My father once told me, “Concentrate on your studies,” after I lost a dancing competition at a children’s birthday party.

My obsession with grades didn’t start with that statement. It started when I got to SS1, second term.

A little backstory.

When I got into SS1, my school required us to offer both science and art subjects. It was a little difficult for me because science was not my strong suit. I did what I could, but it wasn’t my best.

First term ended and results came out. My father had not asked for it yet, but I knew he would eventually. So instead of waiting, I took the result to him myself. Sometimes I wonder if things would have turned out differently if I didn’t give it to him that day.

Long story short, my father flogged me. Neighbours had to beg. I am not trying to justify his actions, but that result was really poor.

That holiday was a terrible experience. My father instructed me to hang a placard made up of cardboard paper and a string on my neck, with HAIRDRESSER boldly written on it and find something in the house and start practicing the skill immediately. He said I should stop school and learn hairdressing because he wasn’t going to pay my school fees anymore. My late grandma, God bless her soul, had to plead on my behalf before I could finally remove that placard from my neck and have hope of returning to school the following term.

I had to do that for at least two days. There was more but let me stop here. You can imagine the fear and tension. I didn’t want to find myself in such a situation again and who knows the next one might be worse.

That was when my obsession started. I always wanted to do better because when there was no improvement, you already knew what was coming.

Then I got to SS2, second term, and I came first in my class. My father bought me my first laptop.

Nigerian parents and their way of rewarding you only when you do something right by them. Sometimes it feels like the only time they know how to show love to their children. It is well with them.

At that point, there was no going back.

I started calculating my results before the report cards came out. I gathered all my test results, assignments, and exam scripts, everything I needed to get my accurate score.

I knew how to calculate results because I was the class prefect, so I had access to some of these things. It made everything easier.

It got to the point where I went to my teacher to cry about one mark he missed. That one mark was that important to me. I followed him around school until he added it.

That was how I knew my position before the results were released. After calculating everything, when I saw that I still maintained my first position, I was finally able to breathe.

Looking back, I don’t think I was doing it for myself. I was doing it for my father. I was doing it because of the fear I had.

This continued until SS3, third term. That was when I finally realized that I wanted at least one thing for myself and not just for my father.

I wanted to be the best graduating Art student, and I achieved it.

Then I got to the university. I couldn’t calculate results the way I used to, but this time, I just wanted to give my best. I set a goal for myself: I wanted to graduate with a second class upper.

For every grade I got, I worked twice as hard. I wasn’t competing with anybody. I was competing with myself. I wanted my CGPA in the next semester to be better than the last.

I had moments of panic during exam periods because I was putting too much pressure on myself. I had to sit down and talk to myself. I needed to reduce the pressure because, even with my father’s expectations and the constant comparisons, I had to think about what I truly wanted.

Eventually, I did what my body could handle, and I still graduated with a second class upper. Even though I wasn’t completely satisfied with my final CGPA, when I saw it, I cried because I felt I deserved better.

But there was nothing I could do. So I accepted it.

I told myself, this is not the last form of education I will get. The next one, I will do better, but this time, on my own terms.

For now, I don’t know if I am still obsessed with grades because I am not pursuing anything serious academically. When I start my master’s degree, that is when I will truly know.

Maybe I will finally discover if it was my father’s influence all along, or if it was just me.

Photo credit: Pinterest

Has a masquerade ever pursued you before? If it hasn’t, consider yourself lucky.

I went on holiday to my mother’s elder sister’s place, and on this day my uncle was supposed to bring me back home. It was around the festive period, so there was this big gathering where people were playing masquerade. They usually call it “masquerade play”.

Different masquerades were on display. The ones that just danced to entertain people and the ones that pursued people.

We didn’t know that was the day they had planned for the event. If I had known, I would have changed my plans and come back the next day.

...

When we got to my area, everybody was busy. People were being chased, running up and down, and having fun. We moved towards a sloping area, and we were coming down carefully because you could easily fall there.

See us minding our business. From nowhere, this masquerade came straight to me. We called this particular one “Blacky” because he wears a black raffia and has a black-painted head. This was the type of masquerade that pursued people with cutlasses.

It started pursuing me.

You needed to see the sprinter in me. At that point, I didn’t even know where I was running to. I had already left my uncle behind. I was just running, looking for somewhere safe, but I couldn’t find anywhere. I kept running until I fell inside a gutter filled with black dirty water.

That’s when the masquerade finally left me alone.

People gathered around me and started asking the masquerade, “wetin make you dey pursue this small girl?”

I had little cuts here and there. I started crying immediately I fell into the gutter. Not because of the wounds, but because of fear. I was just a little girl then, so I wouldn’t say it was embarrassment, but that’s not the kind of situation I would ever want to find myself in.

They helped me out of the gutter, somebody brought water from their house to help me wash my legs and hands.

This is one of those days I will never forget.

But I didn’t learn any lesson because as I got older, I became so excited during festive periods because I love watching masquerades. I don’t run with them though. I enjoy watching the play.

Anticipating this year's festivities.

1. I love my native name, Tamuno-Obubelebara, meaning “The way God likes it,” but I rarely tell people because they always end up mispronouncing it.

2. I’m from Okrika, in Rivers State. Both parents are from the same place

3. I’m a graduate in my early 20s.

4. I’m an introvert.

5. I hate noisy places, but I can cope with them if it’s by choice. I love quiet spaces, and I enjoy my own company a little too well.

6. I hardly like people - I love my little circle. Adding new people stresses me, I can barely keep up.

7. I don’t like being involved in conversations. I hate talking, but I also like talking.

8. I’m very confrontational - If I don’t like something, I will let you know. But at the same time I will give you grace.

9. I’m a funny person, I think, and very playful. I laugh a lot, but not at silly jokes that are not meant to be jokes.

10. I cry at the slightest discomfort.

11. I’m a very clumsy person.

12. I don’t know how to ask for help.

13. I don’t like stress.

14. I work better at a slow pace, but I also have a sense of urgency.

15. I love sleeping but I don’t get enough these days.

16. I love movies - This is the only hobby that have been consistent with. It gives me great joy.

17. I love music, but I’m not the type that can’t go a day or two without it.

18. I love my traditional songs and enjoy dancing to them.

19. I wear glasses. I have very small eyes. Fun fact: my left one is way smaller than my right one. I love them anyways.

20. My favourite colour is brown.

21. I love getting new clothes, mostly baggy jeans, jorts, and T-shirts. I love bags more than shoes. I’m also a big fan of perfumes.

22. I don’t eat my first meal until like 3 p.m. I love bread and drinking garri. I have a sweet tooth. I don’t like avocado and pawpaw. This is all I can remember.

23. I hate cooking, but I can manage if it is done at my own time.

24. I’m very calculative with money. I would rather save than spend.

25. I love my family, especially my mom and brothers.

26. I’m the first daughter of three children and also the first grandchild of my father's family. It's exhausting.

27. I love gifting people, but if you gift me something, I feel like I owe you.

28. I love travelling. I would really like to visit South Korea.

29. I have a bad mouth and I’m not afraid to use it.

30. The only app I use for communication is WhatsApp, and I have just four people I constantly talk to.

Bonus: I don’t know how to ride a bicycle, sing, or dance. But I know how to walk, sit, stand, and eat.

I used to know how to draw.

To know me is to be insanely confused.

If acne was a guest, it has overstayed its welcome on my face for about 11 years.

For the past 11 years, I’ve had no idea what my face looked like before acne. Yes, I mean pimples. Acne found a permanent residence on my face and never considered moving out.

I’m not going to explain the biology of it because even if I tried, I’d get confused too. It just happened.

The little confidence I had left disappeared with the face I used to know. If I want to see that old face, I have to dig out my printed photographs. I can't find a single digital picture of myself without acne. That's how long it's been.

Because living with acne, let me not lie to you, will mess with your self-esteem. Now imagine living with it for years. That one is on another level.

People will look. They will recommend things. They will ask questions. Others will say “Maybe it’s your diet. Stop eating groundnut and oily food.” But their eyes always find my face, emphasis on that part. And even when I tell myself, “nobody is looking at you,” you can still feel eyes on your face.

I live this every day, and it’s tiring.

I’ve used a lot of products. Like I said, people will always recommend something, “have you tried this”, “try using turmeric”. My mother too, she tries to come up with solutions almost every week, switching products up and down, trying to find what will work.

Some of these products will work for a few days, weeks, maybe a month or two, then I’m back to square one.

And I start asking myself, maybe it’s just me?

I know the saying, what works for others may not work for you. But at this point I’m like, okay, so which one will work for me?

I’m exhausted.

The acne is mostly on my forehead and on both sides of my face, from my cheeks down to my jawline.

I can remember one time when someone told me that the acne on my face looks like I have a beard because of where the acne was (fire will burn your yansh and when it’s time for you to grow a beard you will not see one strand of hair).

Another time, I was with a group of acquaintances. When we met out of excitement, one of them gave me a peck, and another said, “with these things on your face, I will pass.” I laughed it off. I don’t blame him. Na me dey shine teeth with am.

But when I got home, it stayed with me longer than I wanted to admit.

When I’m walking on the road or just scrolling on my phone and I see people with clear, smooth faces, I can only wish. I’ll be like, “chai, see as this person face smooth. God when?”

I look at myself in the mirror almost every single day, checking if it’s getting any better. But it’s still there.

If you happen to read this, which you will, I cross my fingers and you say, “it’s not that deep.” But no, it is deep for me. Because you won’t understand.

And for someone like me that doesn’t really like makeup, I have to walk around with my bare face like that. So you see everything, the dark spots, the fresh acne that just came out that morning, the old ones, the ones I’ve picked that turned into wounds, and then later turned into permanent scars.

It’s like you can see the entire lifespan of pimples on my face.

No matter how my family, friends, or even random people on the road compliment me, saying I’m beautiful, pretty, a fine girl, something in my head just doesn’t accept it.

And I’ll just say, “these people just dey whine me.”

Then there are others who will try to give you hope:

“Don’t worry, it will go away with time.”

But it’s been years now, and they are still here.

Some days I wake up with breakouts from nowhere, and it just ruins my entire day.

Then I start praying that my complexion doesn’t change overnight. Because for someone like me, not really dark, not really light, just somewhere in the middle, a sudden change in my skin tone makes me feel like I look sick.

I’ve used caps just so I can minimize the focus on my face. And on days I can’t deal with it, I just don’t leave the house.

If crying could get me a new face by now, I would have been those face models on your body cream and soaps. I’ve hoped for change. But it’s not coming anytime soon.

So I ask myself, should I just accept this face?

Now I’ve decided to call them Beautiful Scars, not as a way of owning it proudly, but as a way of accepting the skin I’ve grown into.

Not forced confidence. Not pretending to be okay.

Just accepting the fact that this is something I can’t control.

I don’t like taking full body pictures. So I take mostly selfies, and I use Snapchat filters sometimes to cover the acne spots. But now, I also take pictures with my bare camera. No editing. I just post them like that.

Do I care about what people think? Yes, sometimes. But I don’t let it define me anymore.

And now, if someone stares at me for too long and I catch their gaze, I don’t just look away.

Sometimes I stare back until they feel uncomfortable and turn away. Other times I just look at them and make a gesture like,

“what are you looking at?” You understand what I mean.

But just so it’s clear, this is not a past phase. It’s still ongoing. I’m still learning. I’m still building my confidence as I go.

Maybe my skin will change someday, maybe it won’t.

But I don’t want to keep putting my life on hold while I wait for that day.

Maybe that’s what Beautiful Scars means to me.

Not loving every mark on my face.

Not pretending acne doesn’t affect me.

Just choosing not to let it be the only thing I see when I look in the mirror.

And if you're going through something similar, not just acne, but anything you consider a beautiful scar, come, let's hold hands and walk through it together.

I'm not going to tell you that everything will be okay, because I'm still trying to figure this out myself.

So instead, let's figure it out together.

And if you're one of those people who once battled acne and finally won, or you're just one of God's favourites with naturally smooth skin, abeg drop your routine and products in the comments.

Make e no too cost oh. 😭

Photo credit: Pinterest

Note: This is the second time I’m writing this. I mistakenly deleted the first draft. I just wanted to share with you guys. So please read, and if you don’t, I will haunt you for like 1 year.

Omoooooooooooo × 1,000,000

So yesterday was my mom’s 50th birthday. I can't even say I was the happiest person because the joy my mother had could not even be compared to mine.

On the morning of the birthday, we still had a lot to do. My mother went to carry the cake. Then she and my younger brother went to buy the drinks. Me, I was taking a break. I was busy sleeping. I can’t come and kill myself.

When they brought the drinks, I loaded them into the drum with ice blocks for them to get cold. Our last born broke one bottle. I told him thank you and that he should leave it and go to the house, with a little bit of shouting. So my little cousin then helped me finish it up.

The canopy and decoration people were already setting up. Everywhere was looking so nice. Our last born was just everywhere. Remaining small, you for think say na him be the celebrant.

...

As of now, the time was already half past one. I can’t really explain what we were doing, but I know we were busy. My mother’s plan was to do everything at once, both the thanksgiving and birthday ceremony. I had already told her that we should leave the thanksgiving for Sunday, but she refused. Wetin I go do na? No be my birthday.

So like this, the time was already 2:46 p.m. and she was supposed to be at the church by 2 p.m. The thanksgiving was taking place at her friend’s church. She and my brother were struggling with her blouse, and the zip got bad. I started looking for another alternative, a different blouse. See the way I dey suffer myself. Birthday girl don’t need to stress.

Thank God there was a solution. She left for church with our last born and my cousin, while me and my immediate younger brother were still at home busy doing nothing.

We then arrived at the church. Apparently, church was just starting, and it was almost 4 p.m. On our way there, the DJ was already setting up, so like this, everything was coming together. I whispered in my mother’s ear, “Time oh. Abi we go start the party for night?”

The pastor said people should come out and say something about the celebrant. People were coming out and talking. My brothers don dey look me na. Let me say something, if not my mother will attack us later.

So I went out with tears in my eyes and a shaky voice and started talking. My nonsense brother recorded me. I wasn’t embarrassed or anything, but why did I even cry?

It finally got to the main thanksgiving. We danced to the front of the church and the pastor prayed for us. Me, my brothers and cousin left because people had already started calling, and it wouldn’t be nice if none of her children were there to greet the guests. The time was 5 p.m. now.

...

When I got home, the canopy was already full. I started greeting family members and some of my mother’s friends I could recognise. They were asking, “Where is mummy?” I said she’s still at the church. One of my cousins said I for drag her comot from the church, say time don go.

Let’s not forget the little introductions and the “do you remember me?” aunties and uncles. Please I don’t remember, don’t add more to my stress.

One even asked me, “Shebi you don finish university?” No, I’m still in kindergarten.

A few minutes later, the celebrant arrived. Everybody wanted to take pictures with her. I left them there and went inside the house. I could hear her outside telling somebody to call me to assist her, as the birthday assistant that I am, but I was already inside and ready to help.

She changed into her jort, T-shirt and canvas, looking sharp. Birthday girl didn’t come to play.

I know you did not ask, but me too, I wore jort, T-shirt and bathroom slippers. Errand girl no fit wear shoe.

We went down to the occasion ground, and I followed her at her back with the cake. Chai, I too suffer, but I can’t complain.

30 minutes into the occasion ground, my white T-shirt don dirty. I dey carry table like jobman.

Celebrant cut her cake and started dancing oh, enjoying herself.

Me behind the scenes:

“Hannah, bring knife and tray for the cake.”

“Obele, bring water.”

“Annie, help me bring out the drinks from the drum.”

“Obele, bring drink for me.”

“Ogirl, I never chop.”

“Annie, come and pick the money they sprayed your mummy.”

My neighbours were giving me takeaway to bring food for them, and my aunty was giving me bombastic side-eye. I understand her because if she wasn’t strict, a lot of people my mother invited wouldn’t have eaten.

I was just moving from pillar to post.

My aunty even gave me a thumbs up and said, “You have strength.”

Aunty, I don't have. But if I don't do it, who will?

At this point, I couldn’t feel my legs and my back was hurting like crazy.

By then, even my walking step had changed because of the pain. My cousin looked at me and said, “Hope you will fall oh, as you are walking like this.” A lot was going through me.

...

It was 7 p.m. and I didn’t even get a chance to dance. Make I tear steps. The DJ was giving what it was supposed to give. My mom even brought that gorilla thing, the one where somebody wears a gorilla costume to dance and entertain people.

See me in front of the gorilla, imitating the dance steps. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It was just a form of stress relief. In all of the jubilation, my phone was dead. I couldn’t take videos or pictures. It is well.

The party was lit. Food choke. Even people that came late had something to eat. Me, on the other hand, had not eaten a single thing since the day started. Occasion host dey suffer oh.

...

Time was 8-ish and the party had ended. The DJ had stopped playing and was now packing his stuff. I don dey pick bottles from the ground like those aboki wey dey shout, “Bottlessssss.”

I started removing the decorations before the decoration people came and also stacking chairs. My brother started sweeping the ground but later left it. I continued because I was not about to leave this thing for the next morning. I no get that kind strength.

We cleaned everywhere. And to crown everything my house was upstairs, so you can imagine all the ups and downs.

We finally got into the house at around 10:30 p.m.

I could finally relax and eat my white rice and sauce with an energy drink that didn’t give me any energy. My legs and back still hurt, but the cake would solve 40% of my problems. The cake was sweet, the kind that melts in your mouth like ice cream.

One thing I have come to understand is that, it is good to be a good person. People showed up for my mom just the way she shows up for them.

We didn’t pay for some things like the cake, decorations and other things I can’t remember. Her friend cooked a pot of soup, native soup, and only the fish used for the soup was so expensive. Then her sister-in-law brought Apalapa, which is made mainly with plantain and cassava. It’s one of my native dishes, and it was so delicious.

To my mum, thank you for being your authentic self. You have been my pillar, the one true constant in my life. May God bless you and keep you in good health. You are not just a wonderful mother but an incredible person.

I love you, my superwoman.

Thank God for a successful birthday celebration. The weather was nice enough. Thank you, weather, for respecting yourself.

Special thanks to my mother’s friends, her sisters, my cousins and my brothers. It wouldn’t have been possible without you guys.

And extra special thank you to me, of course. For holding it together. Even though I don’t like dealing with crowds, I showed up for my mom. That alone is the greatest joy ever.

And one last thing,

Omoooooooooooo.

I don’t want to add to the numerous collection of articles and notes complaining about the Substack algorithm, but here are my two cents about the whole thing.

So, here are my observations.

First, I will say there is no specific formula for growing on Substack. What works for you might not work for another person.

I came on this app around June. I just wanted to post my thoughts and, mostly, my personal experiences. At first, I didn’t care much about the likes. Then I started scrolling through Substack and seeing people’s articles getting hundreds of likes and comments, and I thought, “Oh, they must just be better writers,” which, to be fair, many of them are.

Or was it the time they posted?

Maybe they’ve been on the app longer than I have.

I kept searching for the secret, but nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening. They were simply doing their thing.

Then I left the app.

Not completely. I just published my articles and disappeared. But deep down, I still wanted to see progress.

It was on one fateful Saturday that I decided to actually interact with people on the app. That’s when I started getting some presence.

I liked, commented on, and restacked people’s notes and articles, and I started writing my own notes and getting likes on them too.

Now, how did I get subscribers?

I once did that sub-to-sub thing because I saw other people doing it. But unlike those who were getting 1k likes and massive followings, I didn’t get anything from it.

After that Saturday, with the little presence I’d gained on Substack, I started going to other people’s sub-to-sub posts and subscribing to them, hoping they would subscribe back.

And they did.

That worked out really well for me.

Even when some people didn’t subscribe back, I was still making progress, small by small, until people eventually started subscribing without me subscribing to them first.

And it wasn’t just subscribers. I started getting engagement too. My notes and articles were hitting.

I think Substack started suggesting my account to people when they first signed up on the app, so I kept getting new subscribers.

I was so happy.

Now, this is how I got the engagement.

I liked people’s posts. Almost every post that came across my feed, I liked, commented on, and sometimes restacked.

Sometimes, I randomly pick people from my subscribers list and visit their pages. I just like almost everything because I know what it feels like to have no likes.

I also restack people’s posts without adding a note. That way, if my mutuals like the restack, the original post gets that engagement too.

I also give my notes some breathing room before posting another one. Usually, I leave about 30 minutes in between.

Even if the thought is random, I write it in my notepad first. That way, I give the most recent note some time to make an impact before throwing another one into the app.

Now, for the app itself, here are some of my observations.

The app seems to push erotica more. No offense to the people who write it. They came here to write too.

Go around the app before you post your note. Engage with people’s write-ups first. When you eventually post, the people you’ve just interacted with are more likely to be among the first to engage with your post.

If sub-to-sub is the only thing happening on your page, my dear, you might end up with numbers and no engagement.

When people subscribe to you and visit your page only to find nothing there, that’s not exactly great for your brand. People can lose interest, and some might eventually unsubscribe.

From my own experience, the app doesn’t seem to want you to take a break. If you disappear for a while, you might come back to struggling engagement.

Now, what is happening to me?

I hit 600 subscribers, and Substack took my engagement with it.

I can’t seem to see the notes and articles from my mutuals anymore. I now have to be intentional about visiting their pages to like their stuff.

Then I took a break from the app and, boom, everything became so slow.

My likes dropped.

Everything just dropped.

I can’t even explain the annoyance, but I refuse to develop BP because of an app. 😂

I’m trying to build that engagement back, whether the app likes it or not.

And now, a special message for those who do subscribe-to-subscribe and don’t later subscribe back:

My God will judge you.

😂

Like I said before, I am not policing anybody. Do you. After all, that’s what the app is for.

I came here to have fun, and that is exactly what I intend to do.

Lastly, Substack, please fix your algorithm problem.

We came here to be sane. Instead, we are doing the exact opposite. 😭

I want a love story

like the one in my head,

Where we dance in the rain

like children,

Where we sing

our favourite songs out loud,

Where we whisper

“I love you”

across the room,

Where even in silence,

we communicate with each other’s souls,

Where we tell each other about our day,

and somehow, it becomes the best part of mine,

Where your eyes meet mine,

and all I see is fireworks,

Where you call my name,

and it sounds like melodies on a piano,

Where our hugs feel like

I’m finally home.

Oh my,

our laughter and giggles

never end.

I want a love story

like the one I imagine

when watching my favourite movie,

The one I daydream about

while listening to a sweet song

on the bus,

When the breeze

touches my face.

I want a love where

He is special,

He is genuine,

He is precious,

He is mine.

He is you.

It’s a rainy day, and I just got back from an outing with a friend. I’ve settled in, and I ask myself, “Am I really introverted, or did my parents cause it?”

The babe is questioning herself again. Who else will I question if not myself? I’m just trying to find answers. So I tell myself I’m introverted, but was I always like this, or did life make me this way?

I can remember when I was younger. I was a party babe. I danced at birthday parties all the time. My mother knows almost half of Port Harcourt, at least the town axis. I’m not exaggerating. Because of that, I attended plenty birthday parties, and I danced like crazy.

I won different awards from dancing. Almost all my school accessories like bags, lunch boxes, plates, and water bottles. I got them from being the best dancer. Ah ah, if I enter dance competition, I must win. Second place was not an option.

Have you ever won money from dancing at a children’s birthday party? Me I have o! Let me brag small.

So can you imagine this kind of person turning out to be introverted? Even me sef, I shock. E dey like film.

My mum belonged to a club back then. After they finished all the main activities, there was always time to dance. Guess who was there with them? Me. I joined them every single time.

My aunt once reminded me of something. She said there was a time she was playing with one of my cousins, who was the same age as my younger brother. I even asked why she wasn’t playing with my brother too. That’s when my aunt said, “This girl is not a quiet person. She can talk.”

But where is that girl now? Because I hardly see her anymore.

These are the memories I can remember. Memories of when I was simply me… or maybe the me I could have been.

How did I get here? Just a few words from my dad, and that little girl up there disappeared.

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It was my neighbour’s birthday party. Maybe this was the party that shaped the new girl, or at least that’s what I think.

I danced as usual and I won, of course, or so I thought, until a girl from nowhere appeared and the crowd decided we should compete against each other.

I feel like this babe had fans under that canopy, people who already knew she could out-dance me. Long story short, she won. And I lost my Best Dancer title, the dancer that existed in my JSS1 class that nobody even knew they had in their midst.

That dancer cried.

Even though the T-shirt they gave me was more expensive than the money she was given, I still cried.

At that point, I didn’t think I would ever compete again. I lost hope.

Then I heard the words from my father that confirmed everything:

“From today, you will stop dancing and concentrate on your studies.”

Just like that, with a few words, the baddest dancer, the talkative one, disappeared.

Why was this man even at this party? Who was that girl? Where did she come from? Just… why?

Maybe it wasn’t just those words. But something shifted that day.

After that, I couldn’t even recall participating in birthday parties anymore. I focused on my studies. I started withdrawing from social gatherings, even in school. I hardly participated in activities. I just stayed with my books.

I became the “quiet girl.” The girl who avoids social activities. I had few friends and barely talked. From secondary school to university, I never really stood up to ask questions in class. I always thought, what if I say the wrong thing and sound foolish? So I’d rather just learn it on my own.

Moments like this shaped me.

I remember when I wanted to go to SPAR with my classmates to check a bakery for an assignment. I wasn’t even sure it was allowed, but we needed it. My father said no. He said, “What for? The street bakery is better and close by. Go there.”

Another time, my cousin had a small birthday hangout. She did her makeup and wanted us to go out. Because the place was far, I started explaining myself—why I was going, how I would come back early, everything. Still, I got a no. After some begging, I was allowed, when this happened I was already in university.

The thing tire me. Explaining everything and still getting refused made me stop trying. I just decided to stay home.

Yes, I stayed home and I started enjoying it. Now I don’t really want to go outside. It’s just me, movies, and my phone. I find it more peaceful and comfortable. I’ve embraced this lifestyle, and this is me.

I’m the quiet girl in unfamiliar settings. You’ll hardly find me in crowds unless I really have to be there. Even then, I’ll just be praying make ground swallow me. My social battery finishes very fast.

But if I get comfortable with you, it’s a different story. I become the loudest person in the room. I talk plenty. I can be funny in my own way, not stand-up comedian funny but you’ll definitely laugh.

Anyway, back to the discussion.

I think I like being introverted now. I’m comfortable like this. My parents are even begging me to go out. Go where? To the forest, sea, sky, or space? Because I don’t even know the roads around me well. So tell me what is outside. Sorry but I won’t be going anywhere.

I love this life… maybe the life me and my parents created for myself is nit so bad after all.

Maybe I didn’t lose confidence that day… maybe I just learned how to protect it in silence. And maybe being “quiet” was not the end of my voice, just a different version of it.

...After all this plenty talk, na introvert I be.

Anyways hiiiii, 👋

Now, I can just close my eyes, pick a dream, and sleep.

I didn’t know the exact time it stopped. I guess maybe I am in a better place now.

After my NYSC, I decided to stay in Lagos because coming back home felt like a foreign decision. I think it was because people have this narrative that everything works better in Lagos.

I won’t lie, Lagos is the land of opportunities, but maybe there were no opportunities for ME to grab.

During this period, I applied for jobs. With my 2:1 degree, I thought I had a lot of chances. I met most of the requirements. I applied like crazy, both for jobs I liked and jobs I didn’t even have interest in.

I just wanted something. Something that would make me leave the house.

I had already pictured myself in a 9 to 5 job setting. People would say, “It is stressful,” and I would say, “At least you have something to complain about that still pays you.”

I wrote assessments. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. I passed a few, but at the end of the day, I never got the job. Each rejection started feeling heavier than the one before.

I had encouragement from my mum and the family I was staying with, but slowly, I started losing hope. I became less interested in things, but somehow I was still trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt.

During this period, I cried a lot. I called my mum and talked to her because at that point she was the pillar I could always fall back on.

For someone who loves watching movies, at this point in my life, I wasn't watching movies because I loved them. I watched them because I wanted to escape reality for a few hours, but I would end up zoning out and thinking about something else.

Omo, I cried oh. Randomly. At any time.

I always had this constant sad look on my face. Sometimes, I would cry myself to sleep, and that was when the spinning started.

Immediately I lay down and closed my eyes, my head would start spinning. It felt like the whole room was moving and I wasn’t in control of my body.

I would have to sit up for about an hour before it stopped, then I could finally sleep.

When I went to church, while the service was ongoing, I would sit down, open my notepad, and write about everything that happened that week.

I wasn’t consistent, but any Sunday I remembered, I would do it.

Did it help? I don’t know.

But at least I was able to count the days I didn’t cry and see if I was making any progress. It was my own little way of checking if I was getting better.

When it was time to pray, my first prayer point was no longer a job miracle.

I would pray:

“God, please let me not cry this week.”

But before the end of that week, I would still cry. Not that God didn’t come through for me. My emotions just got the better of me.

I stayed indoors for hours. I even started talking to myself so much that everyone in the house noticed. Sometimes they could hear me.

Then when I eventually came out, it was like I was trying to make up for all the silence. I would talk for hours, saying random things and laughing the loudest.

But if there was a conversation involving everyone, I would quickly withdraw myself and become silent.

During this period, I was introduced to a feeling I didn’t even know existed: overstimulation.

I had so many thoughts happening all at once. My brain couldn’t rest, even when I was sleeping. I became extra sensitive to noise, and things that normally wouldn’t bother me started feeling overwhelming.

I danced for relief.

When everything became too much, I would put on my earbuds. I don’t like loud noise, but during this period, I would put the volume at the loudest and dance around my room until my body became tired and I started having headaches.

So when I look back at that period of my life, I think maybe I was depressed.

I went back home.

Even if some people felt like I made the wrong decision, I decided to prioritize my mental health first because worrying about what people will say can kill me before my time.

Going back home was not me giving up. It was me choosing myself.

Now, I can sleep when I want. Cry if I feel like it. Watch movies because I love them and stay tuned. Dance not just for relief, but for fun. Write personal essays that I publish on Substack.

I was in Jss3 when this happened. My class was a little bit noisy that day. The teacher on duty for that week to keep the school organised was passing by doing her normal routine then she heard the noise from my class. She punished us, told us to get under our desk

It was so stuffy and everyone was trying to be careful with their uniforms so it won't get dirty. There I was under the desk, and this song came to my head, the popular John legend song. I won't just sang it in my head but intrusive thought took over and I sang it out loud

Wrong lyrics with a terrible voice. Immediately I just said the first line that's how one boy said "Who be that". Not asking in a way that was signifying I had angelic voice but in a way that whoever the person is, should shut up

Omo, that just shut up at once. The shame engulfed me. When everybody was having song books I was busy watching power rangers see where it has landed me

I signed off music career because I know I won't make in that industry.

Everytime I think about that memory second hand embarrassment go nearly wn finish me

I don’t even know how to start this so I don’t sound weird. It’s just a feeling I have that I can’t really explain, but I don’t like people.

People are exhausting. The small talks, greeting people, social gatherings, just anywhere where there are a lot of people, I don’t like it.

I have my persons that I like, don’t get me wrong, but there is just something about the general public that I don’t like. People who want to engage in small talks and can clearly see that you are not interested but continue anyway. People who touch you randomly for no reason. Then social gatherings, just seeing the crowd is exhausting. I just want to go home.

It’s just a feeling, and for lack of better words, I just say I don’t like people.

After living on this earth for a while, I have come to the conclusion that I am not really a people person. Sometimes, I just want to be left alone.

But the irony is that I still have to associate with people somehow because, at the end of the day, nobody is an island.

Sometimes I wonder how people do it. How do you enjoy talking to strangers? How do you have the energy for social gatherings? How do you actually like people this much?

I genuinely need help because I want to understand.

And if you don’t like me, I understand you so well.

I haven't told many people this because of embarrassment. If you read this, abeg no be me. It was somebody else disguised in my body.

One faithful Thursday, I wore my departmental uniform. Black and white, not Law but Mass Communication. I don't like adding that red rose. Do I look like choir mistress?

I had managed to stay in school throughout the day without any major stain on my white. Thank God, abi? But my day had only just begun.

On my way home, I entered a Vanagon bus. If you live in Port Harcourt, you know what I'm talking about. I like sitting in front, especially if I didn't go home with my friends. Maybe if I had gone home with them, things would have been different, but then you for miss this story.

Finally, I saw a bus with a free front seat, the one that has two seats. At this point, I was at Mile One Education bus stop. After I sat down, one elderly woman joined me. We waited for a while for the bus to fill up. You know these conductors and drivers na.

Then the bus started moving. We passed the regular Mile One flyover. I no too know road, but I think it was around that Silverbird side, under the flyover.

It got to the point where the driver was supposed to turn and join Azikiwe Road, but we just kept going.

At this point, the bus felt funny, like something was wrong. Was it brake failure? Was it kidnapping? Till today, I still can't figure out which one.

As the bus kept moving, the elderly woman beside me suddenly opened the door and flew out.

She landed inside the gutter.

See me, na mumu.

I don't even know what to call myself.

I followed her and jumped out like Spiderman, abi Spiderwoman. I don't know what was going through my head. After that woman jumped, I just followed her.

For those few seconds, I was a superhero. My feet were literally in the air. I didn’t have a cape, but maybe my white shirt was the cape after all.

Then I landed heavily on the ground.

My clean white shirt? Nothing to write home about. Dirty don finish am.

My phone wasn't even in my bag anymore. My eye clear by force. I shouted, "My phone!" People had already scattered, but thankfully I got it back because if I had lost that phone, e for worse pass.

I didn't sustain any major injury, thank God, but I honestly think I got the back pain I still have till today from that jump.

When I finally picked myself up, the bus had stopped ahead and was trying to reverse back to join the road.

As they were passing, the passengers were shouting, "Why did you jump out?"

Omo, I don't know.

I just followed that mama.

Because of too much shame and embarrassment, I refused to enter that bus again. I just let them go.

As I was walking to get another bus, I saw the mama where she had landed. People were helping her and pouring water on her. I think she was injured.

I didn't even stop.

I just dey carry my shame dey go.

One man who was there decided to help me. He carried me in his car. I entered because even though I wasn't badly injured, my whole body was hurting and my head was still all over the place.

I kept looking at my white shirt.

I loved that shirt.

But at that point, I knew it was gone.

The man dropped me at Lagos Bus Stop. I thanked him, but the embarrassment continued.

If you know Lagos Bus Stop, you know that place is always busy. Buses, cars, people, everybody.

I entered a taxi and went to my junction. I even considered booking Bolt, but I no sure say I get that kind money.

Then came the walk of shame.

Everybody I greeted kept asking, "What happened to you?" or "What happened to your shirt?"

I just kept saying, "I fell down."

Na lie.

I be your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.

Only that I didn't save anybody.

Not even myself.

I got home and everybody asked the same question.

As I explained what happened, it didn't even make sense to them.

From where to where?

Even me sef, I still don't understand.

Everybody kept saying, "You could have waited now. Why did you jump?"

Omo, I don already jump. Make una leave me.

The biggest mistake I made was telling my friends.

Since then, they've been calling me Superman.

Every once in a while, somebody will randomly bring it up and we'll all laugh again.

Till today, I still don't know what possessed me to jump out of that bus.

When you see people in corporate clothes looking all serious and put together, just know you have no idea what they've done in private.

Some of us have lived whole superhero careers... we just don't put it on our CV.

Port Harcourt Bolt drivers, hope all is well? This question is needed.

But before we talk about this particular Bolt driver, let's set the pace for the story.

One Sunday, my friend said we should hang out. I said, "Okay, no wahala." The plan was to meet her at her place, then we would take a Bolt to Pleasure Park where we were going to meet another friend.

This first Bolt driver was cool. He didn't try to engage us in conversation. He just focused on the road and took us to our destination. Smooth stuff. No problem.

When we got there, rain started falling. I no understand this Port Harcourt weather. Apparently, the rain ruined everything and, since it was Sunday, the place was jam-packed. Nowhere to even sit.

We started making other plans to go somewhere else. She picked another location and booked a ride. The driver came, but the rain was too heavy for us to walk to the gate.

The driver helped us call one of those umbrella guys to come and pick us. We were going to pay him(the umbrella guy).

This umbrella guy just dey waste our time.

We entered the rain. Then we saw him coming, but he passed another direction. My friend was like, "Make we just pass am."

As the wicked girl that I am, I folded my jeans and removed my slippers. No be today I go fall for Pleasure Park.

Then we ran to the gate under the rain.

Chai.

Oga, your umbrella money don go.

We thought the Bolt driver was a better person, we later saw shege.

….

Inside the Bolt, we changed the destination because of time. That was the mistake we made.

Then we started negotiating price. Me, I just relaxed on the door. Wetin I sabi? How many times I dey book Bolt? My friend knew better.

That's how the man called one ridiculous amount.

Na so my friend change am for am instantly.

"Oya, you say wetin?"

no be small thing.

The man refused to reduce the price. He then told us to calculate the Bolt fare ourselves.

He said, "I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but calculate..."

I said, "Oga, na us go come dey calculate for you? You can't tell me that for every Bolt ride, you go to the filling station to buy fuel? Abeg rest, all of us dey suffer fuel matter."

We finally agreed because, at that point, we had no choice. The rain sef no wan stop.

On our way, the mumu driver brought his window down, and the rain from outside started touching my friend.

She said, "Oga, rain dey touch me."

Na so the man start again o.

I know he brought the window down so he could see his side mirror, but at least he could have said something before bringing it down so we could adjust.

He now said, "You know your lives are in my hand."

I said, "Sir, which kind talk be that? Abi you wan kill us?"

We continued the trip.

Then this man asked my other friend in the front, "Abeg, where be Aggrey Road?"

I said, "What? You don't even know where we are going and you dey call price?"

Abi 1+1 don become 4

Guyyy, Bolt drivers are funny people.

At this point, I can't even remember what happened again.

But when we got to Azikiwe Road, he said he would stop there and we should come down.

My friend said, "We go come down. Make we see who lose."

Me wey get mind, I was ready.

We were already close to our destination. We could even consider it a free ride because we were not going to pay.

But he still took us to our final destination.

As he parked the car, this man wan talk kill himself.

He asked if we were students of RSU.

I said we were done.

My friend said she is doing her masters there.

He said he was an alumnus.

I said, "Would that reduce the price? If no, the information is useless."

He asked my friend who is your professor, I will put call. My friend said oga make the call na.

I'm 101% sure that that man didn’t know anybody there. At this point, I wasn't even sure he went to the school.

Then he went on to call my friend a hook-up girl.

Everywhere first blur.

My friend said, "Your generation and your children na them be hook-up girls. How you take know hook-up girls if no be say na small small girls you dey follow?”

He shouted, "Come on, get out of my car!"

Throughout this whole time, my other friend was just trying to be the peacemaker, but it wasn't working.

Me, I was still inside the car waiting for my other friend to make payment.

As that was not enough the man brought out one bottle of anointing oil. He said if he was not an ordained man of God, my friend she would never be honoured in her life.

Omo at the point I cannot swallow it.

"Oga, rest. Who ordained you? With your empty bottle of anointing oil? Man of God with this your bad character? The prayer no go work. God forbid."

The man said, "You too, get out of my car!"

For me, the last word must end in my mouth.

I said, "Come carry this your car wey no get AC comot here. You think say you don make am."

Mind you, I no get bicycle tyre, but he deserved it.

This same man was the one that said those umbrella guys are wicked set of people, see pot calling kettle black infact na him be the cooking gas.

After that, na series of laughter.

Me and my friends just dey laugh.

We even prayed he would park outside there and not see any passenger.

This is not the first bad encounter I've had with Port Harcourt Bolt drivers. Una own too much.

If you are tired of the job, just stop and sell your car amd join us in public transport.

The situation of the country dey touch everybody. You no need put your frustration on other people, abeg.

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So here are some compliments I get that I actually like. And before you ask, no, this is not me forming princess. Abeg, allow me enjoy my small small praises.

You're beautiful

When someone tells me I'm beautiful, I will first blush, then tuck my cornrows behind my ear. With my 1000 + 1 pimples on my face and you still say I'm beautiful, you don make heaven be that. Even the people I meet on the road that try to make it brief and say, 'Fine girl,' God bless their morning, afternoon and evening.

You smell nice

I love fruity perfumes. They make you smell sweet. After using like 3 to 5 perfumes and filling up the room, I can even smell myself, then you decide to tell me I smell nice. I will think about it for weeks, smiling every single time. Then I'll be trying to recreate that particular combo. One time my father told me I smelt nice. Since then, na so I dey try remember the combo I used that day, but I couldn't.

You have a nice shape

Even if nobody tells me this one, my mother will. If you give her a mic, she will even explain my bone structure. I don't know if she's saying it because I'm her child, but I will still take it. If she says the body is banging, then who am I?

You're smart

I'm not the epitome of knowledge oh, but I know I have sense. My school results cannot lie. One time, a friend told me I was smart. I even took permission to pin that particular message in our chat. If my brain is trying to process one rubbish to say, I'd rather shut up than sound stupid.

You're funny

Not a stand-up comedian oh. I just say things in a funny way. You can't be with me and not laugh, except say your problem don pass my hand. My friends have told me this so many times, and I'll be like, 'Yes, I love this one.' Get yourself a funny friend today. I still have 2 slots left.

You're very quiet/Gentle

I'd rather be the quiet person than the loudest person in the room. I just like to mind my business. People will tell my mother, 'You have a quiet daughter.' Omo, na lie oh. I just no dey comfortable. Me, gentle? Have you seen me with my brothers? I will surprise you. But I like being considered the quiet person, so when I finally strike, you go confirm. I might be quiet, but I'm very observant.

You have bad mouth

Oh, you see this one? I love it to the moon and back. That is my weapon because I don't think I'll do well in a fist fight, but my mouth is sharp like the two-edged sword the Bible talked about. This is my family heirloom. It was passed down to me, and I must uphold it. Every word that comes out of my mouth carries the legacy. I even find it interesting to focus more on the brain because that's where the foolishness starts. Abeg, don't come for me. I no get strength.

You have Asian eyes

This one comes in different forms. 'You have sleepy eyes.' 'You have sexy eyes.' 'Oh, your eyes are small and they're beautiful.' The most recent one is, 'You have Asian eyes.' Nothing I never hear.

But it's true. I have smaller eyes with a shape people often compare to Asian eyes. Fun fact, my left eye is smaller than my right eye. When I take selfies, that eye go nearly disappear, but it's open oh. Cherry on top, I wear glasses. But if you say I have sleepy eyes, I will blush inside my mind.

You can sleep

I can sleep for Africa. My father's friend once told me that if there was a sleeping competition, I would win. I'm even losing my touch self. I don dey awake for too long. With this rainy season, na sleep get me. Which one be 'we are outside?' I'm inside oh. I appreciate this compliment because it acknowledges my well-being.

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You have a nice voice

Recently, I found out that my voice is lighter when I haven't eaten. Then it changes after I eat. I don't know what kind of magic that is. My voice even gets smaller when I'm on phone calls. The thing dey tire me.

I remember when I went to my school FM to record something for an assignment. The guy there was like, 'Your voice sounds like a cartoon.' I didn't know if I should be offended, but after a while, I didn't mind it at all.

You have a nice smile

If I use your smile lights up the room it will be too much plus light no even dey. For someone, that is funny smiling is like a bonus. The amount of times I frown probably matches the amount of times I smile. I laugh and smile at the smallest things.

One day, I was smiling and one of my friends told me to smile again. I did, and then he pointed out that whenever I smile, a little depth appears at the left corner of my mouth. Almost like a dimple, but not on my cheek — just at the edge of my mouth.

I had seen beautiful things about myself before, but this was a discovery. I never noticed that little detail until someone else pointed it out. Now, whenever I smile, I notice it too, and I love it.

Mind you, I'm not fishing for compliments oh. These are just a few of the compliments I get that I genuinely like.

When you finish reading, don't try to use them on me. It will not work oh. I will catch you.

Okrika is not just a name for second-hand clothes. It's a real town in Rivers State.

Every Nigerian knows "Okrika," but surprisingly, many know the clothes better than the place. So how did the name of a historic town become the name of every bale of second-hand clothes in Nigeria?

I asked myself the same question, and this is what I found out.

Okrika is a historic town in Rivers State, made up of nine clans. It's one of the oldest and most vibrant riverine communities in the state. But the funny thing is, the second-hand clothes popularly known as Okrika are more famous than the town itself.

So, how did that happen?

Many years ago, imported second-hand clothes entered Nigeria through ports in the Niger Delta. Traders say that a large number of these clothes passed through Okrika before they were distributed to different parts of the country. With time, people began calling the clothes "Okrika," and the name stuck.

Today, almost every Nigerian knows Okrika as the name for second-hand clothing, even though it's actually the name of a town with its own rich history.

When someone ask me where I'm from, I say, "Rivers State."

Then I hear, "So you're Igbo?"

No offense oh, but you must be moving mad. Especially if I take my time to explain and you still refuse to hear word.

I'm not Igbo, Yoruba, or even Hausa. And that doesn't mean I don't exist. Those guys just have a better PR package than my town or ethnic group.

Okrika falls under the Ijaw ethnic group, which is widely regarded as the fourth-largest ethnic group in Nigeria and believed to be one of the oldest.

So please, rest.

Stop boxing every Nigerian into the same three popular ethnic groups. Some of us have been here all along. You just never bothered to ask.

So, you see that famous Okrika bend-down-select you wear? It's actually a place. And it's my hometown in Rivers State.

So, unless you have water in your brain and dead fish floating at the bottom, don't come here arguing about which ethnic group is bigger or better. We don pass that stage.

I'm from Okrika, Rivers State. And yes, it's more than just a name on a bale of second-hand clothes.

I didn’t realize how much of my life I was living for other people until I started asking myself a simple question: what if being called selfish isn’t always a bad thing?

I need to be a little bit more selfish… remember I said “I” not “we”, so you can do what works for you. But for me, I need to add at least a teaspoon of selfishness in my life. Not the kind that hurts others, but the kind that benefits me too.

Because as a person, I lack selfishness. I keep putting other people first—their needs, their comfort, their peace—and I forget mine.

Let me tell you something that made me think.

We don’t have NEPA light for like almost 3 months now… what is surprising you, typical Nigeria. Our transformer don blow. So to charge our phones and power bank, we go to this phone repair shop opposite my house that uses solar. Obviously it’s not free, we pay money for it.

Just follow me, I’m going somewhere.

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On this day, my younger brother went to school. Then he sent me a message:

“Please help me give my power bank to that guy.” (the phone repair shop guy)

And I did. Not the first time he was asking too.

Later he came back from school and heard that my aunt close to us had turned on her generator. So throughout that period, after charging at the shop, we would still go to my aunt’s house at night to charge other things we didn’t charge earlier.

But that day… I saw something.

When it was time, my brother carried only his phone and his power bank. That’s it.

And something in me just snapped small.

Because me? I would think of everybody. I would make sure everything is charged. I would think of what someone else might need later. But him? He just took his own and moved.

And I remember thinking, “ah ah… na so e easy?”

I was so angry I even said, “If I help carry your power bank go that shop again, make my leg break.” I no mean am, but you understand the feeling.

And that’s when it hit me.

Do I blame others? No. Because at the end of the day, na me dey do myself.

I always think about how to help people, how to make them comfortable. But who is thinking about me? My mother does, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Like… who really thinks about me?

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Do you feel it? Because I do.

I think I’m a people pleaser. Finally I said it. I always do things to make people feel better while I stay in the background, fading small small. And the question keeps coming back—who thinks about me?

And honestly… the answer feels like: not even me.

That’s why I said I need to be more SELFISH.

And I know I repeated myself here, but that’s because I’m thinking out loud.

I need to put myself first in everything—what makes me happy, comfortable, laugh, fulfilled… even what makes me sad.

Because funny enough, when people I always put before me starts choosing themselves, the first thing my mind says is: “ah, this person is selfish.”

Na lie.

Na me no rate myself.

Oya, bring yourself to the frontline.

But maybe it’s not just me.

We all need a little bit of selfishness. Not the harmful kind—the self-prioritizing kind. The kind that reminds you that you matter too.

Because once you start choosing yourself, people will call you selfish. So maybe self-prioritization and selfishness just look the same to people on the outside.

But don’t be like me.

Because I’m just realizing that a lot of things I’ve done were for other people, not for myself.

And I’ll leave you with the same question I had to ask myself:

Who is thinking about you?

And if the answer is 'no one' maybe it's time you started

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A mother, the person that carries you in her belly for nine whole months, gives birth to you through so much pain. She nurtures you until you are big enough to take care of yourself. But even then, most mothers still take care of you until their deathbed.

But before she became a mother… she was a girl.

A girl who lived with her elder sister. She hawked oranges in the morning, then bottled water in the afternoon. She took her sister’s children to school, and after hawking, she still went to pick them up from school. While her mates were in school in the morning, she went in the afternoon. She was already mothering before she even became a mother.

In the earliest hours of the morning, around 4 to 5am, this girl would fetch water from a faraway well. One bucket on her head, another in her hand, just so she could meet up and prepare her sister’s children for school.

I may not be able to share this sentiment the way she would. I may not tell her story as clearly as she will. But I will try. Because anytime she speaks, I hear all of it at once — everything she has lived through, everything she has carried.

Even with all of this, this girl grew into the most jovial, soft-hearted, caring, and loving young lady. She enjoyed her twenties — I’ve seen pictures of her, and she was so beautiful. Full of life. Full of light.

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But then she met a man.

An encounter that changed the direction of her path. Maybe she should have continued her life differently, maybe she should have walked away — but she stayed. And one thing led to another. She got pregnant. At 27, she chose to keep the baby. And just like that… she became a mother.

Fast forward one year. The child is now one year old.

Then something happened.

The man — the father of her child — left her and their baby. Just like that. He walked away from the responsibility, not from home because they haven't built one yet but from the life they had just started together. And not only did he leave, he went ahead to marry someone else. A full “I do” kind of marriage. A marriage he never forgot to remind her of, as if to underline what she never had.

They stayed married for about a year or two… but even that story did not end in the “happily ever after”. Abeg make I laugh small 😅

You thought this father was going to go out of the picture? No oh! He came back.

He came back and begged this mother to take him back. Normally, na forgive and forget. This mother took him back oh… ewooo. In her mind she must have said “get in jhoor.”

She said her mother told her she should have all her children with one man… for me eeh, that’s such bad advice sha. Old people talk sometimes.

Back to story.

So they got back together, not married, just living together. Then she had two other children, so her mother’s wish came to pass. During this time they lived together, it was never a bed of roses oh.

That one-year-old child is now growing up and watching everything. Seeing everything. And honestly, that child started understanding life in a different way. The only “happy family” that child knew and still knows was her mum and her siblings.

This mother still found joy in her children. She held on to that. She was still that jovial, soft-hearted, caring young lady, that part of her never changed. But life itself changed around her.

Then she lost her own mother.

And now it became necessary for this man to finally marry her properly, at least the traditional way. Unfortunately or fortunately, he did.

Throughout this marriage, a lot happened oh.

But now that one-year-old child is grown… and is telling this story through their own lens.

Get seated.

Her mother’s burial came… and instead of this man being supportive, he wasn’t. They quarreled on the night of the burial, and he left this mother with her three children.

It was almost like when she used to fetch water from the well — two buckets. But this time, it was different. She carried one child at her back, another on one hand, the third on the other hand and bags on her shoulders… you would see this woman with children and load at 10pm on her mother’s burial. Ahhh, I weep.

Things started getting worse.

The man got side chicks… or maybe they were always there, it just became more visible to this child. The quarrels became a daily routine in that house.

The man no longer slept at home anymore. He would come in the morning and leave in the night, just like that.

This child could see the mother slowly falling into depression. It was so visible. The mother would leave the house early just so she wouldn’t meet the father, and come back late when he had already left the house.

The children suffered it, but the mother’s pain was worse.

He stopped eating food cooked by the mother. Like, she cooked for the family on occasion and he would not eat it. Everybody in the family knew. The child didn’t understand the aim of this, but it felt like pure wickedness.

He wouldn’t let her wash his clothes or do anything for him. This confused the child. She even complained to her child, but what else could the child say? “It’s okay.” But honestly, this child didn’t even care that much, because in her mind it was like, “if he doesn’t want to eat your food or let you wash for him, is that not better? Abeg let him shift.”

The child wishes she could understand everything fully, but only the mother could truly explain what she was going through.

And it just continued like that… on and on… until it suddenly paused for about one month.

And then there was a quiet pause.

He was ill, arthritis. His legs were hurting so bad, movement was restricted, and he couldn't sleep out anymore. So he stayed at home for about a month.

And guess who nursed him back to health? This same mother.

She moved around looking for solutions, both local and English medicine, just so this man could be well again. During that time, he played it cool, but it didn’t last.

Immediately he was strong enough to move around again, everything continued like before.

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He started again.

This mother was the one handling everything, house management, children’s welfare, everything. Not like this man didn’t help at all, he tried… but sometimes it came too late. Maybe after she had already done everything, then he would “refund” the money.

In matters of urgency, the children would call their mother, and she never disappointed.

But slowly… this mother started falling into depression. The child could see it clearly. She was going through a lot.

Her family members started advising her to leave, for her own peace of mind.

And eventually, she made the decision. She left this so-called marriage.

And this time, she left with everything she owned.

Ahh… the child loved that part even more. E be like this pikin no get consciousness 😭

Because all the child wanted was to see their mother happy again.

But even after she left, trouble still knocked on her door again.

One of his side chicks died… and you can imagine the audacity, he blamed this mother, saying she was the one that caused the woman’s death. Like “juju ways.”

Omo eeh… you guys must be joking.

She reported it to the uncles, and the issue was handled.

Now the mother and her children are finding their way together, holding on to the little family they have. She is happy now, in a better place. This child is so proud of her mother, the mother that became her solid ground and backbone.

One person can change the direction of your life. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse.

But if staying is costing you your peace, don't be afraid to leave.

…

By the way, this is my mother’s story.

And I’m that one-year-old child.

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I have a lot of people I call my friends. When someone asks me, "Who are your friends?" plenty of names come to mind.

Then they ask another question: "Who are your close friends?"

That's when my brain starts working. Some names become quieter, while others become louder. Five names. Five friends. My five guys. The loudest names.

You're probably wondering who they are. I won't be using their names, but I will tell you about each of them.

A person I met in primary school later became my friend in secondary school. It was a blast and still is. We've been seat mates from junior secondary till date.

Some of my best secondary school moments were with this friend, the cries, the laughter, and everything in between. There were days we bought water snail on our way home. It was so peppery that I had to buy extra pure water in my bag, and we laughed about it the whole way.

We got punished and sent out of class together because we couldn't hold our laughter. We calculated our results together before seeing our report cards, and we were so good at it that we were always correct. I would take first position and she would take second. Sometimes I wondered how this friend even had more sense than me, but somehow, that's just how it played out.

Our after-school Indomie moments, what a wonderful time we had.

She would know I'm talking about her when she reads this.

We were once asked to present a song in Literature class. We decided to do it together with another friend I'll talk about later. We sang “Sweet Mother — sweet mother I no go forget you”— laughing and singing so unseriously. I still remember our Literature teacher telling us we should probably attend the same university because she knew we were inseparable.

And yes, we did.

We went to the same university, and the friendship never stopped, it only blossomed into what it is now. We go for outings she sometimes sponsors. Don't worry, I will get a job and take you to Maldives.

We have been together ever since.

This friend… I call her The Constant.

I’m such an introverted person, always at home watching movies back to back, not really having someone who matched that vibe. My love for movies was strong, but then I met this friend, and it was a whole new game.

I didn’t meet him at school, but at home. At that time, my mother had just opened a small shop right in front of our house. I was either writing WAEC or about to start, and because of the shop, I had to come out of my little shell. I needed to help my mum especially when she wasn’t around. That was how I met this friend.

We just clicked, I don’t even know how, but we did.

We snapped a lot of pictures together on Snapchat, especially with my lagging phone. God abeg, that phone nearly traumatised us. But we didn’t stop. When I got a slightly better phone, we would sneak out just to take pictures at different spots. Some were planned, but most were just spontaneous, “make we just go first.”

Now he even has the better phone, and we still take pictures whenever we get the chance to.

He understands my love for movies because guess what, he's also a movie lover. We watch movies just so we can talk about them afterward.

This friend has now become family. My mother and brothers know him, they call him, they talk to him, but he is still mine.

We go places together just to explore. Last December was one of our best adventures together.

And if he reads this, he will definitely know, yes, this babe is talking about me.

My Adventure Buddy.

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I hope you're enjoying as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Let’s keep going.

My very first university friend, the first friend I made when I got to campus.

I met her at the new Faculty of Education building. The classrooms were empty without chairs. I went there to charge my phone while watching America's Got Talent. Someone else walked into the same class charging their phone too.

We were both minding our business, and somehow, though I still don't know who started it, we ended up watching America's Got Talent together on my phone. That was how we started talking and later found out we were in the same department.

Since I didn't know anyone in my department yet, we started sharing information like when we had classes and where they were. That was how we grew closer.

Instead of meeting in class, I started meeting her at the hostel since I was coming from home. After lectures, I would go to her hostel and we would spend more time together.

She also loved movies, so we would divide ourselves in the hostel and go from room to room collecting movies.

“Hannah, this room get plenty movies, come here, my phone no get space again.”

That was our life, moving from room to room like that.

I even participated in Student Week because of her. It was such an amazing time. We read together, sat together during exams, and just did everything side by side.

She is a comedian, I laughed so much around her. My mother would call and ask, “Hannah is not back yet,” and she would reassure her that everything was fine. Even her father would call us and ask how we were doing. We would walk from the new Education building through Engineering, to the old site, and sometimes to Management because our department never really had a permanent class. My girl understood that struggle with me.

People even thought we were sisters.

And she knows this is our story.

This friend… I call her The Cruise Partner and The Memory Maker.

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I did Year One twice in university, e shock you abi? But hold on, it was in different departments. I too much, abi? If e easy, run am.

The friend I talked about earlier was from my first department. This one I want to talk about now is from my second department.

I met her at the Social Science faculty. I was in class watching a movie, yes movie again, na so I see am. She asked if she could join me, and I said no problem.

From there, everything just started.

“What department are you?”

“Mass Communication.”

“Wait… me too.”

I’m just a lucky girl.

From then on, we met in school and went to classes together. Even on call it was, “Please, if you get to class before me, keep seat o. No wahala.”

We always sat together in class and talked about people in class, everybody does it, abeg.

This girl showed me something once that she knew would lead to talk and laughter, but she still did it. And yes, we laughed even when a lecturer was in class and we were sent out. Instead of behaving, we were laughing our way out. God really saved us that day; that lecturer could have marked our faces.

She is smart and intelligent, but during exams she would call me late at night, “Hannah, I don’t understand anything. Everything I read is not entering.”

Me too, already scared, I would say, “Don’t worry, it will be fine. It will enter by force.”

And somehow, we aced those exams. Don’t play.

We hardly sat together during exams because of matric numbers. That one still pained me sha.

After class activities were always full. We took lots of pictures, finding different spots in school for aesthetic shots, following the sun like, “Sun don come out, make we go snap.”

Some days we even wore matching colours unplanned. On days like that, we would snap a crazy amount of pictures. Our gallery was full.

Even during sign-out, I wore more blue and she wore red. I liked the colour coding, it was fun.

When she stopped staying in the hostel, we still went home together. She liked shuttles, but I would convince her to walk so we would talk and laugh all the way.

If she says she’s not coming to school, honestly, I might just stay at home too.

She doesn’t even know this, but she encouraged me to do better in school, and I don’t regret it.

From all these memories, I’m convinced she knows it’s her.

My very own Campus Companion.

Now, this friend I also met in secondary school.

Remember the third friend who sang Sweet Mother with us? Well, here she is.

We became close when I stopped taking the school bus. I needed someone who was heading in the same direction as me, and that someone became this friend.

While The Constant and I were taking first and second position, this friend was comfortably taking third. I really gathered intelligent friends. Even me sef, I try.

She sat in front of The Constant and me. We were like a little pack.

She loved bringing chicken with her meals and I brought fried plantain too. We exchanged food a lot. Such a free spirit.

I loved bringing bread and mayonnaise (Bama) to school on Fridays. During Press Club meetings, we would share everything between ourselves.

Then there was our famous garri-drinking exercise. The Constant would bring the garri, this friend and I would bring the milk and sugar, while another friend brought the groundnuts. That groundnut friend is still my friend, just not as close anymore. I had to share this memory—I can't give all the credit to The Constant.

This friend was always active during exams. My God, thank God for her. The Constant will understand exactly what I mean. It was so much fun being around her.

She had one habit that almost gave me high blood pressure. She would quietly take my transport money from my bag. I would search everywhere, almost in tears, only for her to bring it out of her own bag and start laughing. Chai... this girl did me strong thing. Me wey sabi cry.

She also went to the same university as me. We were very close during the first two years, but with time we drifted a little.

I don't even think she'll know this is about her.

But despite the distance, we've held on. We still care for each other, and she'll forever have a place in my heart.

This... is My Familiar Friend.

I know these are my five guys, but there's one more person I'd like to add.

Lately, I've been spilling out a lot about what has happened and what is still happening in my life to this friend.

He's my secondary school classmate, but we only became close recently.

We talk about the things happening around us. We don't always share the same opinions, but I think we balance each other, and that's perfectly fine by me.

This friend listens to my stories and asks one simple question:

"Are you okay?"

I don't think this friend knows how much that question means to me.

So yes...

I have a Bonus Friend.

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Through this journey of life, I've met different people who mean a lot to me.

And if you're my friend and you're reading this thinking, "Oh, so she doesn't think our friendship is important," that's not true at all.

Every friend I've made up to this moment has impacted my life in one way or another, and I appreciate every single one of you.

Don't mind these five guys and the extra one. Dem just dey feel too important. 😂

Friendship isn't always about who has been there the longest. Sometimes it's about who shows up when you need them the most.

To everyone who has been part of my journey, thank you for being part of my story.