Creative Writing

My 20s Eye-Opening Think Pieces (Entry 1)

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My 20s Think Pieces (Entry 1)

This article intends to share my thoughts on random facts or ideas gained from experiences, personal and others I’m Zaram, and I’m 20.   This think piece isn’t filled with unfamiliar facts or groundbreaking ideas. In truth, these are things you probably already know, but I’m sharing them from my lens, shaped by my learning curve, lived experiences, and quiet moments of reflection. This isn’t a typical motivational piece because these lessons didn’t stick through random quotes or Instagram posts. They stuck because I lived through them, observed them, and slowly came to understand them as I paused and looked inward.    So, ride with me as I unravel. One thought at a time.     The first piece is on public perception and opinions. After years of casually, yet consistently reading through comment sections and observing public discourse on platforms like Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok, I’ve learned just how fickle, yet powerful, public opinion can be.  What started as harmless scrolling turned into an unexpected education. Watching how quickly narratives form, shift, and collapse has shown me that public perception isn’t always rooted in truth, rather it’s often shaped by emotion, bias, or trends. And yet, despite its instability, it holds real influence.   One of my top observations is this: no matter what you do, how pure your intentions are, or how hard you try to do right, there will always be people who dislike you or discredit your work. Even if you bend over backwards to please everyone, it still won’t be enough.  At the same time, there will also be people who genuinely support you and stand by what you do, regardless. And that contrast has taught me to focus less on trying to be liked by everyone, and more on staying true to myself.   So if you truly want to thrive, never do anything solely for public approval or validation. Things can switch up fast. Public opinion, especially in a space like Nigeria where sentiments often lean toward “supporting the most pitiable or ‘humble’” is one of the most fickle forces you’ll ever face.   Do your thing. Stay grounded. Go all out for what you genuinely believe in, or don’t bother at all.   You will always find your own people. Out of the billions on this planet and the millions within your reach,  there are those who will genuinely connect with you, simply because they see a reflection of themselves in you, or they aspire to be like you.  And in the same way, those who despise you often do so because of what you reflect back at them. Something they don’t have, fear, or don’t understand.   This isn’t just about social media. It mirrors real life. So whenever you feel tempted to do something, pause and ask yourself: “What’s my motivation?”  If it’s rooted in trying to please the  public, or even just the people around you, like classmates, friends, or your immediate circle, and not based on your conviction that it’s the right thing to do, then disembark. Step back.   Because anything not driven by truth or purpose will eventually feel heavy to carry.   So much love from here. Rooting for you and your authenticity. Bye for now tilI the next ride.          ~Zaram ALSO READ: A PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT TAUGHT ME FINANCIAL DISCIPLINE  

My 20s Eye-opening Think Piece (Entry 2)

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My 20s Eye-opening Think Pieces (Entry 2)

This think piece intends to share my thoughts on random facts or ideas gained from experiences, personal and others Hi lovelies, I hope you are doing great. This is the second entry for my random musings and realizations drawn from experiences and observations. I’m so excited to share it with you and truly hope that you find something to relate to. These thoughts are written in love, and with you in mind, so I hope you receive them with the same care.   Okay, Let’s have it.   This think piece is centered on the importance of preparation. Sounds cliché,  right? But hear me out.I used to believe that preparation only applies to what you are familiar with, like revising what you’ve studied, or practicing what you’ve learned in order to achieve a goal, but somehow, along the way I learnt that preparation goes beyond that. It is the intentional act of readying your mind and posture for action, even when you are unsure of the exact outcome. It’s that internal alignment with your goal that often leads to success, clarity and excellence.   One of the most recent examples I can share with you to drive home my point is that of my experience during my Chinese lessons in level 2. Because Chinese was unfamiliar territory for me, and we were just starting Level 2, I assumed there was no need to prepare before class. I told myself everything would be broken down for us anyway, I mean, that’s what learning is about, right?   But what did that mindset get me? Confusion. The kind that builds up to frustration. Why? Because there were students who had taken time to prepare, what we call in Hanyu: 复习和预习好了 (Fùxí hé yùxí hǎo le), meaning they had reviewed and previewed the material thoroughly. And so, it was easier for them to grasp what was being taught. The teacher could engage them at deeper levels, while the rest of us who didn’t prepare were left behind, blank, lost, and even forgetting what we already knew.   That experience taught me that waiting to be taught isn’t enough. Sometimes, you have to show up already positioned to receive. That being said, let me say this to you plainly, always prepare ahead before stepping into anything. Preparation is your way of telling your brain, “Get ready, we’re about to do this!” And just like that, your mind begins to align itself with success and clarity. Beyond that, preparation gives you a solid edge. It opens up your capacity to learn more while taking action because you’re already familiar with the basics. You’re not starting from zero, you’re building on a foundation. And that makes all the difference.‎   So Darling, maybe this little piece is the nudge you’ve been needing to finally prepare for that thing going on in your life. Don’t wait until it’s time, before you start scrambling to get ready. By then, it might just be too late. Take the initiative now, start preparing. Think of preparation as the bricks, cement and water needed to build a strong foundation. I really hoped you gained something from this, sugarhearts. Feel free to share your experiences with me, how preparation has helped you, or how the lack of it has affected you. I’d love to hear from you.   Bye for now, till the next ride.   Thoughts from Yours, Zaram. ALSO READ:‎ The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1) ‎

The Secret to Radiant Afro: Afrocurls Naturalz 1

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From Roots to Radiance with Afrocurls Naturalz: Nurture with nature

Your hair is a crown, and it deserves to be worn with pride and care, not treated as an afterthought. As an African with your gorgeous afro, you know the story: it shrinks, it tangles, and sometimes turns into a full, chaotic mess that leaves you dreading the next washday. Afrocurls Naturalz hair product is here to ease the  stress out of washday and treat your crown with the royal care it deserves. Your Majesty! Our Afro Purifying & Moisturizing Shampoo, made with 100% natural herbs and oils, is designed to gently yet thoroughly cleanse your scalp and strands, removing dirt and buildup without stripping away moisture. Because clean shouldn’t mean dry, and your afro curls deserve nothing less than nature’s best. The Afrocurls Deep Conditioning Milk, infused with premium hair treatment oils and proteins, is crafted to nourish your scalp,and promote faster, healthier hair growth through deep, restorative conditioning. And to ease the stress of detangling that often comes with African curls, our Afro Leave-In Strengthener works to gently melt away knots, leaving your hair softer, bouncier, and full of life. Because healthy, rapid hair growth begins with consistent moisture, AfroCream  made with authentic natural herbs, oils, and mentholated treatments is here to deeply hydrate your hair while soothing and treating your scalp. The result? An itch-free, curly, and healthy crown you can feel proud of. Lastly, the Afrocurls Natural Oil Treatment blends the most potent, hair-loving oils to nourish your strands from root to tip. It’s the perfect formula to seal in moisture and boost growth making every step of your washday routine truly worth it. Therefore, to enjoy a fulfilling washday and see real results from consistent hair care, get the full set of Afrocurls Naturalz products and get ready to rock your authentic afro with natural confidence in every strand. Afrocurls Naturalz — Love your roots. Nourish your crown.   ALSO READ: Stress Management and Virtual Assistance: Keys to Triumphant Business Management

Scary Night 1

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scary night

This article tries to use creative writing to portray the scary reality of Nigerians, particularly the female gender in terms of insecurity. I quickened my pace to a near run. The hairs on my body stood on end, definitely not from the chilly breeze. My heart thudded violently in my chest, rising to my throat and pumping warm, fuzzy blood to my ears. The road stretched endlessly ahead, eerily deserted. No sign of  another human…  except, wait. I needed to be sure. I glanced back, hoping it was just my imagination. But no, there it was. A dark, hulking figure. Now right on my heels, moving faster. ‎‎*** It was salary week, and today at the office, where I worked as a sales representative, I was beaming in excitement as I walked in. Femi, one of my colleagues, kept teasing, asking if I had won a lottery or I was finally ready to japa. That was the slang for leaving the country in search of greener pastures and it has been a trend for most of my colleagues of recent. Even the ones who hold top positions and are being paid well still submit their resignation letter to japa, and I will be surprised because Japa to me is because of Sapa, a term for poverty. Their reason is mostly the assurance of a high level of security and truly the level of insecurity in our country, Nigeria is baffling, just the other day, our manager shared the news of a female radio presenter whose house in a very expensive estate was broke into and was robbed which led to her death. ‎An emergency task came up, and our boss promised dinner as compensation. As much as I hated working overtime, the promise of free food was tempting, as it meant more money to save in this country that felt constantly out to get me. Femi offered me a lift in his blue Mazda, but I declined. That guy had been making advances for weeks. A known womanizer, who brags about the number of women he’d slept with like it was a badge of honor. Definitely not someone I wanted to be seen hanging around with. ‎‎*** Right now, on this dark, lonely road, I wished I had let Femi drive me home. I wouldn’t have been walking through this silent stretch alone, uncertain if I would make it out tonight. I quickened my steps, my heels clanking against the tarred road. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the figure behind me matching my pace. He moved silently, no footsteps, no sound. Panic surged, I broke into a run, silently cursing myself for not tossing a pair of slippers into my bag in the morning. The figure followed, faster, closer. Then it happened. A cold blade pressed against my skin and  a hand locked tightly around my neck. It’s over, my mind screamed. I tried to twist around,  to see the face of the person who had come for me, the one who was going to end my life. But my body was frozen in terror. All I could see was a mask and the outline of his broad shoulders. “Pl…ease… Wh..o ask…ed you to ki…ll me?” I croaked. my voice was hoarse, part fear and part exhaustion from the short marathon I had just run. Who would want to kill me? I’m quiet, reserved– home, church, work. That’s my triangle. So, who? He covered my mouth with his palm, it was broad enough to block part of my nose. I felt warm liquid trickle down my thighs. I had peed myself. But who cares? I was seconds away from becoming a corpse. Then he spoke. “What’s your name?” His voice startled me–a calm, fine baritone. I had expected a harsh demonic growl to match his mission. My name? What’s my name again? “Ronk…e. Fe…mi. No. Fu…nke. Yes Funke!” I stammered, panicked. The reality hit me harder now. I wouldn’t see my people again. They might never find my body, or worse, they would. Naked, mutilated. Just like that BRT girl. And then I would trend. Twitter would erupt. Was she a runs girl? Was she dating a yahoo boy? Everyone with their theories, like it  justifies murder. And then, just like that, my life would be reduced to hashtags and clickbait. I felt him lean forward, inspecting my face. “Oh! Na you?” he asked. His voice had changed. Hesitating. Calculating. And just like that, he let go. I spun around, but all I saw was his back fading into the dark. He recognized me? Who the heck was he? Was I being watched? So.. I was still alive? My mind spiralled into blankness and panic. I ran. Someone in the universe must have been praying hard for me, a  poor orphan. I shuddered and shuddered again, I was just lucky! Because I knew I was only a few seconds away from being another corpse. Scary stuff.   ALSO READ The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1)  

The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1)

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The Tortured Youth Diary (entry 1)

The following is a fictional diary entry of a ‘tortured youth’ that represents the mental state a young person dealing with trauma. Margaret’s first Diary entry… I have a recurring dream where I stood in front of that dreaded panel, at the end of my time in school and I had to defend the thesis that I single-handedly chose to research on. I had prepared for hours and hours and hours and hours. I had cried for hours longer than I had prepared. But I walked in there, fairly confident and ready to be over with the 10 minutes that I had been assigned. Then I stood to open my mouth and I choked. Not a word came out of my mouth. Not a single sound was able to be produced.  The time on my watch ticked, mirroring the sound of my heart thumping and thumping. And the 10 minutes elapsed. And was handed a fail grade. I wake up from that dream with my breath labored and covered in sweat. I fear for the lack of time I’m faced with on a daily basis. Social anxiety and literal anxiety, laced with an innate fear of failure that could classify me as a perfectionist. Someone once told me that I didn’t want to accept my own flaws because I didn’t believe that I deserved to make mistakes, and they might be right, but somehow, there’s a comfort I get in holding myself to extreme standards that are unattainable. It’s almost like being wrong is a crime punishable by death and death was worse than a sauna. If I were to compare my life to a movie, it would be “The Breakfast Club” and not just because of Judd Nelson, but because of the shared parental trauma these 5 kids shared. They bonded over blunt whiffs and emotional and physical abuse alike, silently forming an alliance against the big bad that was Richard Vernon. They agreed to remain his stereotype, while maintaining that each other were the sum of the stereotypes bestowed on them altogether.  But where am I going with this? The fact that John Hughes is a wonderful director and everyone should watch his films and that the life of a tortured adolescent stems from many things and ends in many things. Like extreme anxiety, fear and an intolerance for failure. Sometimes I disassociate from myself and look at how far I’ve come, and I get the darkness spurs like Adam Petrezelli in “Words on the Bathroom Walls”, except I’m not schizophrenic. Somehow I’m unable to see the achievements and just see the failure, because maybe my glasses are blurred, or I’m repressing the good things or I’m expecting to remain a tortured youth because I’m more comfortable in the chaos of my mind…I know, so quirky right? It’s nauseating sometimes. That isn’t to say I don’t have the good things that I do accept. I’m very keen on my politics and my feelings. I enjoy life in the wildest ways and I celebrate my authenticity with the roar of a thousand Latino people. I’m sure the film references even have you in a frenzy…don’t even get me started on Matt Damon. I always get tired of the way my mind spirals. It can be exhausting hearing the ticking clock even when I’m supposed to be asleep. Insomnia is basically only a few blocks away from arriving at my doorstep. But I don’t know, whether it’s the lack of healing or the lack of trying to heal from my trauma, something is holding me back and keeping me satisfied with the sadness of my youth. I’ll grow one day, or maybe I won’t. It’s just my first diary entry. I might not even write another. I’m very inconsistent. But things will change one day, I know it. I see it happen everyday. I see it in my extended family saying they miss the smile I used to have when I was a kid. I see it in the before and after picture I have of my closet and the descent into my grunge/emo/goth aesthetic. Maybe it’s obvious that I got sad. But people don’t seem to tell me that I’m sad. They just say I seem shy. I’m anxious, I’m young, I’m angsty, that’s what it is. That’s all . Signed,  Margaret A tortured youth. READ ALSO: MENTAL HEALTH: 10 PRACTICAL STEPS TO HELP YOU PRIORITIZE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

A LETTER OF HOPE TO TOMORROW

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pexels sasha kim 8484224

Dear tomorrow, I will cling on to hope. They say tomorrow is too far, but I will patiently wait for the day you come. I tell mother and father that when tomorrow comes, our lives would change. Father will leave the dilapidated oil factory, Mother will leave the market, and I will finally be in school. But every time I remind them that you will come, Father smacks my head and says, “Oghenetega wake up from your dreams and face reality. The tomorrow you should look forward to is when a rich man comes and marries you off.” I get disappointed, but every day that passes by, is a silent promise that tomorrow will soon be here. Mother will leave the Market Women Association. Those rowdy, untidy women that sit all day and complain of the sad wages their “lazy” husbands bring home every day. Men that have been victims of resource exploitation and poverty. I watch with silent disdain and wait for the day Mother will leave those uneducated women and be part of the exposed and educated women we watch on our box television. Father also prayed I will stop rejecting the men who came to ask for my hand in marriage. I was beautiful, and graceful in manner, a contrast to the rugged nature of the Delta women in my community. I was stubborn, a common trait of delta women. Although, I was different. I desired a change in environment and wished to marry one of the European men that waltzed with their wives, took them to fancy dinners, and wore elaborately designed dresses. The life I wanted, I watched daily on our box television, when the cable channel showed European shows. I had memorized the shows and the days they aired. Unfailingly, Monday was for politics, Tuesday was for Sports, Wednesday was for Fashion, which was also my favorite day of the week. Thursday for music and entertainment, Friday was for children shows, where children were taught the letters of the alphabets, numbers and simple sentences. I had learnt new words and knew how to construct simple sentences every Friday. The well-structured grammar that rolls off their tongue with ease, when they say big words like, “Adulterously”. I had heard that word when one of the chairladies was addressing a young girl on the Television. “You ought to behave adulterously in the 21st century.” She had said. I was fascinated and wondered when I would become part of the educated elites who spoke polished English seamlessly. All I heard in this Delta community, was the familiar pidgin English spoken with ease, and of course, the undiluted Urhobo language. Often times, I attempted to speak polished English and said some new vocabulary I had heard from the Television. One day when my father had brought up the discussion of my prospective suitors, I said, “Father, I will not be subject to this unfair treatment if you do not give me a listening ear.” I was proud of myself but was put off when my father laughed heartily in my face. “Small madam, you too don dey speak big big English like Queen Eli abi? Dey there, na Urhobo man you go still marry.” He said, as he walked away. I was not discouraged. I kept my hope high for I knew I was waiting for tomorrow. Today was Wednesday, and I was eager to see the latest fashion the European women would wear. I wondered when I would wear those elegant dresses and feel like a princess. Fashion was declining rapidly as people focused on what to put in their bellies, rather than what to wear on their bodies. I thought of both, and I knew that made me different. Maybe the day after or next week, I would live the life I had only hope for. I was not sure, but I knew that, one day tomorrow would come, even if it felt too far. Yours sincerely, Tega. Check out more articles like this! Feminism and Balance- Should We All Be Feminists?  

A few choice words that don’t lack

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My 20s Think Pieces (Entry 1)

The following article contains a group of words containing a coherent thought on matters pertaining to Nigerian behaviour. I remember that night like it was last night. Truthfully, it was. Pitch black in all its glory. Not a sound could be heard for hours, and I was in a dreamless state, unwilling to rejoin the waking world and its responsibilities. Out of nowhere, it jolted me. I didn’t know the time, it could’ve been 2am, 3am or midnight. I’m a directionless being even wide awake.  The sound began as a piercing scream. I recognized its origin instantly, it stemmed from the house right next to ours. Normally, these kinds of sounds aren’t odd or new, it has dawned on us neighbours that the mother in the house’s mode of discipline is the strong use of hand or whip. And although I am uncomfortable with it generally, I pass it off as just another morning with the wailings of Uju. But this time was different. It pierced, it stirred, it troubled me. It was a male voice, and I heard nothing from the doer of this action, but the recipient was loud and terrifying. It began with shouts and yells, obviously a reaction from the faint whip sounds. Actually, I didn’t know what was causing the shouts. It was dark and silent and I couldn’t make out the source of the wails, maybe that’s what troubled me the most. That the sound seemed origin-less. Nonetheless, the shouts pierced through me. I felt my empathy rise as the sounds got louder. I had never been a fan of the African mode of discipline, especially when it happens in the middle of the night. It made a plausible argument for insanity and absurdity, but I assure you, no one is ready for that conversation. Back to the sounds of hades’ victim, the shouts accelerated and travelled. I recall a small passageway which served as a porch for the house. It occurred to me that the wailer was being chased down, and eventually cornered. His shouts turned to screams, which was when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my brother wake up and turn his head toward the sound. Soon after he went back to sleep. He was only 14 and could sleep through a blizzard maybe. I realized that it bothered me how there was a single stirring from anyone. Noise polluting the silent night and my fellow Nigerians didn’t move an inch. The culture of abuse disguised as discipline ran deep and has been so a long time.  After 5 minutes or so, the sound died down. I tried to picture the poor soul. He was curled up at the edge of the passageway, tending to the pain and his wounds. Soft pants were all I heard afterwards, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. Not yet. I was annoyed. Annoyed that a human being was beaten up like a thief and no one inquired. Because it didn’t affect them, or he deserved it. The cycle of abuse was endless. I hated myself for not being able to do anything either. Now I’m typing this at 7am in the morning. There’s gospel music playing out of the scene of the crime. I hear the mother, most likely the culprit, singing along, her conscience probably clean and proud of herself.  I’ve heard no child sounds yet, which is unusual, but I wouldn’t blame them for being silent after the events of the night before. The culture of instilling fear into children at young ages and swearing they turn out well. Spoiler alert – they never do. This takes me back to a few days ago. My phone screen brightly lit against my face, navigating between my texts and twitter, sorry – X. the discourse of the day on +234 twitter centered around a celebrity wedding. The maid of honour, specifically. He was male, and incels and misogynists alike expressed their disdain for the concepts. No worry though, they were drowned out by the hardcore scum male population that threw a hissy fit over the sight of the man of honour in tears as his best friend got married. They swore that he was mourning the sex that they probably never had, and they contradicted themselves by calling his crying ‘feminine’.  Between tweets about WWE and AEW alike on my feed, the discourse trickled down into their problem with effeminate men and gay men alike. They accused the man of honour of being gay and swore they’d prefer their likely nonexistent children to mechanics and agberos, rather than the probability of them kissing someone of the same gender. They boasted of the violence they’d commit to ensure their boys remain ‘masculine’. One user mentioned being interested in breaking bottles on his son’s head when he got to 10 years to build his tear threshold, and got over 13 thousand likes. Another, a patriarchy princess, boasted of the methods her husband used to revert her effeminate son, praising the random squats and excessive gym memberships and kitchen bans her husband undertook. Saviors of mankind, or feminists, expressed their concern for the son and mentioned that the methods would only make their son a good liar, rather than a changed person. Warning her to enjoy his time with her son now, they were sure that eventually, they’d live out their days in a home for the elderly and never see their son again. As I spectate in the social media debacle, and the events of the night before, one thing is certain to me. There is an unhealthy obsession with conservative culture within Nigerians and Africans alike, a culture that irks me from within, as they cosplay as servants of God, while in reality they couldn’t be further from what the teachings of their Lord and savior spread. The religious psychosis, coupled with their ability to pick and choose what kind of religious teachings they want to align themselves with, would make … Read more

Almost Is Never Enough

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Almost is Never Enough

The article you are about to read covers a fictional depiction of Domestic Abuse in a Nigerian household and how sometimes, almost is never enough to gain freedom.   She ran. The trees zipped past her as she did, wind in her face, freedom within her grasp. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her and more.  She pumped harder now, pushing and pushing. The sound of feet close behind her. She had to make it. It couldn’t catch her again, she didn’t come this far just to come this far. She looked ahead of her now, the trees starting to fizzle out, a stream of light ahead of her. It was there, she could just taste it now, freedom. Her throat ached to scream but was sore from shouting a ways back. She would make it. Run to the light, do it for yourself, move your feet. It was mere meters away now, her freedom. The footsteps behind were gaining but she daren’t look back. It wouldn’t follow her into the light. She just needed to make it, and she was going to.  Then a voice cried out, distracting her. A child’s. Why now? She whipped her head towards the sound, her steps faltering. Then, silence. It made no sense, where could it have come from? Why now? She remembered her mission. She readied her feet to move. The footsteps had stopped now. She turned to check for it. It consumed her. Adah’s phone buzzed on the table. She’d get to it later. She focused on the document in front of her, putting the finishing touches as her fingers hit the keyboard with intensity. She hit the full stop with a thud and sighed, satisfactorily. She was finally done with it. Edith had convinced her to work on a portfolio, and she realized the life of a housewife wasn’t very appealing now that she was one. She spent her days sitting at home, switching from channel to channel, and cooking. She didn’t even do the house cleaning or go to the market because her husband made sure to employ services to keep her indoors.  Her only avenue to leave was Sundays, where she had joined a number of church groups in order to keep busy and make some friends. That was where she met Edith. They had hit it off instantly, Edith’s blatant honesty pairing nicely to Adah’s silent compliant self.  Edith was very critical of Adah’s housewifely duties, and urged her to indulge in something worthwhile. They came to a compromise that she would create a resume and portfolio and they’d go from there.  She shut her laptop and glanced at her phone. Her eyes widened in shock, she only had so much time to get dinner ready before her husband got home. He liked his food hot and waiting as he came in from the day’s work. Adah had mastered the art of managing her time, depending on the meal being prepared, and getting it ready just in time. She dashed to the kitchen and the sound of pots and pans filled the empty house. Peeling, cutting, pounding, dicing, picking, boiling, frying. The aroma filled the whole house, inviting all that could smell it. Unfortunate that no one but Adah could be graced with its scent.  An hour and a half later, Adah turned off the gas cooker, and dished out the food into its serving bowls. The sound of the gate being opened caught her attention, David had returned. Jamiu, the gateman, saluted his boss, and David waved him off. He drove the car into the compound and parked it, grabbing his briefcase and locking the car behind him. His suit jacket was slung over his arm as he walked into the house.  The door flew open revealing Adah, a wide smile on her face, ushering her husband into their home. His face however, failed to mirror hers. The second the door closed behind them, he started, “I called your phone this afternoon Adah. why didn’t you pick up?” She searched her mind, then it hit her. The call she got while she was finishing the portfolio, “My love, I’m sorry. I was finishing up some things so I forgot to call you back.” His voice thundered through the empty house, bouncing off the walls and into Adah’s ears, “So you’re saying you saw my call and ignored it? This stupid woman. What nonsense were you doing that you couldn’t answer your phone? Entertaining your lover in my house abi?” Adah shuddered at his tone. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she daren’t show them. She readied herself for the reprimanding she was about to get.  He pulled her by the ear, his jacket and case long forgotten on the floor, and tossed her about the living room. She landed by the wall, banging her head in. her eyes spun in its socket and she just focused her mind on the finished document that had put her in this predicament.  It was a regular occurrence though. Little human errors that caused her to get sprawled out on the floor or pounded into the chair ever so often. She thought back to the first time it happened… “You want to go where? Why? Is my house not good enough for you? Oh, it’s those witches that you used to gather and see that fill your mind with useless ideologies that you want to see ehn? You’re not going anywhere!” David spat out, barely even sparing her a glance. She was shocked by his response. David was never mean to her. It was three months into their marriage now, and she had begun to see a side of him that was carefully concealed for the 2 years they had been dating. But this one was new, blatantly refusing her requests and insulting her friends.  Annoyed, she scoffed, “David why would you say that now? Those are my friends and I haven’t seen them since … Read more

A PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT TAUGHT ME FINANCIAL DISCIPLINE

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A PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT TAUGHT ME FINANCIAL DISCIPLINE 600x400

A painful experience I had of recent made me finally stick to the principle of spending money wisely that I learnt years back from Robert Kiyosaki and Sharon Lechter’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad. Let me share how it finally cured me of financial indiscipline. It was a very painful experience. So intense. I pushed and I pushed. It felt like I wasn’t going to leave that place alive. I had exhausted all my strength, but if I dared to rest, what I was pushing would crawl right back inside. No nurse, no drip, no one at home to help induce anything. It was just me — me and this pain. To aid my delivery, I tried different postures, shifting and adjusting, just for what was disturbing me inside to come out. But nothing worked. In that moment of struggle, I wished I could rewind time. If I had known, I would have rejected everything they offered me at Yemi’s wedding party, my former classmate. I just didn’t want her to know what I was really passing through. I wanted to show her that I had also “made it” in life. Imagine paying ₦250K for Asoebi. Then renting the latest Lexus for ₦150K — just to show off. And yes, I still sprayed money at the party. I know you’re thinking that I’m rich, but I’m nothing close to it. Everything I spent to appear “big” at the wedding was borrowed. After spending all that, how could I allow any plate pass me by untouched? I ate everything. Everything. I mean… I tasted Asaro (yam porridge). Then, what’s the name of that other thing sef? Ehen! Abacha (African Salad)! I mixed them together. My stomach was saying no, but my mouth kept saying yes. I didn’t leave one thing untouched. And now, here I am. Honestly, it’s high time I stop living this fake big-girl life. Borrowing money for parties, just to “belong.” I’m not big anything. I dey use shalanga (pit latrine) for my side. Na one room I dey live. Wetin dey do me sef na how I wan take pay the money back! God abeg! it’s just very painful that I  borrowed this  money from LAPO. I told them I wanted to start a small business. But I don’t even know how the money vanished — until it remained just 50k. How I wan explain this one naw? That I spent 450K at a three-hour party? Omo… I just have to work hard to… Knock knock knock! “Aunty Bimbo! Come out now. Are you giving birth ni? You’ve been inside since. Na only you wan shit? Come out o!” Ah. It was like the thing inside heard the knock. It started coming out. I could see its head… black. It was coming, it was coming! Woof! Finally, it came out. Long, multicolored; black, yellow, some green, and red pepper flakes. So this was the demon troubling my stomach. Relieved, I washed my bumbum and quickly stepped out. “Aunty Bimbo! Come back here! You’re very wicked. Very very wicked! You no give me out of the food wey you chop o, but you leave your shit for me.” “Sorry, I forgot.” This girl does not even know what is on my head. How am I going to use 50k to start a business and pay my 500k loan in just a month? “You always forget to flush, but you never forget to refill your belle. Abeg, go flush joor!” Dear Lord, I promise not to waste my money just to please people again. So help me, Lord. Amen. ALSO READ Stress Management and Virtual Assistance: Keys to Triumphant Business Management

Travel: 4 positive transformative power

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The transformative power of travel

Travel is more than just visiting new places—it’s an experience that shapes how we see the world and ourselves. Whether it’s a short trip to a neighboring town or a journey across continents, traveling opens our eyes to new cultures, perspectives, and ways of life. It teaches lessons that can’t always be learned in a classroom or from books, making it one of the most enriching experiences anyone can have. 1. Experiencing New Cultures One of the most exciting parts of traveling is stepping into a world that feels completely different from what we’re used to. Each place has its own traditions, customs, and ways of doing things, and seeing them firsthand is both eye-opening and humbling. For example, in some cultures, people take life at a slower pace, prioritizing family and social connections over rigid schedules. In others, time is seen as something to be managed efficiently, with productivity being the main focus. Neither way is right or wrong—it’s just different. And experiencing these differences firsthand helps us understand that the way we’ve always done things isn’t the only way. Food is another great way to experience a new culture. Trying dishes that are completely unfamiliar—whether it’s a spicy street food delicacy or a homemade meal from a local—gives insight into the history and traditions of a place. There’s something special about sharing a meal with strangers and realizing that, no matter where we come from, food brings people together. 2. Learning to Adapt Travel isn’t always smooth. Flights get delayed, language barriers make communication tricky, and sometimes things don’t go as planned. But these challenges are part of the experience. They push us to adapt, think on our feet, and stay patient. Over time, we become more resourceful, learning to navigate unfamiliar places with confidence. Travel changes how we see everyday life. It’s easy to assume that our way of doing things is the “normal” way—until we see people living completely differently and thriving. It makes us question things we once took for granted. For example, visiting a place where people have fewer material possessions but seem genuinely happy makes us rethink what’s truly important. Seeing people with strong family bonds despite having little reminds us to appreciate what really matters. 3. The Beauty of Nature Travel isn’t just about people and cultures—it’s also about the natural world. Standing in front of a massive waterfall, walking through an ancient forest, or watching the sunset over an unfamiliar landscape reminds us of how vast and beautiful the world really is. Each environment tells its own story. Coastal towns have a deep connection to the sea, while mountain villages adapt to a completely different way of life. Traveling to different landscapes not only makes us appreciate nature’s beauty but also reminds us of the importance of preserving it. Seeing pollution in a once-pristine location or hearing locals talk about how climate change is affecting their way of life makes environmental issues feel more real and urgent. 4. Connecting with People One of the most memorable parts of any journey is the people we meet along the way. Even brief conversations with strangers can leave lasting impressions. Sometimes, the smallest interactions—a local helping with directions, a shopkeeper sharing a story, or a fellow traveler giving advice—turn into meaningful moments. What’s interesting is that despite cultural differences, human connection remains the same everywhere. A smile, a kind gesture, or shared laughter can break through language barriers. It’s in these moments that we realize we’re not so different after all. Coming Home with a New Perspective Travel changes us, even if we don’t realize it right away. Coming back home after a trip often makes us see familiar things differently. The daily routine that once felt boring might now seem comforting. The food we once took for granted might taste better. And the things we used to complain about might not seem so important anymore. At the end of the day, travel isn’t just about the places we visit—it’s about how those places shape us. It challenges us, teaches us, and reminds us of how much there is to explore and learn. And maybe that’s the greatest thing about it—no matter how many places we go, there will always be more to see, more people to meet, and more experiences waiting for us. Also Read: Mental health: 10 practical steps to help you prioritize your mental health