Creative Writing

A Journalist’s Dangerous Pursuit

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A Journalist's Dangerous Pursuit

Amanda’s heart raced as she stepped into the dimly lit bar on Okeyilo Street in Shandam, Kaduna, a street renowned for housing dangerous criminals. The pungent smell of cigarettes and cheap liquor assaulted her senses, but she steeled herself. This was it—the breakthrough she’d been waiting for in her investigation of the notorious Ben Edet. Amanda had been tracking Ben’s activities as an investigative journalist for months. Rumoured to be a ruthless kidnapper and drug kingpin, Ben had recently made headlines by allegedly abducting the State governor’s son for a staggering 50 million naira ransom and has threatened to kidnap the first lady next if his demands were not met. With her wedding drawing close, Amanda was determined to crack the case, expose the truth and be back on time to get married. The bar’s patrons eyed her suspiciously as she ordered a beer, trying her best to blend in. It wasn’t until later that evening that Amanda realised her mistake—her conservative attire stood out like a sore thumb among the scantily clad women who frequented the establishment. Despite her initial setback, her persistence paid off. She learned two crucial pieces of information: Ben’s real name was Dogo Sylvester, and he had a weakness for women. Armed with this knowledge, Amanda knew what she had to do. She called her editor to give him the update and he simply told her to do what she has to do to get him the story. She would have to turn in her report to the state CID as well but, her newspaper house needs it firsthand. With a heavy heart, she called her fiancé, Jason, to explain her next move. “I have to go undercover,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s the only way to get close to him.” Jason’s concern was palpable. “Be careful,” he pleaded. “Don’t let him touch you.” Amanda’s transformation into “Sandra,” a down-on-her-luck prostitute, was swift and convincing. She rented a room in a nearby brothel and immersed herself in the seedy underworld of Shandam’s red-light district. She had to blend in so they could trust her as one of them, she needed to get into Ben’s life by all means. Her act was so convincing that she soon caught Ben’s eye. On the night she was brought to him, she couldn’t believe her luck as she sat face-to-face with him. She forgot all about the report and was so scared for her life. He smiled at her and asked her to sit on the bed. He took in puff after puff of weed which he offered her but she refused. She thought of what to do but her mind was so dumb. She was still thinking of the next thing to say when he spoke. “So tell me about yourself, you see all the girls for your cabal I know them, all of them sweet- sweet girls but I’ve never seen you, so I want to know you.” Amanda broke down in tears as she told her story of woes, how she lost her parents and her uncle who was supposed to take care of her took away the properties of her father and left her to suffer. She had no other option than to do this dirty job to get money. She was surprised at her theatrical display and wondered where the story even came from. He looked at her strangely as she narrated her ordeals and what pushed her into this kind of life. He looked as though he knew she was lying but he said nothing. He kept looking at her and puffing his weed. “Come,” he said eventually. She walked up to him in her tank top and shorts praying he wouldn’t try to manhandle her. She was so defenceless except for the pepper spray she managed to tuck inside her bra. He sat her down on his lap looking deep into her eyes and spraying the smoke from the weed into her face. She held her breath as he did that wishing she could strangle him already. “I like you, I won’t hurt you as your uncle did and I can even help you kill him if you want.” Amanda’s stomach churned at his casual offer of murder, but she saw an opportunity, the possible way of making him talk about his escapades and confess to the various crimes attached to his name, she gave a sinister smile and hugged him then whispered into his ears. “I would love that!” Over the next week, Ben became infatuated with Amanda. She played her role to perfection, carefully extracting information while maintaining her cover. With each passing day, she gathered more evidence of his crimes, but she knew she needed a confession. On the night of reckoning, Amanda prepared herself for the most dangerous part of her mission. She set up hidden cameras and recorders, then invited Ben to her room. As they shared a bottle of wine—which she had laced with a mild sedative—Ben began to open up. His story was one of tragedy and pain. His father would come home drunk each night to beat him, his mother, and his younger sister. He hated his father. Each day brews new hatred for his useless father and all he wanted was to take care of his mum and sister but that never happened for his father killed his mum one day during their fights. His father was drunk as usual and everyone blamed it on the alcohol but Ben didn’t and the judge too didn’t and sentenced him to life imprisonment. His kid sister was assaulted by government officials who raked down their kiosk by the roadside alongside others calling it illegal. She fell sick after the manhandling and died weeks later. That incident changed him a lot and he took this path. He had no regrets as he looked at Amanda. He would avenge his sister and mother but first, he is starting with the State governor … Read more

Awakening the Sleeping Giant

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Awaken the Giant in You

In the ancient city of Nebothia, a legend whispered through the ages told of a mighty giant guardian named Elk. Placed by the supreme being to watch over the land. Elk was a giant of extraordinary strength, standing over 7 feet tall—a colossus among the natives. His prowess was unmatched; he hunted wild beasts with his bare hands, feasting on their raw flesh. Rumours have it that at night, he transforms into a bull-like creature with the appearance of a man and patrols the entire land, watching, guarding and defending the nation from even unseen forces. No one has ever seen him like this before but the tale has been passed down from one generation to the next and it was talked about in hush whispers, making Elk, the giant, to be feared greatly. Elk’s solitary nature led him to dwell in the hills and caves on the outskirts of Nebothia. The villagers rarely saw him, save for times of war. Unlike other cities with their grand armies, Nebothia had no standing force of great art or strength. They had only Elk—their one-man army. When danger loomed, an alarm would sound, and Elk would be summoned from his rocky abode. But the task of fetching this unpredictable giant fell to one person alone: a young lad named Elon. For Elk’s temper was as mighty as his strength, and many a messenger had fallen victim to his rage before even reaching the battlefield. Elon, however, possessed a unique ability to calm the giant while delivering news of impending threats. Each time Elk appeared, the natives rejoiced, for his presence assured victory. He always returned triumphant, a living legend among his people. But as time flowed like an endless river, Elk vanished from the hills he called home. The only trace of his departure was a cryptic message etched into a tree: “𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝑎 𝑔𝑖𝑓𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑙… ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑” The villagers, puzzled by the message’s origin and meaning, continued their daily lives unaware of the profound change about to unfold. When war once again threatened Nebothia, Elon was dispatched to fetch their saviour. He raced to the hills, his heart pounding with urgency. Reaching the cave at the foot of the hills, Elon called out: “Oh, great one! A nearby community who have not heard of your might is camping just by the seashore ready to attack us!” Silence greeted his words. Undeterred, Elon tried again, his voice echoing off the cave walls. “Great Elk of Nebothia! Your city is on the verge of attack by some invaders who are ready to strike us at any time. You need to come down quickly and save us!” “Are you talking to yourself?” A voice startled Elon from behind. Spinning around, Elon found himself face to face with a Dublin—a watcher of the sky, suspended in mid-air by wings attached to his legs. The Dublin’s piercing gaze seemed to look through Elon as he repeated his question. Confusion clouded Elon’s mind as the Dublin revealed a truth that would shatter his world: “Or rather, you were sent to get yourself to fight off the invaders!” “I don’t understand you,” Elon protested, his mission to fetch Elk momentarily forgotten. “What is there not to understand, dear son of Elk?” The words hit Elon like a thunderbolt. “What did you just say? Me? The son of Elk?” “Yes. Can’t you see it, Elon? Elk is your father sent to watch over and save Nebothia. He has finished his race and is gone. It’s your turn now to do the same.” “What are you talking about?” Elon asked, entering into more confusion. If he was the son of Elk, how did that come to be? What was he doing in the village with others? Why was he not on the hill with his father? As he asked these questions, realization dawned on him as the answers came. He has never felt normal, his body mass keeps increasing by the day and so is his appetite. He noticed he was also getting taller, even taller than most of the villagers. “But-” “There are no buts, can’t you see the handwriting on the wall, Elon? Your father has completed his race and has handed it over to you, you’re the next watcher and guardian of Nebothia” “But how come-” “How come you never knew right?” The Dublin asked, cutting him short. “Yeah,” Elon replied confused. “That’s because Elk, your father gave you up to the villagers at your birth. He wanted you to know everything about the people you’ve been sent to guard. He wanted you to fall in love with them first and so you can care for them. He didn’t have that opportunity and most times, he was quite violent towards them but he didn’t want the same for you and so he allowed you to live with them,” He explained. “So great son of Elk, what are you going to do with this information? Will you continue to be an errand boy, one sent to go call a giant or one who will take up his place and identity as THE GIANT and fight?” Elon was at a loss as he watched the Dublin, his mouth was open but no words came from it. The Dublin knew he had carried out his mission and so he left Elon with these parting words. “Awaken the giant in you or watch him die from sleep!” As the Dublin vanished into the sky, Elon remained rooted to the spot, grappling with his newfound identity. The weight of his destiny pressed upon him, demanding action. So all along, he was a giant and he never knew, no one knew. No one told him. 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑑. And what did the Dublin say again, “What was he going to do with that information?” Elon roared, one that was heard even far beyond the land and stumped down the hill as … Read more

Confronting the Secrets of the Past

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Confronting The Secrets of the Past

I saw Anna again after 15 years. I saw her but she wasn’t the little infant whose image has secretly been on my mind for eons. She wasn’t the 2-day old baby I left to die at the refuse dump. Anna was representing her school in the quarterly spelling bee competition and so far, she’s been scaling each phase without burning out her memory. She kept spelling till she got to the nationals where I happened to be one of the judges. I’ve been hearing a lot about this nerd who has been setting the whole central East on fire with her brains and I wasn’t surprised when I learned she would be at the competition. Her school is head-bent on milking all the awards through her. She’s their best student. “Anna Patrick for Greenfield High School,” The chief judge called her and proceeded to call others who made it to the nationals. She walked up to the stage and took her seat. She is my exact replica and I hid part of my face with my wig trying my best to comport myself. I met her two days ago when they arrived, she was in the company of a woman and a man, supposedly her foster parents and also the school proprietress. I met them at the entrance to the secretariat where every student would have to register. She had the mark on her face, on her neck, and her right hand. I had a baby when I was 15. I wasn’t ready and so was my boyfriend. It was best I got rid of it but I couldn’t for fear of losing my life in the process so I ran away from home. I had the baby, a little healthy baby in a cold dirty infirmary. She was so small and beautiful and I forgot my fears for once as I looked at her. My baby had those birthmarks, tiny starish marks close to her eyes, her neck, and on her right hand. I know I couldn’t take care of her so I opted for the easy way out. I rolled her in folds of wrappers and dumped her in her sleep at the refuse dump close to the area where I lived and I turned back and fled. Anna wrote down her name and I stared at her in shock, the room suddenly became so small for me and stuffy too. I couldn’t breathe and sweat broke out on my tiny frame. My colleague asked her for other information which she provided in that shrill voice the same as mine. She has my eyes and lips too. Anyone who looked at us closely would see the resemblance, I nearly fainted as she talked. I was just holding on to my sanity by a thread. She left with her parents and I walked back to my room complaining of a headache. My mind was cast back to that day when I dropped my motherly cloak and abandoned a child I brought into his world. Now fate has played a fast one on me by showing me how wicked I was and a treasure that I’ve lost to another family. I’ve not even been able to conceive in my marriage after 5 years already. I cried myself to sleep filled with guilt and sorrow. She was at the last two words that would crown her champion, she and another girl from the west were the only two remaining after defeating the other thirty-four contestants from other states. By missing a letter, the other girl fell out and it was remaining just Anna. My own Anna. I looked at the last word for her to spell. “Eccendentesiast” The chief judge said something else instead. “Spell Motherhood.” Anna looked at him with awe as her jaw dropped from high expectations. No one was expecting such a simple word to spell. I could see the sly look on the face of the proprietress and the triumphant look on the face of her parents, scratch that, her foster parents. I flinched in lethal dread. This shouldn’t be happening now. I was filled with sorrow as she asked for a dictionary definition. It’s such a simple word, why would she want a definition? Abiding by the rule, the chief judge said the definition. I was sitting there trying hard not to make my tears spill for it reminded me of how much I’ve failed. She brought the microphone close to her mouth and started. “I was told that I had a mother who gave birth to me but decided to throw me away for reasons best known to her — ” Anna wasn’t supposed to be doing this but I saw that the chief judge was quiet and didn’t try to stop her. I guess everyone wants to know about this brilliant girl and who she was. “I’m not angry at her action, I’m just sad that she hated me that much to want to end my life. I have a mother today, who picked me up from that dump and it’s to her I dedicate this.” Anna continued. She walked down the stage to where her parents sat, her mum was already in tears as she came closer. There My Anna spelled the word ‘Motherhood’. I wiped off my tears quickly as it ran down my cheeks. No one would ever see it and I managed to speak into the microphone. “Correct.” I watched the crowd grow wild in ecstasy as they clapped for the new national champion. Her parents hugged her tight crying. I slipped away into the restroom and sat on the cold tiled floor. I let go of reasoning as I sat close to the toilet bowl crying in heart-shattering pain. I couldn’t believe what I’d done to myself. I was too weak to even go back to the hall. How would I tell the story? She will hate me even more, that I walked away from her only … Read more

A Regret that Lasted a Lifetime

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A Regret that Lasted a Lifetime

I regretted the day Father told me I would marry David, the day he summoned me to the courtyard to meet him. There I saw the man, fully clad in a soldier’s armour, only his face visible—and it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. His eyes spelt such peace that I wondered how it could be so for a man of war, a man who had just slain 200 Philistines single-handedly to win my hand. His hand rested on his sword hilt, ready to draw at any moment. “Be still, man of war!” I almost said, but held my tongue. There was no imminent battle; the only war was the one raging in my heart. “Meet my daughter, Michal,” Father said David removed his helmet and bowed slightly as Father introduced me. I returned the gesture as nicely as I could. As Father spoke, my eyes roamed freely over his form. His golden hair cascaded to the nape of his neck, his skin the colour of caramel, and his lips a perfect feature on his face. Oh, how I loved him! Father must have known this, perhaps explaining why he chose me to be his wife. Secretly, I was grateful that Merab, my elder sister, had been given to another. Now, this man could be mine alone. Father beckoned David forward and placed my hand in his. As our hands touched, he knelt and kissed mine. A shiver ran through my entire body, from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. When he released my hand and stood, our eyes met, and I blushed—a princess, flushing for a man in his very presence! But he was no ordinary man. He was a commander in my father’s army, the one who had saved our land from the Philistine giant, Goliath and ended the war. Father dismissed me, and I tried to walk gracefully back to my chambers, conscious of his gaze boring into my back. Years passed, and he became not just my husband and the greatest warrior in the land, but also the King. He ascended the throne after my father’s death, elevating me to the position of a queen. My warrior king was everything to me: my passion, for he alone could set me aflame; my priest, for he kept his covenant with God and communed daily with the divine; my king, who made me his queen; my husband, whose leadership and priesthood I submitted to. He was the envy of all, and I felt blessed to be his wife. But there’s more to our tale—he was also a fiercely jealous lover. In a cruel twist of fate, my father gave me to another man, a spiteful act aimed at wounding him. Yet, upon his triumphant return after my father’s passing, he demanded my restoration as his rightful wife. Seeing his devotion to me, I vowed to reciprocate. I resolved to be the epitome of a devoted wife—to desire him ceaselessly, to commit myself to him alone, and to adore him with every fibre of my being. These were the expectations placed upon a wife, and I embraced them wholeheartedly. But I failed him. I failed the day the Ark of God was returned to Jerusalem. That day, I looked upon my king with contempt and despised him in my heart, for he debased himself before the people. Why should the great King of Israel dance so vigorously, nearly becoming unclad? Such behaviour did not befit royalty! It was a complete humiliation of royal dignity! When he finished the offerings and came to bless us, I took him aside and berated him for his unseemly actions. “We have a legacy to uphold,” I hissed. “What will our servants think?” My king listened silently to my anger, then replied, “In God’s presence, I’ll dance all I want! He chose me over your father and the rest of your family and made me prince over God’s people, over Israel. Yes, I’ll dance to God’s glory even more recklessly than this. And as far as I’m concerned… I’ll gladly look like a fool…” His words left me speechless, and as he walked away, my heart shattered. I realized then that I had despised not just him, but the God of Israel.  I had forgotten the scripture that says, “He inhabits the praises of His people.”  He had been dancing for Him, not for me or the people. It was his expression of love, shown through jubilant dance. I had despised his worship, his sacrifice to the King of kings, his devotion to the Maker. I had despised a man of God, a man after God’s own heart. I had despised the very offering for the Ark of the Covenant and the fact that he had gone out of his way to bring it back to Israel. I had despised the man on whose shoulders God had placed the governance of His people. I had despised his priesthood and his kingship. I had despised the covering over my head. Oh, how I had despised my king! Afterwards, I would go to my king when summoned, or he would come to me at will, but I could not conceive. It was as if his seed fell on infertile ground—for that is what I had become after I disdained him. A mark had been made in the womb of time: a woman is to honour her head, and I had failed to do so. How could I conceive for a man I loathed? What good could I receive from a man I disdained? What blessings could I obtain from his God, whom I had treated with contempt? I remained barren in his house, the only barren woman in Israel until the day I died. READ ALSO: Religion Creates no Boundaries in Love

The Grass Isn’t Greener on the Other Side

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The Grass Isn't Greener on the Other Side

They say the grass isn’t greener on the other side, but I was convinced otherwise. In the Great House, Ngozi and I served diligently. My role was to maintain cleanliness throughout the expansive dwelling, while Ngozi was responsible for all the cooking. Each day, I meticulously swept and cleaned every nook and cranny, ensuring no speck of dust remained hidden. I also washed everything that needed cleaning—from dishes and curtains to clothes and linens. The daily grind of my duties felt unrelenting, and I couldn’t help but compare my situation to Ngozi’s. In my mind, her job seemed effortless. “All she has to do is cook and serve meals,” I thought. “How difficult could that be?” Ngozi’s role occupied my thoughts increasingly. I imagined her days filled with nothing more than ensuring the Great House’s inhabitants—the master and his wife, their eight children, the servants, and the gateman—were fed three times a day, with occasional snacks in between. Gradually, envy crept into my heart. As I struggled with my cleaning duties, Ngozi’s job appeared easier by comparison. My resentment grew, manifesting in daily complaints that soon gave way to bitterness. I began to berate Ngozi over trivial matters, secretly wishing I could trade places with her. “If only I could cook instead of clean,” I mused, “my life would be so much simpler.” To my surprise and delight, my wish came true when our Master instructed Ngozi and me to switch roles. Eager to prove my superiority, I couldn’t wait to show everyone how much better I could handle the cooking duties. After all, how hard could it be? On my first day in my new role, I awoke early and strode confidently into the kitchen, a smile playing on my lips. However, reality quickly set in as I stood there, suddenly at a loss for what to prepare for breakfast. It took several minutes to decide on a menu, and even longer to calculate the portions needed for the entire household. Three hours later, I finally finished preparing tea, banana bread, and egg omelettes. By then, the household was awake and irritated by the delay. I apologized profusely, only to realize I had miscalculated the portions—there wasn’t enough food for everyone. Grumbling and hissing were my only thanks that morning. Determined to do better, I immediately began preparing lunch: boiled rice, grilled fish, and curry sauce. After a trip to the market for ingredients, I threw myself into cooking. Despite my efforts, lunch wasn’t ready until 4:30 PM, and our Madam complained about the excessive use of curry. Once again, my work went unappreciated. Dinner was cucumber stew and mashed potatoes with barbecue fish which proved equally challenging. I overcompensated and prepared far too much food, leaving a mountain of leftovers. Madam admonished me, explaining that they only ate fresh food in the house and warned me never to make that mistake again. By the time I retired to bed, exhaustion had set in. The long hours standing over the stove, the trek to the market, haggling with vendors, enduring complaints, and the mental strain of meal planning had taken their toll. The realization that I’d have to repeat this process daily was daunting. After just one week, I longed for my former role. I finally understood that Ngozi’s job was far from easy. The mental gymnastics required to plan meals, cook them well, portion correctly, and keep the house stocked with food was more demanding than I had ever imagined. In contrast, my previous cleaning duties now seemed manageable. I could use the washing machine for laundry, and occasionally skip a day of mopping the floors without major consequences. Cooking, however, was something else—there was no option to skip a day, and it consumed nearly all my waking hours. This role reversal taught me a valuable lesson: Ngozi and I each had our place in the Great House. We both contributed to its smooth operation in our unique ways. It was foolish to think one role was more important or demanding than the other. When our Master restored us to our original positions, I embraced my cleaning duties with newfound appreciation. I realized I excelled at maintaining the house’s cleanliness—the role I had been assigned for good reason. Ngozi, in turn, was far more skilled in the kitchen than I could ever hope to be. In the end, I learned that every role in the Great House was essential, and comparing our duties was futile. Together, Ngozi and I worked towards the common good of all who dwelled within its walls, each playing our part to perfection. READ ALSO: When Family Becomes the Most Important Destination

 The Morning That Changed Everything

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The Morning That Changed Everything

The year was 2009, and it was a morning unlike any other in our household. Mum woke us up early for prayers, but something was different. The usual rhythm of our morning devotion was disrupted, replaced by an urgency that hung thick in the air. In the past, our prayer time was a leisurely affair. My three siblings and I would each take turns singing five worship songs, we would then read a chapter from the Bible, share our interpretations, and pray one after another. Mum always concluded with the overall prayer, first in Igbo, then in English. I often found myself imagining God’s reaction to this bilingual approach. In my childish mind, I pictured Him perplexed by the Igbo prayers, only to nod in understanding when Mum switched to English. I couldn’t help but wonder why she bothered with Igbo at all if she was going to repeat everything in English anyway. But this morning was different. There were no individual songs, no lengthy Bible study, and no extended prayers. Mum rushed through a brief reading and said grace, leaving us all a bit bewildered. As we finished, I watched Mum spring into action. She retrieved the flour she had purchased the day before and began mixing it in a large bowl. Water, baking powder, salt, sugar, and butter followed in quick succession. Her hands worked tirelessly until she winced, complaining of chest pain. Without missing a beat, she called my brothers to take over the mixing. While they worked on the dough, Mum darted outside to gather firewood from the pile near our house – the same pile she arranged for sale. She returned with an armful, setting it down on the verandah with determination etched on her face. I watched in fascination as she started the fire and cleaned the enormous frying pan she had bought from Kasuwa (Market). As she placed it on the iron firewood stand, she explained her plan. Our provision business was struggling, and she needed to diversify to increase our profits. We already sold firewood, recharge cards, soft drinks, and foodstuffs. Now, we were about to add fried buns to our inventory, with the possibility of expanding into other pastries in the future. Mum sent me to fetch the groundnut oil for frying. I made my way into our two-room apartment, navigating through the space we had divided with wooden shelves to create our makeshift shop. The other half of the front room and the main room served as our living and sleeping quarters, perpetually cluttered despite our best efforts to tidy up. We held onto many useless items, hoping to sell them to the Hausa kwolabe (Scrap collectors) for some extra change or exchange them with kparo (thrift clothes collectors) women for new household items. “What’s keeping you in there?” Mum called from outside, snapping me back to the task at hand. I grabbed the bottles of groundnut oil and hurried out to join her. By now, our neighbours were stirring, and a chorus of “Good mornings” and “How una deys?” filled the air. Mum greeted everyone warmly, her enthusiasm infectious. As our street came to life, passersby stopped to inquire about our new venture. Their faces lit up with anticipation, promising to return once the buns were ready. Meanwhile, my siblings prepared for their day – my sister heading off to her job as a café attendant, and my brothers leaving for school. I stayed behind to help Mum with the frying. As the delicious aroma of fresh buns wafted through the air, our first customers appeared – school children on their way to class. Mum served them with a smile, even offering extra buns to those who bought four at once. Once we finished frying, Mum divided the buns into two sections. She carefully arranged one portion in a transparent plastic bucket and instructed me to get ready quickly. My heart sank as I realized what was coming next – I was to go out and sell the buns. The walk to our compound’s shared bathroom felt endless. My mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead – hawking fried buns around town, a task that already felt overwhelmingly daunting. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders, making even the simple act of bathing a challenge. As I stepped out with the bucket of buns balanced precariously on my head, I could feel the stares of familiar faces boring into my skin. I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to sink into the ground and vanish from sight. With each step down the street, I felt smaller and more exposed. Calls of “Hey, you girl!” “Mai buns!” and “Heys!” echoed around me. The shame crawled across my skin as I spotted my friends on their way to school. I couldn’t bring myself to smile or wave back, wishing desperately for this ordeal to end. I knew the only way to return home was to sell everything. So, against every instinct screaming for me to run and hide, I found my voice and began to shout, “Buy sweet buns!” That morning in 2009 marked a turning point in my young life. It was a harsh introduction to the realities of our family’s financial struggles and the lengths we would go to survive. READ ALSO: Scars That Break Us 

Torn Between Love and Letting Go

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Torn Between Love and Letting Go

It started with CREMATION. A word that Merriam-Webster’s dictionary had featured as the word of the day. Little did I know how this morbid topic would foreshadow the way my life would soon be torn apart. Jenny read about it, googled it, and even dug up a full journal article from a medical science association’s website about cremation. She talked about it for hours. I thought it was crazy, but she found it surprising that people would want such a form of burial and would even decide what should happen to them after death. “Their choice,” she had said. Two weeks later, we were sitting in front of our church’s doctor, holding each other’s hands and listening to his words that confirmed she likely had ovarian cancer. I couldn’t help but think of that word again: “Cremation.” Why had it come up at that point in our lives? Why had Jenny downloaded a medical journal about it and studied it for so long? Why had she told me about it? As we watched the doctor in shock, I kept imagining the cancer cells consuming my wife-to-be and reducing her to a walking corpse, much like the act of cremation. We had come for tests required by our church’s marriage committee: HIV, blood group, genotype, and pregnancy tests. Then they discovered something else that led to another test on her reproductive system, breaking our happy lives and scarring them for good. Jenny thought it would end quickly and she would soon be with God, so she cancelled all our wedding plans and even accepted half the price we had paid for some things because we couldn’t get full refunds. She stopped her master’s program, saying she would write an email to the director of the post-graduate school to tell him she was dying soon. She joined the choir and started forcing herself to sing in tune with others. Then she also started knitting and looking for another lady for me. Cancer and the thought of death reduced her to a shadow, and it broke me daily. I couldn’t do any of the things she was doing. The doctor had asked her to join a closed cancer support group, but they never offered me any support. What happens to the partners of people who are about to lose them to cancer? How should they fight? I watched our prepared future go down the drain, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was with Jenny through her chemo sessions. I watched her hair fall out gradually until she decided to cut it all off herself. I watched my best friend lose her charm and her smile, and I struggled with the thought of letting go. I couldn’t. Jenny came home one day with a beautiful ring with a big diamond on top and told me it was for her replacement. I should propose to the new lady I would meet after her with the ring. It was her gift to her. Despite the pain I felt, I smiled as I took the ring from her. I couldn’t stop her or chide her for suggesting and doing such things; it was her own way of accepting and even healing. The week before Jenny died, she asked me to wed her in church. It was a Wednesday. Even though I tried to make her understand that I hadn’t paid her bride price or married her traditionally, she insisted I skip all those processes. She wanted to die knowing she had married me at last. I nodded and said I would grant her wish. “One more thing, I want you to bury me with that ring I bought,” she said. I laughed through the tears that gathered in my eyes. “You don’t want me to give it to—” She didn’t let me finish. “I’m already jealous.” “I’m sorry,” I said. I shouldn’t have been making jokes about such a delicate matter. I didn’t grant that wish. I didn’t bury my Jenny with the ring she bought. I wedded her against the many protests from our pastors and parents. I did everything else she asked me to do, but I did not throw that ring into her coffin. READ ALSO: Embracing Love After Life’s Hardest Trials

The Hidden Struggle Against Child Marriage

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The Hidden Struggle Against Child Marriage

In the heart of Northern Nigeria, a silent battle rages beneath the surface of tradition and expectation. It’s a struggle that often goes unnoticed, fought in the hearts and minds of young girls facing the prospect of childhood marriages. While many succumb to societal pressure, some rare individuals dare to resist, their stories are seldom told. I’ve lived here all my life, and though I’m certain there are more, I’ve personally witnessed only one such instance of defiance. It’s the story of a young girl who dared to say no, challenging the authority of her father, a prominent Mallam, and refusing to marry an older man chosen for her. She was my classmate, Talatu, who was just 12 years old at the time. The suitor in question was over 60, and she felt nothing for him. As punishment for her defiance, her father refused to allow her to marry any of the young men she eventually chose for herself. “You will live here with me till you die!” he once told her—a decree he stubbornly upheld. Talatu grew to be 35 and was still unmarried. Her only “crime” was refusing to marry at such a young age to an older man, and above all, she didn’t want to endure the physical consequences of such a union. She once confided in me about her fears of having an “open and watery vagina,” a euphemism for the physical trauma that can result from intercourse at a young age with an older partner. Her fundamental human rights were denied – the right to love, be loved, and choose whom to marry. “I just wanted to marry someone I love. Why should I marry someone I don’t love? I would kill him within a week,” Talatu told me. I looked into her eyes and knew she was telling the truth, but I also knew Talatu wouldn’t kill anyone. She would more likely file for a divorce if forced into such a marriage. “You were not raised to kill!” I said to her. She laughed and threw her head back. I wondered what I’d said that was so funny, but I realized later that she laughed to hide the tears gathering in her eyes. Her laughter was a mask for her pain and frustration. “I just might kill someone else. I’ll be 36 very soon, and he still won’t let me marry,” she said, her voice tinged with desperation. “You will marry soon,” I heard myself say, trying to revive her hope, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. She blinked back tears and escorted me out when I stood up to leave. I had gone only a few meters when she called after me. “Maryam, I was talking to you and I missed my prayers.” I smiled and suggested she pray later and ask for forgiveness for missing it. She said nothing and only smiled. I smiled too and left the compound. She never came around to pronouncing my name well; she always called me Maryam instead of Maryann. I had grown just like her, I had married, birthed 3 kids and ran a small business in town. Talatu remained my friend and I still make time to come and see her even though our religion were worlds apart but I didn’t mind and she did not too. _________ I lived in a time when young girls were given away early in marriage to men old enough to be their grandfathers. Some are physically traumatised from their wedding night and left to suffer the consequences without proper care. The ignorance surrounding these practices is astounding. “She is cursed,” they would say, “Why would she fall sick and get a disease from having sex?” How can they expect a 10-year-old to be physically or emotionally prepared to engage in such acts? It is sheer madness to demand conjugal rights from a minor. The physical and psychological damage inflicted by these practices are severe and long-lasting. Talatu stood up against this tradition but at a great cost. She didn’t complete her education, stopped at Primary Three, and was held captive by her feelings in her own house. She was destined to die unmarried because she refused to marry a 60-year-old man. Her story is a poignant reminder of the countless women whose lives are controlled and limited by outdated customs and patriarchal authority. This is the world I live in – a world where tradition often clashes with human rights, where the voices of young women are silenced, and where the cycle of oppression continues. Talatu’s story is not unique, but it points to the resilience of those who dare to challenge the status quo, even when the price is their happiness. READ ALSO: How One Girl Faced Her Family’s Dark Legacy

Embracing Divine Destiny on an Unplanned Path

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Embracing Divine Destiny on an Unplanned Path

Life has a curious way of setting us on unexpected journeys, often leading us to embrace a divine destiny we never anticipated. My path took an unforeseen turn on a seemingly ordinary day at a bustling Nigerian bus park. As I stood at the ticket counter, my diminutive frame dwarfed by the imposing presence of a fellow traveller, I had no inkling of the profound connection that fate was about to forge. With my ticket in hand, I rushed to claim the prized window seat – a small victory for any Nigerian road traveller. As if on cue, he arrived at the vehicle seconds later and chose the second row of seats since I had already taken the first. He sat directly behind me, and both of us were near the window. His face didn’t give him away as Igbo, but his voice did. The numerous calls he received and made were all about business and family, his thick accent punctuating every word. I wanted to turn around and tell him I was Igbo as well, but I couldn’t. The phrase “Abum onye Igbo” (I am Igbo) formed in my mouth, but I held my tongue back and remained facing forward. I heard everything he was saying, knowing he was unaware that I could understand or that anyone else on the bus filled with Hausas might be Igbo.  I longed for a little of the oneness we share with our tribe to rub off on me too, the same way a Yoruba would easily identify with another Yoruba or a Hausa man wouldn’t hesitate to connect with another Hausa man. I wondered what I would say next after introducing myself to him, but I lost the zeal and remained silent almost throughout the journey. My silence would have persisted until we reached our destination if the accident had never happened. The accident was terrible, but we survived. At the hospital ward where we were admitted, my tongue suddenly became loose, and I spoke Igbo with reckless abandon, only occasionally punctuating it with English. It seemed as if the pain in my plastered arm neutralized whatever had been holding me back earlier during the journey. He was surprised to hear me speak to him in Igbo, and I could tell he wondered why I hadn’t introduced myself earlier. His left leg was heavily bandaged. We had been at the hospital for a week, and I had even been unconscious for two days after we were rushed in. As I sat beside him, my mind wandered, eventually settling on an important lesson: the sudden transition to speaking my language highlighted that ‘I do not have to wait for any opportunity to preach the gospel’. Sometimes, the opportunity could come in grave circumstances, even on the platter of an accident. But what if I hadn’t survived? What if he had died? What if I couldn’t say a word before he died? He would have passed away without knowing I was a child of God, without me witnessing to him. The same way he would have died without knowing I was Igbo. A whole lot of ‘not-knowings’ all because I was tongue-tied. I asked how he felt, and he said he was getting better but wished he was with his family instead of in a hospital far from home. I felt sorry for him but said nothing, instead thinking of writing my name and other messages on his leg bandage, just as I had done on my arm bandage. I waited for him to calm down after expressing his woes before telling him about Jesus. Afterwards, we became almost inseparable, always together, talking about Jesus and speaking Igbo. The day I was discharged, he was fast asleep. I got to leave early because my injury was minor. I wrote on a sheet of paper and left it by his bedside in the male ward: Luke 1:37 – With God all these things are possible. You will be fine and you will get to see your family soon. Cheers!!! As I boarded a bus at Gusau, I wished he was there again so I could speak Igbo with him. Just then, I heard the priceless language right beside me from a young girl, about my age, speaking to someone over the phone. I smiled brightly and waited for her to finish first. READ ALSO: God’s Loudest Scream Came in a Silent Dream

The Day I Lost My Dad

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THE DAY I LOST MY DAD

I lost my dad! It was strange not to have been woken up by my dad’s honk. Whenever I slept off without seeing him, I was rest assured when he arrived, he would come to my room to give me pecks that I wholeheartedly adored. But that night, what woke me up was the choking silence. I woke up to its grip and sound. No laughter, no chatter, no familiar hum of my father’s snoring. Just silence. I laid in bed, thinking of he arrived yet or not. I checked my small watch lying beside me on the bed. It was not too late into the night yet, just some minutes past seven. But the silence all over was deafening. I knew something was off. “Dad?” I called out, my voice a little bit low, raspy due to the short sleep I had. No response. I threw off the covers and rushed to his room. His bed was empty, the sheets neatly tucked in. “Mom?” I called, running to the living room. “He is not back?” I asked my mom. She was sitting on the couch, her eyes red and puffy. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, her voice trembling. “Where’s Dad?” I demanded. She took a deep breath. “He didn’t come home last night. I thought he was working late, but…I just got a call from the hospital.” My heart sank. “What? What happened?” I asked walking to her with my heart throbbing. She hesitated. “He was in an accident. “So, what happened, mom?” I asked with trembling voice. I sensed something was off already but I didn’t want to admit it. The more I questioned her, the more she let our her hot tears. I didn’t want to believe this. “He is gone!” She managed to say amidst tears. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “No,” I whispered, collapsing onto the couch beside her. Then, I gave out a loud shout, “No!” She walked up to me and held me tightly. I wailed, cried and screamed. We sat there, holding each other, and crying profusely. The night was a long one. We literally slept off on the rug after hours of weeping. We were in the hospital the following day. The hospital was a blur. I remember walking through the doors, seeing the somber faces, and feeling like I was in a nightmare. My father’s body lay in the morgue, cold and still. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Tears ran down my cheeks unheeded. I saw the same on my mother’s face too. She consoled me. No one to console her. It looked like a nightmare. “Dad! Wake up!” I whispered. I guessed it was too late because he remained silent no matter the number of times I called out. A nurse approached us, her eyes sympathetic. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Would you like to see him?” My mother nodded, but I shook my head. “I can’t,” I whispered. The nurse nodded understandingly. “It’s okay. Take your time.” We sat in the waiting room, surrounded by sterile walls and the stench of disinfectant. My mother held my hand, her grip was tight. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she whispered. “I know how much he meant to you.” She soberly said. She held her tears. I nodded, unable to speak. My father was more than just a parent, he was my hero, my confidant, my best friend. As we left the hospital, the bright sunlight hit me like a slap in the face. How could the world be so beautiful when my heart was shattering into a million pieces? I went through the motions, numb and detached in the days that followed. I felt nothing. I didn’t want to leave. But on the day of the funeral, something shifted. As I stood, looking out at the sea of faces, I felt a surge of anger and sadness. I thought of who be in my school to see me graduate, to walk me down the aisle, to meet his grandchildren. But most of all, I was angry that he was not here to tell me that everything will be okay. I cried bitterly on this day. Tears streamed down my face as I looked out at my mother, who was crying uncontrollably too. People gathered around but their condolences wouldn’t do a thing to erase my dad’s unforgettable memories. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. The pain never fully went away, but it became bearable. Have I learned to live with it? I can’t say. When the silence became too much, I would whisper, “Dad, I miss you.” And in my heart, I knew he was still with me, guiding me through the darkness. I still miss him. I still do. READ ALSO How One Girl Faces Her Family’s Dark Legacy