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I have been broke and still found reason to dress nicely, do my nails, fix my lash, and change my braids.

I have cried so hard and still picked up the phone smiling voice cheerful, no sniffling, no trace of what had just been happening on the other side of that call.

I have been afraid and did the thing anyway.

I have had faith and fear coexist in the same chest, at the same time, without either one winning.

I have had my thoughts in complete chaos raging, loud, overwhelming but spoken with full calm and composure when it mattered.

Nobody knew.

Not the person on the other end of that phone call. Not the people who saw the new braids and said “you look so good.”Not the ones who watched me walk into the room and assumed everything must be fine because everything looked fine.

That is the part nobody talks about — the gap between what is happening inside and what the world gets to see. The distance between the mirror and the truth. How a woman can be unravelling in private and still be completely, almost irritatingly, composed in public.

It is not pretending. It is not performing strength for anyone’s benefit. It is something quieter than that a decision, sometimes conscious, sometimes just instinct, to keep going. To show up. To not let the hard thing have the last word that day.

The nails get done. The lash goes on. The braids are fresh. The phone gets answered. The voice stays steady. The words come out right.

And somewhere underneath all of it, the storm is still going.

Nobody knew.

They saw a woman put together. They had no idea she was holding herself together with both hands.

Hey there,

 Finally, we are writing again after so many days and weeks of silence. I had so much going on in my life that my ink grew too weak to write, and my heart became like a blank sheet still carrying so much that remained invisible to the eye, like Aburidashi. Yet, I still love the art of writing.

I am a journalist now... am I?

I am still not entirely sure who I am or what I want. These days, I attend events, political gatherings, write stories, and broadcast local news.

 In the course of carrying out my duties, I attended the launch of an FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) sensitization programme designed to educate women, girls, and men about the dangers of the practice.

 I knew what Female Genital Mutilation was, but only on a surface level. I understood what it meant, but I never really knew why people did it. So, I listened.

I never thought people still practised it in 2026. I assumed that the internet and modern civilization would have exposed the dangers of some traditional practices, especially those targeted at women.

I had never met anyone who had experienced it. None of my friends or family members had spoken about it. Perhaps that was why my mind remained oblivious to the possibility that such things still happened in this modern age.

 As I sat at the event, a colleague beside me mentioned that his mother had cut the clitoris of his daughter. He also told me that in some communities, newly married women are still subjected to the practice if they marry into families that uphold the tradition.

Unconsciously, I held my clitoris.

I bent my head slightly and imagined the pain and trauma such an act could cause. I tried to visualize the torture, but even my imagination could not fully bear it.

Then I asked, "Why?"

He explained that many people believe cutting a girl's clitoris prevents her from becoming promiscuous.

One of the guest speakers at the event addressed that belief. If that claim were true, then why do some women who have undergone FGM still become sexually active, have relationships, or even work as sex workers? The argument simply does not hold up.

The programme was enlightening, and I learned more about the physical, emotional, and psychological dangers of Female Genital Mutilation.

On my way home that evening, another drama unfolded. 

The vehicle I boarded stopped to drop off a passenger when a man approached our driver and asked him to help two stranded teenagers by giving them a ride.

To be honest, I never fully understood the entire situation. I mostly minded my business.

Some passengers objected immediately. They were suspicious and worried that the teenagers might be criminals or even, as one passenger suggested, witches. Everyone was trying to be security conscious.

Eventually, the driver allowed them into the vehicle. 

People began questioning them.

The boy was seventeen. The girl was fifteen.

Apparently, the girl had left home without informing her parents and travelled to visit her seventeen-year-old boyfriend. She had no phone and no clear plan for how she would return home. Her boyfriend, according to their story, did not even have enough money to pay her transport fare back.

Honestly, I still do not understand how they found themselves in such a situation.

The passengers began scolding them, but most of their anger was directed at the girl.

They called her a slut. They shamed her for being promiscuous.

Then a woman sitting behind me said something that made my ears stand up in shock.

"She is promiscuous at this age because her parents failed to cut her clitoris."

Before I could even process what I had heard, the woman went further. 

She proudly stated that she had cut off her own daughter's clitoris to prevent her from becoming promiscuous.

Another passenger joined in, arguing that cutting a girl's clitoris prevents women from enjoying sex. According to him, if women do not enjoy sex, they will not go around sleeping with men.

And for the second time that day, I covered my vaginal area, unconsciously my hand moved before my mind could catch up. 

Not because anyone was threatening me.

Not because I was in danger.

But because something about their certainty frightened me.

Perhaps it was because they spoke so casually about taking away something I have not yet fully experienced but hope to someday. They spoke of female pleasure as though it were a problem to be solved, something dangerous that must be cut away and controlled.

So I sat there, listening, my hand resting protectively where their beliefs would have reached with a blade.

Not because I was in danger.

It felt as though I was protecting it from them—guarding it against beliefs that saw a woman's body as something that needed to be controlled, punished, or diminished.

For a moment, I considered speaking up. I wanted to share everything I had learned earlier that day at the sensitization programme.

But they were unwilling to listen.

For every fact, they had a justification.

 For every danger mentioned, they had a tradition.

For every argument against FGM, they pointed back to their ancestors who practised it.

And as I sat there listening, I realized something unsettling.

The biggest challenge is not ignorance.

 Sometimes, it is the willingness to hold on to harmful beliefs even after the truth has been placed right in front of us.

I didn’t made this up, there it dawned on me that people still practice FGM.

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If greed is what it is called then yes, I want it.

Let me give you a very brief part of my life.

I am a young journalist print and broadcast doing both, because why settle for a fish when you can own the ocean? I am just starting out, trying to build a career in journalism. I have been really busy lately with pen and paper, radio consoles, public events, and conducting interviews with public figures and politicians.

This profession gives me the opportunity to meet a lot of people dignitaries in society. It gives me exposure, and I like it because I am not the type that likes to sit at home and do nothing. As long as I am moving around, I get to sit with them, smell their perfumes, dine with them, watch them as they laugh. I quietly observe them down to how they walk, like they own the place, even when they themselves were invited.

While observing, something struck me. I had just started my journey in this career uncertain, blurry, trying to see if I could become something and excel. I looked at my senior colleagues who have been in the game for over a decade. They have dined with these dignitaries and experienced all the things I seem to be subtly admiring. I always thought "your network is your net worth" but doesn't it seem so for most journalists I have seen, who have been here for decades? Why is their network not their net worth?

This is not me trying to belittle them. Rather, as someone who wants to excel, coming into a space where I don't see the kind of results I had envisioned, I am compelled to ask questions. My question is: what are they not doing right? For now, I just follow them and observe.

I want something different. I refuse to believe that just because it hasn't clicked for them, it cannot click for me. I want to experience more, get more. I want to get to a point in my life where I no longer hover at the edges, quietly observing their every step but instead walk those same steps myself. To no longer beg for an interview, but to be glad to grant one, and to have built the kind of structures that command that respect.

You can gain exposure and still not be truly exposed. You can be surrounded by great networks and still remain disconnected. That is the situation I fear. I have written about this feeling before in my previous article, "Too Far to Reach" you feel it, but you can't reach it.

You may call it greed. Maybe because I am trying to mirror the life of those I observe. But I want more. I deserve more. I yearn for something good and better. If greed is what it is called then yes, I want it.

Hi, it’s me again 🙂

I have been away for a bit… life got heavy and I needed to step back and just exist for a while. Still very much in love with writing, just trying to figure life out one day at a time.

but that’s story for another day

Today is about Familiarity, the uncomfortable truth about being familiar, sometimes you won’t even notice.

Familiarity is a powerful thing. It wraps itself around us quietly, gently, until it begins to feel like home even when it is anything but safe. It is the reason people stay where they are slowly breaking, the reason chaos can start to feel normal, and the reason discomfort is often mistaken for stability. Because when something is all you have ever known, it stops feeling wrong. It simply becomes what is.

There is a strange comfort in knowing what to expect, even if what you expect is pain. The predictable hurt of familiarity can feel safer than the uncertainty of the unknown. So you stay… not because it feels good, but because it feels known.

You stay with that person, even when they no longer love you in a way that feels like love. You hold onto their voice, their presence, their inconsistency because it is familiar. Because even their silence has a pattern you have learned to understand. And leaving them doesn’t just mean losing them… it means losing a version of your life you have memorized.

You stay in that job that drains you, that makes your mornings heavy and your nights restless. Not because it fulfills you, but because it is certain. You know the routine, the stress, the exhaustion. And somehow, that feels safer than stepping into something you cannot predict.

You stay in that friendship that no longer feels warm, where conversations feel forced and connection feels one-sided. But you tell yourself, “At least I have someone.” Because the thought of starting over, of opening up again, of trusting someone new it feels like too much.

So you stay.

Not because you are weak.

Not because you enjoy the pain.

But because you are human.

Because there is something deeply terrifying about the unknown. About walking away from what you understand into something you don’t. About releasing what is familiar for something that *might* be better but also might not be.

And so, you begin to beg for validation in places that cannot give it. You shrink yourself to fit into spaces that no longer hold you. You convince yourself that “this is just how life is,” because accepting that you deserve more would mean you have to leave and leaving feels like losing everything at once.

But here is the quiet truth no one tells you:

Familiarity is not always love.

Familiarity is not always safety.

And familiarity is not always where you are meant to stay.

Sometimes, it is just a place you outgrew but got too comfortable to leave.

Sometimes, it is a cycle you learned so well, you forgot you could choose differently.

And sometimes, the very thing you are holding onto… is the very thing holding you back.

Letting go of familiarity will feel like grief. It will feel like stepping into emptiness, like losing a part of yourself. But maybe that is because you have built so much of yourself around surviving it.

Maybe, just maybe, there is a version of you waiting on the other side of unfamiliarity one that is not constantly tired, not constantly begging, not constantly questioning their worth.

But you will not meet that version if you keep choosing what is comfortable over what is right.

And I know… leaving is not easy.

Starting over is not easy.

Choosing yourself after choosing what is familiar for so long… is not easy.

But staying where you are slowly disappearing?

That is not easy either.

So the question is not whether it is hard.

The question is which hard are you willing to choose?

I went home 😌❤️

Disclaimer: This isn’t about me personally. I just felt like speaking on the pain that others carry but may not feel bold enough to express. Let this be a gentle reminder to be kind and, when you can, be someone else’s home

Image Credit: Shakila Malavige

Home is a place where you feel warmth, comfort, safety, love, laughter, and sweet memories. Home is a place where you are seen a place where you can be naked and not ashamed, a place where you can hide your insecurities, a place of refuge. This is what home is pictured to be: perfect.

Out of deep reflection and gratitude comes a realization we often overlook that not everyone’s home is truly home.

But sometimes, home isn’t home. Sometimes home does not give comfort it tortures. It does not give safety it traumatizes. Sometimes it leaves bruises, marks that last a lifetime.

Some people avoid home. Whenever home is mentioned, or the thought of home crosses their mind, their hearts break. Their mood changes, sudden sadness sets in not because they don’t want home, but because their home is not home.

To some, instead of warmth, it feels like hell. It burns torturing emotionally and mentally. The atmosphere does not give the warmth that home should give. Every day is filled with fighting, quarrels, insults, and dysfunction. To some, instead of freedom, it feels like slavery like being in bondage, tied down without free will. You cannot express yourself. You are bound to live by rules that are not yours. You have no choice. You live in fear, in bondage, used.

To some, home abused them. Home raped them. Home molested them.

And because it is home, you dare not speak out. Because if you do, where would you go? Who would shield you, if not still home? A home where fathers rape daughters, cousins touch growing breasts, uncles find pleasure in sleeping with their nieces a place once considered home.

It is the holiday season, and so many people look forward to going home. Some go home to love, to peace, to comfort, to good food, to happiness. But you cannot say the same for others. Some dread the mention of home as if it is hell.

Be people’s home. Be home to that friend you notice never mentions home. To that colleague who does not travel back during breaks. To that neighbor who isolates during Christmas celebrations. To those who celebrate the new year alone.

Remind them that home is where someone thinks of them. Remind them that home is the warmth we carry for one another. Remind them that home is the reassurance that they are not alone. Remind them that home is a feeling we create for each other.

And if your home does not feel like home, please know this it is not your fault.

Merry Christmas and enjoy the New Year 😌

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My mother- she is beautiful, skin clear as glass, hair dark as night, and she had the height of a Sudanese goddess. Her steps were like generational patterns. She said her mother looked like her, so did her mother’s mother and her mother’s mother’s mother. It was passed down to every generation the same way it was passed down to me. She loved deeply, gave her heart freely, cared too much that I wonder if she gave herself as much love as she gave freely. She would say Nne would do the same and how Nne Nne would do the same. It didn’t start from her, so she had copied her mother before her without knowing it. She was living their life, not hers.

She sacrificed more than she should. She put others first, then made do with whatever was left. The last was always for mother  last to sleep, last piece of meat if there would be any left, last portion of soup. The best was always father’s: the best serving tray, the best cup, the best dish was used to serve him. A pattern we subconsciously watch, learn, and inherit without knowing, the same way she had watched, learned, and inherited. She was always serving; never was she served. And it seemed normal because her mother and her mother’s mother had done the same. That was how the system was passed down.

I asked, “How would you feel if you were to be served?” She laughed it off like it was something impossible, an oblivious thought. She endured pain like it was her duty, like she never had the choice to choose better. She had learnt it from her mother. It was part of your duty to endure  a criteria to be a good wife. She shrank herself, hid her thoughts, and her opinion never mattered, and she never expected it to matter because Nne did the same. Nne would say women shouldn’t speak up at meetings or counter patterns, even when what they want to say has value. It would be considered disrespectful. Take the shame of your husband to protect your home  that is absurd, but her mother did it, so did her mother’s mother. It was the system subconsciously learnt. She apologized before she spoke. She apologized before she took space.

Sometimes I wonder if the woman I am becoming is truly me, or my mother’s unfinished story living inside of me. Some habits feel like mine, but when I trace them back, they smell like my mother’s fear, her dreams, her heartbreak.

I caught myself doing this in the way I apologize before I speak. I feel guilty for asking too much, like I don’t deserve that much. I apologize before I take space. I see that pattern in the way I love too softly, too much, the way I endure pain longer than I should. I am afraid of becoming the version of her that hurt quietly. I don’t want to inherit the silence. I don’t want to carry her smallness like a second skin.

I don’t want to repeat her story like she repeated her mother’s story and her grandmother’s. I want to speak without holding back, to choose myself always, to find my own voice and let it stand, to refuse intimidation, to refuse to apologize for existing. I want to love without fear, love without sacrificing myself. I want to live the part of her life she didn’t live  to pursue and achieve dreams, to create another system for women to follow generations after me, to stop the self-sabotaging patterns. I want to live a life that is truly mine.

Do not repeat patterns.

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Until I write to you again ❤️🌹

MAY-vis

One thing I love about myself is my name “Mavis.”

I love how unique it is. I love the personality of the person bearing it.

It always rings a bell. Whenever I am in a room or among a crowd and I hear my name, it gives me a sense of identity.

I know I am the one being called, I am. My body and my brain respond to it immediately.

Whenever I hear my name, I’m not confused about whether to answer or not; I don’t wonder if I am the one being called. I respond with boldness, confidence, and clarity.

Some would say, “What a name with a strange meaning.” But really, I don’t care  because that strangeness is part of what makes it beautiful.

The name Mavis means “song thrush”  a small bird known for its voice.

And just like the song thrush, I may not be the loudest in the forest, but when I speak, I carry strength.

I sing through my resilience; I rise after every fall.

My voice  though soft carries stories, courage, and light.

That’s what my name means to me: a reminder that I was born to speak, to sing, and to survive.

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I wish heaven had a landline, where I could pick up my phone and dial *123*19, and get to speak to God directly hear his voice, as he speaks to me like His child.

I wish it wasn’t the other way around, where I would have to dream just to hear God speak to me, and read the Bible, reassuring myself and believing that God said that.

I wish prayers weren’t the only means to communicate with God. I kabash at every chance I get, my mouth muttering like someone drunk with wine, present at every prayer meeting and crusade, hoping that the next miracle will be mine.

I don’t have to climb prayer mountains to talk to my Father. Talking to God doesn’t have to feel like a weight we have to carry. I don’t cry at a mountaintop to speak to my earthly father when I need his urgent help    so why does heaven feel so far?

I wish heaven had a landline, where I could just call at 12 midnight instead of crying my eyes out, losing my voice because I prayed all night, lose  my voice in the echoes of unanswered prayers. Then sit in the void of silence, wondering if the prayers even left my room. Wondering if God actually heard me.

I wish heaven had a landline or maybe a visiting day, where I would sit face to face with God. I would read His eyes, see His face, understand his expressions.

And who says we can’t question God? I would bring my list because if I don’t ask Him, who do I ask? The devil? So he can feed me with lies?

I wish heaven had a landline, so I wouldn’t have to pay a consultation fee to see a prophet.

I wish heaven had a landline, so I could stop feeling like my heart is on hold listening to silence instead of His voice.

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When the story of Ochanya  a young girl allegedly abused by her uncle and his son  hit social media, it broke something in me.

We all did the usual things: we cried, we tweeted, we posted “Justice for her.”

We were angry, we prayed, we talked about how evil the world has become.

And yes, that’s good. It is needed.

But if we are being honest, that is where it usually ends.

Because when the noise fades, when the hashtags die, when the attention moves to another tragedy  the same thing happens again.

And I keep asking myself, why?

Maybe it is because we’re still looking at this issue the same way.

We focus so much on the girl how to protect her, how to support her, what not to wear, when not to walk alone…

But who is talking to the boys?

Who is teaching them how to be men who don’t destroy, but protect?

 Protection is important, yes.

But protection without prevention is like scooping water out of a leaking boat while ignoring the hole that is causing it.

Let’s talk about that hole the real root cause: how we’re raising boys.

Rape and violence don’t just appear out of nowhere.

They grow in homes, in schools, in conversations, in silence.

 They grow in families where violence is excused or hidden.

In homes where boys are taught that “real men don’t cry” or that “a man must always be in control.”

In spaces where fathers shout but never teach, where love is hard, and empathy is seen as weakness.

They grow when we don’t teach boys about boundaries, about respect, about emotions.

When sex education skips the most important part consent.

When boys grow up seeing women as property, not people.

When society rewards anger but shames vulnerability. 

So, when we ask, “who taught these boys?”

The truth  the hard, uncomfortable truth  is we all did.

Parents. Teachers. Churches. Mosques. The media. Even silence plays its part. 

Why focusing only on survivors isn’t enough

 Don’t get me wrong survivors must always come first.

They deserve justice, healing, protection, love. Always.

 But if all we do is clean up after the pain, and never stop what causes it, we will keep repeating the same cycle.

We can’t keep teaching girls how to survive and forget to teach boys how not to destroy.

 Prevention starts with shifting focus from who to protect to who to teach.

So what can we do differently?

 1. Start early with boys.

Teach them emotions, empathy, boundaries. Don’t wait until they’re grown. Teach respect from primary school, the same way we teach math.

 2. Teach fathers too.

Parenting isn’t just a mother’s duty. Fathers need to learn how to raise sons who are kind, who can say sorry, who can listen. 

3. Talk about sex the right way.

Real sex education isn’t just biology. It’s about consent, desire, respect, and knowing when to stop.

 4. Hold families, schools, and churches accountable.

When abuse happens, stop covering it up. Stop saying, “let’s settle it at home.” Speak up. Protect the child.

 5. Redefine manhood.

Manhood isn’t about dominance or control. Create programs that show boys that being a man means being responsible, respectful, and human.

 6. Mentorship matters.

Boys need men they can look up to not influencers who glorify disrespect, but real role models who show that gentleness is strength.

 7. End impunity.

Let there be real consequences for rape and abuse. When justice is weak, violence multiplies.

8. Teach rehabilitation too.

Some men can change with the right help therapy, accountability, and reeducation.

Punishment alone doesn’t heal society correction does.

 9. Change the narrative.

The media must stop blaming victims and start highlighting prevention and accountability.

This isn’t about hating men  it’s about saving humanity.

Saying “teach boys better”isn’t an attack on men. It’s a plea to save the next generation.

We can’t keep pretending that silence will raise good men.

It takes intentional teaching, it takes community.

So, if you’re angry about what happened to Ochanya, use that anger right.

Teach the boys around you what consent means.

Speak up when your friends make jokes that normalise violence.

Support laws and programs that protect women and train men.

Justice for survivors matters.

But prevention teaching our boys  that’s how we make sure fewer girls become victims tomorrow.

#JUSTICEFOROCHANYA

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There was a time in my life when I was so sure of who I wanted to be.

You’d ask me, and I wouldn’t stutter or search my brain for answers   I would reply with clarity

and confidence, as though I was already living in that character. But now, I’m not so sure anymore of the pathI should go.

Things aren ’t playing out as I had envisioned; go to school, gain admission into the university, study to become a lawyer, a doctor, or a nurse, as many of us once dreamed.

But life often changes our paths.

You aspire to be a lawyer, yet they offer you Business Management.

You either accept it or reject it and face the pressure of staying another year in idleness. Zeal fades while time flies.

Then you graduate, get a job, get married, and hope to live happily ever after like the stories in fairy tales.

Most times, life chooses its own turns.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t always go as planned.

Uncertainty and confusion hover around your sanity and ambitions like dark clouds, making it hard

to see through. Everything becomes overwhelming.

Time is fading fast, and pressure keeps looming.

Maybe the goal is just to fight and survive that moment.

Many of us have lost track of our dreams     of who we wanted to be and how we thought our lives should turn out.

It now seems like we all dream of the same thing     not to be lawyers or pastors or teachers or doctors, but simply to be happy and comfortable wherever life turns us to.

We now dream of living a good, fulfilled life    of finding joy in what we have, even if it wasn ’t what we planned.

Just like dreaming to become a doctor and ending up a teacher developing young minds, doing well in it, and finding happiness there.

Even if you didn’t become the doctor you wanted to be, and now you’re a shoemaker, meaning can still be found in unexpected places.

Life’s detours can still lead to fulfillment.

Voices unheard, reverberating up above our heads. Locked away, just out of reach. Begging to be heard, pleading to be understood or even acknowledged. Words left unsaid, thoughts left unshared maybe because of fear of implications or a sheer lack of confidence.

Don’t be an echo, heard only after the fact, never to be considered or even part of the conversation. Don’t just bounce around the walls above everyone else but never actually seen only to eventually fade away.

Don’t just sit in the attic, waiting to be called upon, because it’s very possible that you won’t get that chance. Don’t lock away that your opinion, idea, suggestion or even something as little as a joke. It might not be the best, but hey, you just might be onto something.

Whenever I want to do something that requires a lot of confidence, I stop and ask myself what could be the worst that could possibly happen. Most of the time, it’s not something that’s as bad as may think initially and that usually helps. Instead of a pessimistic outlook on things, why not try to be at least realistic tho it wouldn’t hurt to be a little optimistic every now and then.

So I say unto you, yes you reading this, take a chance today. Do something out of the ordinary, something courageous, maybe even a little crazy, no matter how small. If whatever you task yourself to do works out in your favour, take it as sign to work your way up from there. Take it a step further and keep pushing the boundaries you’ve set up for yourself.

As a human being, you’re filled with almost unlimited potential. You have no idea how far that thing you’ve kept locked away could take you. Your contribution to life might not be as insignificant as you think; you just might be sleeping on something great.

As long as you’re on planet earth, your opinion matters, your voice should be heard, so shear it, don’t hold back.

(This was written by my friend 💚Gozie and just a little paragraph of my words😌)

Till I write to you again ❤️

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When did we get here? When did we stop to care? When did pain become leisure that we could illustrate on canvas and use paint to cover it as pleasure?

We see it; we know it is wrong, but we have become spectators. We have become quiet and detached. Tragedy doesn’t happen when the deed has been done, but in the silence of society toward what is happening.

We have all turned blinded eyes to wrong. We have become so comfortable with things that aren’t meant to happen around us. We have failed to reach out to help; instead, we sit, hands folded, and watch.

We have watched our government rule in modern slavery  our pain becoming their entertainment.

We watch our women subjected to abuse and violence, their potentials being limited to what they should do in marriage, and their achievements bounded to a man.

We watch our boy child go wild  to strive, to survive, to be manly enough. Children forced to be adults at ten. Childhood is squeezed and choking on them like suicide. To shed tears is to be weak; to show emotion is shame. Without love, they grow not knowing how to give love. We watch dysfunctionality  spread.

We watch how our men and women become confused about their gender and sexuality, and they teach our children in schools lies about their identity: “As a boy, you can be a girl; you can choose who you want to be.”

We sit and watch how homosexuality is becoming a norm. Boys are being raped through their anus, and instead of fighting this tragedy, we have chosen to sit and illustrate the madness on canvas  to add colors to it like that of LGBTQ for entertainment.

We watch corruption spread its roots among us politicians, religious leaders, pastors, teachers, traders, judges. We watch as injustice gradually dominates; we fold our hands and watch.

We watch as war and conflicts tear down countries apart, hate burns down cities and skyscrapers, streets become deserted with the rubble of fallen walls. We watch our streets filled with the corpses of war.  We watch the ruins of Gaza like an art exhibition  cameras flashing, people debating aesthetics while lives fade away.We watch our world burn on screens a child dies, and we just scroll.

We laugh at our pain and turn our suffering into content.

In our very presence, our world is being strangled to death.

We just sit  relaxed and detached  comfortable in the ever-evolving madness.

When you see something going wrong around you, do not sit and watch or bring out your cameras to capture the moment of tragedy do something.

Till I write to you again ❤️

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At the side of the bed where we both knelt down as new couples, he read the morning devotional guide:

“Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, sacred, pure for true worship. It is to adore and reverence for honor, it is meant to be clean and pure for worship, for sacred activities.”

“But worship here,” I interrupted him, “worship here at my temple my body, not as bricks, but as flesh you can feel, touch. Temples are for worship. Make me make hymns without words, that will rhyme with the humidity and quietness of the room. Like burning incense on the altar with sweet fragrance, make my body burn like fire from the sweet sensation, make me pray for you not to stop. 

Praise in my temple, praise my body with your hands. Allow it feel every curve and let my heart beat to the rhythm your hand makes like drums in the sanctuary.

Split it open, my legs, like the holy books, read while I interpret with hymns written without words. Penetrate gently so my heart will become soft and not resist the sermon. Cum yes, come close, have a taste of what communion tastes like from my lips and tongue.

With your fingers, play with my nipples like keyboards. With your fingers, anoint my clitoris like oil poured on alter.

Take up this temple, as the priest in sanctuary, and worship fully fill it with your spirit, preach your sermon deep inside me, and let this sacred body know the gospel in holy matrimony.”

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They say dare to dream. I dream. I dream of so many big things I want to be. I dream of how great I want to be. I dream of the places I want to go. I dream of the kind of woman I want to be, the kind of life I want to live.

They say you can become anything you want to be, but why do I feel it’s a lie? Why does it seem like it can only happen during a costume day in school, or in church, when you dress like a lawyer, a doctor, a pilot, or a president just to encourage us to keep dreaming about the big things. Sometimes I feel like those words are meant for people whose parents have already figured life out for them. People whose father knows a SAN who can make that dream into reality with just a phone call.

Like stars far above the sky, I can see my dreams and I can feel them, but my hands can’t reach. They say you can become anything you want to be, you can go to the moon. Well yes, that’s true the moon isn’t a place for discrimination. But the truth is, only those who have rockets can go. If you don’t have rockets, you stay on the ground and wave joyfully at those flying past, hoping that maybe, one day, you will be next.

I see them, I admire them, and deep down in my soul and spirit there is this yearning to be like them to do more than them. But my legs and arms aren’t long enough to reach. Even when I stretch, it is still just too far.

“You can be anything you want to be” yes, I don’t doubt it. In fact, I keep the zeal to become who I want to be. But there is the pressing need of surviving the now. You go first chop before you start to count one, because na person wey dey alive sabi wetin be number one.

The other day, I told my friends I want to be the president of Nigeria. I want to change lives. They laughed at me and said, “How e wan take happen? For inside this Makoko where we dey?” They claimed it was the hunger in my belly talking, that it had reached my brain. They said it was too early for me to be saying rubbish.

Don’t blame them they have dreams too. Big dreams. Dreams of a better life, life outside the slum. Dreams to become superstars or someone important in society. Some dream just to be comfortable to eat good food, sleep on good beds without mosquitoes, have toilets they can actually use, and attend good schools. It’s not impossible, but it feels too far for their arms to reach, with no one to give them a stool to climb on.

This is the reality of so many. We all have dreams great and beautiful dreams. We keep them quiet, not because they’re small, but because we’re not sure if we’ll ever touch them, scared of the “what ifs.” Some give up completely, choosing to focus on surviving the now on what will put food on the table and sustain their families. Because dreams take time; they are long, uncertain, and require hard work for the future.

Some keep theirs hidden deep in their hearts not because they’ve given up, but because they just feel too far to reach. And some… some die chasing their dreams. They work hard, they run, they stretch their hands until they ache, but they don’t get there.

It was also just too far to reach.

Nevertheless don’t stop dreaming ✨

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People read the Bible like a distant, ancient rulebook. It is a love story.

This is not the usual church sermon.

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When we talk about masculinity, we often see dominance, power, authority. Sometimes, it can feel intimidating, especially in our modern-day society. But there are bad boys in the Bible who—at a time when women were not even allowed to raise their heads in public—saw women, and didn’t use their domineering masculinity.

 I call these men “The Bad Boys of the Bible.”

I’m not trying to praise toxic masculinity through the term “bad boys.” I’m talking about. men with energy—magnetic, present, and powerful in all the right ways. The kind of men who carry confidence without arrogance. Who feel deeply. Who hold emotional weight without losing their fire. Men who didn’t shrink their power, but didn’t use it to dominate or intimidate either. Men who saw women fully—who respected them, understood them, desired them, and stood in awe of their strength and softness.

Surprisingly, the Bible is full of them.

This is not another Sunday school version of Bible stories. This is about the tender truths hidden beneath the surface of scriptures —truths we often miss, the ones we overlook, the lines we skip past . These are the men who knew how to hold a woman—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually.

Let’s meet them.

Joseph – The Earthly Father of Jesus

Joseph, the earthly father of our Savior Jesus Christ, was a true gentleman. God was so perfect in choosing Joseph as the man to raise Jesus—a man who was willing to wait for Mary even after marriage. He didn’t let sexual desire take over, and he didn’t see Mary’s body as a tool for sexual experiments or tests of love.

When Joseph found out Mary was pregnant—and knew the child wasn’t his—he could have exposed her publicly. In that culture, it could have meant shame, disgrace, ruin, or even death. But Joseph chose compassion over pride. He decided to handle it quietly.

Unlike some men today—who, driven by toxic masculinity, would rather drag a woman, pay blogs to post her pictures, or blackmail her—Joseph chose to protect her. He guarded her life and her reputation, even before knowing the full story.

Jesus – The Man Who Redefined Masculinity

Yes, Him. The man who redefined masculinity. He is the model of sacred masculinity—not because he had sex, but because he loved women without ever reducing them.

To me, Jesus was a real bad boy.

Despite being the Savior of the world and the Messiah, he never took advantage of women. He respected them. He revealed himself to them without judgment. Look at the woman with the issue of blood, the Samaritan woman at the well—he allowed them to touch him, to weep on him, to break open perfume on his feet.

He made women his friends—with no strings attached. Mary Magdalene is one clear example.

He never sexualized them. He never used his power to dominate. His strength wasn’t loud or performative—it was quiet, present, and deeply tender. He never said, “Because I’m the Messiah and I have power to help you, come to my room.” Instead, he trusted them with his truth—like when he told the Samaritan woman she was seen and known, before she repented.

And the first person he revealed his resurrection to? A woman. Not his disciples. A woman.

Elkanah – The Quiet Husband Who Covered His Wife’s Pain

A very quiet name in the Bible—Elkanah, husband to Hannah. Another bad boy of the Bible.

Hannah was barren for years. Elkanah didn’t throw it in her face or remind her of it. He didn’t threaten to take another wife like many men would today. Instead, he stayed with her in patience and love. He showed her tenderness. He buried her grief in the folds of his love, through the seasons of pain.

Joseph (of Egypt) – The Fine Boy Who Chose Integrity

The fine boy of the Bible. Another bad boy.

If it were men of this generation, they would have jumped at the opportunity when Potiphar’s wife seduced them—grabbed it without thinking twice, then called themselves “sharp guys.”

But Joseph respected her marriage, respected her body, even when she didn’t understand it. He chose not to sin against God and his master.

Barak – The Warrior Who Followed a Woman’s Lead

Barak—another silent but loud character in the Bible. He followed the lead and instruction of a woman without losing his power or manhood.

Barak was a warrior—a strong and brave one. He was to lead the Israelites to battle, but he chose to listen to the command of Deborah, the prophetess.

He wasn’t intimidated by Deborah’s authority or wisdom. Instead, he acknowledged her strength and said, “I will go, but only if you go with me.”

 Barak had no ego, no insecurities. He was simply a man strong enough to stand beside a powerful woman. In today’s world, where too many men compete with women, showing off toxic masculinity and ego, Barak chose partnership.

Solomon – The Man Who Praised Women Like Poetry

Now let’s talk about the man who had so many wives and concubines.

Forget what you think about Solomon and his thousands of lovers. That man knew how to fuck a woman—but more importantly, he knew how to praise her.

Read Song of Songs. It's filled with beautiful poetic lines that describe his lover. Each line commands respect. It shows adoration and reverence. He doesn’t speak down to her—he describes her: her hair, her breasts, her nose, her thighs, her beauty, her presence. He appreciates every part of her.

He calls her “sister,” “bride,” “my darling,” “my beloved.” He uses metaphors like, “Like a lily among thorns is my darling among women.”

When I read Song of Songs, I was blown away by how he adores her. And it made me think—who will call me sweet names like that? Who will praise every part of me like Solomon did? That woman could have been a dwarf, but the way he described her, you’d picture a goddess.

 Read Song of Songs 7:1–9. Solomon was a bad boy.

There were other Bad Boys Worth Mentioning like,

Boaz, who married Ruth and never tagged her as a cursed widow who killed her husband.

Caleb, who gave his daughter land—when most cultures wouldn’t even allow women to inherit anything.

Jacob, who worked 14 years to marry the love of his life, and still didn’t mistreat the first wife he was tricked into marrying.

Isaac, the lover boy who waited patiently and honored his wife.

These men were not perfect, but their presence couldn’t be ignored.

They don’t teach this side of the Bible in church. We don’t often read it with this perspective—unless the Holy Spirit chooses to point it out.

These bad boys of the Bible possessed true masculinity—strength with softness, calm and attentiveness. They weren’t intimidated by a woman’s emotions or brilliance. They didn’t need to flex their muscles or become tyrants to be felt, they didn’t need to yell to be heard. They occupied space with presence, strength, and tenderness that didn’t have to be loud to be known.

These bad boys? They didn’t just know how to fuck.

They knew how to love.

And they loved like it was worship.

Have a sacred weekend 😇

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 After watching the videos that surfaced online of the incident that happened in Benue state, it has got me thinking lately

Where is the president of Nigeria ?

No, seriously—where is the president?

He hasn’t been declared missing, but he is missing. Missing in the lives and affairs of the people he swore to lead. Present, but absent.I don’t know why the media isn’t carrying this story—AIT, Channels, Arise, Punch...

Where is the President?

I think it should be officially announced:

"The President is Missing."

Because he is nowhere to be found.

If the president is not missing, then tell me—why was a whole village burnt down and his citizens roasted like chickens, yet he hasn’t said a single word?

He keeps mute like it’s none of his business.

Or does he not see all that is happening?

He’s never there when he’s needed most.

He doesn’t show concern.

Not even once. Instead, he travels the entire continent, signing deals that never benefit us.Deals that might even be lies.

Where is the president?

With all the special advisers, ministers, errand boys, and spokespersons—

Are they not seeing what is happening in Benue State, the food basket of the nation?

Over 200 lives were lost in Yelwata community in Benue State on Friday, June 13, 2025.

Children were burnt.

Properties destroyed.

Businesses disrupted.

A whole village—gone.

These people are now living in fear.

No safety. No shelter. No reassurance.

Just silence.

When will it ever end?

We are being led by people who lack empathy.

Selfish leaders with misplaced priorities.

When we need bold action, we get weakness.

When we cry for help, we get silence.

This is a country where leaders gamble with the lives of citizens for selfish interests, power struggles, and political gain.

A state of emergency is needed—

and yet, nothing is done.

But we all saw how swiftly the president declared a state of emergency over a political tussle between two prominent politicians—something the judiciary could have handled.

But how can the judiciary function in a place where injustice has become the norm?

The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s real:

Where is the President while Benue is bleeding?

 These communities are being attacked by terrorists—again and again.

People are burnt alive.

Massacred.

Butchered.

And when you look around, all you see is lawlessness—

In a country that claims to have leaders.

These communities have senators.

They have a governor.

A local government chairman.

And more importantly, where is the President?

All of them are missing—missing when it matters most.

 We’re not asking for magic.

We’re asking for presence.

Even if you can’t fix it overnight, at least show that you care.

Speak to the people.

Release press statements.

Send trusted representatives to visit these grieving communities.

Show them that their lives matter.

Let them know they are not alone.

Give them something to hold onto—real hope, not empty words.

Leadership is not a crown.

It’s a burden.

And the weight of that burden is the people.

If you cannot carry it, step down.

 Because to whom much is given, much is expected.

Dearest Gozie,

Happy birthday, dear friend.

I pray favour surrounds you like a shield. I pray the sky becomes your starting point.

Isn’t it wild that I am writing this to someone I have never actually met? No handshakes, no hugs, no face-to-face conversations, no long walks under quiet skies, no shared food, no loud laughter that fills the room — just two people who exist through digital connectivity.

It surprises me how strangely we have never met, yet it feels like we’ve known each other for ages. You’ve been kind to me — a stranger. Intentional, lovely, and caring. You’ve been incredibly good. You listen to me patiently. You encourage me in ways that feel too good to be true sometimes.

And somehow, you do all this from a distance.

I don’t know how you do it, honestly, Gozie but I am grateful. Thank you for checking up on me. Thank you for showing up with just your replies. Thank you for being present in ways I didn’t know I needed.

There is something comforting about how you’ve stood at the edge of my little world, not trying to fix it, but simply saying, *“I’m here.”

Thank you for giving me your time.

Thank you for being my special editor.

Your soft strength feels gentle, your wise words reassuring, and those intelligent conversations? Priceless.

Thank you for supporting my writing. You read and like every one of my pieces, and leave beautiful comments that feel too good not to giggle at.

So today, I celebrate you not just because it’s your birthday, but because you have mattered to me, a stranger. To someone you have never met.

You have been a quick and quiet kind of magic in my life, and I want you to know it has never gone unnoticed.

I hope you laugh loudly, feel happy, and feel deeply loved because you are.

I am cheering for you from afar,

Mavis your slightly chaotic, silly, always grateful friend.

Happy birthday @Gozie 🎂❤️❤️

Where, in the last three minutes, your brain replays your life. Not the worst moments, not your biggest mistakes, but the ones that made you smile, the ones that mattered. There should be a smile on your face, with no panic or fear in your heart. Knowing you are dying, but your mind is at peace.

I imagined myself in it, and I didn’t panic or rebuke the thought. I just… sat with it. And in that moment, it felt okay. Not something to fear, not something to run from—just something that will come, as naturally as sleep after a long, full day.

I remember one evening, sitting outside my lodge at around 12 a.m., reading for an exam. My mind got distracted by the stillness of the night and the quiet silence. The stars were sitting pretty and calm in the sky, and the night breeze was so peaceful. There was me, alone, sitting in the midst of the dark and quiet night, admiring its beauty. That is how death feels. Quiet. Gentle. Complete.

I think death should feel like coming home. Like everything has finally quieted down, and you no longer need to hold anything together.

Death is certain for everyone on earth, and no amount of God forbid can change that fact. We’ll just pray we live a long and fulfilling life, and not die a miserable death.

But if death comes—whenever it comes—I hope it finds me calm, with peace in my soul and a quiet smile on my face.

POV: I am not dying now

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