I have been typing and deleting this for the past few days because I genuinely don’t know where to start this my super story from.

As a pastor’s child, my eyes have seen pepper. Not ordinary pepper o. Maybe Cameroon pepper. (please laugh😀)

It is actually part of the reason I have decided to start keeping to myself and leaving it at greetings, because either way, there are people who are always ready to humble you and point out every single thing you do or say.

And before I get attacked, this is not a general experience for PKs. (Pastor's kids)

Back to why we are here.

A few years ago, I was accused of stealing teenagers’ offering.

Let me explain.

Teenagers used to have their services outside the main hall while the youths, adults and elderly people were in the main hall. And I was basically like the class captain. I would mark attendance, take note of people who were absent and, if I remembered, give them a call to ask why they didn’t come to church.

But my main task was collecting the offerings, counting them, recording the amount and submitting everything to the SECRETARY.

Take note of the secretary because she is veryyyy important to this story.

I had been doing this faithfully since I joined the teenagers’ class from the pre-teens class. Not once had I miscalculated the money or kept any share for myself.

I swear on my life!!! And my assistant’s life too!!!

So, that fateful Wednesday after Bible study, I was waiting for my parents, who were still in a meeting, when the woman in charge of the teenagers’ class came to me with my so-called assistant.

She was frowning, and had this accusing face. She sha asked me where all the offering I had been collecting was because “they” couldn’t find it and “they” needed it because they had Teenagers’ Conference that weekend.

I casually told her,

“Oh ma, I usually give the offerings to the secretary, Aunty so-so-so.”

And that was it. At least, I thought that was it. I didn't think…

I had no idea that this woman had already escalated the matter elsewhere, telling people that I had been stealing church money. Imagine oh

My parents eventually finished their meeting and we all went home.

Hmmm. Hmmmmmmmmm

Dinner time.

My parents were seated in the living room. I had just finished cooking and served them. I was about to leave when my dad brought up the accusation.

“So-so-so person said you have been taking the offering.”

And again, because this whole thing was a non-issue to me, I simply answered,

“Oh, she told me and I explained to her that I have been giving them to the secretary.”

I turned to leave.

And you would not imagine what landed on my head.

Slippers. Leather slippers.

To be honest, it probably seemed like I had walked out on them, but genuinely, I thought that was the end of the discussion. There was absolutely no way they would believe that I had been stealing nau abi?

Anyways.

I received the beating of my life that day.

That was my villain arc.

I was so angry. Jesus. I was angry!!

And please, before you tell me that people make mistakes and “they are your parents,” I want you to imagine how I felt.

Imagine being labelled a liar. Imagine being labelled a thief.

And your parents didn't believe or defend you.

And the worst part…

I never got an apology from my parents or the woman who accused me.

The only person who apologised was the secretary.

But even then, how was she going to deny that I had been giving her the money?

How???

My mum eventually found all the sheets of paper where I had written the names, dates and amounts collected for every Sunday. I had submitted those sheets every time.

She decided to look into the matter after seeing that her daughter had cried herself to sleep, woke up to continue another round of tears.

The next day, she went to my dad’s office and searched through the desk.

And there it was.

My not-so-cute but very bold handwriting.

The claim was that I hadn’t been submitting the offerings at all.

But those sheets were proof that I had been doing exactly what I was supposed to do.

And this was precisely why I always collected the offering before the class ended, counted it in class, recorded the amount and wrapped the money with the sheet of paper, with the help of my assistant!!

I wanted to avoid stories that break the heart.

But look at me now. By the way…this assistant didn't catch any smoke at all.

The woman who accused me eventually segregated me during the programme and barely spoke to me. She completely ignored my beautiful existence.

I was supposed to lead praise and worship, but she gave it to someone else instead.

And I was deeply hurt. Not because of the praise and worship.

I genuinely liked this woman. No jokes.

But oh well.

I’m such a difficult child.

I’m always wrong.

I’m always at fault.

I’m always the victim and never the victor.

It’s been years now.

So whatever, mannn.

God is still good regardless.

Anyhow sha.

Sally had what we could call the people-pleasing syndrome.

What does this mean?

“People-pleasing syndrome” is a behavioural pattern where a person constantly prioritises the needs, wishes and approval of others over their own well-being.

Just a little sidenote: people-pleasing syndrome is not a medical diagnosis. It is simply a term used to describe a pattern of behaviour.

A people-pleaser, according to Merriam-Webster, is “a person who has an emotional need to please others, often at the expense of his or her own needs or desires.”

And a people-pleaser is not necessarily a selfless person.

I think it is very important to note this distinction. Because there is a difference between being a kind person and being unable to say no. Got it?

There is a difference between generosity and constantly giving yourself away.

There is a difference between keeping the peace just so nobody “hates” you.

“To people-pleasers, meeting other people’s needs can become a sort of magic formula for gaining love, self-worth, acceptance or avoiding abandonment and rejection.” (Braiker 2001).

“I hate to admit it, but I have to. I have been a people-pleaser for way too long, and it took a series of events, and one terrible one, to realise that that is not life at all.”

— Sally. (Not me.)

It took Sally so long to realise that she had given away her whole personality just so people would like her and she is now in what I would like to call a self respect debt. 

Being so agreeable, the kind girl, always ready to help even when it is inconvenient, always saying sorry just for peace and not because she has done something wrong, staying in relationships where she wasn't respected,  always willing to give even when she had so little. 

She made herself available to people who probably wouldn’t have done the same for her. And realizing that these people would not show up for her the way she showed up for them was her character development.

Kind. Selfless. Nice. Words that people have used in describing her and so she didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, “being nice” had become her way of “coping”

Sally once told me about a day she hadn’t eaten all day in school. She was broke and didn’t want to “disturb” her parents or her brothers for money. A girl she really admired in the hostel knocked on her door, thinking it was either of her friends coming to her rescue, she opened the door. 

“Hi, I sell nice earrings, necklaces and hair bonnets. Are you interested in buying?” The girl said with a mix of joy and “I hope she buys”

Now, one could either be interested or not interested. Right?

Considering Sally hadn’t eaten all day because she was a broke, tired, hungry and frustrated final year student,  she could have politely declined.

But Sally looked at this beautiful girl who had probably walked through the entire hostel advertising her products. It was the largest female hostel in West Africa. (No award for this “incredible achievement”). So she had walked the entire nine blocks and probably hadn't sold anything. Damn.  

So Sally bought two earrings. I choose to leave out how and where SALLY, NOT ME, got the money for those earrings.

You know what I think is so funny but probably isn't, is the fact that she never wore the yellow and black smiley-face earrings. 

She never wore them.

They weren’t even the type of earrings she liked and wore.

So why did she buy them?Why didn’t she just say no?

Maybe she wanted to be helpful.  Money that she could have used to buy bread. Sally really loves bread. If you are reading this and would love to buy her bread, you should send me a dm😊

For Sally, Saying “No” meant she was wicked and selfish and proud

Saying “No” meant death! 

It was almost as if she fed on people’s approval. If someone was happy with her, she was okay.

If she found out someone or a group of people didn't like her, she would  begin to wonder what she had done wrong, be so troubled and would “make that her headache” for the weeks to come. This is so stressful I tell you. Don't ask me how I know this. I just know!

If someone misunderstood her, she felt the need to explain herself. To say “I'm sorry” and then continue conversations like she wasn't hurt by what the other person did. 

And you know what the irony of being a people-pleaser is? At least in Sally’s case, people hate them. 

Sometimes, they don’t even know you. They can't trust you. Because you constantly edit yourself to be acceptable to them.  You have no personality because you are afraid of setting boundaries. So you are not only boring you are also the YES GIRL✰ (not a compliment) , the easy girl, the pushover, the “just ask her, she will answer” girl.

People-pleasing is self-betrayal. There. I said it. Sally, come fight me.

Wanting to be liked by other people when you don’t have that much love or respect for yourself.

You tolerate disrespect because you don’t want to fight. I pity you.

But what happens when you spend your entire life making other people comfortable at your own expense? Broooo 

You need to start asking yourself the important questions. 

Who are you when nobody needs anything from you?

What do you actually want?

What do you actually like?

Sally has learnt that saying no doesn’t make her a bad person.

 She has her regrets. I would tell her, however, not to hate herself for having these regrets. 

If there is one thing I have learnt from Sally is that regret doesn't remind us that we did badly, but that we can do better. I would tell her to talk about her people pleasing phase and laugh about it. 

“I live to please everybody but myself. It felt safe, but now I have to let go.”

Sally said that.

Not me.

Obviously.

I don’t want to marry a man like my father or become a mother like my mother.

Not because I hate my parents. I don’t.

I love my parents. I really do. But I don’t want to become them. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know that I am already like them in some ways.

When I was much younger, my dad and I were really close. When I say really close, I mean close close. We had a relationship I remember fondly. There was even one very important, life-altering event that I kept from both him and my mum, but outside of that, I genuinely felt close to him.

Now, our relationship has become mostly greetings, jokes with my siblings, asking for money, discussing important projects, family meetings about our future, church programmes, church events, church gatherings, prayer meetings, Bible studies…

Asides from all the church stuff, you might ask, What else must a parent do?

I don’t know.

This is just my new normal.

Sometimes, if either of them comes into my room and tries to strike up a conversation or asks me random questions, I immediately can’t wait for them to leave.

It feels forced.

Because we haven’t been doing this.

Or maybe we used to, but we are grown now.

Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I actually like things the way they are. I don’t know.

I remember this one time when a family member came to visit and my dad called my name from his office. I responded, “Sir!” the usual way my brothers and I do.

The man immediately corrected me.

“Yes, Daddy is much better.”

He said something about “Sir” being too formal for a parent.

I said, “Okay, sir.”

And I still answer “sir” till this day.

Is it such a big deal?

Maybe not.

But perhaps it says something about the distance I have become accustomed to.

I love my dad, but I am not him.

We have our differences.

One of the biggest is that my parents have sometimes struggled to accept my individuality.

They are pastors, and with that comes a certain expectation of who their daughter should be: modest, God-fearing, polite, well-behaved, respectful, appreciative of little or no makeup, no extravagant hairstyles, everything in moderation.

None of these things are inherently bad.

But I want to be defined on my own terms.

Their definition of modest dressing is simply too boring for me.

I can’t wear a long skirt with a long shirt covering my butt, pair it with a belt and one old-school shoe and call it a day.

Someone else might absolutely rock that look. I’ve seen people do it and look amazing.

But it isn’t me.

I would much rather wear high-waisted jeans, a basic top, sneakers and my usual knotless braids. I know this might also sound boring to some people but it genuinely looks so tea on me

I am also very particular about how I dress because of my body. I want to feel good in what I wear. I want to look in the mirror and actually recognise myself and be happy

So there is a version of me that exists at home, for my parents and another version that exists everywhere else.

Think of it as:

Dress how your parents want at home. Dress how you want when you leave the house.

Now imagine being a graduate who goes to work from home everyday.

It becomes exhausting.

Sometimes I find myself redressing when I go out. They don’t like my lip combo, so I leave the house with bare lips and apply it in the school restroom.

It sounds funny when I say it like that.

But it also isn’t.

I don’t always feel like I am allowed to simply be myself.

Their definition of “well-behaved” is simply tolerating disrespect.

And I have grown into a people pleaser.

I find it difficult to say no.

I apologise even when I am not wrong,not always because I believe I did something wrong, but because I want it to end. I want peace. I want to be left alone.

But you know what they say about tolerance.

It brews resentment.

And I don’t want to become someone who spends her entire life swallowing things until she eventually becomes bitter.

I love my mum too.

But I am not her.

I wish she understood that.

I wish she could appreciate that we are different without interpreting our differences as rebellion or disrespect. Or actually reporting me to everyone.

So much of her advice and warnings seem to have this underlying..:

“What will people say?”

And honestly?

Fuck people.

I don’t want to spend my entire life making decisions based on what people might think. People are boring. People are annoying. People like to poke their noses. People don't really care.

Do I get jealous when I see other parents bonding with their children?

Not really.

I’m content.

I can’t change anything, and I don’t want to change anything.

Do I want to be understood?

Well…

Yes.

Maybe.

When it comes to marriage, I’ve always been relatively neutral.

I don’t know if this love thing is for me. I have made mistakes that someone without daddy issues would probably not have but this is a story for when I am healed. Jesus heal me….if you actually care…

And honestly, I sometimes think I have no business being in a romantic relationship when I can barely accommodate myself.

Right now, my goal is simply to be happy.

To find myself.

If, somewhere along the way, a man who is genuinely curious about me comes along, then great.

Wonderful.

Fantabulous. ( not sure a word like this exists but whatever mannnn)

But I don’t want marriage to be something I enter because it is the next thing I am supposed to do.

And children?

I am simply scared.

I don’t think I can do it.

Maybe one day I will change my mind.

Maybe I won’t.

But right now, the thought of becoming someone’s mother scares me.

And I am terrified of getting it wrong.

I am terrified of becoming the kind of mother I am afraid of becoming.

I am terrified of passing down the things I am still trying to unlearn. This…

Maybe that is why I don’t want children right now.

Not because I don’t love children. Everyone knows Sharon loves children and Children love her.

And perhaps, for now, the most responsible thing I can do is admit:

I don’t know if I want to be a wife.

I don’t know if I want to be a mother.

And I think I’m allowed to not know yet.

Is a good life a happy life, a successful life, a moral life, or a meaningful life? Who is a good person? What makes a person good? Actions? Intentions? Character? Integrity?

Socrates and the problem of reputation

About 2,400 years ago, the ancient philosopher Socrates was put on trial by his fellow Athenians at the age of seventy. Among the charges brought against him was the accusation that he was corrupting the youth of the city.

Socrates had developed a mass following among a group of aristocratic young men who were fascinated by the conversations he engaged in with other citizens of Athens. At every opportunity he got, he would enter heated debates about justice, knowledge, virtue, and truth, and then point out the incoherence in people’s arguments.

Naturally, a crowd of curious young men gathered around him, eager to learn from him.

As expected?

The problem began when their parents thought Socrates was corrupting them.

For this reason, Socrates was arrested, tried, and eventually sentenced to death. To avoid execution, he had the option of being banished to another state. So, it was either the death sentence or exile.

Socrates knew that even if he moved to another city-state, he would still be unable to keep his mouth shut. Typical. He would still ask people uncomfortable questions about justice, knowledge, and the good life.

I personally believe that life, in general, would be boring if we did not ask questions.

The examined life

One of Socrates’ most famous statements is:

The unexamined life is not worth living.

This does not mean that everyone must become a philosopher. It means that a meaningful life requires introspection, self-reflection, and the courage to question our beliefs, our actions, and our motives.

The point is not to have opinions. Everybody has opinions.

The point is to be able to explain why you hold them. Am I making any sense??

If you are into fashion designing, sports, blogging, or you are a feminist, you should be able to say why these things matter to you rather than simply insisting that they do. If you think others are acting wrongly, you should be able to explain to a neutral observer why their actions are wrong.

It really is that simple.

Ion and the danger of repeating what we do not understand

Socrates explains this in his dialogue with Ion, a rhapsode who travels around Greece reciting Homeric poetry from memory. Ion can perform the poems beautifully, but Socrates argues that he does not truly understand the themes he is reciting.

For Socrates, memorising impressive words is not the same thing as understanding them. A person may speak eloquently about virtue, justice, or love while never having examined what those things actually mean.

That is a very modern problem.

Crito, one of Socrates' young followers attempts after the trial to convince Socrates to escape prison to avoid execution. Socrates refuses the offer to which Crito replies, "People will think poorly of me for not "helping you to escape." Socrates points out that Crito should be more worried about doing the right thing than about what others think of him. In saying this, Socrates is suggesting that Crito has not yet fully examined his reasons for caring for his status in the eyes of others.”

In other words, reputation is not the same thing as virtue.

This is one of the most profound lessons I have learnt in Socratic philosophy: many of us have examined our image more carefully than we have examined our conscience.

Know yourself

Socrates pushes the argument even further. Reflecting on the Delphic inscription “Know thyself,” he says that it would be ridiculous to investigate distant and irrelevant matters while remaining ignorant of his own soul.

I have no leisure for them at all; and the reason, my friend, is this: I am not yet able, as the Delphic inscription has it, to know myself; so it seems to me ridiculous, when I do not yet know that, to investigate irrelevant things. And so I dismiss these matters and accepting the customary belief about them, as I was saying just now, I investigate not these things, but myself, to know whether I am a monster more complicated and more furious than Typhon or a gentler and simpler creature, to whom a divine and quiet lot is given by nature.

This is not just ancient poetry. It is a question about the kind of person one is becoming.

The examined life and other people

The examined life is not merely about defending our own values. It is also about understanding why other people hold values different from ours.

To examine a life is to ask:

Why is this important to me?

What assumptions am I making?

Could I be mistaken?

What would count as a good reason to change my mind?

Without those questions, disagreement becomes noise.

Aristotle and the good life

Socrates teaches us to question ourselves. Aristotle asks a different question: What is the ultimate purpose of human life?

In the Nicomachean Ethics, he argues that the good life is not simply a life of pleasure, wealth, or status. Happiness matters, but happiness is not a passing mood.

As Aristotle famously quotes:

One swallow does not make a summer, nor does one fine day; similarly, one day or a brief time of happiness does not make a person entirely happy.

For Aristotle, the goal is eudaimonia—human flourishing.

Flourishing is not the same as feeling good or feeling happy.

This is where Aristotle becomes especially relevant today.

He does not think that the good life is a life filled with constant pleasurable experiences. Pleasure can accompany a good life, but can it define it? Wealth can support a good life, but can it guarantee it?

A flourishing life is one in which a human being develops and exercises the capacities that are distinctive of human beings: reason, virtue, judgment, friendship, and meaningful activity.

In short, we do not become good by occasionally feeling good. We become good by repeatedly living well.

So what is a good life?

After Socrates and Aristotle, the question looks different.

A good life is not merely a life that is admired. Public opinion is unstable. Please, I beg you to hold on to this.

It is not merely a life that is successful. Success can coexist with corruption. Nigerian politicians are the perfect example!

It is not merely a life that is pleasant. Pleasure can be shallow and temporary. Pleasure can accompany flourishing, but it is not the foundation of it.

A person may experience discomfort, sacrifice, or struggle and still be flourishing if their life is guided by virtue, wisdom, meaningful activity, and loving relationships.

A genuinely good life is a life that is examined, virtuous, and directed toward human flourishing.

We must question ourselves.

We must cultivate ourselves.

When we do this the possibility of becoming not just a person who is called good, but a person who has genuinely learned how to live well.

I hope I don't end up deleting this lol..why does it feel like I just wrote an essay for Ethics exam😭

The little I can remember about my early years, I was a happy child who used to recite memory verses in church and sing, making everyone applaud me. I was the child every parent used as an example for their children. (This is cracking me up). What no one knew was that I had been sexually abused by my cousin and had told no one about it, not even my parents or my siblings, because I was scared and I didn't think anyone would believe me.

So I kept it to myself for years. I blamed myself. I think back to that day and imagine things I should have done and didn't. I lived with so much pain and disappointment. I was carrying a shame that wasn't mine. I was young, very young in fact

I grew up being treated differently from my brothers. I used to think my parents loved my immediate elder brother the most. He seemed like the perfect child. And no matter how much I tried to please them it is just never enough.

I did everything they wanted (still do but I'm tired) even though I would have loved to do things differently. So tell me how then, I would have gotten the boldness to tell them that I have been carrying so much burden alone for years.

My cousin wasn't the only one who took advantage of my innocence. I was older this time and of course wiser and smarter. He, James, a church member, married with two kids, came to our house for “water” at least that was what he requested. It was just me and my uncle that were at home, (just as the other day, it was my cousin and I that were at home alone).

You might want to ask “Why are your parents never at home?” “Where were your parents?” “Why are you always alone with men?” I wish I had an intelligent answer. You know how some people don't expect the worst from people just because they are family? Exactly.

My uncle stepped out to pour fuel into the generator (that was what he said) and he, James, came up to where I was standing and began to fondle my breasts. I kept pushing away, telling him to leave me alone. He didn't stop. He was a lot bigger than me and I wasn't strong enough. I kept begging him to leave me alone. All I could think of at the point was “Is this happening again?”.

I tried screaming but I couldn't find my voice. He stopped, drank his water and left and once again, I blamed myself for not shouting for help. I was broken and disappointed. If I had screamed for help my uncle might have heard. I was so sad about this so I told my parents about it when they got back. They confronted him blablabla and I was told to forgive him, lol. This is particularly painful because I wasn't his only victim. He was known for preying on young girls.

Am I weird for being disappointed in my parents' judgment? You are probably wondering if I told them about my cousin. Nah I didn't, not until last year and I regret it. I wish I had kept it to myself a little longer. He indirectly said that the reason why girls get raped was because of what they were wearing. Also made the whole issue about himself and how me not telling them is unfair, that I made it seem like they were absent in my life

So you ever wonder why I am so broken? This is why. I can't forgive myself. I can't do anything right. I'm just always afraid. I can't maintain friendships and relationships because I'm always too much. I overthink, I overreact. I have made so many mistakes that could have been avoided with just a simple NO and a lot of self-love and respect.

I am twenty-something, soon I'll be thirty-something and forty-something, I want to enjoy life, to be happy, to have friends, to be able to make mistakes and learn from them instead of hating myself for them. I don't want my past experiences to affect my present. I no longer want to hate myself.

I quietly remove myself from friendship group because of fear of toxicity. Imagine everyone is hanging out and having fun catching up and all that beautiful stuff but I'm no longer present with them. I have disappeared into my own thoughts. Let's not even talk about my relationship with boys, it is disappointing.

I hate how I look in group pictures and videos.

I get nervous when someone reaches for their phone—especially the back camera.

No, no. Don’t do that.

I start looking for ways to quietly uninvolve myself.

Whenever my coursemates send videos of our class presentations to the group chat, the first thing I notice is myself. Every single time. Before I register the presentation, the room, or anyone else, my eyes find me, and I start picking. Do I look good, okay, or mehhh…

Why did I raise my head like that?

Why am I so dark?

My trousers look tight.

Why did I do my hair this way?

I shouldn’t have worn this shirt.

I fixate on my appearance. I find it disturbing but i can’t stop. By the time the video ends, I can’t even tell if anyone made a mistake during the presentation. All I remember is how uncomfortable I felt watching myself on screen.

What bothers me most is how consuming it is. I don’t notice anyone else in the video the way I notice myself. I don’t analyse their posture, their clothes, or their facial expressions. I don’t replay their movements in my head. But when it comes to me, my brain becomes extremely observant, and extremely unkind.

I don’t think other people notice these things the way I do. Or maybe they do notice, but they don’t hold onto it. They move on. I don’t. I carry the image with me long after the video is closed. Even now, I still can't stop thinking about that one video.

“I wasn’t dancing well.”

“No, it’s not a big deal. You’re just shy.”

There’s something unsettling about being so familiar with your own face and body that you start seeing flaws everywhere. That constant fault finding and comparisons. Trust me it is not exciting at all.

I wonder how much of my life I’ve missed by watching myself too closely. How many moments i have reduced to angles, lighting, and clothes instead of just having fun. How often I’ve mistaken self-awareness for self-judgment.

I’m not writing this because I have a solution. I don’t. I still flinch when I see myself on screen. I still pause longer than I should. But I’m starting to question the voice in my head that insists I’m doing something wrong just by existing as I am.

Maybe the problem isn’t how I look in group pictures.

Maybe it’s how harshly I look at myself.

July 1, 2021

TONI

It was 2:00am and I was still awake. I doubted anyone in the compound was actually asleep. I heard a car door open and close. I got up and peered through my window. It was Mr John. He was holding a black file . He probably was having a hard time sleeping as well. He stood for a few seconds and looked around with his left hand rubbing  his neck, like he was expecting someone to appear from somewhere and slit his throat. He turned around and guess what? He caught my stare. He waved at me and I nodded back at him. I knew he must have been scared but  decided to act like it was nothing. I stood by the window and my eyes fell on the gateman's room by the gate. Ramoni had been sleeping there even long before we moved into the compound. He was employed as the driver the same day our mother was employed as the housekeeper. They had both known each other for a long time and they were now both dead.

Looking at the room brought back memories I wish I could forget forever. Ramoni was the devil everyone thought of as an angel. He was  popular on our street. People loved him and parents trusted him with their kids. He would sit outside the gate on a bench telling these children stupid stories and they would all be so engrossed. Passers-by would see him with the children and wave , some would even stop to listen, some others would join the conversation. He had a personality that drew people to him. It was all a disguise. He was a terrible person. The kind that goes after young girls. A pedophile.

He had a wife named Aisha who used to visit him with food  every weekend but she stopped coming when I was ten, that was seven years ago. My mother had on several occasions asked after her from Ramoni, who said she just left him after they lost their third child. He also said he had tried to bring her back on several occasions but she had refused to come back with. My hatred for Ramoni would never make me believe a single thing he says.  Everyone eventually stopped asking after her. Ramoni also never brought any other woman to his room in the compound. 

I remembered Aisha as a very beautiful young lady and it bothered me a lot why and how she ended up with that ugly rascal. She would come every Friday evenings and first thing Sunday morning she would leave. It was as though she was always eager to leave. Saturdays, she would join my mum to do some chores for Mrs Ayo.  She said a few words but smiled a lot when she was around us and every time anyone brought her husband up in any conversation, her mood would change, she would become so uninterested. I could tell she wasn't happy. I wasn't happy too. I was never a happy child. I liked  her a lot even though we never spoke to each other, and was really happy when she left him. She deserved better.

The knock on the door disrupted my thought. I walked over to open the door. It was Tami. I had gotten used to her and her random visits. She would enter my room and just start talking about anybody and anything and I'd have no choice than to listen to her. If I wasn't giving her the attention that she wanted, she would scatter my table, switch off my lights if they were on and walk out without shutting my door. So I would be forced to stand up to shut my door and put my room in order. I knew today's visit would be different.

“Hi little sister” She said in her usual jovial tone and I was forced to smile. 

“I'm not so little anymore. I'm taller than you” I said trying to match her vibe.

“It's not by height. I'm two years older than you. A whole two years”. She said and dropped on my bed. “Ouch”

“Sorry” I muttered. 

“Stop saying sorry bro” Tami said and rolled her eyes 

“Okay” I said and sat next to her on the bed

“Today is daddy's birthday” She said “ I miss him” she added.

“He left us. I don't miss him” I replied and she sat up and gave me the most “what the hell is your problem” look.

“He is still our father,” Tami said, visibly annoyed.

“Yours not mine” I was not having it either. 

“You are so weird!” She muttered.

“He left us. We don't know where he is. We have been living here for years. He left us here, why can't he come back for you since you are his precious child” I said and immediately wished my tone matched the pain in my heart.

“You don't know how difficult talking to you is” she started “He was not perfect, not even you” She added and I was so angry.

“Of course I'm not perfect. I killed someone. Okay, I'm a murderer. You can just say that. You don't know anything. Three times, Tami. Ramoni and Esther's useless boyfriend. It was my fault right. It is only me that bad things happen to. I'm the problem. I'm not perfect but you are. Miss Perfect. He used to beat mummy, he treated me like I was a stranger. He would call me names.  I can do no right in his eyes. But you, you were an angel, still are”  I shouted at her.

“You should go back to not talking” . She said “You found your voice and now you won't stop talking and making everything about you”.

“ get out” I screamed back at her. “ Get out, get out” I got up 

“You need help,” she said and opened the door. 

“Get out” I shouted back at her, slammed the door behind her and locked it.

“Toni, are you okay at all?” I heard Esther shout from her room.

“She's not”. I heard Tami say before she entered her room. 

Everyone else was writing furiously, except me.

Taye swore he didn’t read anything yesterday, yet there he was, hunched over his paper, focused, writing and writing. I flipped my question paper over, hoping for inspiration. Nothing. No inspiration whatsoever. My answer sheet was blank, or maybe my mind was.

I stared at the questions again, and the words danced mockingly at me. “Protagorean relativism”. I could swear on my life she never taught us this. I attended her class only twice; how would I have known?

In the front row, Folu and AJ were whispering to each other and scribbling confidently. I looked at Mimi, hoping she would take pity. Oh. The bombastic and criminally offensive side-eye she gave me. She took no pity.

I turned to my right and asked Bello for “number 1.” He looked at me, then at his sheet, and said, “Omoo, I’m not sure.”

He had written six pages already and wasn’t done. I muttered, “Ah, Mofe, you are cooked.”

Temi, Lola, and I had literally stayed up all night in the library to read. Well, read is generous. We spent the first few hours gisting. We had planned to sit together, the three of us with James and John, but this oversabi lecturer decided to ruin our formation. That was when I began to cry the “I’m cooked” tears.

I felt a bit relieved when I looked back and saw that Promise wasn’t writing anything either. Ahan. Olodo spots another olodo.

“Mofe, do you know the answer to…” Lola started to ask, before that same oversabi lecturer told her to stand up.

Oh chim.

Time was ticking, and I still didn’t know what to write. I was completely clueless.

“How many minutes more?” someone asked.

It was only then that I picked up my pen and wrote “1” at the top of my sheet.

Well well, I checked my result at the end of the semester and I had 72. I had an A.

As a little girl, and even now that I'm quite older, I have battled with low self-esteem and an inferiority complex. I had to deal with people constantly having things to say about me, especially regarding my body. I allowed these words to affect me, and they have shaped how I see myself and others.

In secondary school, I hated myself so much that I didn't feel pretty or good enough. I was always comparing myself to others and asking myself, "Why can't I be like other people?" and "Why am I so different?" My classmates were kind, and even though I got along with most of them, I still felt that some didn't like me. One of the reasons I struggle to connect with people is because of these silly assumptions or would I call it overthinking? It's as if no matter how kind or generous you are to me, I just feel that you're eventually going to turn against me and hate me. I find it really hard to believe that someone can genuinely like me. I know this is a sad way to think.

Growing up (I know I'm just 21), I am part of a family of six: my dad, my mum, and my elder siblings. I'm the youngest child, and we had other family members staying with us, so most of the time, it was never just my immediate family. It was cool at first, but it came with a lot of emotional distress, especially for me. If you are reading this, it means I have finally decided to share my story, my struggles, and the steps I'm taking to improve my emotional and mental health.

My math teacher made me hate my body so much. He was constantly picking on me (that's how I felt). He always found a way to remind me that I was FAT, a word I dislike so much. I think it's because of him that I hate this word so much. I know someone is about to say “fat is just an adjective to describe someone, it is not an insult “. Yes, I know, and you are absolutely right.

One time, he was teaching us something about measurements (I can't remember the topic), and as a teaching aid, he brought a weighing scale to class and told me and another guy to step out. Long story short, I weighed more than my classmate, and he, my teacher, wrote both our measurements on the board for everyone to see. I began to see being fat as an insult, even though it's not an insult. For me, at the time, being fat equated to being ugly. I know my classmates reading this are probably thinking, "You were not even fat." That's the thing; I've been conditioned to see myself as fat, and to me, being fat isn't cool. It became a huge fear for me. I became super conscious of my body. There were times when I would starve myself because I didn't want to gain more weight.

I have done a couple of silly things to lose weight. One time, I drank a bottle of lime, and oh, I suffered for it in the toilet. I also consciously avoid checking my weight in public because I didn't want to start overthinking. I also noticed i usually feel satisfied when people tell me I have lost weight. Some other people would say “ you are not even fat” or “ I like your stature”, but I just could not see it. I felt the standard of beauty was slim, tall, and light-skinned because I'm dark-skinned. I didn't realize that beauty exists in different forms. I'm learning to love myself, but it has not been easy.

I lost track of myself and began to withdraw from people. "Sharon is shy and quiet," yes, please leave me alone. I figured that if I stayed on my own, no one would be able to say hurtful things to me, but no, people are everywhere, and no matter how quiet you are, people will still say what they want to say.

I became a floater friend, someone who knows a lot of people but isn't close to any of them. Making friends is such a difficult task for me. What's the point? We are eventually going to stop talking. I don't have a best friend; I'm not sure I have ever had one or ever will. I just have people I know and talk to. I know I'm the problem. For any relationship to work, there must be communication, and I struggle with that. I just want to be left alone. I enjoy my own company, even though it gets boring. I enjoy pretending my life is good. This is however one aspect of my life I am now working on. Community is very important.

I don't like friend groups; every friend group I have been a part of never really worked. I'm always the excluded friend and the easily misunderstood one. In my opinion, in every friend group, there is another group that you're not a part of. This is not a general case; it's just based on my experiences. Maybe I just haven't met the right set of people, and maybe I'm not the “right set of people.” You know how people say if you always have problem with everyone, then you are the problem? Exactly.

June 30, 2021

TONI

There was blood on my hands, but it wasn’t mine. It was Ramoni’s. Oh, no, what have I done?   I held tightly to my necklace with my trembling fingers. “He's dead. I have killed him”  There was blood flowing from his chest where I had stabbed him. There was no way on earth he would have survived. I heard footsteps from outside, someone must have heard me scream and had been shocked. I spoke so softly that people barely heard me, so most people thought I was mute. It was self-defense, I swear. He was going to touch me again. He pinned me to the wall. He kept trying to take my clothes off. But what if no one believed me? What if I ended up in prison, like Jaiye.

The door burst open, and Tami, my elder sister rushed in. She froze. ‘Annie, what happened?’. She asked. Oh, wasn’t it obvious ? I couldn’t speak. I was afraid. ‘Toni, I’m begging you, please talk, say something’. Tami begged.  ‘It was self-defense, I swear’ I whispered ‘he was going to touch me again. He pinned me to the wall. He kept trying to take my clothes off. What if no one believes me? What if I end up in jail like Jaiye?”. Before I could say any other thing, she rushed out.

Tami returned with my aunty, Esther, Mrs. Ayo, Mr. John, her husband, their driver and two other people I didn’t know. Mr.  John was on the phone, likely with the police. Aunty Esther crossed the room and pulled me close, sobbing. Are they going to take me away? Why is she crying? Mrs. Ayo approached us. ‘Oloni dear, let’s get you cleaned up. My husband will take care of it’. Take care of it? What does she mean? She said and I followed her. I glanced back at my aunty, who looked devastated. ‘He deserved to die. This was not his first time. It should be her crying, not you’. Tami said and left to join me and Mrs. Ayo in my room.

Tami and Aunty Esther joined us in my room while I showered. ‘I’m sorry’ I muttered as I stepped out in my towel. ‘I tried to shout, but it wasn’t loud enough.  I didn’t stop shouting till I was sure someone heard me. It was too late. He kept trying to take off my clothes and there was a knife on the table’. 

‘It’s alright, Oluwatoni. We are more concerned about you. We love you’. It sounded so fake. She loves me, that’s new. I looked at my sister to confirm if I heard well and she nodded in agreement. Mrs Ayo touched a bump on my shoulder. ‘What happened to you here?’ she asked. I shrugged and did not say anything. She smiled and turned to Aunty Esther ‘let’s give the girls some time alone’. She paused and added ‘Tami, if you girls need anything, let me know’. Tami said nothing and Mrs. Ayo quietly left the room. 

‘I think the police are in the sitting room’ I said. 

‘Yeah, to inspect’ Tami said and adjusted her blouse. 

 ‘They would also most likely ask me questions and take my statement too?’ I asked even though I wasn’t expecting her to know.

‘Most likely’ Tami said and took my palms in hers. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I should not have allowed Ramoni to bring in the boxes. I should not have stayed outside. I didn’t know he had…Why didn’t you tell me he had done this before I would have reported him’

‘And what happens when you report him?’. I asked without expecting any reply. If mummy didn’t die, we would not have had to live with Esther. We are not sure whether our father is alive or dead. Jaiye is in prison. Not your fault, not my fault, it was his fault and that is why he is no more. Don’t blame yourself for anything. It is not anybody’s fault. Leave me alone’. I said with pain in my voice.

‘You are all I have. Yet you keep pushing me away. Even if you don’t want to talk to Esther, what about me? It’s not fair. I prom..’

‘I don’t want to talk to you or to anybody. I keep pushing you away?  You found Jesus and all of a sudden, I am all you have. Nobody was there for me, not even you. You were the perfect child and I wasn’t. I always ruin everything. Like today I killed someone” I said and burst into an uncontrollable laughter. I looked at Tami, her eyes were filled with tears.

“You all wanted me to talk more, now I am”. I mumbled again.

There was a knock on the door. I gasped. The door opened quietly and a woman in her mid fifties walked in , in a fine blue suit. Blue was my favourite colour. I wanted to tell her I loved her suit but that was probably not the time for it. Mrs Ayo stood outside the room with Aunty Esther and a young man in a black suit. He definitely came with the fine suit woman. 

She walked further into the room and smiled at me. I felt so relieved. “Toni, hi”. She said and quietly sat on my reading chair. “The Native Son, a good book, have you read it”. She said pointing at the book next to my pillow. Tami picked it passed it to her. What a time to find a book like Native Son. 

“I read it a long long time ago”. She said and I just shrugged and played with my fingers. “I liked Jan”. She added and I was going to ask her why Jan? 

“ I liked Bigger Thomas”. I said and smiled knowing that she would be surprised. “I'm not justifying murder but he was afraid. He acted out of fear”. Or maybe I am justifying it “You know how the society was. A black man in the room, with a drunk white girl. I don't know. That is just what I think. I didn't write the book, so I don't know. He was just a product of his society. You should read it again. Racism is evil. The way the whites treated the blacks, like they were rats, like they don't matter. I still believe Bigger could have been a better person”. I paused. “Jan and Mary, nahh, they were good people but I don't know” I didn't want to say they were doing too much because She would think something was definitely wrong with me. 

“Wow,” the  fine suit woman said. “I have never thought of it from this perspective and you are not weird for liking Bigger Thomas”. She smiled again.

“Okay” I mumbled.

“My name is Louise. I'm here to ensure that you get all the help that you need”. She looked at me intently.

“I'm not going to prison?” I asked, still not looking at her.

“No, Toni, you're not. You would however be seeing my face often”. She said and smiled again.  She reminds me so much of mummy, always smiling.

“Okay ma”. I said.

“Ma, I think she likes you, she has never spoken this much to me or to Tamilore”. Aunty Esther added from where she stood. 

“I'll take my leave now”. She brought out a card and handed it over to me. “My phone number, call or text me whenever”. I accepted it and nodded. "Why was she being nice to me, didn't I just kill someone”.

“Esther, let's talk outside”