you are the morning

that arrives before the sun,

quietly touching the roofs of Africa

with fingers made of gold.

Your skin carries stories

older than the roads beneath your feet,

a history written in shades of night,

deep, warm, endless,

like the earth after rain.

You walk,

and somewhere a drum remembers its voice.

Your footsteps carry the rhythm

of women who planted seeds,

raised children,

built homes,

and held entire families together

with hands that never asked for applause.

Your hair is not merely hair.

It is a crown of possibilities,

coiled like questions,

braided like stories,

rising proudly

against every hand that once tried

to tell you how beautiful you should be.

Black woman,

you are not only the beauty

that poets place inside their verses.

You are the verse itself.

You are market laughter

under the afternoon sun,

the scent of shea butter,

the bright movement of Ankara,

the quiet elegance of a woman

adjusting her gele in the mirror

before stepping into the world.

You are daughter.

You are sister.

You are mother.

You are dreamer.

But beyond every name they give you,

you are still yourself.

And perhaps that is your greatest beauty:

that after centuries of being told

who you should become,

you are learning to become

exactly who you are.

So stand, Black woman.

Let the world meet you

without apology.

Let your laughter be loud.

Let your dreams take up space.

Let your history sit proudly

upon your shoulders.

For you are not a shadow

waiting for another person's light.

You are the light.

And Africa,

in all its beautiful complexity,

has never stopped seeing

its own reflection

in you.

Love is a dandelion in a cracked sidewalk

not supposed to be there,

but there anyway, stubborn and gold,

pushing through concrete with soft shoulders.

It starts loud and showy,

a sun you can hold in your palm,

asking you to notice, to lean close,

to believe in something bright.

Then it goes quiet.

The petals fall away,

and what’s left is a sphere of almost-nothing,

a thousand tiny parachutes holding their breath.

That’s when love does its real work.

One breath, one whisper, one moment of trust

and it scatters.

No promise it lands soft.

No map for where it goes.

Some seeds catch in gutters,

some take root in strangers’ gardens,

some ride the wind for miles before they stop.

And you, you stand there with empty lungs,

watching what you made of yourself

become someone else’s maybe.

But that’s the trick of it:

love, like the dandelion,

doesn’t need permission to grow.

It doesn’t need the ground to be perfect.

It only needs a chance to be let go.

So blow gently.

Even if it scatters.

Even if it breaks.

Something will bloom where it lands.

They told you to fold yourself smaller,

to tuck your colors into the dark,

to call your truth a quieter word

and walk with your eyes down low.

But you didn’t break.

You learned to stand in rooms

that weren’t built for you

and still take up space.

Pride isn’t noise for noise’ sake—

it’s the sound of a name said right,

a hand held without apology,

a mirror that finally reflects _you_.

So paint the streets in every shade,

laugh loud where they told you to whisper,

dance like the world is catching up

because it is.

This month, and every month after:

you are not too much.

You are exactly enough.

And the world is better for seeing it.

Happy Pride🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️🌈🌟

She carried rainstorms in her mouth,

silver-tongued and dangerous,

the kind of woman who could make silence overflow.

I called her Fountaine

because desire kept escaping her in waves,

because every touch became water,

because my hands returned drenched in confession.

Her laughter spilled first.

Then her breath.

Then the trembling ache between almost and undo me.

We moved like midnight rivers,

slow at first,

ankles brushing under moonlight,

pulse against pulse like hidden drums beneath velvet skin.

She tasted of pomegranate and rebellion.

Of heat trapped beneath satin sheets.

Of secrets pressed into the hollow of a throat.

And when she arched toward me,

the whole room seemed to loosen its grip on gravity.

Candles bent.

Air shattered into steam.

Even the dark leaned closer.

“Stay,” she whispered,

voice pouring over me like warm honey left near fire.

So I stayed.

Inside her orbit.

Inside the flood of her gaze.

Inside that dangerous, beautiful moment

where longing stops being quiet

and becomes a storm with your name on

They do not loosen their grip with time, nor soften with distance.

They live in the quiet corners of the heart, breathing slowly, patiently waiting.

I think that is the kind of love I had for you.

It was never loud enough to demand the world’s attention, yet it was powerful enough to reshape mine. Your name became a silent echo in my thoughts. Your smile, a memory I carried like a fragile photograph handled carefully, but never put away.

I waited in ways you never noticed.

In the pauses between conversations.

In the messages I typed and erased.

In the hope that one day you might look at me and see what I had been holding all along.

But yearning is a strange thing. It grows quietly, like a shadow stretching at sunset. You don’t notice how large it has become until it fills the entire room.

And somewhere in that waiting, in that quiet, endless hoping…

something inside me slowly faded.

Not my heart, not my life

but the part of me that believed love could exist without being returned.

So when I say I died yearning for you,

I do not mean it in the way stories tell of tragedy.

I mean that the version of me who waited endlessly

who loved you in silence, who built dreams out of glances and small moments

that version of me slowly disappeared.

What remains is someone softer with hope,

gentler with memories,

and wiser about love.

Yet even now, in the quietest moments,

I still wonder what might have happened

if you had turned around

and seen me waiting there.

Nooooooooooo

I don't have anything important to say so you can just leave nowwwwwww

(I'm kidding please don't leave my shaylaaaa🥹I'll buy yogurt for you) 😂🤭

Sooooooooo I was going through my Spotify today and I saw this Playlist I created early last year

That year was my blinded by love Eraaaaa 😩😭

Noooooooooooo there was no one in particular but I was in love with everything and everyone for some weirdass reasonnnn😂

Incase you're curious here is it :

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3EWDuFAsEYUlY83ptlVGY0?si=_3c7M-A4S-O24WVcbgEg-A

So let me take you on a short ride round the Playlist 🤭🥹and maybe feed you in on my day <3<3<3^_^

I fasted today and readdddddddd oh I readdddddd

I won't lie I still have those panic attacks when I remember jamb is almost here 😢

Like what iffffff

Just what ifffffff

Everything belongs to God shaaaa

Well back to my Playlist ahhhhhhhhh I'm such a lover girl Dayummmmmmmm 😩🤭

This one dates back to 2014/15ishhhhhh

Everything about this song is just perfection

I still have flashbacks of 7 year old me singing it like I knew what it meant 😂😂😂

The vocalssss eishhhhhhhh😝

That trumpet or sax at the end (I don't know the difference 😂) I really want to find that person Cosssss ahhhhhhhh every time I listen it gives thrillssss 😩

Mama jam jam’s vocals alsoooooo 🤏🏿🤏🏿

My Timileyinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Feckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

😂(I'm using too much letters, I'm soryyyyyyy)

Then he now added Taves eishhhhhhhhhh

Vocals jam vocalssssssssss 😩🤭

This oneeeeeeeeeeeeeee is special 😩🤭

It's sacred

It's woooooooooooo

Words can't describe my feelings 😩😩🤭

The lyrics mehnnnnnnnn

The lyrics 😩🥹

Ykb dropped this and went into full blown Alte boys don't love mode. SMH. Release afroswaggu unc

Please don't settle for lesssss

See words a guy can use to describe a woman and you want to settle for one nonchalant idiot 😒

A word is enough for the wise shaaaaa😂

The only Sam I feel smitten by 😩

(you get my boring pun??) 😂😂

I had a major obsession with this song Cosssss why so gooood?

My man dropped jewels for us and went ahead to take care of his personal life

I Stan oooooo

Can't believe my favorite song is already 2 freaking years arghhhhhhhh

Still remember the day I saw the snippet on Tiktok

Oh I thank the heavens for giving me my beautiful aqyila

I live for millennial music if yunno

She ate with ittttttt

Won't lieeeee 😩

I 😩😩😩😩😩

I've run out of wordssss😭😭😭

This oneeeeeeeeee is ours

Our little treasure

Walai I miss himmmmmmmmmm 😩

Did I bore you? Of course I did 😅

I watched the new love and lies episode though and this has to be the most boring one

I was just waiting for meishkey to carry it and yes he did

That babe is real shaaaaaa

And that bus driver God abegggggg😂

Baba see yansh and slim waist he wan use please kill am 😂

But I made a discovery towards the end of the ep though:

The mic was between her tits!! Dayummmmmmmm 😩😂

And they shared one mic ooooo

God abeggg 😩😂

Seeeeee my durling 🌚

Ngwanu byeeeeeeee

I love you plentyyyyyyyyyy 🥹❤️

Abuja did not break Tunde.

It watched him… quietly, like a city that had seen too many men arrive with confidence and leave with silence.

Tunde refused to be one of them.

By week two, he had sharpened himself into something more deliberate.

Less talk. More presence.

Less charm. More control.

Even Sola noticed.

“You’re moving differently,” he said.

Tunde buttoned his sleeve slowly.

“Because this city listens before it answers.”

The lounge was not loud. Abuja wealth rarely is.

Soft lighting. Low conversations. Eyes that measured everything.

Tunde stepped in, calm, unbothered… like he had already been accepted.

And then he saw her.

She didn’t sit like the others.

She occupied space.

Not with noise, not with effort… but with quiet authority.

Her name was Morounkeji Adeyemi.

Wife of Chief Adeyemi… a man whose name opened doors, closed mouths, and moved things that weren’t supposed to move.

Everyone in that room knew who she was.

Which was exactly why no one approached her.

Except Tunde.

He walked over, steady, and stopped just close enough.

“Good evening.”

She looked up.

Not surprised. Not impressed.

Just… curious.

“That’s brave,” she said.

Tunde sat without asking.

“Or foolish,” he replied.

Her eyes lingered on him longer this time.

“Which one are you?”

Tunde smiled slightly.

“I guess you’ll decide.”

A slow silence stretched between them.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was watching.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked finally.

“Yes.”

“And you still came here?”

Tunde leaned back, relaxed.

“I didn’t come for your name.”

Her fingers paused slightly on her glass.

That… was new.

Morounkeji studied him properly now.

Not like a stranger.

Like a problem she hadn’t decided how to solve.

“Men usually want something,” she said.

Tunde’s voice dropped, softer now.

“I do.”

“And what is that?”

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t break eye contact.

“You.”

The word didn’t land softly.

It settled between them… heavy, dangerous.

She should have dismissed him.

She should have laughed.

She should have reminded him exactly whose wife she was.

Instead—

She smiled.

Small. Sharp. Interested.

The ride to her house was quiet.

Not awkward.

Just… aware.

Every second stretched, like something inevitable was approaching.

Her home was not just wealth.

It was power, arranged neatly into furniture and silence.

Guards outside. Cameras. Distance from the rest of the world.

The kind of place where secrets didn’t escape.

The door closed behind them.

And for a moment, neither of them moved.

“You’re either very bold,” she said slowly, turning to face him…

“Or very stupid.”

Tunde stepped closer.

Measured. Controlled.

“Maybe I like risk.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips… then back to his eyes.

“And if you get caught?”

Tunde’s voice came low, steady.

“Then it means you let me get that close.”

That did it.

She closed the distance first.

Not gently. Not hesitantly.

Her hand gripped his shirt, pulling him just enough to erase the space between them.

There was nothing soft about it.

Nothing uncertain.

Just tension… finally breaking.

And suddenly, everything sharpened.

The room. The silence. The fact that somewhere in this city, her husband existed… powerful, untouchable… unaware.

For now.

Morounkeji’s voice came quieter this time, but heavier.

“You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

Tunde didn’t pull away.

Didn’t hesitate.

“I know exactly what I’m stepping into,” he said.

But even as he said it…

Something in his chest shifted.

Because this?

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was danger.

Real danger.

The kind that didn’t end with embarrassment…

But consequences.

And still—

He didn’t step back.

To be continued……

Author's Note: Hey my shaylassssssss 🤭❤️

Thank you so much for reading ❤️🤭

Y’all should please engage

Love you hands downnnnnnnn😝🥹❤️

In Ibadan, he moved like a man with a private agreement with destiny. Doors opened, meals appeared, and somehow, his problems always found someone else to solve them. Life had a rhythm, and Tunde danced to it effortlessly, smiling his way through other people’s generosity.

Tunde was handsome in the way trouble usually is.

Not just fine. No. This one had intentional fine. The kind that made aunties adjust their gele and suddenly remember they had “something small” for him. Tall, smooth-talking, always smelling like he had just stepped out of a bottle of expensive cologne he did not pay for.

Tunde was a gigolo.

But please, don’t insult him by saying it like that.

He preferred “relationship consultant.”

“Love is a business,” he would say, adjusting his fake designer sunglasses. “Some people invest emotions. Me, I diversify.”

Ibadan had been good to him. Very good. Three steady “clients” and two “backup investors.” Life was soft. Chicken Republic was regular. Data subscription never expired.

Until… disaster.

Client Number One got born again.

Client Number Two caught feelings and wanted marriage.

Client Number Three’s husband returned from Malaysia… unexpectedly.

Tunde packed his small bag that same day.

“Ọlọrun, this is not how legends fall,” he muttered as he boarded a night bus.

Destination: Abuja.

Land of big men, bigger money, and women who could smell broke from 2 kilometers away.

Abuja welcomed him with hot sun and hotter bills.

The city did not care about his cheekbones.

His first week, he stayed with his friend Sola, who had promised him “connections.”

“Sola, where are these rich women you were shouting about?” Tunde asked, fanning himself with a borrowed newspaper.

Sola laughed. “My brother, Abuja women are not Ibadan women. Here, you must package yourself like proposal.”

Tunde sat up. “Am I not already packaging?”

Sola looked at him from head to toe.

“Right now, you are like gala without nylon.”

Day three in Abuja, Tunde entered a high-end lounge with the confidence of a man who had exactly ₦2,300 in his account.

He spotted them immediately.

Three women. Polished. Expensive. Laughing like people who had never checked a bank balance twice.

Target locked.

He adjusted his shirt, inhaled confidence, and approached.

“Good evening, ladies. I couldn’t help but notice—”

“Sit down,” one of them interrupted, not even looking up.

Ah.

Authority.

Tunde smiled. This one would be premium.

“My name is Tunde.”

“We didn’t ask,” she replied calmly, sipping her drink.

Another one glanced at him. “What do you do?”

Tunde paused.

This was always the tricky part.

“I’m into… lifestyle management.”

The third one finally looked at him fully.

“And how is that working for you in this shirt?”

Silence.

For the first time in his career, Tunde felt… unemployed.

That night, he lay on Sola’s thin mattress, staring at the ceiling fan that was rotating like it had given up on life.

Abuja was not playing.

No easy wins. No quick money. No aunties with soft spots and softer wallets.

This was a jungle. And Tunde, for the first time, was not the predator.

He was… confused prey.

But then, he smiled slowly.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “We upgrade.”

Because if Abuja wanted premium,

Tunde Akinwale was about to become deluxe.

AUTHORS NOTE: Thank you for reading my shaylaaaa ❤️🤭

This is going to be a series

So

Lemme know if Y’all want more episodes

Thank youuuuuu 🤭❤️

Sooooo I've been watching tiktok clips of the Rio festival and here's what I've to say….

There is a quiet irony in the story of culture. Sometimes, what is dismissed at home becomes sacred abroad. Few examples capture this better than the journey of Yoruba spirituality, especially the traditions surrounding Ifá, from Nigeria to Brazil.

A Tradition That Crossed an Ocean

Centuries ago, enslaved Yoruba people carried more than just their bodies across the Atlantic, they carried memory. They carried rhythm. They carried belief.

Out of that displacement, spiritual systems like Candomblé emerged, preserving the worship of Orishas, ancestral reverence, and elements of Ifá divination. Despite centuries of oppression, these traditions did not fade. They adapted. They survived. They became, in many ways, more fiercely protected than ever.

Today in Brazil, temples are maintained with care. Rituals are studied with devotion. Initiation is treated with seriousness. The sacred is approached with both fear and love.

Meanwhile, Back Home…

In contrast, many in modern Nigeria have grown distant from these same traditions. Influenced by colonial history, religious shifts, and societal pressure, indigenous beliefs are often labeled as “primitive,” “backward,” or even “evil.”

Young people, especially, are taught to disconnect. To look outward for identity. To replace inherited with imported belief systems.

The result is a quiet abandonment.

In Brazil, people who are not even ethnically Yoruba dedicate their lives to understanding Orishas, learning sacred songs, and preserving rituals with astonishing discipline. Some travel back to Nigeria in search of deeper knowledge, treating the culture with a reverence that is sometimes absent among its original inheritors.

It raises an uncomfortable question:

Why does distance seem to increase value?

What We Lose When We Look Away

Culture is not just tradition for tradition’s sake. It is identity. It is philosophy. It is a way of interpreting existence.

Ifá, for instance, is not merely “worship.” It is a complex system of knowledge, ethics, poetry, and divination. It encodes wisdom about balance, destiny, and human behavior.

To disregard it entirely is not just a rejection of religion, it is a rejection of a knowledge system.

And when that rejection becomes widespread, something fragile begins to erode.

Not a Call to Return, But to Reconsidered

This is not a demand that everyone must practice traditional religion. Belief is deeply personal.

But there is a difference between choosing a path and dismissing another out of ignorance or inherited bias.

Perhaps the lesson here is not about conversion, but about recognition.

To recognize that what exists within our history has value.

To understand that modernity does not require cultural amnesia.

To see that reverence and critique can coexist.

A Mirror Across the Atlantic

Brazil, in this case, acts like a mirror. It reflects back a version of Yoruba culture that has been polished by distance and protected by struggle.

And in that reflection, there is both pride and discomfort.

Because sometimes, it takes someone else loving what you have taken for granted to make you see it clearly.

Conclusion: Holding What Is Ours

Culture does not disappear all at once. It fades in small acts of neglect. In jokes. In silence. In dismissal.

But it can also be reclaimed in small acts of attention. In curiosity. In respect.

The story of Ifá in Brazil is not just about survival. It is about value.

And perhaps the real question is not whether others love our traditions.

It is whether we are willing to see them clearly again.

AUTHORS NOTE: Thank youuuuuu for reading

Let's all try our best to keep our culture and traditions pleaseeeeee.

Love youuuuuu plentyyyyyyyyyyyyyy❤️🤭😂

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

(ignore my typos tooo please 😅, this was written in a hurry 😂😅)

There’s a particular kind of quiet heartbreak that doesn’t announce itself with drama. It doesn’t slam doors or shatter glass. It lingers. It breathes softly in the background, like a song that never quite ends. This is the ache of being a safe haven for someone who never truly sought shelter.

You become warmth. Not the loud, blazing kind, but the steady glow that asks for nothing in return. You listen, even when your own thoughts are loud and tangled. You hold space for their storms, offering calm skies they didn’t earn but always expect. You learn the geography of their pain, mapping out every fault line, every fragile corner. You become fluent in their silence.

And yet, somehow, they remain a stranger to yours.

Being a safe haven is often mistaken for strength. It looks noble from the outside, almost poetic. The idea of loving someone so deeply that you become their refuge sounds like something out of a story where devotion is rewarded and patience is sacred. But real life is less generous. Real life doesn’t guarantee that the one you protect will ever turn around and protect you.

Sometimes, they just… stay.

They stay long enough to rest, to recover, to feel whole again. And once they do, they wander. Not always physically, but emotionally. They drift away from the very place that held them together. And you, still standing where they left you, begin to notice the imbalance. The silence grows heavier. The effort starts to feel one-sided, like pouring water into a cup with no bottom.

The hardest part isn’t that they don’t love you the same way. It’s realizing they might not have been trying to at all.

You replay moments in your head, searching for signs you missed. Were they ever as invested? Did they ever see you as more than convenience wrapped in kindness? You question your own worth, your own instincts. You wonder if being soft, being present, being giving… was a mistake.

But it wasn’t.

The tragedy is not that you cared. The tragedy is that your care was placed in hands that didn’t know how to hold it.

There’s a quiet dignity in being a safe haven. It means you are capable of depth, of empathy, of a kind of love that doesn’t keep score. That is not weakness. That is not something to regret. But it does require boundaries, even if those boundaries come late.

Because you are not meant to be a place people pass through.

You are meant to be chosen.

To be stayed for.

To be returned to, not just when it’s convenient, but because your presence matters.

And one day, if you allow yourself to step away from those who only take, you will meet someone who doesn’t just rest in your warmth, but adds to it. Someone who builds a home with you, not just inside you.

Until then, it’s okay to close your doors.

Even safe havens deserve peace.

AUTHORS NOTE :

Heyyyyyyy you ❤️

Thank you for reading

If someone is emotionally unavailable for you maybe you should also wrap it up and stop caring altogether.

Or if someone feels like they are too busy for you, you should also invest your time into profitable things ❤️

Stop being a safe haven for someone who doesn't care!!!

Love youuuuuu ❤️

Not gently. Not politely.

It was the kind of recognition that felt like a door being kicked open in a house you didn’t know you owned.

The café was loud, generator rattling like it had opinions, heat pressing against the windows. Kemi had been sketching faces she would forget in an hour.

Then Halima walked in.

And suddenly, Kemi couldn’t draw anything else.

Halima didn’t belong to quiet places.

You could tell from the way she carried herself, like she had survived something sharp and refused to bend because of it. Her eyes scanned the room once, landed on Kemi, and stayed there.

Not curious.

Certain.

She walked over like fate had already sent the memo.

“Do you always stare like that,” Halima said, dropping into the chair opposite her, “or am I special?”

Kemi’s pencil paused mid-line. “You sat down.”

“You didn’t tell me not to.”

Something dangerous flickered between them.

Kemi leaned back slightly, studying her. “What if I regret it?”

Halima smiled, slow and fearless. “You won’t.”

They didn’t fall in love.

They collided into it.

Hard. Fast. Reckless in ways that didn’t look reckless to anyone else.

Because from the outside, they were just two women existing in the same city.

But underneath?

It was coded glances that lasted one second too long.

Text messages deleted as soon as they were read.

Phone calls at 2AM where silence said more than words ever could.

It was hunger disguised as restraint.

Halima had rules.

Not the soft kind you could bend. The kind carved into you by fear, by family, by a world that watched too closely.

“My father would rather bury me than understand this,” she said one night, her voice flat in a way that made it heavier.

Kemi didn’t flinch. “Then we don’t give him something to bury.”

Halima laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No,” Kemi said. “I think you are.”

That silenced her.

Because Kemi didn’t love carefully.

She loved like someone who had already decided that fear was boring.

The first time they almost got caught, it wasn’t dramatic.

It was worse.

It was quiet.

Halima’s cousin walked into the compound earlier than expected. Kemi was still there. Too close. Too obvious.

Time didn’t slow down.

It snapped.

Halima moved instantly, stepping away so sharply it felt like rejection. “You should go,” she said, voice suddenly cold, unfamiliar.

Kemi stared at her.

Three seconds.

That’s how long it took for understanding to sink in.

Three seconds to realize love could look like distance.

Three seconds to feel something crack.

She left without another word.

That night, Kemi didn’t answer her phone.

Not the first call.

Not the second.

Not the tenth.

By the time she finally picked up, Halima’s voice was breaking.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said quickly. “I just—I panicked.”

“I know,” Kemi replied, but her voice was quieter now. Sharper. “You didn’t even look at me.”

Silence.

Then, softer, almost unbearable: “I was trying to protect you.”

Kemi exhaled slowly. “It didn’t feel like protection.”

“It was the only way I know how.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Love shouldn’t feel like survival.

But for them, it did.

The breaking point came on a night that felt too still.

No rain. No noise. Just tension sitting heavy in the air.

“I can’t lose everything,” Halima said, pacing. “My family, my name… my life as I know it.”

Kemi leaned against the wall, watching her like she was trying to memorize something before it disappeared.

“And me?” she asked quietly.

Halima stopped.

That question didn’t have a safe answer.

“You’re not something I can afford to lose,” Halima said finally.

Kemi nodded slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the first thing you’re ready to let go of?”

That hit.

You could see it hit.

Halima’s composure cracked, just slightly. “Because losing you would destroy me,” she said, her voice trembling now, raw and unguarded. “And I don’t know how to survive that.”

Kemi stepped closer.

“Then don’t,” she said.

The kiss that followed wasn’t romantic.

It was desperate.

It was anger and fear and longing crashing together like waves that refused to retreat. Halima held her like she was trying to fuse them into one person, like separation itself was the enemy.

“I hate this,” Halima whispered against her lips. “I hate that loving you feels like a war.”

Kemi pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Then stop fighting it like it’s the enemy.”

They didn’t get a clean ending.

No grand declaration that fixed everything.

No sudden acceptance from the world around them.

What they got was harder.

Choice.

Every day, a choice.

To stay.

To risk.

To love in a world that demanded silence.

And maybe that was the most intense thing of all.

Not the fear.

Not the secrecy.

Not even the almost-loss.

But the fact that, despite everything—

When morning came, and the world reset like nothing had happened…

They still chose each other.

Again.

And again.

And again.

AUTHOR’S NOTE : Thank you for reading my work

Incase you find any typos I'm sorry!!!

I proofread it more than a million times

Do well to subscribe to meeeeee

https://substack.com/@estynne?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=4pyozy

Love yaaaaaaaaaaaa ❤️

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeee

It's Estynne or Tosineistein whichever suits you

Long time no article riii? I know

I am still learning to forgive the parts of me that needed too much. Too much reassurance. Too much affection. Too much certainty that I mattered. I used to label those needs as flaws, like they were cracks in porcelain I had to hide behind careful lighting. But needs are not weaknesses. They are proof that I am alive, that I am wired for connection, that my heart was brave enough to want something real. I am learning that asking is not begging. Wanting is not shameful. Tenderness is not a crime.

I am still learning to forgive myself for the dreams I abandoned halfway through. The notebooks I closed. The risks I almost took but folded back into safe routines. I blamed myself for not being fearless, as if courage were supposed to arrive fully grown and armored. Now I understand that courage is often small and shaking, a flicker rather than a blaze. The fact that I still dream at all is evidence that something in me refuses to die quietly.

And maybe the hardest forgiveness is for the times I turned against myself. The harsh self-talk. The comparisons. The nights I replayed mistakes like they were courtroom evidence. I have been both the defendant and the judge in my own mind. I am trying now to be the witness instead. To observe without condemnation. To say, yes, that hurt. Yes, that was messy. And still, you are worthy.

Forgiveness, I’m discovering, is not a single grand gesture. It is a daily practice. A softening. A hand placed gently over my own pulse as if to say, I am still here. I am still trying. And that is enouI am still learning to forgive the version of me who stayed too long, who swallowed her words like they were dangerous things instead of truths with bones and breath. She thought endurance was love, that silence was strength, that shrinking would keep the peace from cracking. I used to look at her with embarrassment, like she was a draft I wished I had never written. But lately, I see her differently. She was surviving with the tools she had, building shelter out of hope and denial and thin threads of maybe. I am learning to forgive her for not knowing sooner, for choosing comfort over courage, for being afraid. She did the best she could with a heart that only wanted to be held.

I'm learning to be Tosineistein, The unapologetic one, The one who is learning to just be herself even with all her flaws.

I'M STILL LEARNING TO BE MYSELF and that's okay 😌

She was so annoyed that her friend Tunji bailed on her because she had heard how rowdy that place was going to be. She tried her best to stay on her lane and not stray into any of the crowds. She had her best time at the festival and even met various content creators.

She figured out that since she didn't have anything to do at home she should follow the the masquerades for their parade she was just chilling and having fun when she heard screams from one of the buildings in front of her. Apparently a woman had tried to take videos of the Sacred EYO masquerade (oosha Adinmu) which was prohibited the Adinmu were the sacred EYOS the one you couldn't record but only see with your eyes. One thing about this masquerade is that they are always vigilant and at alert and the moment they lay their hands on a scapegoat they are not going to spare anyone that they find in the environs at that time. People around her were running because of the chaos and Tayo stood in the middle of it all startled and confused suddenly she felt a hand grab her and only mouthed the words "Moyo fun e Moyo fun ra mi" that translates to I'm happy for you, I'm happy for myself in yoruba and is a very popular saying among the EYO masquerade to express their pure heart towards people. The hand that pulled Tayo jolted her back into existence and she saw that it was also one of the masquerades but this one was a yellow hat (ologede) masquerade. Tayo was so scared but didn't say anything until the masquerade gently pulled her away from the scene.

When they got to a house she assumed was his she sat down while he gently pulled off his many layers of white clothes and she saw the most beautiful face with the most beautiful features most ezpecially those eyes Tayo was mesmerized. He told her his name was Omodamola she was so stunned to even speak. He offered her Rice and palmoil sauce to eat. She ate and all she remembered was waking up next to him clothes unclad and his hands on her body she felt that sensation between her legs and she just knew that she let her feelings take over (yes that wasn't the first time).she was so grateful Tunji bailed on her.

She got up to take care of herself in the bathroom thought about waking him up but just decided not to she called an Uber and left that instant thinking she would call him. She got home before she realized she didn't even have his number 🤦

The man’s face wasn't even covered 😭 oh chimmmm like what in the name of dominatrix is going on.

That guy is definitely not loved at home cos if he's by any chance loved at home he won't say his on kink is humiliation. Just imagine any of his family members passed by him there 😭😭

CURIOSITY KILLS THE CAT

So I got home and decided to do more research on “Dominatrix" and oh Lord my God I screamed.

Whyyyyyyyyyyy

Like you paid someone to come to your house just to tie you down and use your toothbrush to scrub the toilet and use it on you againn Arghhhhhhhhh . I learnt that some even pay a total stranger to just fart in their mouthhhhh

Oh my God what sort of insanity is this !!!

Kink ko kinky ni

If you ever come near me and tell me that " ehn I love it when people fart in my mouth “ I will just call all those kai people to take you to the nearest psychiatric hospital cos you are mad . 😒

Ahhhhhh I just remembered this afternoon and had another major crash out 😭

This is a poem I wrote based on my feelings these past few days 😔

So read, enjoy and tell me what you think 💝

What Really Is Love?

Love is not only fireworks

or stories told in glowing light—

sometimes it’s quiet, like a soft breath

settling the edges of a troubled night.

It’s patience when the world feels loud,

a gentle hand when you feel small.

It’s choosing kindness, over and over,

even when you don’t feel strong at all.

Love is honesty, spoken softly,

a truth that doesn’t try to bruise.

It’s showing up on ordinary days

with ordinary words you choose.

It’s not perfect—never flawless—

but it tries, and tries again.

Love is the bridge we walk across

to reach the heart of a friend.

And maybe love is simply this:

a place where you can breathe and be—

not someone else, not something more—

just fully, safely, honestly you,

and still enough completely

That's all for now durlingg 🤭 😉

Till the next one 🤭💝

Check this song out tho it's my fave love song of all time ❤️https://open.spotify.com/track/4HhQi9urDISfbBHuRJYO09?si=9tbIboBuS4uPHVbvRCWb3w

I was on my own on elon’s Twitter when I saw an idiot homophobe trying to milk out banger off temmie ovwasa

And I was so disgusted 🤬 cause wtf do you mean it's so sad to see her turn out this way !!🤦 .

Like are you even okay at all 💢

Did you sit down to read the nonsense you wrote.

Like because you are not something doesn't mean you should bash people who are 💢🤦 how dumb can one even be it (yes it needs to get a fucking life) even listed out all the posts she held and how brilliant she was ………….. like should we call igwe because you once knew her🤦💢.

And trust temmie ovwasa to always do judgement cos I was so freaking proud of her clap back 😄 like gyal 🤏🤏🤏🤏🤏

I wonder the kind of hot tears that homophobe would have cried in it one room apartment somewhere in mushin today 😏🙃🙃 .

Like I said all homophobes should get a life and stop crying over people's lives anymore 💢

I was on my own on elon’s Twitter when I saw an idiot homophobe trying to milk out banger off temmie ovwasa

And I was so disgusted 🤬 cause wtf do you mean it's so sad to see her turn out this way !!🤦 .

Like are you even okay at all 💢

Did you sit down to read the nonsense you wrote.

Like because you are not something doesn't mean you should bash people who are 💢🤦 how dumb can one even be it (yes it needs to get a fucking life) even listed out all the posts she held and how brilliant she was ………….. like should we call igwe because you once knew her🤦💢.

And trust temmie ovwasa to always do judgement cos I was so freaking proud of her clap back 😄 like gyal 🤏🤏🤏🤏🤏

I wonder the kind of hot tears that homophobe would have cried in it one room apartment somewhere in mushin today 😏🙃🙃 .

Like I said all homophobes should get a life and stop crying over people's lives anymore 💢