I remember you and that’s why I write to your beautiful soul today. It feels kind of strange when I think about you and feel a strong sense of nostalgia because of how much things have changed.

I can remember the nights you spent in a dark corner of your room, replaying every word they said as your body trembled with the fear of abandonment. I look back to the days you looked in the mirror and saw half instead of full— those were the days you looked at yourself and felt you weren’t enough. I can also vividly remember the times you would force yourself to seem little because you wanted to fit in.

I still look back to the days you cried with dangerous thoughts in your mind as you blamed yourself for every wrong that happened to you, every hurt, every mistake— you saw yourself as unworthy and it breaks my heart that you’ve ever thought less of yourself.

But at least now you know you don’t have to shrink yourself to fit into a place you might not even belong to. You don’t have to carry guilt like it’s a piece of you. You don’t have to walk around with hurt like it’s your identity.

I’m sorry you had to go through all of that— through the tears and cuts. The days you sat alone with scary thoughts and felt like you were falling into a dark hole.

I’m sorry for the days you had to be smaller to be loved because you thought you had to work hard, shrink and do whatever just to feel loved.

I’m sorry for the days you had to hide your feelings because you didn’t even understand them and they consumed you from the inside.

I’m sorry for the days you swallowed your anger or hurt to seem understanding. I’m sorry for everyday you’ve woken up and wished things were different.

But thank you, Hafsa. Thank you for surviving difficult seasons and not succumbing to the thoughts that wanted to take you away. You’re a fighter, so thank you for fighting and for fighting well.

Thank you for loving even when you didn’t understand the concept of love. For dreaming even when you couldn’t close your eyes to sleep. For staying soft even when the world tried to harden you.

Thank you.❤️

Sometimes, I wish I could go back and tell you that mistakes don’t define your entire life— that you are allowed to fall as many times as you want to as long as you’re willing to understand why you fell and correct it.

I wish I could hug and whisper in your ear that it’s okay if people decide to walk away from you even after they’ve promised you a forever. A mortal’s promises of forever gets blown away in the wind and sometimes, they don’t even realize it. Not every connection was meant to be a forever connection.

I wish I could tell you that you’re allowed to feel. That you are allowed to change because change is a constant, even in science terms.

I don’t want to become someone who forgets you. Heck, I don’t think I can erase you because you are a part of me. Every mistake you made, every person you met, every dream you had, every joy and sorrow you felt shaped me to being who I am now. You are a part of me.

I’m not perfect yet but I’m grown. I’m older now. (Ate-teen.😛🫶🏽) I’m still learning how to smile without faking it. I’m learning how to live in the way I want to live. I’m learning to love as well.

I’ve met some amazing people along the way to being whole. I’ve fallen in love and I’m learning how to fight my demons and show them how much I love them.

I’m still figuring things out. I’m imperfect but my imperfections are beautiful.❤️✨

So, goodbye little Hafsa but not really. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.

You don’t have to come with me everywhere. But I’ll never be ashamed that you existed.

Love,

Miss Jibril.❤️

If you’re reading this, I finally had the courage to put this out.

My reasons why—

The reasons I became quieter in some ways and louder in others.

The reasons I overthink love, distance, friendship, and people.

The reasons I started protecting my heart like it was something fragile.

Breaking doesn’t always look dramatic, sometimes it looks like smiling normally while feeling yourself pull further and further away inside.

1… I learned too early that people don’t always stay the way they promised they would.

People leave. They always do—especially when they promise not to. When they choose to leave, they don’t do it gently— they leave in ways that can leave you crying in a therapist’s chair, trying to understand what went wrong.

They promise forever but end up giving wounds that last forever. Happiness starts to feel like an illusion, something far-fetched.

Their absence didn’t kill me, but it left me doubting every promise of forever— had me cross-checking my dictionary to see if forever had a different meaning, one that wouldn’t make my heart hurt so much it feels like I can’t breathe.

Sometimes I feel foolish for believing mortal promises of forever.

I didn’t ask them to say they would never leave, but they did. They couldn’t hold up their part of the bargain, and what they did left me wondering if I was the problem—because people always leave.

But we can’t force people to choose us, can we?

I may or may not be the problem, but them leaving broke me—no, shattered me into a thousand pieces that made my hands bleed every time I tried to pick them up.

2… disappointment stopped feeling surprising and started feeling familiar.

There’s something about disappointment—especially when it comes from people close to you. You just start to expect it. Your mind begins to prepare for it even before it happens: results, friends, crushes, parents, siblings, family, the world at large.

You stop hoping fully and start thinking about how to recover from a disappointment that hasn’t even happened yet.

You become less enthusiastic about life, and good things start to feel like a setup.

You stop crying every time it happens—you just smile because disappointment has become familiar.

At the same time, you still expect not to be disappointed.

It doesn’t happen, of course. It never does.

And you, Miss Jibril, are left sobbing with your face buried in your pillow, wishing you never hoped.

3… loneliness can exist even when you’re surrounded by people.

I feel lonely even in a room where a thousand familiar faces are seated. I speak and it feels like my voice isn’t heard. I crack a joke and no one laughs. Only my laughter fills the air, and then sadness settles in the same chest that just laughed.

I cry and no one notices.

Conversation shifts and I’m not involved. No one notices when I go quiet.

I scroll through my phone—over six hundred contacts—but no one to text when I’m excited, sad, or just existing. And even when there are people I could text, anxiety stops me before I even try.

Loneliness exists at home, in school, at parties, in every social space I enter.

So I isolate myself before I have to feel the sting of rejection or loneliness.

4… every betrayal made me retreat further into myself.

Betrayal is the worst feeling of them all. It leaves you crying on hostel stairs at 2am, your body shaking with anxiety and disbelief.

You ask yourself why they did it, as if you were the reason.

You blame yourself, trying to find faults where there were none.

You starve yourself for days, but it doesn’t soothe the ache.

You cry and cry and cry.

And even when you vent to someone, you find yourself begging that they don’t betray you too.

Because the fear of betrayal starts to consume you.

You, Miss Jibril, will have to learn—

That even if betrayal is your “why,” you still have to find a way to live beyond it someday.

5…you kept giving people versions of you they never handled carefully.

This one hurts more than I know how to explain.

A wound that doesn’t bleed where anyone can see—

but leaves your chest aching like something inside you has been pierced.

You’d clutch your heart

and wish you could take it out for just a moment—

just so it would stop hurting.

You’d bawl your eyes out.

And hate that you ever showed kindness—

that you ever let people see how much you cared…

or loved.

The desire to become nonchalant would swallow you whole.

And you’d cry because that’s not who you want to be.

You’d pretend you’re over it.

Pretend nothing and no one affects you anymore.

But—

When the sun sets,

and the night is at its peak—

quiet and peaceful—

You’d sink into your bed

and hug your friends in your head.

Replay old conversations.

Miss old versions of people.

Hold memories that can’t hold you back.

But who is going to hug you, Hafsa Jibril?

6…you wanted to be heard but everyone paid deaf ears.

When you speak and no one listens,

You learn to stop talking—

to stop expressing how you feel,

when you feel it,

and why you feel it.

You let people misunderstand you

because no one ever made an effort to understand in the first place.

You hide your tears,

your smile,

your laughter,

your pain—

Masking it all behind a serious expression

that makes people say,

“She’s rude.”

Then you become distant.

Mean.

Angry.

Grumpy.

Irritated.

And no one cares to ask why.

They just judge.

And judge.

Until something inside you begins to cave in.

Until you start turning that anger on yourself.

Until it feels like

you vs you—

And somehow,

you still end up losing.

Still hurting.

7…you kept waiting for people to love you the way you loved them.

It’s like waiting at an airport

for a flight that was never meant to land in your city.

You keep checking the time.

Keep looking up.

Keep hoping.

But it never comes.

And somehow,

you still wait.

I have loved—

Deeply.

Carefully.

In ways that made people feel seen.

I remembered little things.

Showed up when it mattered.

Loved in quiet ways

and loud ones too.

I gave pieces of myself

without asking for much in return—

just honesty,

just care,

just love that felt like love.

But…..

I’m still waiting.

Waiting to be chosen

the way I chose people.

Waiting to be held

without having to beg for softness.

Waiting for someone

to love me in the language

I have spent my whole life speaking.

To love me

without confusion.

Without hesitation.

Without making me question

if I was asking for too much.

Because maybe that’s what hurts the most—

Not that I loved.

But that I loved so deeply

and still sat alone.

8…you got tired of pretending you were okay.

This one sucks.

Because after years of holding it in,

your mask starts to slip.

And suddenly,

the things you worked so hard to hide

begin to show.

You break down shamelessly in public

and cry in the arms of your friends.

They hug you.

Tell you to let it out.

And for a moment,

you do.

You meet strangers

who look you straight in the eyes

and say with certainty,

“You’re not okay.”

And somehow,

that hurts too—

because you thought you hid it better than that.

You cry in your hostel room,

and your roommates sit quietly on their beds,

wondering what was wrong.

They don’t say much,

but you feel it in their glances—

the questions,

the concern,

the silence.

You cry on the hostel stairs,

and a girl passing by

stops for a minute,

asks if you’re okay,

touches your shoulders,

and moves on.

You have a panic attack

in the presence of your family,

and it leads you to a therapist’s office.

You cry there too.

Because apparently,

the tears follow you everywhere.

And people tell you

you’ll be okay.

But little Miss Jibril wonders—

How do you explain a pain

you spent years pretending wasn’t there?

How do you tell people

you’re tired

when they only just noticed

you were hurting?

9…you stopped recognizing the person pain turned you into.

How does someone once full of life

start feeling like a stranger to themselves?

How does someone who used to cry easily

start going numb to everything around them?

You’d look in the mirror

and the person staring back would have your face—

but it wouldn’t feel like you.

Not really.

How could it be?

You used to be sweet.

Kind.

Caring.

Easy to talk to.

Now… you feel different.

Unrecognisable.

Even your friends notice it—

but they don’t know how to say it.

So they stay quiet.

Careful.

Distant in their own way.

And you change too.

From calm

to sharp.

From open

to guarded.

From soft

to someone you barely understand anymore

I notice it in my urge to pull away the moment something feels off or in saying things I don't mean to protect my own emotions without thinking of the effect it would have on the other person. 

I notice it in my constant anger and irritation when a  friend tries to talk to me about something— most of the times, it's not something to be irritated or angry about but no matter how hard I try to tell myself that I shouldn't be irritated by it…it doesn't help.

There was absolutely nothing to be angry about here but I was annoyed that she was asking and I didn't mean to be annoyed by it. I felt so bad after and I was kind of happy the conversation shifted from that.

Am I becoming an angry person?

What am I even angry about? 

Or is it the hurt that turned me into this? 

How can I let my emotions control me to this extent? 

I'm quick to say I want to leave because I do not want to be the one picking up the pieces of a broken heart but just because I'm going through a lot doesn't mean I get to do whatever, does it? 

The urge to leave hits me and probably it comes from the fact I pull away from communicating now. Why should I communicate? When everytime I tried communicating in the past I've been met with cruelty and my feelings have been stomped on but we're in the present and these are not the people that hurt me. 

Am I letting the hurt I feel turn me into a bad person? 

Did the pain turn me into a nonchalant person? But i used to be a very chalant person who would write paragraphs upon paragraphs— calls upon calls and a thousand texts.

How did i become unmoved by the tears of my friends? 

I used to care, beg, and ask for forgiveness even when my heart was bleeding. I decided to choose myself but does choosing myself mean I get to lose others? Does putting myself first make me a bad person? 

Sometimes, I feel like letting go of all my friends so I don't get to hurt them but I can't let them go because I love them. Does this make me selfish? 

It hurts that I'm now the angry friend.

The distant friend.

The nonchalant friend.

But what hurts most is that I can't do anything about it.

I hope I don't lose myself and my friends as I try to ease the hurt that sits prettily in my chest. 

I saw the songs he wrote himself, heard him sing too—and honestly? I would sell my father’s house to listen to those songs. It pained my heart that other people might never get to listen to those songs and appreciate his art because the last time I spoke to him, he had plans of quitting music completely.

Thinking about him made me think about my ten-year-old cousin who had been throwing a series of tantrums because his parents do not want him to play football professionally. He stopped paying attention in class and would wait till break time because that was the only time he would get to play football.

The teachers noticed and informed his parents, who asked them to stop him from playing football during his free time. His dad wouldn’t even let him play football after school, but he would always find a way to play football.

His mum wants him to go to school and chase realistic dreams, but sorry—is wanting to be a footballer not a realistic dream? People are out there playing for their countries and clubs, earning money that’s putting food on the table, and that is enough reason to let the boy follow his dreams.

Nigerian parents have an obsession with their children being lawyers, doctors, engineers, nurses, pilots, and architects to the extent that they forget that not everyone can be all of that. Some of us want to be writers, artists, musicians, athletes, dancers, bakers, photographers, actors, actresses, and models. Is it too much to ask that we be what we want to be?

I wish Nigerian parents could stop seeing these jobs as disgraceful because, in their quest to protect their image in society, they are killing our dreams. What is so wrong with having an actor as your child or putting in effort to send your child to a dance academy to chase their dreams of being a dancer?

Nigerian parents need to stop discouraging unconventional paths out of the fear of what people would say. What matters more? The happiness of the child you gave birth to or the opinions of people you do not even know?

There is nothing disgraceful in saying “my daughter is a model” or “my son is an artist,” but there is something wrong in boasting about your child being a lawyer or doctor when you know very well that all that child wants to do is be a model or a photographer.

It is actually sad to have to let go of your dreams because of your parents or people from your extended family. These people are supposed to guide you towards the path you have chosen and not force you to go down the path they took or the one they secretly wish they chose. What they do not realize is that just because it worked out for them does not mean it would work out for us, and the fact that it didn’t work out for them doesn’t mean we would fail while attempting to go down that lane.

We all have different lives and destinies.

I remember when my mum was so against my writing. She would ask me to drop the books I was writing and read my school books, even when all I had been doing before picking up my book to write was reading my school books.

I wrote in secret and without guidance—I wasn’t going to let my dreams of becoming a writer go down the drain. Never.

Dreams shape identities, and that’s why parents should let their children pick the things that interest them, whether it is in the professional aspect or artistic aspect. Writing is my biggest dream, and it is one of the things that define me.

Nigerian society would lose its creativity if the elders keep asking us to discard our dreams to sit on the chair they once sat on or dreamt of sitting on.

We are birds—let us fly as high as we want to. Allow us, the children, to choose if we want to work in an office every day from Monday to Friday, stand in front of a judge and argue to win a case, examine a patient and prescribe drugs to them, or just stand in a room full of people applauding as we showcase our talents.

I still think of my course-mate and the look in his eyes when he said he was going to quit music forever because of his dad. It pains my heart that he gets to sit in class every day, learning what the Penal and Criminal Codes say, when he really wants to be in a music studio, singing his heart out and hearing people clap for him when he sings the last line and takes the headphones off.

I think of my cousin’s bright face after my dad promised to enroll him in a football academy because he was once a child with strong hopes of becoming a footballer, but today, he works in an office, watching people live his dreams on the screen every Saturday when he has free time.

I think of my friend who had to give up her dreams of being a ballet dancer because her mum clearly said, “Over my dead body would any of my children dance on stage.”

A lot of Nigerian teens are out there studying courses they have no interest in because of their parents. Our parents should guide us to achieve our dreams, not kill them before we even get the chance to say, “This is who I want to be,” with our full chests.

Let Nigerian children dream.

Please.

I remember when I first met you— my mind was all over the place and I was worried about losing my phone and somehow, I happened to meet you that night. I remember your smile, what you were wearing and how beautiful your eyes looked even though I love to pretend like I couldn’t remember a single detail from that night.

You were willing to help even though we just met and that warmed my heart in a way I didn’t imagine it would—it didn’t just warm my heart, it attracted me to you.

Yes, your willingness to help a complete stranger and the care you showed was the one thing that had me gravitating towards you. I could have fallen for your looks because you are one pretty guy but your heart spoke to mine before my eyes could get a hold of your perfect looks.

Every conversation I had with you after that night did something to me—I am not talking the usual butterflies or whatever it is I used to feel for my previous crushes— I am talking pure attraction, respect and love for you in a way it didn’t make my heart flip or skip a beat—it made it melt.

You make me feel seen in a world where it feels like I am just another person— It’s in your way of telling me I’m perfect, in your indulging my petty actions, it’s in you laughing with me even when I don’t think I was being funny, in your teasing jokes, it’s in you staying up with me because I said I was scared or didn’t want to say goodnight yet— It’s in your every action.

*takes a deep breath.

I make fake scenarios about us in my head and is it weird if I say I haven’t imagined myself as your girlfriend even once? I feel settling for something as little as your girlfriend would be an insult to the depth of my feelings for you. So, yes, I haven’t imagined me as your girlfriend but I have imagined you sitting with my father in the living room while I stand by the door, hiding with a smile on my face as you tell him you want permission to court me. I have imagined you watching a football match with my three annoying brothers while I complain and ask you all to change the channel to zee world or cartoon network just to get your attention.

I have imagined meeting your mum and sisters, spending hours with them while you linger around, stealing glances at me because you can’t seem to get your eyes off. I have imagined your brothers laughing at how finished you are when we are together and you chasing them out because of how shy you got.

Maybe this is unhealthy, I have no idea but it is what I feel and how I feel. You know, I try my best not to seem like I like you when we speak and I even told you I see you as a brother when my mind is creating scenarios about our wedding and life together— heck, I even have two pinterest boards dedicated to you.

Literally because the things you would see there would have you looking at me like “Is this the same girl that calls me bro?” and maybe loving you this deeply in secret (well, it’s not a secret anymore—or maybe it is till you read it) is safer than letting you know.

I remember when you said you were kidnapped by a pretty stranger when you weren’t online for a while and I asked if you had been kidnapped— I knew you were joking but I still got jealous because hello? the only pretty stranger that should be kidnapping you is me but that is by the wayyy.

Okayy, yess— I can relate to this.😹I mean, I remember the day I mustered up the courage to call you “love” and you didn’t object to me calling you that—in fact, two days later, you said “I ain’t. Just telling you facts love.” I replied nonchalantly like I wasn’t smiling like a fool at my phone. Or is it the princess or “my Hafsatu bebi” you call me, so intimately it makes me want to say “bro, I think I like you” but I can’ttt.

I was on a call with my friend recently and your notification popped up— I went quiet, looking at your text with a smile on face and my friend goes “it’s him, isn’t it?” I laughed hard as I tried to convince her that it wasn’t you when it was very much you.

You are my favourite notification

You this boy!! You were supposed to be a small crush but no, you just had to be more than a small crush and here I am, writing about you on substack at 3am.

Have you noticed how we are almost always in sync? “What are you doing?” “Youtubing.” And, I just happen to be Youtubing at the same time. Instead of calling me “copy copy” you should actually be saying “oh, I think we are meant to be, princess.”

Ughhh. Bro, I sang for you with music playing in the background and you still haven’t figured out that I like you? I mean, you are smart but sometimes, I be thinking you aren’t all that smart because howww?

*I am starting to feel kind of stupid for writing this but would I keep going? YES.

You know what? I want to go to the beach with you, I want to paint with you, I want to recite the Qur’an with you, I want to laugh with you, watch the sunset while talking about my day with you, grow with you, fight with you and just be with you on good and bad days.

I am scared though— of losing our friendship because of my feelings for you. I like you as a person and I do not want to ever lose you but at the same time, I wouldn’t ask you to stay if all you want is to leave because I believe liking somebody doesn’t automatically make them responsible for how you feel.

I am not asking for a response— heck, I do not even want a response because…idk. I am also not demanding that you do anything to soothe the way I feel for you— no, not at all. I just needed to get that out and I do not even know why. It came to me and after trying my best to fight it, I wrote it. I dunno what I am doing but it’s all fair in love and war? Does that even apply here?

Anyway, I like you. I really really really really really like you. There are a few things I love; my religion, my parents, my brothers, my extended family, my friends, books, nature, substack, law, writing and YOU.

I don’t expect anything after writing this— if you happen to somehow feel the same, then yayy, cute but if you don’t, then still, I will survive like I should.

I don’t feel ashamed that I have feelings for you because feelings are normal and if writing this was foolish, let it be beautifully so.

byeeee.🫶🫶

There’s a special type of neighbour in Nigeria.

The CCTV type.

Yesterday, I finally fought one.

I finally stood up to that one CCTV neighbour and yes, I am proud of me.

So, we have this neighbour. She has four grown children and when I say grown, I mean twenty, twenty-four, nineteen… full adults. These children have no respect for anyone, but their mum expects respect from everybody.

Hello? Get down, mummy.

And this is the kind of neighbour that knows NEPA took light in your house before you even notice. The type that will be sitting outside by 6am like security guard of the whole compound. The kind that can tell when you bought Indomie just by hearing nylon.

Anyway, this woman is a pain in the neck. She wants to know everything—where you're coming from, where you're going, who you're meeting, who’s meeting you… everything.

She also has this habit of not responding to greetings. You’d greet her and greet her and she would just look at you like NEPA bill.

Anytime I greeted her and she didn’t respond, I’d just be like,

“Oyana, na me fuck up,”

because apparently na me dey greet ghost.

So I came up with a solution: I stopped greeting her.

Because me sef no small.

If she thought she was Merlin, I was Merliner.

I would pass by her house and not even check whether she was outside because why should I? Peace of mind is important.

Anyway, our heads finally collided one day on the road. She was coming back from God knows where and me? A chill girl who had gone to get chocolates to satisfy her cravings.

(I actually went to buy fish, but please let the chocolates live.)

So as a chill girl that I am, I was walking with my AirPods blasting How I Met My Ex by Dave—God bless that man—when I saw her walking a bit ahead of me.

I pretended not to see her. Priorities. Dave was spitting bars and I was not about to interrupt greatness because of village surveillance.

Two minutes later, I caught up to her because she stopped for baseless amebo. Now I was walking ahead of her and that’s when it happened.

I heard her shout my name over my music. I paused, because nobody interrupts my Dave sessions… except my babe. wink But that’s not the point.

I turned to face her, respectfully. She was frowning, and low-key she looked like Snow White’s stepmother.

Her first words were:

“You this stupid girl, don’t you have home training?”

It took me a second because… ah. This woman cannot be talking to me.

I pointed at myself.

“Oh yes! You saw me, you did not greet me or even offer to carry my load. Did your mother not train you to respect elders? Eh? Eh?”

I gave her my most confused expression.

“But ma, I used to greet you. You never responded, so I thought you were immune to greetings. Since I didn’t greet you today, just take from the unanswered greetings in the past.”

Are you mad? I have your type and bigger at home. Look at you, ashawo girl. You think I don’t see you talk to men? My children are better than you!”

I almost laughed because her children aren’t even close to good, not to talk of being better than someone… or me.

So I said,

“Ma, why don’t you expect greetings from your children or call them to carry your things for you?”

“I’ll slap you! Beat you blue and black! There’s nothing your parents would be able to do because if they can’t train you, someone else will.”

I laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed until I was clutching my stomach and she was staring at me like I was the crazy one.

Then I stopped and looked at her.

“Ma, you should try training your children before pointing out the bad eggs in society. Call your son to help you carry your things. And who exactly do you want to beat? You better respect yourself before crying around for respect.”

Then I walked away, Doja by Central Cee playing like background music in a Nollywood revenge scene.

I felt very accomplished…

…until I remembered I don’t talk to my neighbours and this whole fight happened in my head.

Don’t kill me please.

I got admission into Gombe State University in the 2024/2025 session and, as an Abuja girl, settling in Gombe was a bit weird at first.

The way I dressed, spoke, behaved, and even saw things felt entirely different from the people around me. It wasn’t bad, just unfamiliar. I was learning a new environment, new people, and new ways of living.

Along the line, I got advice from someone. She said, “You should try wearing long hijabs and be modest.”

I listened politely. It sounded like the kind of advice people give without thinking twice.

But about a week later, I saw her with a guy, doing something that wasn’t very modest. And yes, she was still wearing her long hijab—the same one that was supposed to represent modesty.

That moment made me pause.

And I asked myself a question I hadn’t really thought about before:

Would I actually want this girl’s life?

She seemed perfect on the outside. She went around giving advice about modesty and religion, speaking with confidence and certainty. But in reality, she wasn’t living the life she was preaching about.

Crazy, right?

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t just about her.

We live in a society where everyone is full of advice or words of wisdom that don’t necessarily make sense. Everyone has something to say about how people should dress, talk, walk, laugh, or just simply live their lives.

Friends, family, strangers, and even social media are always eager to spill advice—even when it’s not asked for.

Everyone speaks with confidence, even when they don’t fully know what they’re saying. They appear put together and sure of themselves, even when they aren’t.

And yes, not every advice is wrong.

But not every advice is wise either.

Sometimes advice comes from fear.

Sometimes from insecurity.

Sometimes from tradition or projection.

And sometimes, people are just repeating things they’ve heard without ever questioning them.

It really clicked during my first year in university. People would advise me about things, and then I would watch them do worse than the very things they warned others against.

It was funny—but not in a way that made me laugh.

It was the kind of funny that makes you quiet. The kind that makes you start observing more and speaking less.

I began to notice things.

The loudest voices were not always the wisest ones.

The people who corrected others the most were not always correcting themselves.

And the people who looked the most put together on the outside were sometimes the most confused on the inside.

That was when I started learning something important—not every voice deserves a seat in your mind.

Because advice is powerful. Words stay with you. They shape how you see yourself, how you see the world, and sometimes even the choices you make.

And that’s exactly why you have to be careful about who you listen to.

I started asking myself a simple question whenever someone gave me advice:

Is this someone whose life, character, or mindset I actually admire?

Not a perfect life. Not a flawless person. But someone sincere. Someone consistent. Someone whose actions match their words.

Because it’s easy to give advice. Living by it is the hard part.

I also realized something else—sometimes people don’t give advice to help you. Sometimes they give advice to feel superior. Sometimes they speak from their own fears. And sometimes, they simply don’t know any better.

That realization changed the way I listen.

I still respect people. I still listen. But I no longer accept every opinion as truth. I no longer feel the need to adjust myself to fit into everyone’s expectations.

Because at the end of the day, I am the one who has to live my life—not them.

University, especially in a new place, teaches you a lot. Not just from books or lectures, but from people. From observing. From experiencing different mindsets and learning when to absorb and when to filter.

And maybe that’s one of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far:

Not everyone who gives advice has a life you’d actually want.

And that’s okay.

You don’t have to follow every voice.

You don’t have to accept every opinion.

And you definitely don’t have to become someone you’re not just because someone else thinks you should.

Sometimes the wisest thing you can do…

is listen, smile, and quietly choose your own path.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa..🤍🤏

I was looking at a picture of myself from last year, and it made me realize something.

I’m not the same girl I was last year.

I’m different.

And it’s a good type of different.

For a moment, I just stared at the picture. It felt strange, like looking at someone I knew but didn’t fully recognize anymore. Not because I changed physically, but because I know that girl… and I know how she thought, how she felt, how she lived.

Last year, I was what you would call a chronic people pleaser.

I dressed according to how people wanted me to. I let people’s opinions about me get to me. I apologized for other people’s actions just so they wouldn’t leave me. I was always adjusting myself, shrinking myself, reshaping myself to fit into spaces that were never made for me in the first place.

I sought validation like mad.

“Am I doing this right?”

“Am I wrong for saying this?”

“Do you think my feelings are not valid?”

I was constantly looking outside myself for answers I should have been finding within.

Honestly, if I met the person I was last year, I don’t think I would like her very much. Not because she was bad, but because she was hurting in ways she didn’t even understand. She let people’s words get to her so deeply that they could ruin her mood for days.

And the craziest part was that I had the softest heart ever. I cared too much, felt too much, and gave too much—to everyone except myself.

But conversations with people started to shape me. There’s this guy who actually helped me a lot. We used to walk around school at night, talking about random things, and one day he told me something that stuck with me.

He said he noticed I was living for others more than I was living for myself.

He didn’t say it in a harsh way. He explained it with examples, calmly and logically. And as someone who has always been drawn to things that make sense, something in my mindset began to shift.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

I started with small things. Dressing for myself. Wearing trousers because that’s what I wanted to wear—because trousers are literally my thing. It sounds small, but it wasn’t small to me. It was one of the first times I chose myself without asking for permission.

Then just before the new year, I experienced a friendship fallout.

And something in me snapped.

Not in a dramatic way. It was quieter than that. More like a wake-up call… and this time, I picked it up at the first ring.

I started thinking differently. Seeing things differently. Even jokes and behaviors I used to brush off started to feel different to me. Things I once thought were harmless or “not that deep” stopped feeling funny.

I began to notice patterns. Words. Attitudes. The way people treat others. The way I allowed myself to be treated.

And I couldn’t unsee it anymore.

It wasn’t that I suddenly became serious or harsh. I just became more aware. More honest with myself.

And awareness changes everything.

Yesterday, I caught myself thinking about something—about decentering people—and I stopped mid-thought and realized, I would have never thought like this last year.

And that realization made me extremely happy.

Because my change wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t something people clapped for or even noticed at first.

It was slow.

Quiet.

Almost invisible.

Outgrowing friends, thoughts, habits, and even hobbies felt lonely sometimes. There were moments I questioned myself and wondered if I was changing too much, or if maybe this was just how I was.

But I don’t let myself fall for that anymore. Because often, “this is just how I am” is just a comfortable way of avoiding growth. And no one knows that better than I do.

Growth doesn’t always feel powerful while it’s happening. Sometimes it just feels like distance. Sometimes it feels like silence where there used to be noise. Sometimes it feels like sitting alone with your thoughts and realizing you’re not the same person who used to think them.

But I’m beginning to understand that loneliness and peace can look very similar at first.

Sometimes what feels like loneliness is just space.

Space to think.

Space to breathe.

Space to hear your own voice.

And I’m beginning to find mine.

I’m walking my own path now, in ways that make me happy. I love the new me. She’s eager to learn. She doesn’t care as much about what people are going to say about her life or her opinions. She stopped forcing friendships that were never meant to last.

And honestly… it’s beautiful.

Recently, someone sent me a message telling me they were proud of me.

What made it special wasn’t just the words. It was the fact that I hadn’t told this person anything about how I was trying to grow. I hadn’t explained my journey or announced my changes.

And yet, somehow, they saw it.

That’s when it really hit me.

Real growth shows.

You don’t have to prove it.

You don’t have to announce it.

People see it in how you carry yourself, in what you tolerate, in what you walk away from, in the quiet confidence that replaces constant doubt.

I’m not who I was last year.

And for the first time, that doesn’t scare me.

It makes me proud.

Because the girl I was last year was trying to survive by being everything for everyone.

And the girl I am now is learning to be enough for herself.

And maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Not becoming someone new, but slowly becoming someone true.

I’m not who I was last year…

And that’s the point.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍✨

When the word love is uttered, everyone immediately thinks about someone else: a romantic partner, a family member, a friend. Rarely does anyone pause and think about themselves.

I was no different. For most of my life, love meant other people, never me. It was my family, my friends, or that one boy my heart used to beat for. I loved and lived for everyone else—but never for myself.

I spent years giving, bending, shaping myself to fit into other people’s lives. I said yes when I wanted to say no, smiled when I wanted to cry, and silenced my own thoughts so others could feel comfortable. I loved what people wanted me to love, did what they wanted me to do, and forgave endlessly. And yet, I didn’t have any love left for myself. But is it really love if you don’t even have some left for yourself?

I created versions of myself that existed solely for others. One version was for my family—obedient, respectful, never questioning, always available. Another was for friends—the supportive one, the funny one, the one who could absorb their pain and still give more. And another was for boys I liked—the quiet girl who could bend to their moods, who hid her frustration, who forgave too quickly.

I didn’t notice that the more I gave, the less I had for me. My identity started to feel like a collection of roles, not a person. I forgot what I truly enjoyed, what made me feel alive, and even what I wanted in life. I was living for everyone else, and the real me was quietly disappearing.

The turning point wasn’t dramatic—it never is. It came slowly, in a series of small moments that added up. I noticed my exhaustion first. I was tired of giving endlessly without reciprocity. I was tired of compromising for everyone else while my own needs piled up silently in the background.

I remember one evening lying in bed, thinking about how I always said yes, even when I wanted to scream no. How I had learned to endure uncomfortable situations because that was what love demanded. How I had convinced myself that my happiness was secondary. That night, I realized I had been giving love like a currency I didn’t own—and I had run out.

Choosing myself was terrifying. It felt like betrayal at first. I feared disappointing my family, my friends, and even myself. I was afraid that people would reject this new version of me—the version that could say no without guilt, walk away without apology, and insist on respect without explanation.

I had to let go of the parts of myself that existed only to please. I stopped bending to fit expectations I had never agreed to. I had to grieve the versions of me that were shaped by everyone else. And let me tell you, that grief is heavy. It’s silent, lonely, and sometimes confusing. But it is necessary. It is the foundation of self-love.

It was lonely at first. Friends who had relied on my availability pulled away when I stopped overextending. People who loved the old version of me didn’t recognize the new me. I questioned myself constantly: Am I selfish? Am I overreacting? Will I lose everyone if I insist on loving myself first?

But in that loneliness, I started to meet myself again. I remembered what it felt like to enjoy my own company, to pursue my own passions, and to honor my own voice. I allowed myself to be quiet without guilt, to laugh without explanation, and to cry without shame. That loneliness became a space for discovery.

I began making choices without fear. I said no when I meant no. I stepped back from relationships that drained me. I allowed myself time to rest, to think, and to feel. I started honoring my intuition, my desires, and my limits.

For the first time, I realized that loving myself didn’t mean I loved others less. It meant I loved more intelligently. I gave freely, but I didn’t give until I was empty. I chose people who matched my energy, not people who took it all. I realized that boundaries were not cruelty, but acts of care—for myself and for others.

I’ve learned that love is not only about romantic partners, family, or friends. Love is honesty. Love is freedom. Love is survival. Choosing yourself is not selfish—it is love in its most radical, essential form.

Love is allowing yourself to grow, even when others do not understand. Love is saying I am enough, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise. Love is protecting your heart without guilt. Choosing myself has shown me that self-respect, peace, and joy are not obstacles to love—they are the foundation.

I still miss people who were once my whole world. I still ache for connections that no longer exist. But I no longer mourn at the expense of myself. Choosing myself is not betrayal—it is bravery. Choosing myself is not selfish—it is survival. Choosing myself is not the end of love—it is its truest form.

Even when I put myself first, even when I insist on my own boundaries, even when I walk away from what no longer serves me, I am still living a love story. A love story where I am the main character and the one doing the loving.

And that, I’ve realized, is the kind of love that lasts forever.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍✨

I was around seven years old when I lost my grandmother. I didn't quite know what that meant but I knew she wasn't coming back and I can't remember— I didn't get to meet my sister before she passed away.

I was going through old pictures when I saw an old picture of my grandmother— it made my heart pause and hurt— it made me realize that I didn't remember what my grandmother sounded like and the memories of her in my head are starting to fade and it makes me wonder if I'm betraying her by letting her fade away.

I was too young to understand what death was when I lost my grandmother and maybe that’s why I didn't cry on that day, there were no tears in my eyes but my heart hurt… it hurt so much.

I don't know much about my sister because I only hear about her in prayers or randomly. We don't talk about her and since she was elder to me, it makes me feel like she might be mad at me for, I don't know, replacing her.

Sometimes I sit with that thought and it feels heavy, like I'm carrying a guilt I don’t even fully understand. How do you miss someone you barely knew? How do you grieve memories you never had the chance to make?

And I don’t think people talk enough about that kind of grief.

People talk about grief like it's loud— like crying, like breaking down, like not being able to move on. But no one really talks about the quiet kind of grief. The kind that sits in your chest and only shows up when you see an old picture, or hear a name, or suddenly realize you can’t remember something you feel like you should remember.

The kind of grief that feels almost… incomplete.

Because what hurts the most is not just that they’re gone. Sometimes what hurts is that time keeps moving, and it slowly takes the little pieces of them you had.

I used to think memories were permanent. I thought once something happened, it stayed in your mind forever, clear and bright. But that’s not true. Memories fade, even the ones you want to keep. Especially the ones you want to keep.

And there’s guilt in that fading.

I feel it when I realize I don’t remember my grandmother’s voice. I feel it when days, sometimes weeks, pass without me thinking about my sister. I feel it when I laugh, when life feels normal, when I’m busy with school or friends or writing or just living.

There’s this quiet voice that asks, how can you move on so easily?

But the truth is… it’s not easy. It just looks that way from the outside.

I think part of the reason the memories fade is because silence grows around the people we lose. We don’t always talk about them. Their names come up in prayers, in passing conversations, and then life continues. No stories, no long conversations about who they were, no sitting together to remember.

And when stories aren’t told, memories don’t get the chance to stay alive.

Sometimes I wish I could sit with my family and just listen. I wish I could hear what my grandmother laughed like, what she used to say, what kind of person my sister was. I wish I had something to hold onto besides fragments and feelings.

Because that’s what it feels like— fragments.

A name.

A photograph.

A passing mention.

A feeling in my chest that tells me they were real, even when my mind struggles to remember them clearly.

And it’s not just them.

There are also friends from primary school who passed away. People I used to see, laugh with, share small moments with in classrooms and playgrounds. At the time, it felt shocking, confusing, heavy… and then time passed.

Now sometimes I struggle to remember their faces clearly too. And that scares me.

It makes me wonder what it means to be remembered at all.

Are we all slowly fading in someone’s memory somewhere? Are there people who once laughed with me who will one day struggle to remember my voice too?

That thought feels strange and sad, but also… human.

Because life keeps moving, whether we want it to or not. New memories push forward, old ones soften at the edges, and the past becomes quieter and quieter.

And maybe that’s the part no one prepares you for— not just losing people, but losing pieces of them over time.

Sometimes I worry that forgetting small details means I didn’t love them enough. That if I were better, if I cared more, I would remember everything perfectly.

But maybe memory doesn’t work like that.

Maybe remembering isn’t always about clear pictures and voices and details. Maybe sometimes remembering is just carrying the knowledge that they existed, that they mattered, that they were part of your story even if only for a short time.

Maybe love doesn’t disappear just because memories fade.

I think about my sister sometimes and wonder what she would have been like if she were here now. What she would look like, what her voice would sound like, whether we would fight or laugh or share secrets.

And there’s a strange kind of grief in missing a future that never got the chance to happen.

Grieving someone you knew is one thing.

Grieving someone you never got to know… that’s different.

It’s like mourning both a person and a possibility.

But I’m starting to wonder if fading memories are really betrayal… or if they’re just part of being human.

Because the truth is, we are not built to hold everything forever. Time moves through us, quietly rearranging what stays sharp and what becomes soft.

And maybe the people we lose don’t only live in memories. Maybe they live in quieter places— in the way our hearts pause at old photographs, in the way their names still feel familiar on our tongues, in the way we still feel connected to them without fully knowing why.

Maybe they live in feelings more than in memories.

I still wish I could remember my grandmother’s voice. I still wish I knew my sister, not just as a name in prayers but as a person I could laugh with and talk to.

But even with the fading, even with the silence, even with the guilt… something in me still knows they were real.

And maybe, for now, that knowing is what I have to hold onto.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🫂🤍

In the same manner we can’t mix oil and water, fire and water—an African mother and a feminist daughter, yeah, another thing that apparently cannot be mixed.

I’m the only daughter to my AFRICAN mother, yes, I’m emphasizing on the AFRICAN because my mother is African in the most complete sense of the word.

Anyway, my mother and I are two different women with different perspectives but the same blood. She endures, and I question. She accepts traditions, I don’t accept traditions that do not sit well with me, and that right there is the difference and the wall between my mother and myself.

When it comes to cooking, or household chores in general, my mother and I become enemies—not because I don’t know how to do the chores—well, I don’t know how to, but that’s not the point.

My mum expects me to do everything in the house just because “I am a woman”, and I don’t believe chores should be allocated to just one gender because hello? Everyone needs to know how to cook, clean, and just do things around the house. We all need these skills to survive. Life doesn’t excuse you because you’re a man.

My mum is a “as a woman…” type of person and I’m a “please, don’t push the ‘as a woman’ narrative” type of person. I think I became a little rebellious because I was trying to make her see my point (sorry, but not exactly sorry, mummy).

I became more outspoken after I started studying law, and that’s when our clashes got louder, sharper, and more frequent. Law gave me language. It taught me how to argue, how to question authority, how to poke holes in “that’s just how it is.” Unfortunately—or maybe inevitably—my first courtroom became my home.

Every conversation turned into a debate. Every correction felt like an attack. To her, I was becoming disrespectful. To me, I was finally learning how to speak. She heard defiance where I meant selfhood. I heard control where she meant care.

Sometimes I wonder if my feminism feels like an accusation to her. As if by wanting more, I’m telling her she didn’t do enough. But that isn’t true. I see her sacrifices. I see how much of herself she swallowed so I could exist comfortably enough to question things.

Still, loving my mother does not require me to inherit her suffering.

Maybe we are oil and water. Maybe we separate even when shaken together. But we still exist in the same container, learning—slowly, painfully—how to coexist without dissolving each other.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.😝💕

I was talking to someone recently and somehow the conversation drifted from our normal banter to feminism and I asked her if she was a feminist. She immediately debunked being a feminist and said feminists are confused because all they do is hate men

I didn’t argue with her because it really isn’t the first time I’ve heard that feminists hate men. People even consider being a feminist a red flag but is it really and what exactly is feminism

Feminism is the belief and movement that advocates for equal rights opportunities and dignity for women socially politically and economically without implying superiority over men. It’s about equity and fairness not about hating men. Feminism is about the system not about individual men. We hate the acts and the system not men in society

Somewhere along the line feminism got reduced to a stereotype. A loud one. Angry women anti-men tweets extreme takes clipped out of context and pushed in our faces until that’s all people think feminism is. And honestly I get why that scares people off. Nobody wants to be associated with something that feels aggressive or hateful

But feminism didn’t start as a revenge movement. It started because women were tired of being silenced limited chosen for spoken over and expected to endure everything quietly. Wanting better treatment isn’t hatred. Wanting autonomy isn’t bitterness

Men aren’t the enemy. Patriarchy is. And patriarchy isn’t just men it’s a system that decides who gets power who gets to speak who gets protected and who is told to endure. It harms women yes but it also harms men by forcing them into boxes they didn’t ask to be in. No emotions no softness no vulnerability just man up

Take education for example. Girls were and in some places still are told that school isn’t necessary because they’ll end up married anyway. Feminism pushed back against that not because women wanted to be better than men but because denying someone education based on gender is unfair. Wanting to learn isn’t an attack on men

Or take relationships. Feminism questions why women are expected to stay silent in unhappy or toxic situations just to keep peace. Why women are praised for endurance even when it’s destroying them. Why leaving is seen as failure for women but self-preservation for men. Calling that out isn’t man-hating it’s asking why suffering is so easily romanticized when it comes to women

This is what it means when people say feminism is about systems. The thats just how it is rules we’ve normalized. Like telling girls not to stay out late instead of asking why the environment isn’t safe. Or blaming women for harassment because of what they wore while barely questioning the behavior of the men involved. Feminism doesn’t say all men are bad. It asks why these patterns keep repeating and who benefits from them

Even emotional expression is part of this. Men are taught not to cry not to be soft not to show weakness. That’s patriarchy too. Feminism challenges that and says men should be allowed to feel without being mocked or emasculated. So how exactly is that hating men

Social media doesn’t help either. It rewards outrage. The loudest angriest takes get the most attention while quiet thoughtful feminism gets ignored. So people judge the entire movement by its extremes and that becomes the story

But real-life feminism is quieter. It’s a girl choosing a career she actually wants. A woman deciding not to marry early and not apologizing for it. Mothers teaching their daughters that their voices matter. Fathers teaching their sons that respect isn’t optional. None of that sounds like hatred

In a Nigerian context this conversation becomes even more sensitive. We’re raised on respect hierarchy and endurance. Silence is praised. Obedience is rewarded. So when women start asking questions why must I endure this why is my well-being less important than tradition it feels threatening. Like culture is being attacked

But culture isn’t meant to suffocate people. It’s meant to serve them. Feminism here isn’t about rejecting culture or copying the West. It’s about survival. It’s about acknowledging that some norms hurt people and need to be questioned even if they’ve existed for generations

What’s interesting is that a lot of people agree with feminist ideas but reject the label. They’ll say I support women’s rights but I’m not a feminist. Which is ironic because that’s literally what feminism means. The word scares people more than the values behind it

So maybe the question isn’t do you hate men. Maybe it’s do you believe women deserve to live fully safely and freely

Because if the answer is yes then feminism isn’t the red flag people think it is. Maybe the real discomfort comes from women no longer shrinking no longer apologizing no longer accepting the bare minimum

And if believing in equality makes someone confused then maybe confusion isn’t the worst place to start.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍✨

I’ve always wondered why we victims don’t ask “why did this happen to me?” or “why did this person do this to me?” but rather choose to ask “what did I do that led to this happening to me?”

I like to believe that one of the reasons victims blame themselves is because self-blame feels like a survival instinct. As someone who has lived it, I know how the mind desperately tries to create a sense of control over a situation it never had control over in the first place, just to escape the helpless feeling that tightens around the heart. Self-blame becomes one of those methods. There were days I would sit alone in my room replaying everything, thinking of ways I could have prevented it—maybe I shouldn’t have gone out that day, maybe if I stayed home I would’ve been safe, so next time I just won’t leave my house. Thoughts like these made me feel like I had control over things I never even saw coming.

Society plays a huge role in this. The questions society throws at victims create space for self-blame to grow in her mind. A girl speaks up about being assaulted and the questions become, “What were you wearing?” “Why were you there?” or “What did you do to provoke him?” Questions like these quietly shift the blame from the offender to the victim—the one the act was done to. And it doesn’t only affect the girl being questioned; it plants fear and doubt in the minds of other girls who are watching, who start wondering what they’ll be blamed for if it ever happens to them.

In certain cultures, reputation is valued so highly that when a woman is assaulted, she’s told to keep quiet so she doesn’t bring shame to her family or society. I once spoke to someone who believed her assault was her fault. When I asked why, she said her parents told her she had brought shame upon the family—and you only bring shame when you are at fault. That idea sticks. It sinks in. It becomes truth in your head, even when it shouldn’t.

Victims aren’t allowed to show anger towards their offenders, and over time that anger turns inward. They begin to get angry at themselves for not being able to do anything. For not screaming loud enough. For not running faster. For freezing. For surviving the “wrong” way—as if there is a correct way to survive trauma, as if the body didn’t do exactly what it needed to do to stay alive.

What hurts the most is that self-blame often feels easier than accepting the truth—that something terrible happened and it was completely out of our control. Blaming myself feels less terrifying than admitting that the world can be cruel, random, and unsafe even when you do everything “right.” Because if it’s my fault, then maybe I can fix it. Maybe I can prevent it from happening again. But if it wasn’t… then that means it could’ve happened anyway. And that truth is heavy.

I’m learning, slowly, that nothing I did invited harm. Existing is not consent. Trusting is not consent. Being kind, being outside, being alive is not consent. The blame was never mine to carry, no matter how much the world tried to press it into my hands.

We need to start asking better questions. Not “why didn’t you stop it?” but “why did someone think they had the right to do this?” Not “what did you do wrong?” but “what was done to you?” Because until we change the questions, victims will keep answering with guilt instead of truth.

And maybe healing doesn’t start with forgiving or forgetting. Maybe it starts with returning the blame to where it belongs. I’m still learning how to do that. Some days I succeed. Some days I don’t. But I know this much: surviving was never my crime.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍✨

Friendship breakups or fallouts hurt more than a breakup from a relationship and maybe it’s because of the difference in intimacy: the laughter, the smiles, the jokes, the hugs—everything hits different.

I had a fallout with a friend two months back over nothing and my last words to her were “thank you.”

Lol. I didn’t even know what I was thanking her for—the pain or the moments we shared. Maybe I was thanking her for both.

At first, she threw hurtful words at me and I begged like a fool to know what I did to her. I texted countless times, hoping she would reply with clarity, with softness, with anything that looked like care. Instead, every text I sent was met with more hurtful words. It felt like the more I reached out, the more I gave her permission to hurt me.

Slowly, the situation stopped being just painful and started becoming disrespectful. I was always the one texting first. I was the only one who wanted to fix things. I was the one unheard, the one begging, the one crying, the one excusing her behavior out of love and loyalty. I kept telling myself that friendships are hard, that people mess up, that love means staying.

Lol. That situation forced me to confront something I didn’t want to admit: I stay in friendships even when they smear my face with disrespect, and I convince myself I’m doing it for the sake of the friendship. I call it loyalty. I call it understanding. I call it love. But really, sometimes it’s just fear—fear of losing people, fear of starting over, fear of being alone.

But friendship goes two ways, doesn’t it?

At some point, it all became too heavy to ignore. The imbalance, the silence, the way I was shrinking just to keep someone who wasn’t trying to keep me. Somehow, somewhere, we let go. There was no dramatic goodbye. Just distance. Just quiet. Just acceptance I wasn’t ready for but needed.

Boy, I was in public and held it together like I always do. But the minute I stepped into my room, I cried my eyes out. Because that was my girl for real. My baby. The one who knew my laughter without explanation. The one who felt like home.

Losing her hurt deeply. But losing myself in that friendship would have hurt more.

Friendship breakups teach you self-respect in the most brutal way. They teach you that love without reciprocity is not love—it’s self-abandonment. They teach you that being understanding should not cost you your dignity. And they teach you that walking away doesn’t mean you didn’t care enough; sometimes it means you finally cared about yourself.

So, I became my own friend, my comfort zone, my best-friend— I became everything to me.

I still miss her. Probably always will. But I’m learning that missing someone doesn’t mean you should return to a place where you were unseen. And that lesson, painful as it is, is one I’m carrying forward—with softer boundaries, clearer standards, and more respect for myself.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🫂💕

Sometimes I wonder if this is what faith is supposed to feel like—this constant fear of getting it wrong. Fear of asking the wrong questions. Fear of thinking too deeply. Fear that curiosity itself is a sin. It feels like I’m always apologizing to God for thoughts I didn’t even invite, thoughts that just showed up and refused to leave.

I don’t doubt because I want to disobey. I doubt because I want to understand. But understanding feels forbidden. Questions are met with warnings, not answers. And slowly, you start learning that silence is safer than honesty. So you keep everything inside, hoping Allah understands what you can’t even explain.

Loving God while being afraid of Him is exhausting. It feels like standing at the edge of something sacred, wanting to step closer but being terrified you’ll fall and never be forgiven. I hear so much about punishment that mercy starts to feel distant, like something meant for better Muslims—people who never questioned, never hesitated, never felt unsure.

I look around and everyone seems so certain. So settled. They talk about faith like it’s firm and unshakable, like it never keeps them awake at night. Meanwhile, mine feels fragile, unfinished, like I’m holding it together with trembling hands. I start comparing myself and wondering if Allah does the same. If He sees me as less because my belief doesn’t look loud or confident.

I still show up. I still pray, still fast, still recite the Qur’an. On the outside, I look like I’m doing everything right. But inside, it’s mostly guilt and doubt, sitting where faith is supposed to be. And I hate myself for that. I hate that believing doesn’t come easily to me. I hate that I feel broken in a space where I’m supposed to feel whole.

Some days I try to convince myself that Allah knows my heart—that He knows I’m not rejecting Him, just trying to reach Him. Other days, that thought doesn’t help at all. It just makes the fear quieter, not gone.

Maybe doubt isn’t the absence of faith. Maybe it’s faith that hasn’t been allowed to ask questions yet. Or maybe that’s just something I tell myself so I can sleep at night. I don’t know.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have clarity. I just have questions that refuse to disappear and a heart that still turns to God even while confused. I’m still here, still trying, still believing—just not confidently, not peacefully.

And maybe that’s where I am for now.

Not faithful enough to feel sure.

Not faithless enough to walk away.

Just existing in between, hoping that somewhere in this uncertainty, Allah still sees me.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.😔🤍

“I get the video.” “The video dey my story.” “The video full my phone.”

These are comments I see people confidently drop in the comment sections of people whose private videos have been leaked. They don’t excite me or spark curiosity. They disgust me to my core. They show just how desensitized we’ve become to other people’s pain.

“Who get the video?” is not just a question or an ordinary statement. It’s a request for someone’s private moment. A moment that was never meant for public consumption. And that alone says a lot about the person asking. When did clout start coming before humanity?

In the past, leaks used to cause discomfort. There was shock. There was sympathy. It was always, “Oh, I wonder how the girl must be feeling,” or “Who did this to her?” or “This is wicked.” But now? Someone’s private moment has turned into content. A joke. A trend. Something to laugh about and move on from.

When did we get here, please? When did we trade our conscience for a trend? When did we become so comfortable watching people be humiliated as long as it doesn’t happen to us? Is there anything left of our humanity, or are we just humans without it?

“I get the video” is not an innocent statement. It creates curiosity where there should be concern. It invites others to watch. It turns violation into entertainment and keeps a crime alive by helping it spread. Every new viewer becomes part of the damage, even if they pretend they’re just “observing.”

What makes it worse is how easy it is to forget the person behind the screen. The girl who has to wake up to whispers. The boy whose name is now a punchline. The human being whose life doesn’t reset when the trend dies down. The internet moves on, but they don’t get that luxury.

I’ve also come to understand that hiding behind screens has made us meaner than we should be. We say things we wouldn’t dare say face to face. We make insensitive comments because we feel detached from the consequences. Because we’re not the ones being talked about. News flash—it is not okay.

What’s the joy in knowing someone’s worst moment lives on your phone? What’s funny about watching someone be violated while you remain untouched? Being a spectator doesn’t make you innocent. It just makes you comfortable with harm.

Don't be the reason someone is scared to hold their phone. Don't be the reason someone cries while going through his/her comments. Don't be that person.

You don’t have to leak a video to be part of the problem. Sometimes, all it takes is asking for it. Sometimes, all it takes is sharing it. Sometimes, all it takes is staying silent while others laugh.

And maybe that’s the most disturbing part of all.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍🤏

“Your body na meat-pie,” “her body na meat-pie,” “my body na meat-pie” has become a phrase used to compliment women, and everybody is laughing about it—heck, I laughed too for a while. Then I stopped and thought: when did a woman’s body get reduced to food? Meat pie, of all things.

So what does “body na meat-pie” really mean, and why is it that deep?

First of all, the statement is highly objectifying—in the worst way possible. Meat pie is something edible. Women’s bodies should not be compared to a snack that people eat, wipe their mouths, and forget about.

It is disrespectful, and calling it “cruise” doesn’t erase the level of disrespect the line carries. Meat pie doesn’t even cost much. In fact, in my school, meat pie is sold for ₦250. Is that what your body is? A cheap snack anyone can buy?

So no, darling—your body isn’t meat pie.

“But it’s just a joke.”

No, silly girl. What exactly is funny about someone reducing your body to something that can be bought for a low price? Where is the humour in being compared to a freaking meat pie? Not gold. Not diamond. Meat pie?

Once you are linked to food, an object, or even an animal that breathes, you are being dehumanized. The person ceases to exist, and all people see is the thing you’ve been reduced to. That’s why this isn’t a harmless joke. Real jokes don’t make people uncomfortable or cause harm—directly or indirectly.

Ever stopped to wonder why songs don’t speak about men this way? Have you heard “his body na salad” or “his body na buns”? No, right? So why are we accepting that our bodies are as cheap as meat pie? Why are we smiling through disrespect?

Social media turned it into a trend, and we followed without stopping to think what it actually meant for our bodies to be called meat pie. We danced to it. Our captions read, “my body na meat-pie.”

Look at how we dehumanized ourselves for a little bit of fame. We traded dignity in a country that already struggles to respect women—for what? A few likes and follows from the same people who objectify us?

I even saw a post that said, “If she’s slim, her body isn’t meat pie. Meat pie is for thick girls.” Imagine being a thick girl and the first thing people shout is, “Your body na meat-pie.” This is what happens when these jokes are normalized: women are seen as objects before they are seen as human.

When we laugh at phrases like this, we’re not just joking—we’re training a generation to see women as consumable, disposable, and less than human.

I’m not against fun. But jokes should never come at the expense of someone else’s dignity. Never.

If you can laugh at dehumanization, don’t be shocked when empathy disappears.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🎀

To the reader who lingers;

I sit with a blank page in front of me, surrounded by scrunched-up sheets, trying to figure out how to write to you without staining it red with the blood from the wound left unattended in my heart.

I keep telling myself it’s over. But how do I keep my feelings for you at arm’s length when you’re the closest to my heart? I’ve filled a thousand pages with your name, ink smudged with tears. Just thinking of you makes me fall apart.

It’s been a year since you stabbed my heart—a heart that carried so much love—and I still miss you like it was yesterday. The pain is fresh, sharp, and sometimes I wonder if you feel it too: the loneliness in the morning, the emptiness in the afternoon, the thoughts of what could have been as tears roll down your cheeks at night.

I still long for you. Even as I write this, my chest aches, screaming for you to come heal the wound left by your dagger of words I’ll never forget.

My soul wants you, no matter how much I try to replace you. How could you steal me from myself without a single thought? How is it that so much of me would rather be with you than with me?

I remember those nights we talked for hours and forgot the world around us—because we were all that mattered. And now, all I have are memories of those conversations, still echoing in my chest.

Isn’t it funny how this heart still chooses you, even after the pain? I’ve screamed, I’ve told myself not to choose you—but somehow, you remain the only option.

How can I love someone who shut me out? How can I carry so much love for someone who barely remembers my name? How much self-love do I lack to let myself love you like this—so painfully?

Loving you with hope is like fighting a battle I already lost—but I still throw myself in, knowing it will leave my heart in pieces.

I remember how perfect you seemed, but maybe love makes people blind. I mistook your red flags for pink. You made me feel loved, but your love always came with pain so sharp it left me begging my own eyes for mercy.

I bragged about you to friends. I spoke your name with joy. You let me down anyway.

Love wasn’t meant to hurt like this. So why does my heart refuse to heal? Why do I stand before a closed door, waiting for you to come back?

Sometimes I wish I had never fallen for you—but then I realize I would have never understood what it means to yearn for someone who doesn’t even know how to yearn.

Some love isn’t meant for letters. It’s meant to live in the chest, quietly killing you.

I stare at the empty page, red trickling across it, and look up at the ceiling. I choose not to write. Better to remember you for now. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll try again—without bleeding..

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🖤

I was eleven when I stopped imagining myself in a wedding dress, fourteen when I understood why I had detached from the idea of marriage, and now I’m seventeen—completely detached from the idea of marriage and deeply in love with the idea of getting a life before becoming a wife.

I’ve noticed how marriage comes up in almost every conversation, and somehow, it pushes me even farther away from the idea of it.

“Is this how you’re going to behave in your husband’s house?”

“No man is going to marry you if you keep acting like this.”

“You don’t like that food? What if it’s your future husband’s favourite?”

It irritates me how the house a girl grows up in slowly turns into a university where she’s taught how to be good to a man the moment she’s old enough to do chores and understand the meaning of a husband.

It gets exhausting—the jokes, the comments, the advice that was never asked for or needed. It’s always “when you get married” or “in your husband’s house”, as though the entire purpose of a woman’s life is to become a wife to a man.

“Let her dream. After a while, she’ll get married and forget all of this.”

Society treats women’s dreams as disposable. As though they only matter until marriage enters the picture. Is it wrong for a woman to want success before marriage? What exactly is the harm in that? If a man is allowed to build his life first, why is a woman discouraged from doing the same?

I’ve seen women explain why they’re single, as though their existence revolves around a relationship. It’s insane how a woman is allowed to grow—until that growth begins to threaten early marriage. That’s when society, and sometimes even family, tries to clip her wings.

Men are allowed to run free, dream boldly, chase and achieve those dreams. But what does society expect from women? Learn how to cook, stay pure, get married, have children, and repeat the cycle. It’s unfair to give men freedom and then ask women to limit themselves just to remain “acceptable” to those same men.

Although I stopped imagining myself getting married, I am not anti-marriage. I dance at weddings. I swoon over couples. I genuinely love seeing people marry the ones they choose for themselves. I believe in love, partnership, and commitment—even though I’ve never truly experienced them. What I don’t believe in is marriage erasing a woman’s identity. A woman’s life shouldn’t be flipped upside down simply because she becomes a wife. If a husband is allowed to have a life after marriage, then so should a woman.

I have big dreams for my life. I want to be wildly successful. I want to fly high, and I refuse to shrink myself just to seem marriageable. I want to be beautiful, wealthy, accomplished—everything I’m capable of being. I want a name for myself, globally. It would be a tragedy to let all of that go just to meet society’s idea of the “perfect wife.”

I’m not going to build my life around someone who hasn’t even arrived. I don’t know what my husband looks like, his name, his height, or even the sound of his voice—so why should I bend and shape myself around a man I’ve never met?

I won’t rush into marriage just to be seen as complete by a society that doesn’t know my struggles. I don’t believe I’ll run out of time, and even if I do, that’s fine. Being single and independent has never killed anyone—but I can name women who lost their lives to the same marriage that claims to make women “complete.”

I’m young, so I’m choosing to know myself fully. To understand what I like and what I don’t. To build myself around myself.

I want to become someone I respect—someone society respects—and someone who can look in the mirror without a trace of regret.

I’m letting marriage be an addition, not a destination. It will add to who I already am, not define me. “Mrs” will be a title, not my identity.

I am a whole person now. I was born whole, and I have always been complete. Whoever comes into my life—now or later—will meet me as I am: already whole. He doesn’t need to complete me, and I don’t need to complete him.

I am a person before I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, an aunt—and most importantly, a wife.

Yours, in heart and thought,

Hafsa.🤍✨

I'venoticed that if there is one thing expected of a girl-child in Nigeria, it is that she gets married. I’ve seen for myself how women who marry late are looked down on in society, as if the bane of a woman’s existence is a man.

When a woman approaches her late twenties without mentioning a man or being married to one, people start questioning her: “When are you introducing a man to us?” “When are you getting married?” She is pressured to marry quickly because once she gets “too old,” no one will want her.

Things like this make me question how much of our lives truly belong to us when society interferes with almost everything. It is as if society sets the rules on how we should live, and we are all expected to abide by them without question.

There is immense pressure of tradition when it comes to love and marriage. Restrictions on marrying within or outside certain tribes are baffling. Are you saying I cannot marry the man I love because he is from the same community as I am—or from a different one? The same society that says “you should be married by now” also dictates who you are allowed to marry.

I have heard countless stories of people who had to let go of the ones they loved because they did not meet family or societal expectations. But shouldn’t what matters most be that they meet each other’s expectations?

A woman’s worth—aside from her body—is measured by whether or not she is married. She is constantly pushed toward marriage. Yet the same pressure does not apply to men in their thirties who are unmarried, because they are said to be “trying to put their lives together.” Does a woman not also need time to put her life together? Or is she considered “put together” the moment she wears a ring and bears the title Mrs?

When society pressures women into marriage, the idea of love is pushed aside. What matters instead is the man—and sometimes how much money he has.

The same society that pushes a woman into marriage abandons her when that marriage turns toxic and the man begins to treat her badly. They force women into marriages that could cost them their lives and then look away when things fall apart. Isn’t that absurd?

“You’re approaching your thirties and you haven’t brought a man home—what will people say?” But should what people say matter more than how your daughter feels about getting married? Daughters are shunned for wanting independence before marriage, while sons are praised and encouraged for the very same things.

And isn’t it disturbing how, when a man changes and begins to mistreat your daughter, she is advised to stay in the marriage so society does not laugh and say she has returned to her parents’ house? Should a woman’s safety and emotional well-being be placed below society’s standards?

I ask again: how much of our lives truly belong to us when society sets rules and standards that govern our personal choices?

Everyone wants to dance, sew aso-ebi, post happy pictures, and eat food at the wedding of a woman they would not remember again until she is either pregnant—or dead.

Marriage is not a bad thing. In fact, it can be a beautiful thing when you are with the right person. But how many people are truly given the chance to find that right person?

There is a wedding every Saturday, but no one checks on the couple on Sunday.

Women are pushed into marriage for the sake of a grand wedding and to give parents something to boast about, forgetting that marriage is not a one-day event. The man a woman marries is not just her husband; he will also be the father of her children.

That alone is reason enough to allow women to choose their partners at a time that is right for them—so that no one regrets their decision in the end.

Times have changed. Girls no longer see marriage as an achievement. Perhaps this is because of what we see around us: women who married the wrong men and lost their lives, women who gave up their careers to soothe a man’s ego and still suffered, and countless examples of how marriage can change people—not always for the better.

To every girl reading this: you only have one life. Do not let society pressure you into losing it. Take your time. Choose the right man for you. Marry someone who loves you and whom you love. And if you have not found that person yet, keep working on yourself until you do.

Marriage does not define you.

Society does not define you.

Remember that.