becoming, healing, and changing even now. Their opinion cannot keep up with your unfolding.

Most people see others through their own lens. Anger projects anger. Insecurity sees threats. Fear imagines control. Their “you” is often a character in their own internal drama or trauma.

While some opinions may be hard but honest truths about you, requiring self reflection and correction, others are built on misunderstanding, bias, or incomplete information. Those you can let go.

Let go of the wrong things said about you. You do not need to correct the story. You only need to live your life fully, freely, and without apology.

It is okay to be misunderstood by those who refuse to truly see you. You cannot spend all your life trying to prove you have pure intentions. Wrong opinions do not define you.

Boundaries are the invisible lines that protect your energy, identity, and mental health. They are not about keeping people out; they are about letting the right energy in. A boundary is a personal limit you set to let people know what is okay and what is not okay with you.

Your boundaries might be protecting your personal space and privacy or keeping yourself from exploitation. They might also reflect your right to live by your own thoughts, beliefs, or principles without having to justify, defend, or abandon them to make someone else comfortable.

It is okay to set boundaries, because without boundaries, resentment builds quietly. You give until you are empty, and the people who take the most rarely notice because you never showed them where the line was drawn. Without boundaries, you lose the ability to know where you end and someone else begins.

We spend our lives chasing the next big hit, convinced that once we get this or that we'll be happy.

But happiness is not a destination; it's a disposition, a choice to enjoy life moment by moment.

Making yourself happy doesn't mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means becoming the architect of your own inner weather.

Do things for the love of doing them. Not for a result. Not for a paycheck. Not for Instagram. Dance in your kitchen. Draw a bad picture. Write a poem you'll never show anyone. Joy lives in the process, not the outcome.

When you create space for play and hobbies, you remember what it felt like to be a child, before someone told you to be serious.

Doing what makes you happy fills the hollows that disappointments leave behind. That is an act of self-healing.

Being rude, hot-tempered, jealous, competitive, judgmental, or emotionally dull isn't just a red flag. It creates a negative atmosphere that most people will avoid.

Good character complements a good appearance. If you look attractive but act badly, you will still drive good people away. Using "I'm toxic" as an excuse doesn't change that.

Work on yourself, your tone, your manners, and your responses. Doing so helps you attract positive, supportive people and keeps your helpers close. Few people want to keep toxic company. Even toxic people generally prefer peace over chaos in others, because everyone needs stability, not constant conflict.

Privacy is protection. Not everyone deserves to know. Not everyone deserves full access to your story. Privacy has two paths: the first is choosing silence when you can't tell the weather. The second is sharing only in the right weather, with the ones who deserve to know.