Creative Writing

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

A Young Mother’s Heartbreaking Journey to Truth

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A Young Mother's Heartbreaking Journey to Truth

Falling in love with a soldier makes you a fool, or so they say. As a young mother, I learned this truth the hard way. The day I said yes to Ikem, I knew I had just said yes to life on the battlefield, and the life that followed only confirmed it. Everything felt different from that moment forward. It was as if I was living on borrowed time, living someone else’s life and walking in their shoes always. It was foolish of me to have said yes because that gave Ikem freedom and a place to cool off from the effects of the war. He was not from our town and was just there for a while. Soon he was gone again; he said something about the war brewing in the North and that the soldiers posted to our town had to go and stop it. It suited him: fighting and being at war just in time after planting his child inside me. I knew my mother would curse me if she found out I got pregnant by a soldier, so I hid it well, wondering what could have been and what was not at the moment. Days spanned into weeks and weeks into months; mother found out after I was three months gone and cursed me. I felt the heat of her anger but not more than I felt the heat of Ikem’s love when I remembered our time together; on those nights when he and I were alone in his room at the soldiers’ quarters. It was love, it just had to be, but it felt different now, having to bear the results and shame of a pregnancy with a man unknown to my parents and even to my community. All those memories were what made me cry, not the fact that mother cursed me and threatened to drive me out of her house once I delivered my child. Shame drove me insane as I counted the days and hated every part of my body, especially the area carrying the one who would soon call me a mother. I was due nine months later, and when I heard nothing from Ikem, I endured the long walk to the Post Office; clerks there could easily write one letter for a shilling and post it for five shillings. I still had the money Ikem had given me, which made me feel special, but right now it felt like he had paid me off, particularly after making love to me. “Write me a letter,” I managed to say to the male attendant in the post office. It was when he asked for the postal address that I discovered I didn’t even know where Ikem was. I was a foolish teenager and a confused one at that. The tears welled in my eyes as the attendant waited for my response. “To August,” I said and walked away shamefully under the full glare of the elderly cleaner woman. She would say I was stupid, but in truth, I was desperate. What was I going to say? Tell them I was pregnant by a man I knew nothing about his whereabouts, that I was stupid enough to get pregnant at sixteen? I just didn’t want to have Ikem’s child and not have him by my side. I wanted him to know of my predicament and just see how he would come home to me. What I didn’t know was that halfway around the world, Ikem had been buried along with other fallen heroes on the battlefield. If I had sent that letter to the right address, it would have gotten to him, but it would have met his death. READ ALSO: Embracing Love After Life’s Hardest Trials

How One Girl Faced Her Family’s Dark Legacy

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How One Girl Faced Her Family’s Dark Legacy

I thought of sheol, hades, and death as my grandfather’s hands moved in circular motions on Órogun, his chi and our family’s deity. As a young girl, I watched these rituals with fear, not yet understanding the weight they would place on my future. My grandfather touched the calabash just at the feet of the standing Órogun and then took some of the blood in it and smeared it on my forehead. It was my blood; wrung out of the cloth material that grandfather had handed me the moment I told him I’d started seeing my nsọ – my menstruation. He said we would dedicate it to Órogun so he waited for the third month when the flow became a little heavier. And so here we were, at the back of our hut, at the thatched outhouse made of mud, before the personal deity of our family, offering my menstrual blood to it. “Say you will not allow any man to touch you. The day you do, the man will surely die. If you get pregnant through him, the child would belong to this family and would bear my name,” he said in Ika, our language. I repeated after my grandfather, my Ika reeling off my tongue in quick succession. He touched my forehead with his bloody fingers and made a mark. A dot just between my eyes, and he said that we would leave my blood there; we were offering it to Órogun and he would accept it. We would find the calabash empty by the time we checked back tomorrow. Órogun would drink it all. I felt repulsed immediately as I stepped out of the family shrine and wished I didn’t have to live with my heathen grandfather. I wished I lived with my mother in the city and that she hadn’t borne me out of wedlock. I wished every female in the family got married and didn’t have children without a father. I walked to my room in the main house and I wondered what Madea, my best friend, would think of me when I told her in school the next day; she would say, of course, that I’m a traditionalist. I wondered what Miss Enoch would think of me too; she would say I had chosen the devil over Jesus, whom she preached to me about. Well, they did none of that when I told them in school, and to my surprise, Mrs Enoch told me never to use cloth material again and not to allow my blood to be wrung out of it. She gave me a pack of sanitary pads and asked that I dispose of them in our latrine or burn them after use. Then she told me to denounce whatever ties I had with Órogun immediately. I went back home and everything began to make sense to me. Órogun would accept our blood of innocence but would deny us husbands; it’s all in the oath we took before it that any man who touches us would die. That oath didn’t stop at just any passerby but even husbands. It was all-encompassing, and I saw the sheer wickedness of it all. Grandfather thought he was protecting us from losing our virginity but didn’t know that he was making us lose more than that: our future. My mum has never had a stable relationship. My father died while he was making love to her; she told me that in a hurried whisper and how she had to run away to avoid being caught by the police. My aunties were not left out of the struggle either, all three of them getting old but not married. I wish grandfather knew that his ritual was causing something in the lives of his daughters and maybe even in the lives of his granddaughters. I went to the shrine and peeped in to see if Órogun had accepted my blood and probably drunk all of it as my grandfather said it would. The calabash was still there, and I walked in to take it; the almost congealed liquid stared at my face, and I ran out quickly to dispose of it in the latrine. READ ALSO: A Christian Journey That Started With Theft

God’s Loudest Scream Came in a Silent Dream

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God's Loudest Scream Came in a Silent Dream

I dreamt of Hajara. She wasn’t pregnant, even in my dream, and she made sure I saw her new engagement ring. She was getting married to another man. I also saw mangoes; the last thing I remembered before waking up was trying to pluck them, succeeding only when I used a plastic bottle with a hole in the side. Hajara loved mangoes, but it was only after she left me that I started paying attention to the things she wanted—the unspoken things, the times she wanted a child, and mangoes. But it’s too late now. My wife of three unhappy years divorced me and is marrying another man. We never had children because I couldn’t give her one. Things happened to me as a youth. I was from a believing home but struggled to live up to my family’s high standards. I fell away soon after getting admission into the university. I never partied, smoked, or took hard drugs. On the contrary, I was cool-headed, still went to church, was an executive in my fellowship, lifted holy hands, and served the Lord. But it was all a façade. I would tell people to live a holy life, but I doubted that very life myself. How could one do all these things on the outside but be nothing but a sepulchre of dry bones inside? Deep down, I had departed from the faith. I had one careless night with a lady from fellowship. I never knew she had STDs and transmitted them to me. Trust me, I was fine, and it happened only once. Nothing changed, and I continued my life. Years later, I met and married Hajara, still in my confused state about who Christ was. There, the truth emerged. The disease, untreated, had eaten deep into my system. I was declared sterile, and then I thought of Susan from school. Hajara only stayed with me for as long as she could bear. She walked out as soon as she found a good opportunity. Dreams meant nothing to me, but this one broke me. I had lost everything. I even had nothing in the first place. Still on my bed, wallowing in self-pity, my mom’s favourite scripture came to me: “His Spirit bears witness with our spirit that we are God’s beloved children – Rom 8:16.” I’d never had any witness in my spirit. Never heard from God and never felt anything. “Did you allow yourself to be loved and then God turned you away?“ I heard inside me. I started yelling, ignoring the tears that rushed to my eyes and the hot sensation in my chest that was almost choking me. “How do I allow myself to be loved? Of course, I’ve been here, I’ve always been here on earth. He should have reached out to me if He loved me enough. He was there when I lost my wife, He was there when I was pronounced sterile and—” I stopped. God never leaves us. He is always there and very much around. He was there when I slept with Susan when I gave myself to the pleasure of sin and then took back its wages. I imagined Him screaming to stop me, “Hey son, she’s got STDs!“ But would I have listened? Could I even hear Him? The tears streamed down my face now. “You never surrendered to God to be loved. You never surrendered to the ultimate power of His Spirit. You never tasted the life of Christ which He released when He resurrected.“ I heard again. I thought about the many times we woke up at home for devotion, the many times I spent in Sunday school and youth fellowship, and the many times I participated in student fellowship and outreaches. I knew I was deceiving myself. I never really surrendered. That didn’t keep God away still. He was hot on my heels to see that I got it right with Him first. “Lord, I don’t know what it means to be given to you, but help me, please help me. I’ve never known any man who asked you for help and you abandoned such a life. Please help me.” And so it took a dream to make me do a quick rundown of my life in minutes. I saw God clearly for the first time in my life, and what a beautiful sight it was to behold! Love will never be silent. Love will always scream out, even if it means coming through any subtle manner it knows. Love can never be kept hidden; it would seep out to that very soul that needs it. Love is God. READ ALSO: How a Teacher’s Faith Helped a Disabled Student Walk

Friendship Lost and Lessons Learned Too Late

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Friendship Lost and Lessons Learned Too Late

Clutching my bouquet of roses with trembling fingers, I stood at the edge of Ozoemena’s grave, hemmed in by a sea of mourners. Familiar faces of coursemates blurred with strangers, all united in grief for a man whose friendship I had carelessly overlooked. The weight of the flowers in my hands felt like a mockery of the connection I had failed to nurture in life, now painfully clear in death’s unforgiving light. Ozoemena. A guy I disliked because of hair. He had too much hair. Boy would cut his hair and have it growing the next minute; on his head, face, hands and legs. I saw it as an insult to my non-growing hair, how could a guy be so graced? Something a woman should have and right there my dislike for him found a base so I nicknamed him in Igbo Ozo ntutu — chief of hair, removing the last part of his name. But here I am now with flowers, one I didn’t give when he was alive but one I could afford to give at his death. I thought about the many times he had been nice, the many times he had gone out of his way to help people and the many times he had smiled. “You better be nice to me,” he would always say to me, “now that you can still see me.” He wanted to leave for Canada after our degree exams so he would run his master’s program and whenever he said that to me, I would frown and reply, “They won’t give you a visa!” I also wish I never told him in Year 1 that he was a lab experiment, “I bet you were created in a Petri dish!” I said out of anger when he pulled my cap in public revealing my short scattered hair. It was supposed to be a playful stunt but it got me annoyed. I should not have said those words to him. I should have been a little kind towards him. I should not have left him behind, sleeping that night we all went to read in school. I should have woken him up as I left at dawn but I did not and he told me it was the students who came later by 9 am for their lecture that woke him up. He was so embarrassed. I had simply replied, “What kind of sleep is that?” Without any form of pity. Ozoemena was a good man, a great class representative to us, and he ensured that we were happy. He saved us countless times from the hands of our lecturers and would sometimes take the blame. We became quite close in our final year, I don’t know but we seemed to sit together more often, were in the same group for assignments and ultimately had the same project supervisor. There he started his joke, “Mary, the mother of Jesus, pray for me so I won’t fail my degree exams.” “This Mary lives in Nigeria and she’s Igbo and not Jewish,” I would reply. “It’s the same thing, just pray!” He would tell me. On the last day of the exams, he was not present in my hall and I assumed he was in the second hall. Others in the second half assumed he was in our hall until we finished the paper and discovered he did not come to school at all. The HOD called us together and after giving a one-week ultimatum to submit four copies of our finished project, he told us about Ozoemena and that he was dying at the hospital. Dying? What? I could have sworn he was okay, I mean, he comes to class every day, makes me laugh and buys me food on several occasions, how could he be battling with his liver all this while? His last days were spent in the hospital. Dying yet laughing and trying to make a joke out of everything. “How much does this wheelchair cost? I’d take it home and sell it, they gave it to me but we have to pay for it, you know,” He told one day. I blamed the numerous drugs they were giving him, it seemed to weaken him and make him say all manner of things like a little child. I wanted to tell him to rest and stop talking but he preferred I listened to him and so he went on and on. “Promise me, you won’t die,” I asked him on his last night in the hospital. He smirked and closed his eyes. I trusted that smile and I trusted even the way he closed his eyes. That was a sign. A yes that he would survive. I had left reasoning behind and became a seeker of signs. “What will you do for me if I do not die?” He asked. “I’ll join you to sell this wheelchair to the highest bidder.” He laughed now, a weak laugh. We stood up to sing yet another hymn in church and that was when I noticed I had been crying. It didn’t feel like it though, it felt like I wasn’t there and I was caught in between the two emotions, weeping and being dry-eyed. Ozoemena died in the early hours of the next day. I was at the business centre binding my project work when I received the text from the assistant class rep – “He has gone to be with the Lord.” Rage and hate suddenly filled my spirit for everyone: for the girl at the business centre for not having my complete change, making me stand to wait for her to go and look for it; for the bike man who drove me to the teaching hospital and for driving so slowly, for even the nurse I met on duty with her pink lipstick. I also hated the colour pink at that moment. I hated the fact that I was wailing loudly when I saw his parents and that … Read more