There is communication because someone misses you, there is communication because someone wants to gossip, there is even communication because someone has seen something funny and needs you to see it immediately.

And then there is the most dangerous form:

Billing

Billing is the ancient practice of contacting a friend, relative, acquaintance, ex-classmate, coursemate, or somebody you met twice at an event because you need money.

It rarely begins with the request.

Especially when the biller is experienced.

You see, the experienced biller understands psychology.

They begin with:

Heyyyyy or Hiiiiii ml

Then:

How are you?

Then:

How have you been?

Then maybe a little heart emoji.

By this point, you already know.

Something is coming.

And if you are not careful, you will be more broke than the biller soon.

This is why every financially responsible human being must master The Art of Escaping Billing.

CHAPTER ONE: UNDERSTANDING THE BILLER

The first mistake people make is assuming that every “How are you?” is innocent.

It isn't.

Sometimes it is.

But we must remain vigilant.

Consider:

Them:

How are you?

Me:

I'm fine. You?

Them:

I'm not fine.

Me:

Have you seen yourself in the mirror?

This is the first line of defence.

Before reaching for your wallet, reach for scripture.

Tell the righteous that it shall be well with them.” — Isaiah 3:10
So you are fine In Jesus name. 

Or are you financially fine but spiritually preparing to bill me?

We need clarity.

CHAPTER TWO: LEARN TO DETECT THE BILLING SPIRIT

Billing has symptoms.

Symptom One: Sudden affection

You haven't spoken in six weeks.

Suddenly:

My loveeeee ❤️

My love?

Since when?

No be you view my birthday for status no even like post not to talk of wishing in DM.

You even still see me for road carry face comot.

Now I'm your love?

Billing detected.

Symptom Two:

Are you busy?

Never answer this question.

If they can see you online, they already know you're active.

They are testing your availability.

Reply:

Why?

Not:

Somehow.

“Somehow” is an invitation.

Symptom Three:

I want to ask you something.

or.

I need a favour from you. 

or 

I need your help. 

Close the application.

Put your phone down.

Walk away.

You have been warned.

Symptom Four:

 Please don't be angry it's quite urgent.

At this point, prepare your account statement and your last will and testament.

CHAPTER THREE: PRAYER BEFORE BILLING

Before allowing the biller to lay their request, you must pray.

Not because prayer will necessarily stop the request.

But because you need spiritual strength to reject it.

THE OPENING PRAYER

Father Lord, we thank You for this conversation.

We thank You for the life of this person and for bringing them safely to my WhatsApp.

Lord, whatever they have come here to ask me for, if it is not Your will, let it return to sender.

Every spirit of “please borrow me,”

Every spirit of “I'll pay you tomorrow,”

Every spirit of “it's just ₦2k,”

Every spirit of unexpected financial responsibility,

I command you:

BACK TO SENDER.

In Jesus' name.

Amen.

Them:

Can you send me ₦10k?

Me:

The spirit has returned.

CHAPTER FOUR: USE SCRIPTURE AS A FINANCIAL WEAPON

The Bible contains many beautiful teachings.

Some people use them for spiritual growth.

Others use them to escape billing.

When they say they are broke:

Philippians 4:19:

God will supply all your needs.

Exactly.

Go and meet Him.

Why are you meeting me?

When they say it is urgent:

Matthew 6:34:

Do not worry about tomorrow.

You are worrying about tomorrow.

I am trying to help you stop.

When they promise to repay you:

Ecclesiastes 5:5:

It is better not to make a vow than to make one and fail to fulfil it.

So please.

No promises.

Especially not “tomorrow.”

We have all suffered enough.

When they ask for a small amount:

Luke 16:10:

Whoever is faithful with very little can be trusted with much.

Start by returning the ₦2,000 you borrowed three months ago.

Then we shall discuss your next financial appointment.

Because a consistent biller would have something called selective amnesia.

This condition is common among people who borrow money.

They remember the day they borrowed it.

They remember exactly how much they borrowed.

They remember promising to return it.

But when repayment is mentioned, they suddenly require proofs.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE “I'M ALSO BROKE” DEFENCE

This is one of the oldest techniques.

Them:

Please can you borrow me ₦5k?

Me:

Honestly, I'm also broke.

Simple. Clean. Effective.

But never elaborate.

Do not say:

I have ₦15k, but I need ₦7k for food, ₦3k for transport, ₦2k for data…

You have made a terrible mistake.

You have provided a financial spreadsheet.

They will immediately begin calculating.

Okay, just send me ₦2k.

No.

You have exposed your liquidity.

Never reveal the exact amount in your account.

Your bank balance is classified information.

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CHAPTER SIX: THE MINISTRY OF FINANCIAL REDUCTION

Now we enter advanced territory.

The art of reducing the amount per sentence.

Someone asks for ₦10,000.

By the end of the conversation, you're discussing ₦200 biscuits.

The main goal is to make the original amount gradually disappear beneath an unnecessary talk of increasingly irrelevant expenses.

Example:

Them:

Please, can you lend me ₦5,000?

Me:

₦5,000? Hmm. Tolani said the spices are ₦2,000, and she still needs to take ₦500 biscuits, then I have to remove ₦1,000 for transport, and honestly everything is vanity, so I don't really have money.

Them:

So can you send me ₦2,000?

Me:

₦2,000? That's basically ₦1,000 for you and ₦1,000 for me, but if I remove ₦500 for data, then we're both looking at ₦500.

Them:

Okay, ₦1,000 then.

Me:

₦1,000?
That's actually ₦500 because I owe Tolani ₦500.

Them:

₦500 nko?

Me:

I was going to use that ₦500 to buy biscuits.

Them:

Which biscuits?

Me:

The ₦200 ones.

Them:

Okay, thank you. 

Right at that moment they realise that I don't have any money.

And there you have it.

You have successfully transformed a ₦5,000 request into a useless discussion about biscuits.

Another scenario?

Them:

Please borrow me ₦10k.

Me:

₦10k is a lot. I was actually calculating ₦7k because Tolani needs ₦2k for spices, then there's ₦1k for transport, ₦500 for data, ₦300 for pure water, ₦200 for biscuits, and honestly, once you start removing these things, what is money really?

Them:

So can you lend me ₦5k?

Me:

₦5k is basically ₦2,500 each if you think about it spiritually, but I have to keep ₦1,500 because of transportation, leaving ₦1,000, and I already promised myself ₦500 for biscuits.

Them:

Just ₦2k then.

Me:

₦2k?
I can probably do ₦1,000, but ₦500 is going to Tolani because she bought the spices.

Them:

Okay, ₦1k.

Me:

I can give you ₦500.

Them:

₦500?

Me:

Yes, but ₦200 is for biscuits.

Them:

So ₦300?

Me:

Actually, let's not deceive ourselves.

Them:

What?

Me:

I have ₦150.

Them:

Forget it.

Me:

God bless you. Everything is vanity.

CHAPTER SEVEN: COUNTERBILLING

When escaping fails, you counterattack.

Counterbilling is the act of responding to someone's request for money with a request for money of your own.

It is the financial equivalent of throwing a grenade into a negotiation.

Basic Counterbilling

Them:

Please can you lend me ₦5k?

Me:

Omo, I just even asked Peter for 2k. You get food I wan chop. 

Silence.

The financial atmosphere has changed.

They came to bill.

They have been billed.

Advanced Counterbilling

Them:

I'm stranded.

Me:

Me seff dey financial strandedness.

Them:

I need ₦3k for transport.

Me:

I need ₦1500 for food today seff.

Them:

But I'm asking you for money.

Me:

And I'm asking you for money.

Them:

So who is going to help who?

Me:

Only God knows.

At this point, both parties should close WhatsApp and seek employment.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE “I'LL PAY YOU TOMORROW” CLAUSE

Tomorrow is not a date.

Tomorrow is a mythical location where all borrowed money goes to die.

“I'll pay you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow arrives.

Nothing.

You ask:

Hey, about the money…

They reply:

Ahhh, I'm so sorry. I forgot.

How?

How does one forget ₦10,000?

You remembered your birthday.

You remembered your ex's birthday.

You remembered that random person from secondary school who posted a new hairstyle.

But somehow ₦10,000 disappeared from memory.

Amazing. You go still come borrow again na me mess up.

You say:

Ah, I need the money today o. 
I have something urgent to attend to and I just borrowed you because you said you will return it today. 

They feel embarrassed and borrow from someone else to pay.

In some cases you'll have to confront physically and be mean to them.

Note to never borrow them again.

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CHAPTER NINE: THE GUILT TRIP

Sometimes they will try emotional warfare.

You say:

Sorry, I can't.

They reply:

It's okay.

It is in fact not okay at all.

That “it's okay” contains approximately seven paragraphs of silent accusation.

Then:

I'll just ask someone else.
Thank you so much. 

You are expected to panic.

Do not.

Pray.

Psalm 46:10:

Be still…

Be still.

Do not transfer don't say anything.

CHAPTER TEN: THE BILLING CHAIN

Sometimes you think you are helping your friend.

You send ₦5k.

Later:

Actually, can you send another ₦2k?

You ask

 why.

They claim

It's for my friend.

Excuse me?

Your friend's friend?

You are now financially supporting someone whose surname you don't know.

You have entered third-party billing.

Exit immediately and request for a refund asap.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE “SMALL FAVOUR”

Nothing good has ever followed:

Please, I need a small favour.

Small according to whom?

A favour can be ₦500.

A favour can be ₦50,000.

The word “small” has no legal definition.

Therefore, never respond until the amount has been disclosed.

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE FINAL BOSS

There is one message that requires immediate spiritual intervention:

SUPER MOMMMMM or SUPER DADDDDDDD 

No greeting.

No explanation.

No context.

Just:

SUPER MOMMMMM or SUPER DADDDDDDD 

You have been summoned to court without knowing the charge.

Do not give space o

Reply:

Nibo? 
Where you see am? 

They say:

Na you na, na you dey Cho o. 

At this point divert the discussion or counter bill.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SPIRITUAL COUNTERBILLING

When everything else fails:

Them:

Please, I need ₦10k.

Me:

Let us pray.

Them:

For what?

Me:

For God to provide.

Them:

Amen.

Me:

Amen.

Them:

So can you send—

Me:

We said God.

Not me.

Ma fi ejo pa mi.

THE BILLING SURVIVAL KIT

Every financially conscious human should possess:

- A believable “I'm broke” story

- A strong prayer life

- Several Bible verses

- The ability to delay replies

- No visible bank balance or a broke visible one (2k and below)

- A working counterbilling strategy

- Knowledge of every outstanding debt

- The courage to say no

- A suspicious attitude toward “Heyyy”

- And, most importantly, the ability to disappear when necessary.

THE FINAL ANOINTING

Honestly, escaping billing is not about being stingy. It is about understanding that you are not a bank account.

You can love your friends.

You can help them.

You can give when you genuinely have the means.

But you are not obligated to become the emergency fund for every financial crisis within a small radius of your WhatsApp account.

So when someone suddenly appears after three weeks:

Heyyy, how are you?

Do not answer carelessly.

Discern the spirit.

Pray.

Ask questions.

Check the amount.

Reduce the amount.

Counterbill if necessary.

Deploy scripture.

And if all else fails, remember:

Philippians 4:19 says God shall supply all your needs.

Therefore, my dear friend, I wish you the best in your financial journey.

May God supply your needs.

May God supply their needs.

May every borrower remember the money they owe.

May every “I'll pay you tomorrow” become tomorrow.

And may every suspicious “Heyyy ❤️” be exposed before the billing request reaches your account.

Because sometimes friendship is beautiful and sometimes friendship is sacred and sometimes friendship is simply two people looking at each other's bank accounts and thinking:

“Which one of us can afford to suffer today?”

Amen?!

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Everything makes its unique sounds.

I sit down while every beat washes over me

Then I begin to ponder.

You see there's a special language music speaks that can never be translated to English no matter how I try.

I feel.... I feel.... It's like....

No words. Not even one.

I let it pour... The violin, the drums, the pianos...

Keys and chords I never imagined

Everything playing in harmony

Then the singer joins in.

I want to take you somewhere so you know I care.....

I've been transported far enough already with these rhythm.

The words are merely puppets in the hands of the composer.

It's like adding toppings to ice cream... Not needed but once added elevates it.

But how do I ever explain this to someone.

How do I explain that pain, love and joy have different beats.

How do I explain how the piano and violins cry with me.

How do I explain the intensity of the trumpet and saxophone's groans.

How do I explain the synching of the drums to heartbeats.

Maybe what makes us cry in a song is how the instruments complement each other.

Every world becoming the strongest version of itself before surrendering to something great

Africa, Asia, Australia, North America, South America, Europe and Antarctica all coming together to form Mother earth.

Maybe it goes deeper than instruments.

Maybe it's sound itself.

The earth speaks

If you listen carefully enough, she tells her tales.

She cries heavily through the thunderstorms

She whistles softly through the wind

She creaks behind ancient trees and snaps with breaking branches

She flows smoothly and hums through the rivers

All you have to do is be calm and open up your heart then you'll realise that she heals too.

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Welcome back…. Unlike my other episodes this one would be more of a summary. Because it's been a lot to expatiate on.

First of all if there's one thing my time in the university has taught me, it's that no semester ever goes according to plan. Ever.

Second semester started with one very rubbish and unnecessary transportation palava, which somehow felt like a sign that a whole other shege would happen. Mind you before resumption, I got a new phone because my old one had given up on life and decided that it was tired of me. Then, in the process of trying to get transport back to school, I managed to break my screen guard almost immediately. Another sign from the heavens… that this would be a very very long semester.

While I was at home they dropped one bag of foodstuffs for me o. Guess what I did?… I returned it back to the kitchen and told them that I didn't want to carry ‘unnecessary’ load.

If only I knew…. If only.

I got to my room and dropped off the pepper, oil and other things I was forced to carry and realised that I should have just carried the foodstuffs. Because tell me why my rice is remaining less than a paint and I have oil and beans left. Nothing more, nothing less.

At that point I knew that was another sign, mo ti koba ara mi.

People that know me know that me, classes and day time activities are three words that don't go too well in the same sentence and I decided to change that this semester…. Let's just say I'm trying my best to come out during the day and attend classes and events.

For example spot the tag on my hand…. Yes it was a tech event.

Along the line, I decided to get my BVN. And also make a mental bucket list with my friends and we decided to fulfil some of them. So we went on some of our most random adventures yet. We rode at the back of a truck, visited a bar, talked to strangers, and just enjoyed that feeling of freedom that university somehow gives you.

That was when out school decided to finally I unleash what I feared was going to happen. The transport palava and it's complaints. Turns out it wasn't a small matter.

It was really chill at first o. I was angry it was chill let me not lie…. I love drama honestly.

At first it was just congress meetings and I attended three of them (I think).

Eventually, students took to the streets in protest and I joined in as the girl that I am…. You know, a girl that is concerned about everything that goes on around her. I walked all the way to the campus gate a distance I don't think I would be trying anytime soon except it’s against my will.

While the protest was ongoing, I decided to get something to eat and boom… a senate meeting was held and, just like that, we were gifted with a three-week "mid-semester break." If you remember quite well as an OAU student, you would know that there was a quick strike before the current 100 level students resumed. Now imagine what would have been going through my head….. I practically left somewhere functional because the laws were ‘too much’ to end up somewhere else that I have to deal with strikes, no ID card, no first semester results, transportation issues and a whole lot of other things.

You see what saved me? I

It was hostel… Everyone in the school hostel was expected to leave, even people who had resumed just days earlier. Thankfully, I wasn't affected by the policy, so I stayed behind. Plus I would have caused a lot of trouble at home 🤷🏾 (so they said)

I thought strike period was going to be vibes, rest and you know playing.

It was the opposite o.

I was basically bed rotting, binge watching and wasting away my precious time.

Thankfully, my birthday arrived right in the middle of it and saved me from losing my sanity.

God knows I had an amazing time, overspent quite a lot, and genuinely enjoyed myself. It was one of my best birthdays yet, would have been better if my very own school didn't declare a strike mid semester break. I planned a picnic honestly, a very very nice one with my friends but ALHAMDULLILAH.

After the whole birthday thing, I attended a health conference organized by the school's welfare team… it was just there honestly.

The day after, I went for a tech conference at Redeemer's University. If you're a RUN student seeing this, especially that Emmanuel boy. I hope you saw the results of the debate event held the next day between your school and ours.

That's all I will say.

Somewhere along the line, I entered a writing competition. And that experience taught me something important: writing may be a hobby, but it is definitely not a small task at all. There is so much more effort behind putting words together than people realize. Results were dropped recently by the way and all I can say is… failing is part of growth.

You see most people had left because of the Ileya break, leaving me alone in the room… (my roommate fell ill at some point and had to go home). So it was just me, Mikun and Mofoluwasewa, surviving on one meal a day, sleeping excessively, and binge-watching series a whole lot of them. Lest I forget while I was broke and data less.

I can confidently say it was one of the most boring periods of my life.

All I can say is thank God I survived that sickness.

So quick gist. Before my roommate went home, we had to go to GOPD at OAUTHC and while they.l kept on posting us everywhere and not attending to us, we got frustrated and decided to sit outside GOPD. For context my roommate is bi racial…

Him: what are you doing here

Me: sitting. Is there any issue..

Him: (searching our bags with his big eyes) No, you know she's white and with the whole security…

Me: cuts him off, what do you mean? What are you trying to insinuate.

Him: (short of words) asks what we are looking for at the hospital.

My roommate ends up talking about why we were here just incase he could offer some sort of help since he worked there.

Anyways before we knew what was happening bruh started asking if we had boyfriends and started yapping about how sometimes some of these sicknesses could be cured through sex and blah blah blah… I stopped listening after I realised he wasn't saying anything sensible. I eventually dismissed him and said we were both minors so he could let us be.

After that conversation I kept on wondering… who with a well functioning brain would walk up to two people with very very important issues to dismiss them with ‘sex is the solution with their health problems…. Excuse you.

Wo eventually, school resumed fully and suddenly everything came crashing back at once. Classes, postponed events, responsibilities… it all became overwhelming. Extremely overwhelming. Currently my body aches from postponed rest.

I've attended Open Up Circle, International Women's Day event, a movie rave, OAU Carnival, faculty meetings, and Congress sittings. Most times, it has felt exhausting. There have been moments when I've wondered if I was doing too much.

But slowly, I'm learning how to juggle it all.

Now, tests have started, and my sleep schedule is already paying the price. Still, I'm hopeful. Hopefully, all the stress, sleepless nights, and endless rushing around will produce good results. Mind you last semester results aren't out but then this semester has shown me that university life isn't just about lectures and CGPAs. Sometimes it's protests and strikes. Sometimes it's birthdays and conferences. Sometimes it's boredom, sickness, and wondering what exactly you're doing with your life.

But somehow, through all the chaos, life keeps moving and evolving.

And so do we.

And oh yes, please eat before going to write tests. I almost fainted on the road back from tests yesterday evening. Apparently I'm loosing weight. Anyone that barely eats would 😭

Send me 1k or 10k today.

I would have loved to drop a lot JPEGs at the ending of this episode. But the network is a whole lot so I promise to drop them at the next one.

Love youuu all.

So we sing,

And so we stand —

Or at least, we say we do.

Yet brother fights brother,

Not with swords,

But with insults dressed as jokes,

And hatred disguised as trends.

Benin versus Delta.

Imo versus Kogi.

Yoruba versus Igbo.

North against South.

Christian against Muslim.

Behind hashtags and viral videos,

Old prejudices find new voices,

And tribalism, which ought to have died with our fathers,

Finds refuge in the hands of their children.

We speak of brotherhood,

Yet we have mastered division.

“…That truth and justice reign.”

So we proclaim.

But truth is often drowned

By propaganda and convenience and agenda,

And justice arrives with unequal steps.

For the poor,

Justice is delayed.

For the powerful,

Justice is negotiable.

Corruption remains an open secret,

Scandals come and go,

Investigations are announced,

Yet accountability is too often absent.

And while promises are made,

The people continue to ask:

When shall truth truly reign?

“…To hand on to our children a banner without stain.”

Yet what banner have we prepared?

A nation where graduates roam the streets

With certificates in their hands

And hopelessness in their hearts.

A nation where many young people

No longer dream of building Nigeria,

But dream only of escaping her.

A nation where leaving has become a prayer,

And survival, an achievement.

Every day,

The cost of living rises.

Food becomes more expensive.

Transport becomes more expensive.

Electricity becomes more expensive.

And with every sunrise,

Life seems harder than it was yesterday.

The poor celebrate small victories

And call them prosperity,

While the truly wealthy climb ever higher,

Untouched by the burdens

That bend the backs of ordinary men and women.

The gap widens.

And still,

The people are told to endure.

“…Where no man is oppressed.”

Yet how many sleep with both eyes closed?

How many mothers wait anxiously

For children travelling across the country?

How many families have known

The pain of kidnapping,

The agony of ransom,

And the unbearable silence

Of unanswered cries?

Communities live in fear.

Farmers abandon their lands.

Villages mourn their dead.

And insecurity has become

Not a headline,

But a way of life.

We have become accustomed

To tragedies that should outrage us.

We scroll past suffering.

We discuss it.

We trend it.

And then we move on.

Meanwhile,

Some who spread fear and violence

Become objects of fascination,

Drawing attention and followers

In the strange theatre of the internet,

While victims are left with grief

And memories that cannot trend.

“To be faithful, loyal and honest.”

We pledge.

Yet dishonesty has become normal.

Public office becomes personal property.

Those elected to serve

Too often seek to rule.

Those entrusted with the people's welfare

Speak of sacrifice,

While surrounded by comfort.

And loyalty is demanded

Not to the nation,

But to parties,

To tribes,

To individuals.

“And uphold her honour and glory.”

We swear.

But honour cannot thrive

Where children learn under broken roofs.

Glory cannot flourish

Where hospitals lack essentials.

Greatness cannot be proclaimed

By ceremonies and speeches alone.

For honour is not found

In convoys and conferences.

It is found

In justice.

In security

In education

In healthcare.

In dignity.

And perhaps,

Nne of this would surprise Fela.

Long before hashtags,

Long before livestreams,

Long before Democracy Day speeches,

He saw the Nigeria we were becoming.

He warned us.

He sang of leaders

Who demanded obedience

But offered no accountability.

He sang of citizens

Who suffered in silence

And learned to smile through pain.

“Suffer, suffer for world,”

He cried.

And decades later,

His words still echo

Through empty pockets,

Crowded buses,

And market stalls where prices rise

Faster than hope itself.

He sang “Zombie,”

Not merely about soldiers,

But about minds trained

Never to question.

And perhaps,

That song lives on.

For many still defend

The very hands

That tighten the chains around them.

He sang of thieves and robbers,

And perhaps the tragedy is not that corruption persists—

But that some have learned

To celebrate it.

Perhaps because that is what Nigerians do best.

To suffer and smile.

To hope and endure.

To laugh amidst hardship.

To rebuild from ruins.

And yet,

One must wonder—

Was Fela a prophet?

Or were his songs merely mirrors?

Mirrors reflecting

A nation where corruption wears agbada,

Where poverty disguises itself as resilience,

And where injustice wears perfume.

And so, on this Democracy Day,

I ask:

What exactly are we celebrating?

Is democracy merely the casting of votes?

Is it the sound of campaign promises?

Is it the changing of faces

While the suffering remains familiar?

For democracy was never meant

To exist only on paper.

It was meant to live

In the lives of the people.

And until the kidnapped can travel without fear,

Until a child's future is not determined

By the wealth of their parents,

Until tribe no longer matters more than competence,

Until leadership becomes service,

Until truth is stronger than propaganda,

Until justice belongs to all,

Until no Nigerian must choose

Between hunger and hope—

Then these words we sing,

These promises we pledge,

Remain not our reality,

But our prayer.

And perhaps,

That is the tragedy of Nigeria.

That the nation we celebrate every June 12

Is still the nation

We are waiting to become.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not that Fela predicted Nigeria,

But that Nigeria refused to listen.

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On a quiet Sunday, with the air sitting cold

and my friends throwing marriage around

like it was the only proof of being alive,

“God forbid I stay single forever,”

“I’d rather die than not have a spouse”

I looked up from my phone and smiled,

because to me, love has never been that simple.

Maybe marriage is not a house built for everyone.

Maybe some of us were born too late,

arriving in the wrong generation

for the kind of love we carry in our ribs.

Maybe true lovers belonged to another century,

where people stayed, where longing meant something,

and all we inherited were broken promises and spare parts.

Because now, nothing feels deep enough to drown in.

No one wants to yearn anymore.

No one wants to stay long enough to be known.

No one wants midnight dances in the kitchen,

or silence that feels like peace instead of punishment.

Even hugs have become ordinary;

they touch the skin, but never reach the soul.

Conversations too have lost their pulse.

Everything comes from the head now, never the heart.

People speak like rehearsed performances,

and if you stare long enough into their eyes,

you notice the colours are gone.

Everyone is hiding behind “nonchalant,”

as if caring too much has become a crime.

So yes, maybe I would rather be alone.

Better an island than temporary love,

than changing lovers like worn-out tyres,

than being with someone who cannot understand my language,

someone who never writes letters,

never listens to my favourite song to ask why it matters,

never stays long enough to help build a future.

This generation loves loudly, but carelessly.

Fast in everything—meeting, wanting, leaving.

They make you think replacing the flower

is easier than tending the garden,

as though the problem is always the bloom

and never the hands that failed to water it.

So I ask again, “Can’t I be an island?”

Well… maybe not entirely.

Even islands are held by oceans,

surrounded by something always trying to reach them.

But perhaps some of us became islands by force—

after learning that most oceans only know how to take.

Still, at least an island is honest.

It stays.

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Maybe some things are built

like rain on warm concrete—

beautiful for a moment,

gone before morning can name them.

Still, I wanted this one to stay.

The slow hands.

The forehead kisses that felt like prayer.

The kind of patience

that makes a person unclench.

Maybe some people arrive

like fire in dry season—

beautiful from a distance,

dangerous once touched.

Still, I wanted this too.

Your laughter in quiet rooms.

The way your body softened

only after trust arrived.

The pauses between us

that felt less like silence

and more like listening.

Is it really too much

to ask for a man

who wants to know the map of my mind

before reaching for my body?

Someone who stays

after desire has finished speaking.

Do you know

how terrifying it is

to meet someone

who sees through performance?

You asked for tenderness

before possession.

For patience

before hunger.

And I wanted to give it.

God, I think I did.

Maybe this heart of mine

is a house with too many windows.

Maybe hope is the only thing

I know how to hold without dropping.

Even now,

when silence hangs between us

like laundry that never dries,

I try to believe.

I tell myself

you are only busy,

that my name still crosses your mind

in crowded rooms,

that eventually

your message will light my screen

like a small returning sun.

And yes,

sometimes I disappeared

without leaving completely.

Left your messages glowing unanswered

while convincing myself

I only needed space.

But absence can become a language

if spoken long enough.

The truth is

I thought about you often.

In crowded rooms.

At traffic lights.

In the middle of laughter

that never reached all the way inside me.

Your name stayed

like smoke in clothing.

Impossible to fully wash out.

But truth has a cruel way

of standing in doorways.

You are already halfway gone.

And suddenly

every mirror becomes a witness.

But I knew, too,

that I was already drifting.

Not because you lacked anything,

but because closeness

began asking things of me

I did not know how to carry.

And every time you looked at me

with that open kind of hope,

I felt both chosen

and accused.

I blame myself for everything.

For not guarding my body

like something sacred.

For letting loneliness

sound too much like love.

For opening the door

to hunger and temptation

and calling it connection.

You blamed yourself

for opening the door too wide.

Meanwhile,

I blamed myself

for entering without certainty.

Because desire is easy to mistake

for readiness.

Loneliness can dress itself

so convincingly as love

that even honest people

become liars without meaning to.

And yet,

I cannot lie about the wanting.

There was something intoxicating

about the way you reached for me

like thirst reaches for water.

The way your eyes lingered

as though my body

was a language you were desperate to learn.

I felt powerful in it.

Desired in it.

Alive in a way

that frightened me.

Still,

I will not pretend

I did not want you.

I wanted the slow burn of you.

The way your eyes challenged me

to deserve what I touched.

The way your body trembled slightly

between hesitation and surrender.

You made restraint feel intimate.

Made pursuit feel sacred.

You moved toward me in waves

and I kept retreating,

not to leave,

but to be followed.

Maybe that says something about me too.

Maybe I was not only searching for love.

Maybe I wanted proof

that I could still unravel someone.

And maybe

I followed your retreats

because I liked being invited

without words.

Maybe I wanted proof too—

that I could still awaken something

inside another person.

There was power in your wanting.

And there was power

in being wanted by you.

Maybe that says something about me too.

Maybe I stayed

because being wanted

felt too good to question.

Or maybe

I simply wanted more of you.

Maybe I stayed longer

because you looked at me

like I was more whole

than I actually was.

Or maybe

I simply wanted more of you.

More nights discovering

the hidden rooms in each other.

More conversations held

between skin and breath.

I wanted you close enough

to hear sleep soften your body.

To trace your face

like a familiar road in the dark.

To run my fingers through your hair

while the world disappeared beyond the curtains.

More nights dissolving slowly

into each other’s breathing.

More mornings where the curtains stayed closed

and the world felt far away.

I wanted your hands in my hair.

Your voice softened by exhaustion.

Your body beside mine

without urgency attached to it.

I wanted tenderness

without shame attached to it.

Desire without punishment.

I wanted intimacy

without fear following behind it.

But instead

I became split in two—

one half reaching for pleasure

with open hands,

the other clutching tightly

to what remained of my dignity.

But somewhere along the way,

desire stopped feeling clean.

Not because of you—

but because I could feel

how much of yourself

you were placing in my hands.

And I was terrified

of dropping it.

So I split too.

One half of me

reaching for you instinctively,

the other retreating

every time things became real.

And the frightening thing is

how easily those lines began to blur.

How quickly longing

can make a person negotiable with themselves.

Because men are not always taught

how to hold tenderness

without turning it into guilt.

And sometimes cowardice

does not arrive loudly.

Sometimes it looks like delayed replies.

Like almost-commitments.

Like saying “soon”

when your heart already knows otherwise.

Sometimes dignity does not leave all at once.

Sometimes it slips away quietly

through little permissions,

small abandonments,

moments where you say

this is the last time

while already knowing it isn't.

I know now

that dignity can disappear quietly.

Not only for the person waiting—

but also for the person

who keeps accepting love

they are too afraid to return fully.

Still, beneath the ache,

beneath the shame of wanting to be chosen,

something inside me survives untouched.

A small stubborn voice

reminding me

that I deserved tenderness too.

That being desired

should never have cost me

my sense of self.

And if I wounded you,

it was not because you were difficult to love.

It was because

I had not yet learned

how to stand still

inside something honest.

Still, beneath all my leaving,

beneath all the confusion and unfinished sentences,

there is one truth

I cannot escape:

You deserved tenderness

that did not make you question yourself.

And I deserved to become

the kind of man

who knew how to give it.

Expect more soon💫🙂‍↕️

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Maybe some things aren't meant to last

But then I wish it did

The hugs, the kisses, the patience

Is it all too much to ask for

A man who wants more than sex

More than a fling

Someone who wants to know and love

Maybe having this kind of heart is a curse

Maybe believing is all I can actually hold on to

It's very visible but I want to believe

Believe that my overthinking is getting the best of me.

Believe that maybe you care and you're just busy and you'll get back to me

But then again it's obvious, you want nothing more.

And then I see it all clearly

I caused it.

I should have treated my body and self better

I should have locked down the hormones and temptations

Oh but it was overwhelming, the way I made you pant and yearn for me.

The way you tried reaching out with every move and I kept teasing

Was it just that to you

Maybe it's just that to me too

Maybe I'm just all in for the sex too

Staying because I'm concerned about increasing my body count.

Or maybe it was good and I wanted to unlock other areas

I want you to unravel more parts of me.

I want you to fold and bend me unapologetically

Pull me close and fondle with me

I want to hold you close to my bossoms and watch you sleep

Trace your facial features and rub your hair

I want to kiss your face and lick your lips

And well I'm torn apart

I'm between holding my dignity and being stripped of it totally

Anything for the pleasure right?

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Version 2. My friend's.

Maybe some things are built

like rain on warm concrete—

beautiful for a moment,

gone before morning can name them.

Still, I wanted this one to stay.

The slow hands.

The forehead kisses that felt like prayer.

The kind of patience

that makes a person unclench.

Is it really too much

to ask for a man

who wants to know the map of my mind

before reaching for my body?

Someone who stays after desire has finished speaking.

Maybe this heart of mine

is a house with too many windows.

Maybe hope is the only thing

I know how to hold without dropping.

Even now,

when silence hangs between us

like laundry that never dries,

I try to believe.

I tell myself

you are only busy,

that my name still crosses your mind

in crowded rooms,

that eventually

your message will light my screen

like a small returning sun.

But truth has a cruel way

of standing in doorways.

You are already halfway gone.

And suddenly

every mirror becomes a witness.

I blame myself for everything.

For not guarding my body

like something sacred.

For letting loneliness

sound too much like love.

For opening the door

to hunger and temptation

and calling it connection.

And yet—

I cannot lie about the wanting.

There was something intoxicating

about the way you reached for me

like thirst reaches for water.

The way your eyes lingered

as though my body

was a language you were desperate to learn.

I felt powerful in it.

Desired in it.

Alive in a way

that frightened me.

You moved toward me in waves

and I kept retreating,

not to leave,

but to be followed.

Maybe that says something about me too.

Maybe I was not only searching for love.

Maybe I wanted proof

that I could still unravel someone.

Maybe I stayed

because being wanted

felt too good to question.

Or maybe

I simply wanted more of you.

More nights discovering

the hidden rooms in each other.

More conversations held

between skin and breath.

I wanted you close enough

to hear sleep soften your body.

To trace your face

like a familiar road in the dark.

To run my fingers through your hair

while the world disappeared beyond the curtains.

I wanted tenderness

without shame attached to it.

Desire without punishment.

But instead

I became split in two—

one half reaching for pleasure

with open hands,

the other clutching tightly

to what remained of my dignity.

And the frightening thing is

how easily those lines began to blur.

How quickly longing

can make a person negotiable with themselves.

Sometimes dignity does not leave all at once.

Sometimes it slips away quietly

through little permissions,

small abandonments,

moments where you say

this is the last time

while already knowing it isn't.

Still, beneath the ache,

beneath the shame of wanting to be chosen,

something inside me survives untouched.

A small stubborn voice

reminding me

that I deserved tenderness too.

That being desired

should never have cost me

my sense of self.

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Expect the third version soon.

I promised myself when I was twelve that I would be dead by eighteen.

Oh well… nine-year-old me would be shocked that twelve-year-old me didn’t follow the plan.

Birthdays have never been easy for me. Every year came with tears. Questions of why and how I was still here, regretting things I couldn’t change. It always felt like I had outlived something I wasn’t meant to. But this year is different. This year, I’m not crying. I’m happy. I’m grateful. And instead of breaking down, I have decided to sit with every version of myself I’ve ever been and listen to what they needed, and what they never got to hear.

I think about the earliest versions of me, the two, three, four, and five-year-old who started life sharp and soft at the same time. There was a kind of ease in existing back then, a quiet confidence that didn’t need to be proven. But that softness didn’t last. Life stretched and reshaped it. Things got bad before they got better, and there was no way to prepare for that. If anything, I wish I had known that losing parts of myself didn’t mean I was gone completely. It just meant I was changing.

At six and seven, I remember how repeating a class felt like the end of everything. It felt like failure in its loudest form, like being left behind while everyone else moved forward. I cried like it would define the rest of my life. But it didn’t. It passed. We moved. And the weight of it eventually became smaller than it once felt.

By eight, I had started to build my identity around being at the top. It felt certain, like something that would last. But it didn’t. I fell, and I fell drastically. It shook my confidence and forced me to see myself differently. But even then, I didn’t stay down. I found a way back, not to the same place, but to something that still worked.

Nine came with a different kind of struggle coupled with academis. That school felt like something to survive, not experience. It was heavy in ways that are hard to explain, but I didn’t stay there long. Just a session. I made it out. The people who made me feel small are living their lives now, happily, and maybe I’m not exactly where I thought I would be either, but I’m not too far off. I’m still moving forward, still becoming something.

Then everything shifted again at ten, eleven, and twelve, when the quietly rearranged everything I thought I knew. It wasn’t just the world that changed. It was me. The innocence I carried started to fade, and my mind became a heavier place to live in. My mental health began to deteriorate slowly, and then all at once. Looking back, I wish I had known to reach for help the moment I noticed. I wish I had understood that I didn’t have to carry everything alone. I also wish I had been a little kinder to my parents, because even in their imperfections, they were trying. And somehow, life did get better than it was then.

At thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, I spent so much time feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere. I thought people hated me, or that something about me was fundamentally wrong. But the truth is, nobody was thinking about me as much as I believed they were. It was okay to be alone. It was okay to be different, to not fit into spaces that didn’t feel right. I just didn’t know how to accept that yet. I also carried the disappointment of not getting into my dream school, and for a while, it felt like everything I had hoped for was slipping away. But I didn’t end up somewhere bad. Life didn’t stop there. The idea of becoming a great woman faded at some point, but it never truly disappeared. It is still there, waiting to be rebuilt.

Fifteen and sixteen were the hardest to sit with. Those years carried things I don’t think I fully understood at the time.

I still remember….

Consuming that savlon on that fine evening, almost drowning in the pool in school, the burning of my skin with the lighter, the starving, the hiding and crying, and finally, the anger that had nowhere to go.

I clearly remember the evening when it would have all come to an end. That one particular night, standing on the first floor at Emerald hostel in Babcock, quietly planning how to jump down and put an end to everything. It felt final. It felt like the only way out.

But it wasn’t.

None of it ended me.

If anything, I became stronger, but not in the way people usually describe strength. It was quieter than that. More stubborn. The kind of strength that simply refuses to disappear. The scars didn’t fade, and maybe they never will, but they changed how I see everything.

What I have, what I’ve lost, and the people I loved that are no longer here.

And oh I hated God deeply. It was an honest kind of anger, the kind that comes from not understanding why things had to feel so hard especially to people like me. But even that changed. It didn’t disappear completely, but it softened. And even now, when I still don’t fully understand, there’s a small part of me that believes He is there, watching, guiding, maybe even holding things together in ways I can’t see yet.

At seventeen, I wish I had known how much I needed to protect myself. To guard my heart and my body more carefully. There were choices I didn’t fully understand at the time, mistakes I wish I could undo. But I can’t. All I can do is learn from them and make sure they don’t repeat themselves.

Because that’s the thing about all of this. We made mistakes. So many of them. And we can’t change them or go back to correct them. But we can learn. We can choose differently. We can grow into something better than what we once thought we were limited to.

And maybe that’s what this birthday is.

Not just another year, not just survival but a decision.

A decision to finally heal. To loosen my grip on the younger years that shaped me and stop letting them define me. To choose joy, even if it feels unfamiliar at first. To stop replaying every bad thing that happened as if it is the only version of my story that matters.

Not to erase it because it still matters and I can't ….but to stop living inside it and letting it swallow me.

To begin again, not as someone who is broken, but as someone who is rebuilding.

To rewrite my story, slowly, intentionally, in a way that makes room for softness again.

And now, here I am. Still here. Still becoming. Sitting with every version of myself and realizing something I never thought I would have to accept:

I didn’t follow the plan.

And for the first time, that doesn’t feel like something to regret. It feels like a second chance. And that was exactly what I needed.

Why did I say this??

There was this guy… let's call him A, A was a 6 yearish older than me (mind you I was around 14-16). He lived with his parents in Lagos. A would tell me lies of how I was ‘matured’ for my age, how pretty I was or how much he loved me and wanted us to get married.

And what do you expect… I fell for it. I mean I was young and saw it as a compliment. Like people finally saw my worth and I was now in the big league.

Anyways I grew older and I decided to reflect on things I had done in the past and guess what?

What seemed to be a compliment and a really sweet thing now seemed disgusting and creepy. A friend of mine told me one time… the more you grow older, the more you see that some of the advances that you saw as nice and all were actually disgusting.

You see at 14, 15 and 16, those compliments mean the world. It makes you feel like you're capable of anything.. imagine making a grown ass man confess feelings towards you.

And at that point they forget to ask the obvious question.

What happened to ladies your age?

Why go this far down to search for a spouse?

So recently I decided to ask.. Do you know my age?

Because I simply refused to believe he knew my age then and still decided to date someone the age of his youngest sister.

Why? Just why?

And he gave the exact estimate and I asked further

To be very honest I was pissed.

Why are you answering everything but the question? Then he said

See the thing is teenageers tend to do without thinking, without accessing. Do I actually like this person?

Teenageers can and in some cases would flirt with adults, their emotions are far beyond their ability to control so, they like adults too, and sometimes, believe that they're in love with the adult.

It's now the job of the adult to put the teenager in check.

To say no!

At that point the teenager would probably hate that adult… but in the long run, they'll appreciate that word for life.

A little digress..

To everyone that said no to me after finding out my age, thank you.

It's normal reasoning but then, I'm still grateful for allowing me be a child.

Back to business.

Turns out instead of him admitting he was wrong.. being the petty man he is he turned the cards..

Uno Reverse.

Apparently I should be accountable.

We all know teenagers make impulsive decisions all the time. That is part of being a teenager. They are curious, emotional, and still learning how relationships work.

Adults, on the other hand, are supposed to understand the bigger picture.

They are supposed to know when something may feel exciting in the moment but inappropriate in reality.

When he couldn't play the card properly he brought out the fact that he didn't force me and he didn't sleep with me.

The absence of the worst possible outcome still didn't make it everything else acceptable. People tend to measure wrongdoings with the most extreme act not by the patterns of behaviour that leads to it. Let's be honest nothing happened because I had restrictions not because he had boundaries. Logistics was give or take the only thing that stopped the matter from escalating. Just so you know, it was a long distance relationship. I couldn't leave my place of residence that was at least an hour distance, without Lagos traffic, and lots of buses. Keep in mind that he kept on insisting on me a 14/15 year old to come and visit him in Lagos. Just so you know, at that time I couldn't even go to my neighbours house without my parents panicking.

The problem here is why was a 20 year old comfortable asking a 14 year old to come over in the first place?

Why were you comfortable sexualising a child and allowing exchange of explicit images?

Why were you comfortable in discussing marriage with someone who had not finished secondary school?

These are not accidents.

They are choices.

And the most disturbing part is how normalized those choices have become.

Because if you ask many adults about situations like this, they will say something like:

“Well, the girl also agreed.”

But of course she did.

She was fourteen.

That is the entire point.

While my own reason for messaging was to make him realise what he did was wrong, he thought otherwise. Mind you my parents knew about the whole saga in the end. My dad wanted to get him arrested. But then, the matter died down. I got my fair share of punishment for being stupid but turns out the guy in question wasn't remorseful about what he did.

He kept on raising the matter of me not being ‘violated’.

Once in a while my eyes were.

Once in a while my mind was.

Does the violation really have to happen to the body?

Because sometimes the violation is quieter than that.

Sometimes it happens slowly. In conversations that should never have happened. In compliments that were never appropriate. In the way a child’s understanding of love gets shaped by someone who should have known better.

When an adult tells a teenager that she is “mature for her age”, what they are really saying is that they are willing to ignore the fact that she is still a child.

When an adult asks a fourteen-year-old to visit him, what he is really doing is testing how far he can push a boundary that should never have existed in the first place.

And when an adult says, “Nothing happened”, what he usually means is that nothing happened that would get him into serious trouble.

To be honest he knew what he did was evil.

How did I know?

If something was good, wouldn't you want others to enjoy it?

Turns out he wants to enjoy young love and leave his daughter out.

In conclusion.. Mr A. You knew what you were doing.

Mr A here could be anybody. You knew what you did, you know what you're doing. Let her enjoy her childhood. She's not matured for her age.

She's not the one for you.

Let her be.

To my Mr. A, you keep insisting nothing happened.

No force, no violation, no crime.

But the truth is simple.

At fourteen, I did not know better.

You did.

That was the difference between us.

So this isn’t about anger or revenge. It’s about clarity.

I grew up.

And growing up means finally seeing things for what they were.

You were not in love with a “mature girl.”

You were a grown man talking to a child.

Last week, I opened Facebook and time-travelled to 2018.

Boarding school pictures. Blurry class pictures. Assembly-ground photos where everyone was standing like we were about to go through military training instead of just taking a school picture. That stiff posture of children who were not sure of what life had in stock for them.

You see time is strange. It moves quietly and then one day you realise JSS1 was almost a decade ago and you suddenly feel ancient… even though you’re still arguing about assignments in university.

And then I started searching.

JSS1 classmates. Seniors. That teacher who used to scold us like it was their only mission there.

The seminarian everyone feared, you didn’t need to misbehave, just seeing him was enough to sit straight.

And the reverend father I used to actively avoid. If I saw him from a distance, I would suddenly remember an urgent errand in the opposite direction.

A few days ago, I reached out to one of the reverend fathers from that period. Father Richard. To be very honest, I had been searching for his contact for a really long while. But then again I was shy.

I didn’t know what I expected.

Maybe silence.

Maybe “Who is this?”

But then it was the opposite.

It was a warm reply.

We chatted. Just catching up on where we were in life and how life has been.

And I just sat there thinking… so this is the same person I had been scared to reach out to? I'm still scared to reach out to the main Reverend Father though. But then the truth is adolescence exaggerates everything. Authority feels terrifying. Reputation feels permanent. Every embarrassment feels like it will follow you to the grave.

Just so you readers know, I went to four different secondary schools.

One in JSS1.

One in JSS2.

One in JSS3.

And one from SS1 to SS3.

Four schools.

Four fresh starts.

Four different reputations, slightly similar.

Every time I moved, I left behind a version of myself. And every time I arrived somewhere new, people built a new one.

In JSS1, I was still very much… let me say forming. Sometimes I blame certain things on childishness.

And other times, let me not lie, some things were intentional. I knew exactly what I was doing. I just didn’t know the kind of person it would make me look like.

In JSS2, I had to change schools because we moved. It wasn’t due to any activity. It was just what life had in stock I guess.

But I left feeling like I had unsettled things. People I may have unknowingly offended. Situations that didn’t get closure. At least one I knew of.

Years later, I reached out to some of them.

Then one day, I randomly met a classmate from that school at the university I attend. I expected a simple greeting, the polite “oh wow long time” type that ends there. Just for the sake of it and not to seem rude (I don't know if you get what I'm saying)

Instead, she collected my number.

I remember walking away slightly confused. Because in my head, I had already decided that maybe nobody from that school really liked me like that.

And it quietly dismantled a belief I didn’t even realise I was carrying.

In JSS3, things were calmer. I still have one or two people from that school I’ve kept in touch with. One of them is someone I’m genuinely good friends with now.

By the time I got to SS1, I thought I was used to changing schools every session. I was used to reinvention. Used to leaving before perception hardened.

But this time, I stayed for three years.

And that was tougher than moving.

Because when you move every year, you can outrun reputation.

When you stay three years, you have to live with it.

You try to adjust it.

You try to soften it.

You try to show range.

But sometimes people decide who you are in first term and never update the file.

There were moments I genuinely wondered if people disliked me.

In SS3, a new girl once asked someone else, “Why are you relating with her?”

We never even had a one-on-one conversation.

But she had a conclusion.

It’s actually impressive how quickly human beings can write biographies about people they’ve never interviewed.

And once a narrative starts circulating, people rarely fact-check.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Like I was tolerated, not chosen.

And that feeling stayed with me longer than it should have.

I also remember having a fall out with a friend and she said something I could never forget ‘Is it because I'm your friend when no one else wants to relate with you’. The friendship never remained the same after that. I didn't want to be friends with someone if it meant it being a pity party friendship.

Even outside school, I held on to one or two childhood friends. Proofs that I wasn’t universally misunderstood. Maybe one or two people tried to overlook my flaws.

Now, in university, I sometimes find myself typing old names into search bars.

Not to gossip.

Not to compete.

Just maybe to reconcile.

I’ve reached out to JSS1 classmates and other people from my other schools. Some followed back. Some didn’t. Some replied warmly. Some left it on “seen.” Some never accepted the request and honestly, fair enough. I deserve some of it if we look at things that transpired. Imagine being the reason perfumes were banned. Or the reason a lot of people were punished but you escaped because you switched schools.

And strangely, I’m okay.

I even checked on some teachers out of curiosity. The same ones who once felt larger than life. They’re fine. Thriving. Living full lives outside the timetable that once defined them. I mean our seminarian that I once ‘hated’ is living life and I don't hate him as much anymore but then….

There’s something comforting about knowing nobody’s life was permanently damaged by secondary school misunderstandings.

Because sometimes we carry guilt like we destroyed entire destinies.

Meanwhile, people grew up.

The truth is, I’ve probably existed in many people’s stories in ways I cannot control.

In one school, I might have been loud.

In another, defensive.

In another, the snitch.

In another, intentionally stubborn.

And maybe in some, just… ordinary.

But I’m learning that I cannot edit the version of me that lives in someone else’s memory.

I can apologise.

I can reach out.

I can grow.

But I cannot force a rewrite.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because the same way people once concluded on me based on what “people said,” I must be careful not to conclude on myself based on who I used to be.

Maybe I wasn’t hated.

Maybe I was noticeable.

Maybe I was growing in public.

And maybe everyone else was too.

Four schools.

One name in different fonts.

And I’m finally realising that I don’t have to chase every old perception to prove I’ve changed.

I just have to become someone I’m proud of now.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the only story that actually needs updating.

I mean I acknowledge that I was the cause of a lot of troubles, an embodiment of annoyance and a whole loads of other things. But the important thing is that mistakes are learnt and never made again.

And maybe that's what matters.

So to those I have offended or hurt in the past , my sincere apologies.

You know what really gets me pissed off sometimes?

It's the way conversations about rape twist into something else entirely. Someone shares a case, a survivor speaks up, a perpetrator is exposed and instead of keeping the focus on the crime and demanding justice, people start talking about everything else but the main case.

Suddenly, everyone else has been raped and we’re discussing gender inequality, how men are also raped, how ladies should sit at home, pedophiles, societal failures, feminism, or hundreds of other cases that aren’t even connected to the story being told. Before you come after me, these issues are real. Pedophilia is horrible. Gender-based violence is a massive, heartbreaking problem.

But here’s the thing: when we bring those topics into discussion about a specific case, we lose sight of what should matter most.

The crime itself.

The survivor’s experience.

The accountability of the perpetrator.

How true the case is.

And here’s the part that really makes me pause: if you are not the rapist, or the survivor, or someone who can actually contribute to serving justice, sometimes the best thing you can do is keep quiet. Because honestly? Some of the distractions, the debates, the comparisons, the shifting of focus, they’re exactly why some of these cases get overlooked.

You may think you’re helping, but if your input isn’t constructive, it can end up diluting the conversation and letting the criminal off the hook.

And that’s where it gets tricky, right?

You see when the conversation drifts, the person who committed the crime starts to fade into the background. Justice stops being the main topic. And somehow, people feel like talking about other crimes or other victims makes the conversation more “important.” But it doesn’t. It just distracts.

Let me give an example, the whole issue of Simi and Adeife would have been avoided. I'm not saying it was bad of them to speak up. I'm just saying they would have done it in a better way without letting their emotions get in the way. In the long run, all attention has been shifted off the so called victim (Mirabel) to innocent people who just wanted to help their fellow woman.

Another example is that there’ll be this wave of personal stories. One survivor shares their experience, and suddenly, hundreds more feel the need to speak up. And then again, this is powerful, I genuinely get that.

I mean it shows the scale of the problem.

But, and this is a big but, it most times dilutes the conversation about the specific crime that started it all. Instead of saying, “This rapist should be punished,” people start comparing experiences, debating who suffered more, or which story deserves more attention. And somewhere along the way, the original case, the one that triggered the discussion, gets lost.

And here’s something else I notice: the moment someone says, “The rapist should be punished,” another person jumps in: “But what about pedophiles?” or “What about abusers in other contexts?”

I mean… seriously? I get it, these are serious issues.

But the timing matters. It often feels like a way to shift discomfort away from confronting the crime we should all agree is evil and unjustified. Justice for the crime itself isn’t negotiable. And yet, somehow, we let it become negotiable in conversation.

Honestly, I think this says a lot about how we handle sexual violence as a society. There’s a tendency to over-generalize, to bring in statistics, other crimes and personal stories; sometimes as a way to show solidarity, sometimes as a way to avoid facing the raw, ugly reality of a single, undeniable act.

But here’s the truth: every crime deserves attention on its own. Every perpetrator deserves accountability on its own. Every survivor deserves justice, focus, and acknowledgment.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t talk about gender violence or inequality broadly. I’m not saying we shouldn’t listen to survivors’ stories. I am saying that when we’re in the middle of discussing a particular crime, we owe it to the survivor and to justice itself, to keep our eyes on the person who committed it. Everything else can wait. Because, at the end of the day, stories and rape rate doesn’t punish rapists. Justice does. And we can’t afford to let the conversation drift, no matter how important the other topics are.

So here’s my plea: when someone comes forward, really listen. Let’s hear their story. Acknowledge their pain. Demand accountability. Talk about the crime, not just the context. Don’t let our urge to discuss everything else steal the spotlight from the one thing that should never be ignored: the person who committed the act and the justice they owe.

Because if we can’t do that… then what are we even doing, really?

Shout out to coach Mary for the inspiration ✨

Incase anyone noticed, I've been a ghost for a really long period. Not by my will, but by situations that surpassed my control. Family matters, personal matters, academic matters and a whole lot. But what matters is that I’m back.

You see the rhymes of matters… go back and read it if it didn't click… ma fi rhymes ba ti e je walai (if you don't understand yoruba nothing for you oo)

Now, remember when I was warning 2026 not to try the same rubbish it’s immediate younger siblings did? (If you don't understand go back and read my GOODBYE 2025 post).

It did ooooo, 2026 isn't even halfway done yet and it decided to show me the tip of the highsbird…. eyesberd… sorry ICEBERG.

The year started with some gbasgbos between I and my parents and some threats of how I'll not resume and all but we thank God for the gifts of Uncles and Family friends.

Ps. Please don't be stubborn 😔 (this doesn't apply to me btw, just you readers).

As if that wasn't enough my body decided to breakdown with no particular cause.. at least none that the doctors could find. I mean it ended up with me in the hospital a day before my matriculation. CRAZY RIGHT!!!

But the good news is that my parents came for my matric and brought homemade stew for me so

Anyways that ended and tests started…

Please and please in everything you do, before you go to that ICT centre of a place, eat better eba and soup because nna ehn, you go too cry.

Personally, I like soft life…. I'm not going to stress myself for anything. So while everyone is on a line fighting to enter and leave, I'm peacefully sitting down in the library and using my phone. I cannot be dragging line with someone and enter the hall and still fail. Make I just dey my lane make person no swear for me.

We finished tests oo and for someone that didn't read and was sick, God is good!!

But then, you know when you see your result of over 25 and you convince yourself that it has to be over 15.

Or when we you see a result and ask if the lecturer has already divided the scores into two.

Well, at least I we now know what to read right. Ka sha ma dupe.

Dear Yellow house, my God is watching you oo!! Do what you want others to do to you and your family

After tests, we were preparing for exams. That's how this school said Part 1 students (100 level) exams would be postponed for a month…

For me wey my foodstuffs no reach me again, the plan was to write exams and go home to raid my father's house.

If you think postponing tests or exams would make you read better…

My reply to you is:

You're a big clown 😂

Because tell me why I'm reading a book and it seems like it's the other way around. Like instead of me pursuing this degree, it's pursing me. And guess what,

ITS JUST THE BENINGING 😔

Along the line, Insomnia decided that we were not done yet and said ‘I'm about to make you my wife’.

Because tell me why I'm closing my eyes to sleep and I'm not sleeping and this heat is making matters worse. I'll have my bath and under 2 minutes I'm going back into the bathroom to pour another fresh batch because the old batch has expired.

You people should help my life o. Because once I miss my w2am sleep it's till 4am and once I miss that it's over for the night.

Lastly, something many people wouldn't expect…

I started going to church again… And well, I'll make a post on that later.

Anyways back to the moral lessons of this episode.

1. Sometimes you need to go offline to check yourself and observe.

2. Readddddddddddddddd (you see how long the ‘d’ is…)

3. Take your health seriously.

4. If you have the resources then there's no need to stress yourself, there's no reward in suffering unnecessarily.

5. Work hard to fund your soft lifestyle.

Y'all can add the rest in the comment section.

Special appreciations to those who reached out Sogo, John, Victor on my writing break and Esther Omo Oba, Ifeoma, Chidera and many more I can't mention right now, for my wellbeing. I love you all so much.

And yesss to Coach Mary for giving me inspiration for my next post.

That one particular year.

I don’t know about others but for me 2025 is one of the years I would never forget in a hurry.

In paragraphs let’s talk about my year…

Settle in, grab a drink and let’s dive in.

Firstly, I learned how to love myself which turned out to be a much harder lesson than I imagined. To me, loving myself simply meant choosing me even when it was inconvenient, meant not having to explain myself a thousand times just so someone wouldn’t be ‘angry’ at me… there were times I sha explained.

Hear me outttt, it’s a process not a sharp something. I realized that being kind doesn’t require being endlessly available. I started asking,

“What do I need?”

“Is that a priority now?”

“Would they do the same?”

“Is this at my detriment?”

Trust me when you ask yourself these questions, life becomes easier.

Because of that, a lot of ‘friendships’ changed this year.

Some ended.

Some faded.

Some broke in ways I didn’t see coming.

Letting go of people I once felt we’re a very big part of my life, hurt deeply. There were moments I questioned myself wondered if I was cursed, or not enough, or simply unlucky with people. But then new friendships formed. Different friendships. The kind that feel lighter. The kind that don’t demand performance. The kind that meet you where you are instead of where you used to be. I learned that losing people doesn’t mean you’re unlovable; sometimes it just means you’re evolving.

I also learned more about myself this year than I ever planned to. I learned what drains me. What grounds me. What I will never accept again, laiye laiye.

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I learned to place standards, not because I think I’m better than anyone, but because peace is expensive and I can no longer afford chaos. I stopped romanticizing struggle.

I stopped excusing disrespect and this took a lot. I gave excuses for people’s disrespect oo. You fit leave me on read 3 times make I give excuse for you. That particular person, if you’re reading this God is watching you.

Oh—and let’s not forget: I learned how to spend money properly.

Yes. We can categorize it under character development.

Dear Darlings shop in new market I would never forget you in a hurry and that online vendor too

2025 humbled my finances in ways nothing else could.

I learned that crying doesn’t pay bills.

I learned that emotional spending is not therapy in any way.

I learned the difference between “I deserve this” and “I will regret this by next week.”

And yes I regretted it te next days and weeks….. like mad.

I started budgeting and prioritising but haven’t fully mastered thinking before buying.

Ps. Dear Future husband, please if you’re reading this, I promise I will not finish your money.

Back to track..

Change showed up this year uninvited.

The kind of change you don’t plan for and you never envisioned happening. The kind you swear will never happen to you, until it does.

I changed universties. I changed my opinions about things. I changed my mind. I changed my expectations. I changed how I see people. I changed how I see myself. Things I thought were permanent proved to be temporary. Things I underestimated turned out to be life-altering.

2025 taught me that certainty is overrated and flexibility is a survival skill.

While the changes went on, there were phases this year I still don’t know how to explain. Phases where everything felt heavy and foggy and unreal. Times when I was present but not fully alive. Times when I felt like I was dragging myself through days with nothing but stubbornness and hope. Sometimes healing looked like surviving. And sometimes, that had to be enough.

But even when everything went on this same year,

I fell in love. I fell in love in a way that taught me things. I learned how to love without shrinking myself. How to love without begging to be chosen. How to love without confusing attachment for affection. I learned that love can be calm, and safe, and still exciting, that it doesn’t have to hurt to be real. In that love, I realised my delusions can actually be a reality.

And how would I ever end my 2025 summary without talking about the major reason I’ve come this far.

My FAMILY & FRIENDS.

Now to be honest there were some childhood friends I was opportuned to talk to again this same year.

Honestly speaking, I never expected it but then was anything in 2025 expected?

Shout out to Omowonuola, Samuel and Inioluwa Bamigboye (I always seem to get the spelling of Matthias confused so don’t come after me).

And now to my other friends.

From Anjola to Jamaldyn to Ayo to Peter, Kamssy, Esther, Ifeoma, Odinakachimpanzee, Chidera, Timilehin, Timilehin (yes, 2 Timilehins), Erioluwa, Gideonnnn, Dami, Hikmat, Fave, Mofoluwasewa, Lucian, Semilore, Edison, John (Philips), Bajomo, Osundina Sharon, Anonymous (Feranmi), Rumor, No Taker, Caleb, Jesse and Joy, Amarachi, My roommate, Chioma, Osarimen and so many others who showed up, in conversations, in silence, in laughter, in patience. You helped me in many more ways than you know.

And to my Substack family, from my first subscriber (Ayo) to people that kept me going… Bisola, Lemon, Nehemiah, Dunsin, Oyin Osikoya, That dark fine boy, Sawyer and many others… I love you all so much. Especially my Subscribers.

2025 wasn’t neat. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t kind all the time.

But it was honest.

Here’s to a year that broke things so better ones could exist. Here’s to becoming. Here’s to moving forward, even when the map is unclear.

Goodbye, 2025.

You did your job.

And 2026, in your life no try wetin 2025 do abeg, remain small make I craze.

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It’s been a while since I last wrote my OAU Diary, and I think the gap explains itself. When life starts to feel very overwhelming, you stop documenting and start surviving. Still, welcome back to OAU. Welcome back to me. Welcome to Season 1, Episode 3.

These 2 weeks have been rough.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just heavy in a way that seeps into everything.

I’ve been relapsing mentally… depression resurfacing, anxiety tightening around my chest, insomnia refusing to let me sleep. Nights stretch endlessly, and mornings arrive too quickly.

Sleep has become something I chase but rarely catch.

At some point, I had to admit I couldn’t do it alone anymore. I talked to a friend and he helped me to get a therapist. That decision came from a place of necessity. From the realisation that I was slipping away in ways I couldn’t explain anymore. There were moments I hurt myself not for attention, not for drama, but because I didn’t know where else to put the pain. Writing was getting tiring, speaking felt rehearsed, but pretending it didn’t happen would be another lie I don’t have the energy to maintain.

As if my mind wasn’t already enough, my body followed suit.

I got sick last week two weeks ago, really sick. The kind of sickness that comes with a pounding headache so severe it feels like your head might split open. Thinking became difficult. Reading became impossible. I’d stare at words and feel nothing click. School felt unbearable. I wasn’t just tired of lectures or assignments, I was just tired of trying.

Tired of forcing myself to function when everything in me wanted to shut down.

Yet, responsibilities didn’t pause.

We had Congress sittings, meetings where decisions were made about our faculty. I attended two or three of them, and expectedly, I liked being there.

I liked watching how decisions were debated, how people navigated power and responsibility. For a moment, I imagined a future where I could do more, maybe even become an honourable, represent a constituency or become an executive.

But that dream didn’t last long.

I questioned how do I would plan to serve others when i’m barely surviving a day by myself?

I had to let go of that ambition. Not because I lack capacity, but because right now, survival consumes everything. I’m still holding my role as Assistant Course Representative, still trying to show up, still attempting to be dependable, but even that feels like I’m running on fumes. Every responsibility feels heavier than the last.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, someone said something about me, defined me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp. It stuck. It forced me to reflect on how people see me versus how I see myself. It made me realise how much of my identity I’ve allowed to be shaped by other people’s perceptions, expectations, and projections. I sat with that discomfort longer than I expected to. It unsettled me. It exposed things I’d been avoiding. Things I thought I had healed from.

That night, I drank. Not to celebrate. But to relax. Just to feel something different.

It backfired.

The hangover wasn’t just physical, it was emotional.

That morning I watched people have fun and dance and I just couldn’t.

I cried for hours at dawn. The kind of crying that leaves your eyes swollen and sore, the kind that drains you completely. My eyes were so puffy that day it hurt to blink. And still, I couldn’t sleep. Even exhaustion didn’t earn me rest.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a burden, to my friends, especially. I’m tired of needing support. Tired of explaining myself. Tired of feeling like the “sad one” who brings the mood down. I withdraw, not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to weigh anyone down with my existence. It’s lonely, but it feels safer than being a problem.

I miss my siblings deeply. I think about them often, the comfort, the familiarity, the ease. But the thought of going home fills me with anxiety. Home isn’t just love; it’s pressure, questions, expectations. I miss them, yet I’m scared of being seen like this unfinished, fragile, tired. It hurts, not being able to explain what’s wrong to your own blood. Maybe I’m scared.

Scared of how it would break my mother.

How it would break my dad.

How I would have to explain why I had scars on me.

But then again you can’t avoid it forever, can you?

Some days, I feel completely useless. I’m exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. I want to read. I want to focus. I want to feel competent again. But my brain refuses to cooperate, and that terrifies me. I’m scared for my future. Scared that I’m falling behind. Scared that this tiredness will never lift. Scared that I’ll never become who I once imagined. Scared that the ‘great girl’ they see would never happen.

There were moments this week, quiet, dangerous moments where I thought maybe if I offed myself, no one would even notice. Like maybe my absence wouldn’t disrupt anything. Like maybe I don’t matter as much as I think. That thought scared me, not because it felt dramatic, but because it felt casual. Ordinary.

And then somewhere between the fear and the fatigue, I thought of life. Not happiness. Not success. Just life. Breathing. Existing. The fact that I’m still here, still writing, still trying to make sense of things. I don’t know if that’s hope, but it’s something.

This episode doesn’t end with clarity or triumph. It ends where I am right now; tired, reflective, scared, but still breathing. Still showing up in small, imperfect ways. Still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

Currently I’m watching 13 Reasons Why and well…. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s reflection. Maybe it’s my way of trying to understand pain without becoming it. I don’t know. What I do know is that the show ends, but my life hasn’t.. and for now, maybe I'm choosing to keep it that way.

Somehow

It’s been a while since I last wrote my OAU Diary, and I think the gap explains itself. When life starts to feel very overwhelming, you stop documenting and start surviving. Still, welcome back to OAU. Welcome back to me. Welcome to Season 1, Episode 3.

These 2 weeks have been rough.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just heavy in a way that seeps into everything.

I’ve been relapsing mentally… depression resurfacing, anxiety tightening around my chest, insomnia refusing to let me sleep. Nights stretch endlessly, and mornings arrive too quickly.

Sleep has become something I chase but rarely catch.

At some point, I had to admit I couldn’t do it alone anymore. I talked to a friend and he helped me to get a therapist. That decision came from a place of necessity. From the realisation that I was slipping away in ways I couldn’t explain anymore. There were moments I hurt myself not for attention, not for drama, but because I didn’t know where else to put the pain. Writing was getting tiring, speaking felt rehearsed, but pretending it didn’t happen would be another lie I don’t have the energy to maintain.

As if my mind wasn’t already enough, my body followed suit.

I got sick last week two weeks ago, really sick. The kind of sickness that comes with a pounding headache so severe it feels like your head might split open. Thinking became difficult. Reading became impossible. I’d stare at words and feel nothing click. School felt unbearable. I wasn’t just tired of lectures or assignments, I was just tired of trying.

Tired of forcing myself to function when everything in me wanted to shut down.

Yet, responsibilities didn’t pause.

We had Congress sittings, meetings where decisions were made about our faculty. I attended two or three of them, and expectedly, I liked being there.

I liked watching how decisions were debated, how people navigated power and responsibility. For a moment, I imagined a future where I could do more, maybe even become an honourable, represent a constituency or become an executive.

But that dream didn’t last long.

I questioned how do I would plan to serve others when i’m barely surviving a day by myself?

I had to let go of that ambition. Not because I lack capacity, but because right now, survival consumes everything. I’m still holding my role as Assistant Course Representative, still trying to show up, still attempting to be dependable, but even that feels like I’m running on fumes. Every responsibility feels heavier than the last.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, someone said something about me, defined me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp. It stuck. It forced me to reflect on how people see me versus how I see myself. It made me realise how much of my identity I’ve allowed to be shaped by other people’s perceptions, expectations, and projections. I sat with that discomfort longer than I expected to. It unsettled me. It exposed things I’d been avoiding. Things I thought I had healed from.

That night, I drank. Not to celebrate. But to relax. Just to feel something different.

It backfired.

The hangover wasn’t just physical, it was emotional.

That morning I watched people have fun and danec and I just couldn't.

I cried for hours at dawn. The kind of crying that leaves your eyes swollen and sore, the kind that drains you completely. My eyes were so puffy that day it hurt to blink. And still, I couldn’t sleep. Even exhaustion didn’t earn me rest.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a burden, to my friends, especially. I’m tired of needing support. Tired of explaining myself. Tired of feeling like the “sad one” who brings the mood down. I withdraw, not because I don’t care, but because I don’t want to weigh anyone down with my existence. It’s lonely, but it feels safer than being a problem.

I miss my siblings deeply. I think about them often, the comfort, the familiarity, the ease. But the thought of going home fills me with anxiety. Home isn’t just love; it’s pressure, questions, expectations. I miss them, yet I’m scared of being seen like this unfinished, fragile, tired. It hurts, not being able to explain what's wrong to your own blood. Maybe I'm scared.

Scared of how it would break my mother.

How it would break my dad.

How I would have to explain why I had scars on me.

But then again you can't avoid it forever, can you?

Some days, I feel completely useless. I’m exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. I want to read. I want to focus. I want to feel competent again. But my brain refuses to cooperate, and that terrifies me. I’m scared for my future. Scared that I’m falling behind. Scared that this tiredness will never lift. Scared that I’ll never become who I once imagined. Scared that the ‘great girl’ they see would never happen.

There were moments this week, quiet, dangerous moments where I thought maybe if I offed myself, no one would even notice. Like maybe my absence wouldn’t disrupt anything. Like maybe I don’t matter as much as I think. That thought scared me, not because it felt dramatic, but because it felt casual. Ordinary.

And then somewhere between the fear and the fatigue, I thought of life. Not happiness. Not success. Just life. Breathing. Existing. The fact that I’m still here, still writing, still trying to make sense of things. I don’t know if that’s hope, but it’s something.

This episode doesn’t end with clarity or triumph. It ends where I am right now; tired, reflective, scared, but still breathing. Still showing up in small, imperfect ways. Still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

Currently I'm watching 13 Reasons Why and well…. I'll be fine.

Yes, you read that right.

Let me give you the full gist…

Now my dad was a Muslim growing up, he never told us but my mom said he converted when he was in secondary school. His older siblings beat him up and all, but he still maintained and now most of them are Christians, some are still involved in idol worshipping (at least one I know) and there's still an almost equal amount of Muslims in the family.

My mom on the other hand was a Catholic. No stress in her family home.

None that she told me of.

You see I on the other hand grew up in a ‘lukewarm’ household, like the overly religious would call it.

The household where we pray in the morning before going our various ways

Go to church whenever we can

Wear and do whatever we wanted so far it wasn't against societal standard

Didn't attend vigils, mainly because my dad believed that God can hear us from anywhere and we didn't have to lie down on the floor and shout at the top of our voices.

Didn't go to any Pastor or Man of God for visions or interpretations.

Read our bibles and knew the basic David and Goliaths story.

As I grew older, I realised that the outside world was different, there were a lot of questionable things like

Fasting & Prayer where we had to starve ourselves for God to answer our prayers faster. The longer you fast and tarry, the stronger you become. You aren't praying properly if your whole body isn't shaking.

Speaking in tongues where we spoke words even we didn't understand because the devil wouldn't be able to hear our prayers and deceive us or hinder it from reaching heaven. At some point I spoke in tongues myself but questioned, What if I'm just blabbing trash? . And there'll be this preacher speaking on how it's compulsory to speak in tongue as a believer.

Vigils because God hears prayers better at midnight to 3am and because that's when the spiritual world and the physical world come in contact with each others.

Everything being spiritual, so you're telling me I failed the test after a marathon reading because I didn't pray, but there are atheist that made it in life without recognising God. I have headache and it's suddenly an attack that was meant to be for my father.

Long prayers qualifying how big my mansion would be in heaven. How I must always be praying because the evil forces are against me. I mean because for real, we had activities to carry out.

Suffering while serving Christ. I mean Pastors live large life and members give up their last money because they were asked to sew a seed. I mean does God really want his children to suffer that much? Looking at men of God, they're very educated, stinkingly wealthy and living a well to do life, and there's Mr. Emmanuel knocking at doors with his gifted suit of over 7 years and the burial shirt saying ‘Adieu Mama' with a shoe that's been used to walk miles.

Fear attached to everything. For some reason if I listen to John Legends All of Me I wouldn't make heaven, but that serial killer who has asked for forgiveness would make heaven because God has cleansed him and he's now as white as snow.

How I shouldn't question God because that's how it's meant to be. I loose a pen…. Maybe it's God's will.

My uncle dies…. It was his time.

Why am I suffering…. Everything happens for a reason.

And in the end it's oh Don't question God, it's a sin.

How suddenly there were levels in Christianity and spirituality. You have to have prayed to this extent to reach this level and so on.

The truth is I went on with it all, still serving devotedly because there's one Almighty God looking down at everything I was doing and my reward would be in heaven.

Until that period…

Ther was a very small disagreement, few people close to me would remember the story. It was nothing too much to me sha, but what happened was very funny and disappointing.

Because at that point everybody deserted me like I was a plague and the evil one. I remember one on my friends mom advising her to stop associating with me and that was how I stopped relating with my church members and doing anything in church in general. That was my period of reflection.

My period of questioning.

That was when I noticed something. The church was no longer about leading the sheep, it was about position and power.

Whoever was very good at bible quoting and quizzes became the teacher’s favourite. For some reasons they we're more spiritual, holy and responsible than any other child.

Or you just have to be the Pastor's child.

Finally you had to be the child of the richest parent or the one that contributed most to church events.

And proudly I would say, I was none of them.

I was the type to come to church with a face full of make-up, basic verses a Christian should know, bold earrings, a fitted outfit that showed my body physique and walk with a raised shoulder and a smile. My parents weren't pastors, neither were they one of the heavy contributors to their frivolities.

I vividly remember 2 occasions where they told my mom that I was ‘doing too much’. I told my Mom to tell them to tell their children to do better. My mom scolded me for it obviously but I didn't care.

The line wasn't drawn at that point. They went further to asking her to tell me to reduce my relationship with the opposite gender. Those that know me know my closest friends are boys, and they're really nice people. Shout out to Ayo, Gideon, Peter, Jamaldyn and every other male friend I have, you all have been such a support to me (One day I'll write a newsletter on them). Now back to track, my dad scolded me for it sha and I didn't listen because I knew nothing was going on between us. And then the last straw was them telling her to conduct a pregnancy test for me, because I was gaining weight and was looking like a pregnant woman. Mind you at that point was going through a relapsing phase of depression but you know what they didn't observe it because I wasn't one of their favourites.

In this situation I don't blame them, I blame my mother for listening and I told her.

Mind you when we relocated at 2020, my mom began to take Christianity a little seriously after just cruising and all. She decided to settle in RCCG. So she started being active and you know what goes on… you're automatically known. And so I couldn't miss church any longer.

And that was how I was forced to go to church on my own ever since and I realised that Christianity was all out your outer image than inward. It was about how you dressed, looked, praised God outside, spoke in tongues and all.

I didn't want to answer the questions to why I stopped to my parents, so I just continued going to church. And the it was mistaken as pride. I remember a certain person being a gossip and talking about me to my close friend and yes she told me.

After all these I expected a judgement and more suffering from God than I was already going through. I remember two to three of my friends messaging me on how God was calling me back. I remember one of them giving me a call and telling me of something I did almost a month back from when he called and he said the Holy Spirit told him and that I needed deliverance. During the course of the call I slept off during some time and eventually put on airplane mode and blamed it on network. I was sure that I didn't need a deliverance. At least he couldn't prove it.

But after that I lived, no judgement from anyone except the bad belle church members. Nobody questioning me if I spoke in tongues or I prayed for 3 hours and I felt at peace.

Maybe the problem wasn't Christianity itself, maybe it was just the version I was given.

Maybe sometimes you have to step outside to understand clearly what is inside.

And maybe taking a break wasn't so bad after all.

And maybe that's it.

Please don't come for me.

This would have been in my OAU diary series buttt y'all are special so I'll give you details.

So on Monday I was with 2 beautiful people I’ve been blessed and opportuned to work with, and we were waiting for the office we wanted to purchase manuals for our coursemates to be opened.

During that period I was talking endlessly about how I want to travel round the world and get married in a garden because nature is beautiful.

Imagine leaving a garden with beautiful and diverse flowers and trees to be in the confinement of four walls with a window and chairs,

No fresh air

No butterfly

No blue sky

No nature whatever

Just two or three flower pots by the altar side.

And what Trojan said was, “This girl is delusional,” and that hit me…

What is our definition of delusion?

Growing up I’ve always wanted to travel around the world, especially to historical places like Jerusalem, Greece, Egypt and the likes. I’ve always wanted something different from the Nigerian way of life.

You see most times, wanting something different makes people laugh. Wanting a life that doesn’t look like the one they settled into automatically becomes “delusion.” But I’ve come to realize that if dreaming big makes you delusional, then maybe delusion is a form of clarity.

Because the life I want isn’t small.

The love I want isn’t basic.

The future I want isn’t the one I grew up watching.

AND I'M VERY SURE OF THAT.

I want a man who loves baking and cooking just like me, someone who will mix flour with me on a Saturday morning and laugh when the kitchen gets messy.

I want a home shaped like a book (yes, literally), located somewhere quiet with trees, colorful flowers, and a breeze you can hear. A house filled with novels I love, with that one playlist always humming in the background like a heartbeat.

I want a man who listens and who enjoys physical touch the way I do, not just in a romantic way, but in the simple comfort of holding hands, leaning on each other, hugging for no reason. I want softness to be normal.

And I want my marriage to be nothing like my parents’.

I don’t want the silence, the unspoken hurt, the distance, or the fear of expressing love. I want a home where affection isn’t strange.

I want to dance everyday in the living room with him

I want flowers

I want gifts

I want love

I want to get married early, but I don’t want to rush into motherhood. I want my first child after at least four years of marriage, you know, after we’ve lived a little, learned each other deeply, and reached a place where we’re financially, emotionally, psychologically, and physically ready for the challenges and beauty of raising a child.

I want my children and I to have a strong sibling bond

Close, warm, connected, but I also want healthy boundaries.

I want to build a home where the mistakes I witnessed growing up are not repeated, where communication isn’t rare, and where love isn’t a guessing game.

And one thing I refuse to do is settle. I’m not marrying a man because I’m tired of waiting, tired of searching, or afraid of being alone. I want to marry someone because I genuinely love him and because he genuinely loves me back with that same depth and intention.

Not convenience. Not pressure.

Pure Love.

I want to be an event planner because seeing people at their happiest moments brings me joy.

I want to travel countries, collect memories, take pictures of sunsets in cities I’ve only seen in books.

I want to grow old with the man I love beside me in a beautiful garden, knowing that I didn’t shrink myself to fit into someone else’s version of life.

And yes… it’s different from how love often looks in Nigeria.

Different from the “manage it like that” mindset.

Different from the “temper your expectations” advice.

But mine will be different.

Delusion or not.

Because if dreaming of a beautiful life is delusion, then settling for a life you don’t even like… what do we call that?

Anyways as always a picture of nature at the end 🕊️

But then again ‘She’s young and delusional’….

Yes, we all know a whole lot has been happening lately,

The Kidnappings and The killings.

And we all know it didn't start in one day……

Growing up, my mom would tell my siblings and me stories of how she, her friends and her siblings would be out at any time of the day and it was safe, her parents and other parents didn't have to bother about them being kidnapped or anything, they knew their children were safe. She would travel with her mom and no story of kidnapping. And Muslims and Christians all lived in peace ( at least most). Mind you my mom happened to stay in Kogi and Akwa Ibom while growing up ( I still don't understand how and why sha so don't ask me). The thing is it wasn't rampant when they were growing up. There were just few cases that didn't make it out to the press.

The truth is the whole insurgency didn't start with Boko Haram or ISWAP, it grew from Poverty, Political neglect, Corruption, Illiteracy and stupid misconceptions and inherited beefs.

Now BOKO HARAM was founded around 2002 in Maiduguri by Mohammed Yusuf. The original and official name is Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad which means PEOPLE COMMITTED TO THE PROPHET’S TEACHINGS AND JIHAD.

For the beginning part, it was more of preaching and community building and in 2009, things escalated and there were clashes between them and the Nigerian Police.

WHAT CAUSED IT?

Apparantly, the Boko Haram believed that the Nigerian government and it's institutions were all corrupt and “UN - ISLAMIC".

Before the major clash, they often fought with the police over basic enforcement issues. For example, the motorcycle helmet law in 2009. And they refused to wear it because it was western and against their doctrine.

Now, the police force had to resort to arresting and (or) harassing them because they were becoming more militant by the day. In return, they accused police officers of targeting their members, abusing them and being an obstruction to their religious practice.

In July 2009, the last straw was drawn. The police shot several unarmed Boko Haram members during the helmet law confrontation and the Boko Haram retaliated violently, attacking police stations. And then the police again responded with a heavy-handed crackdown and then the large scale fighting in Borno, Bauchi, Yobe and Kano started, there was destruction of Boko Haram strongholds and thousands of people were killed. And the major one was their founder was executed by the police.

And that was what pushed them to full blown terrorism and adopted a strategy of revenge attacks.

Now, they started kidnapping individuals in the year 2011.

The first kidnapping was a very small one that was made up of local men, government workers and security related targets.

The second was in 2013.

And the third was in 2014 and that was the one that went viral, the April 2014 Chibok girls Kidnapping.

You want to know why right.

1. To raise funds, with the ransom they would collect, to buy ammunitions.

2. To gain international attention of which the 2014 Chibok girls Kidnapping did.

3. To use them as Slaves, Wives and Soldiers.

Why did Christian killing and attacking start right?

1. They believed that the Christians were the representatives of western influence of which they loathed. I mean Boko Haram means Western Education is forbidden.

2. To create division and fear in Nigeria. The thing is Nigeria is a religious mixed country and they wanted to defeat it using psychological warfare. They sparked religious conflict, weaken national unity and make people distrust the governments ability to protect them.

3. In early 2010s, most of the police men and military attacks happened in Christan dominated areas of the north like Plateau, Adamawa and Kaduna. So they targeted Christians as punishment for supporting the state. Their leader, after Mohammed's death even amplified this by saying he saw Christians as legitimate targets, and he bragged about it everywhere.

Noticeable attackings are the ones in 2009, during the uprising.

In 2010 - 2011, the church bombings on Christmas Eve of 2010.

In 2012, this was when it became widespread and intentional

And again in 2025, the church at Kwara.

Whole all these went on, there were internal disagreement after Mohammed Yusuf died so… they split, now let me give the reasons.

• The successor Abubakar Shekau, was extremely brutal and unpredictable, he refused to negotiate, loved public executions and suicide bombing.

• Do you want to know the thing… it was that he killed Muslims as easily as Christians. It was as if he refused to pick a struggle. Now he killed the Muslims because they refused to join Boko Haram. And this was what caused a major disagreement between them and this didn't still lead to the splitting.

• After all these, they pledged their allegiance to ISIS. Now, ISIS wanted structured leadership, less killing of Muslims (at least spear your own na), more targeted military personnels, the police and the government and more discipline.

Guess what.. Our very own Shekau refused so, they made the late founder son the leader and Shekau created a rival fraction and that became the origin of the fractions. Mind you this happened in 2016.

1. Shekau founded the JAS ( Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’awati wal-Jihad).

His own fraction was

• The most violent wing.

• They used children and women as suicide bombers.

• Attacked Muslims civilians indiscriminately;

• Massacred entire communities.

Now, Shekau’s people were involved in the:

24 December, 2010, Eve Church Bombings at Plateau state (Over 80 people were killed)

26 August, 2011, UN Headquarters Bombing at Abuja (23 people killed, 70+ casualties)

20 January, 2012, Kano Multiple Bombings (185 - 200 people killed)

April 2013, Baga Massacre after a clash with the military (180+ civilians killed and massive property destruction)

14 April, 2014 Chibok Girls Kidnapping (276 schoolgirls abducted from Government Girls Secondary School Chibok)

And the worst of all, January 2015, BAGA MEGA MASSACRE (Over 2000 civilians killed), the entire town was burnt down

And many others…

Although it collapsed in 2021 after Shekau blew himself up during a clash with ISWAP May 2021.

2. ISWAP ( Islamic States West Africa Province). This was led by Abu Musab al-Barnawi (Mohammed Yusuf’s son). Compared to JAS, they wanted fewer Muslim civilians killing, more structure governance and more targeted attacks on military and government.

Now, this body is currently the strongest and they reside and are active in Lake Chad and Borno. They have instigated the:

• June 2018 Attack on Damboa Military Base (Borno). Solders were killed and ammunitions were seized.

• November 2018 Metele Military Base Attack (Borno) One of the deadliest for Nigerian Army, dozens and dozens of soldiers were killed.

• July 2020 killing of 5 humanitarian workers for working with the government.

• February 2021 Kagara School Kidnapping (Niger State)

It's still surviving though, unfortunately.

3. Ansaru (JAMBS - Jama’atu Ansaru Muslimina fi Biladis Sudan)

This breakaway was led by Khalid al-Barnawi and Mamman Nur in 2012. Their reason was because they wanted a more international jihad style and they objected to killing innocent and ordinary Nigerians and mainly they rejected Shekau's reckless killings of Muslims. They were involved in kidnapping foreign engineers, diplomats and workers, ambushing military convoys, attacking Kaduna, Kano and Katsina and they supported bandits in Northwest Nigeria. Examples of cases are

• January 2013 Kidnapping of a French Engineer in Rimi, Katsina.

• February 2013 Killing of 7 foreigners in Bauchi state.

• May 2013 attacking of soldiers escorting foreign workers.

• 2017 - 2022 Ambushes, Kidnappings and support to bandit groups in Kaduna and Katsina forest areas.

• As at today, they're small but active in Northwest forests.

4. Bakura Fraction was founded by a loyalty from JAS, Bakura Doro. It was formed because Shekau's group was scattered after his death, they wanted autonomy from ISWAP and they wanted control of Lake Chad smuggling, fishing and weapons routes.

They were involved in attacking fishing communities, taxing fishermen and traders, ambushed military boats and they kidnapped civilians around Lake Chad. For example

• 2015 - 2020 attacks on refugee boats on Lake Chad

• 2016 - 2019 kidnappings of Farmers and Traders

• 2020 - 2023 control of fishing routes.

Currently they're still very much active, again unfortunately.

5. Mamman Nur Faction lastly, was founded by the mastermind behind UN bombing, Mamman Nur. They formed because they disagreed with Shekau's brutality (ended up doing worse) and wanted a more strategic jihad. They were in charge of UN Abuja bombing in 2012, coordinated kidnappings and attacks on security forces.

• 26 August 2011: UN Abuja Bombing

• 2012 - 2014: Targeted High-Level Kidnappings.

Anyways, fortunately they were executed by ISWAP in 2018 for betrayal.

Now, while all these were going on, kidnappers and the likes decided to start their work, the Fulani people started their battle for lands with farmers and communities. Not all of them were violent but yeah, the clashing eventually led to the deaths of some people. And you know the problem, it was the fact that the weakened security environment fueled it.

And here people, was how the whole issue began, tomorrow I'll be talking on it's impact on Nigerians and how the government and people in power have reacted overtime.

Thank you for reading 🤎

I want to resign abeggggggg

So basically, I got assisant course rep work.

All of you that told me it’ll be sweet don't let me catch you I swear to God who made me…..

Tell me why these children are calling me by 11pm to ask questions that have already been anwered on the group chat… Like, do you people think I screenshot information and store it under my pillow?

Or do you think my brain is a gallery and my eyes are the camera?

And to you my Course rep if you want to marry me just tell me already…. I turn left, it's his message, I turn right, his message, I hear my phone beep it's ‘My Able Course Rep’ that's calling me…..

Someone will not even know that I'm an assistant at this point. The only thing is that people recognize the “main” rep more. But nna eh you see Responsibility?

Stress?

Useless questions?

Night messages?

We are sharing it 50/50 like married couples.

Anyways, welcome to Part 2 of OAU Diary with Abba's.

So yes, I became assistant course rep. In my head, it was just a leadership position.

A little title.

Small bragging rights.

Nobody told me I sign up to be the World Bank of information.

I mean I was just in it for the name, not the work ….

First week of being course rep, I had to be actively involved in manual buying. Do you know how annoying it is when somebody pays midnight and wants to get it by 8am the next morning or a name disappears from the list like rapture happened?

Excuse me, my name is not there.

I paid yesterday.

Yen yen yen

After buying manual…. Come and pick manual

Gbam another problem

That's how one told me to bring his manual from Agnes Hostel to Angola because I'm now a delivery personnel abi????

You'll pay for the bike ba?

That reminds me…

Dear Agnes hostel, please in Jesus name stop showing me shege. Tell me why I've been fetching water from the next hostel like a refugee.

Agnes (Private hostels in general) will humble you.

Lemme sha give you quick lessons so you’ll not repeat mistakes I made.

1. You’re not bigger than a screen guard.

2. Never let them send manual money to your personal account.

3. Don't use your mom's NIN for your bank

4. Prayyyyyyyy!!!!!

5. Block all your church members and people that never mind their businesses.

6. Don't give your number to fellowship people (I'm sorry for this) and I will explain why.

7. Pray again but this time for good coursemates not goats.

8. Attend seminars.

9. Avoid collective cooking.

Now let me explain

1. Is because I've fixed my phone twice within the one month that I've been on this campus. And there I was thinking screen guard is for careless people….. mind you I'm their leader

2. Due to number one….. I thought I had enough money to fix it and then I realised that it was manual money… So I had to borrow money to replace the one I used to fix my phone. And secondly Opay decided to put me in a big dilemma which leads us to number 3. Our very own opay decided that they need facial verification and guess what…

I unfortunately don't look like my mother

At the end of the day I was able to sort it out and guess whattttttt

I can no longer use Opay for now but yeah shout out to Opay because they have nice customer service on twitter…

Now Why do you have to pray right?

1. For controlled temper

2. For understanding lecturers ( because why hasn't an assistant course rep done her faculty registration, it's done now btw)

3. In general pray for everything.

Reason for number 5 abi…… Now earlier last week, some people decided to be oversabi adults and They showed my dad my tiktok page and called my mom to ask if she was checking up on me…. Now not in a ‘hope she's good’ way but in a ‘she is rebelling’ manner. And genuinely I know they ‘care’ about me but heyyyy

MIND YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. Pardon my language.

Now my mom being the worrying type decided to call and almost cried talking of how I decided to use jewelries like the Lord of the Rings. And then she threatened me

Everywhere first BLUR

Like the doughnut and drink I was consuming lost taste….. I spat it out immediately saw the message….

But genuinely in my defense she trained me with it and I decided to go extra with it and you can't blame me… . E dey my body already.

Let's just say my tiktok and experimental fashion is on a hold and yess

I've blocked the oversabi people.

I'll share an experience to why I did that in another news letter another time.

So moving on to number 7. I said you shouldn't give them your number because if you're like me, you wouldn't able to say no. You'll just keep on disappointing them every time.

I went to a fellowship once and gave them my number and then they called me to invite me again but my Sundays are resetting days… they're for me alone. And I end up giving them an excuse every blessed Sunday on why I can't make it and then put my phone on DND the next morning and sleep or watch it ring.

I'm so sorry

And then there's this other one that I haven't even attended one of their services. AT ALL. And then she keeps on coming and inviting me and speaking but I don't think it's working. I genuinely wonder sometimes… Do those people have time for themselves?

But hey.. wetin concern me

Anyways, I can't sha block them because we don't know what God has in stock for us but abegggg if you can't keep up with it don't give them your real number.

Once again I'm sorry but if you were in my shoes you would say the same.

Now why you should pray again is for good coursemates not goats

I repeat, not goats!!!!

I know what my two eyes have seen this period.

And finally attend seminars. I used to see them as a waste of time but after hearing Big Prechy, The guy that talked about taking pictures because you'll need them (I can't remember his name 😔), Abdul Raheem (I think) Aroundade, The Priest, Fantum, Papy T, Wahala and a pretty lady speak ( I'm sorry for not remembering her name). They're very useful.

The theme was

ALGORITHM OF SUCCESS: Navigating Your Way To Being Successful On Campus.

And it was worth every second.

Let's just say… Expect me in Politics soon…. (Just like my Dad).

But it's in OAU not Uni Ilorin in this case

See you next Episode

And yessss I'm showing off a picture Sogo took… ps. Sogo is my lovely coursemate 🥹

Why wouldn't you love nature?????

So I just left Babcock University to Obafemi Awolowo University, now I know a lot of people will be questioning…

“Are you okay?”

“ How would you leave a private university for a federal University? “

“What is wrong with you? “

Now now that is not even the craziest part

The craziest part is that I started again from 100 level.

To be very honest I have my personal reasons and I will share that one day but not today…

So with that I'll say: welcome to Episode 1 of My OAU diary with Abba's.

And yess we'll be here for 5 years

Firstly I would want to say I've learnt a lot within these past few weeks.

1. Observe before resuming

2. Don't be in a hurry

3. Run away from ONLINE VENDORS

4. Avoid Darling shop in New Market

5. Don't do amebo

Why abi?

Because I resumed out of tiredness to be at home and got stuck in a 2 weeks strike. In those blessed two weeks strike I made financial mistakes, analysed my life and planned it out. But yes heavy on the financial mistakes.

Now the thing is when you're less busy and there's nothing to keep you busy especially since there is no class and nothing taking you outside your brain processes things differently. It tends to make you crave things you don't need at all. When I say at all I mean AT ALL.

So while I was bedrotting one particular afternoon I decided that I was craving Sharwarma and Cake and Ice Cream…. I forgot to mention that when spending I spend like a fool that has no future.

So you know what happened next 🌚 I bought it and said let me enjoy this money now then cry later. Guess what

That was the worst mistake I ever made…. I felt it in my bone marrow. I was paineddddd…

Dear Darling shop in new market my God is watching you and he will give you what you deserve.

As a normal person with sense you wouldn't return there again ba?

Let me prove you wrong 🌚

I went again and this time my cake tasted of salt and I found cockroaches in the bread I bought.

I sha called them and they replaced the bread sha… and yes trust me I complained about the cake too but I already gave my friend to eat it.

The financial mistake isn't over yet people….

Before I continue

Dear Online Vendors please block me in Jesus name.

You see I used in Jesus name.

Toor.

That's how I said okay oo let me order bag from this woman. You know it was what I wanted on the image I saw. I paid for the bag even added delivery fee seff as per I can't stress myself nau. That's how this woman kept on postponing my delivery.

One thing about me is that I never actually learnt my lesson

I ordered a perfume with the bag that they hadn't delivered. And I waited and called and fought on the business group before she brought the bag and now perfume was an issue… Anyways I sha collected my perfume today and it's quite okay for the price…

Did I mention I was a perfume freak but in my defense I'm not an addict yet 😔

So do the calms.

It didn't end there guys but I don't want you people to see me finish.

After that youthful recklessness and exhorbirance era, I told myself I’d behave.

No more reckless spending, no unnecessary attention, no drama.

Just mind my business, go to class and sleep abi?

Na lieeeee

Apparently, quiet life and I are not meant to be in the same sentence… EVER!!!

The thing is that at Babcock, my social life was boom boom everywhere. So I promised myself a fresh start at OAU, quiet, focused and invisible Abba's

But omoo

My “welcoming spirit” refused to let me rest. I moved into Agnes Hostel, and before I knew it, the typewriter mouth of mine started controlling itself to say hi and greet people.

Like ogbenii shut up nau 😔

As if it wasn't enough I followed the porter to tell hostel beside mine to do inspection… it was none of my business oo 😭 I sha came back to the hostel limping because I wanted to cross the gutter but somehow landed on my hands and knees

Butttt I was coming back to my three favourite people in the hostel.

My sweet roommate and 2 other darlings and guess what…. They're all Igbo babes

I’m considering getting an Igbo name soon at this point btw

I thought the social life would obliviously end there but nooooooo, my ancestors whispered in my ear….. ‘Go for Assistant Course Rep’

As if the shege I saw as Course rep and Deputy chaplain wasn't enough

Me seff didinrin said yessss I will go.

Guess what again

They said that it's either Course rep or nothing and you know I thought about it… being the Course Representative doesn't sound that bad. So I changed my flier and boom came out to vy for the position of the course rep after all it was all for fun I had nothing to loose.

The day for manifesto came

My heart almost left my chest, I was praying that they didn't choose me for some reasons.

I was now plotting what to say in my head… everybody had already said everything. The only thing in my head was all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy omooo Una go too play for this department sha oo because me seff no know wetin I dey do.

I sha won Assistant Course Representative and I'm happy because that's what I wanted in the first place.

Anyways currently I'm on my bed sha reading PHY 101 and MTH 101 because I need to pass with First class abeg..

And then my very own Agnes Hostel has refused to give us constant light and water and the owner of the hostel has also refused to be replying to my messages. I promise I didn't do anything evil.

I'll give you guys update next week biko these flies don dey too much for this side.