Creative Writing

When Born Again Beliefs Collide With Mental Health Issues

by
When Born Again Beliefs Collide With Mental Health Issues

As a counselling psychologist, I’ve learned to read between the lines, to hear the unspoken in a trembling voice or a hesitant pause. Yet, the complexity of faith-based denial especially from those who claim they are born again never ceases to amaze me. I’ve witnessed countless struggles but nothing could have prepared me for the case that was about to walk through my door—I was expecting the young woman who put a call across a few days back confirming her appointment and asking if her doctor transferred her case to me or if it was her nurse. It was a bit confusing. Why bother about who sent in her file? I confirmed it was her doctor and she heaved a sigh of relief over the phone. “I’ll be there first thing on Monday morning, that nurse is such a gossip. Thank God she knows nothing of this,” she said, a bit frantic, sounding almost like she couldn’t wait to see me already and for me to perform my miracle on her. I was no miracle worker, just a counselling psychologist who started practising about two years ago and who managed to pull much weight in the field. My booking rates increased just as my clients did to the extent that I started rejecting some calls and told my assistant not to take some bookings. This woman should have been among those I would normally reject but the referral came from the state hospital and I couldn’t say no to Dr. Gbenga. He was my schoolmate from the University. I found myself thinking so much about her, turning her story in my head countless times and even trying to place her voice over the phone and the story on her file. Her name is Iniobong, 32 years old, married with a 2-year-old son. Her life and marriage were perfect until she discovered her husband carried out a vasectomy on himself without telling her, just after their son turned two. Their only child. And they agreed to have three children. Monday came; she didn’t even wait for me to let her in before opening my office door a little, shoving her head in and asking if she was disturbing. “Oh no, come in please, you must be Iniobong?” “Yes,” She said, smiling. She made herself comfortable on the chair in front of me and faced me. We exchanged pleasantries, she commented that she was glad I was a woman and that she could relate with me better, a man may not know how she feels. Then she told her story. She got married to her husband and they were so in love. They agreed to do everything together and never kept secrets from one another until she discovered the hospital test papers that he signed agreeing to carry out a vasectomy operation. “Why would he do that? Why? We just had our first child and he decided to cut his sperm tube off? Why?” Iniobong was getting apprehensive as she talked. I wanted to tell her to calm down but it was not the time, she needed to let off the steam so I kept quiet while I took down my notes. “He loves me, at least he said he does and I believe him. This is a Christian and a church worker. Why should he choose to do that without informing me? I have rights over his body as the Bible commands, he has no right to do that!” She continued. “I thought one has to agree and sign with their partner in the hospital before such operations are done?” I asked. “That’s it, he took another lady that posed as his wife and they teamed up to stop me from having more children.” Iniobong broke down in tears. I watched as she desperately tried to clean off her tears and pull herself together. I wasn’t going to stop her from crying, whatever emotion she had in there needed to be unlocked. “Can I speak with your husband?” I asked her after a few seconds. The next time she visited, she came with Darey, her husband and Nifemi, their son. I only needed her husband but it was fine anyway. Then he told me his side of the story. He loved his wife, she was everything good he had prayed for and he showered her with all his care and attention. His world shattered when they had their son. Iniobong changed, she spent more time with Nifemi, fussing over him so much. She expelled him from their bedroom and Nifemi took over his space on their bed. Her life practically evolved around their son so much that she neglected him and made him look so non-existent. If one baby could do this, he decided not to have any more. He wanted his wife back so he agreed to take the operation, it wouldn’t stop him from making love to her, she just wouldn’t get pregnant again. Iniobong cried as he talked while Nifemi, oblivious of whatever his parents were going through, took to the magazines on the low stool, flipping through the pages as if he knew what was there. I looked at Darey, handsome and smart looking and I looked at Iniobong, young and attractive. Attractive enough to make her husband carry out such a stupid decision. I asked him other questions which he answered and I confirmed his intense fear of abandonment, rapid change in self-identity, loss of contact with reality which lasts for a few minutes sometimes, his ongoing feeling of emptiness, inappropriate feelings of anger and bitterness, mood swings and his impulsive behaviour to carrying out a vasectomy on himself because of his imagined rejection from his wife. I called Dr. Gbenga after they left. “I referred them back to you, please see to Iniobong’s husband. He is suffering from a borderline personality disorder.” “Are you sure? The man is born again,” Dr. Gbenga said. “Same thing he said to me when I told him what … Read more

How Love Turn

by
How love turns

I still get this question to date, “How did I fall in love?” I still remember the day I met Matthew like it was yesterday. I was unpacking boxes in my new apartment, trying to make sense of the chaos around me. The doorbell rang, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead before making my way to the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone so soon. I opened it to find a charming smile and warm eyes. It was strange how my heart responded to his appearance. “Hey!” “Hey, I’m Matthew,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the building.” I shook his hand, feeling a spark of sweetness. “Thanks, I’m Richard. Nice to meet you.” I admitted within me that he had the best soft hands in the whole world. A few days later, we met each other at the bus stop, waiting for the bus. We sat next to each other and that was when it all began. As we chatted, I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. We talked about everything from our jobs to our favorite TV shows. I found myself looking forward to our subsequent conversations. ALSO READ: Religion creates no boundaries in love It wasn’t awkward. I felt good. I really wanted to have more discussions with him. I could shake off the feelings that I had for him. They were sexual feelings and I hoped he felt the same way. One evening, Matthew invited me to a party. “Hey, Richard, I want to come with me to Alex’s party tonight?” he asked, knocking on my door. I did not hesitate. I agreed, and we spent the evening dancing and laughing together. As we talked, I realized I was having more fun than I’d had in weeks. Matthew was easy to talk to, and I found myself opening up to him in ways I never thought possible. As the night wore on, we found ourselves lost in conversation. Matthew told me about his passion for photography, and I shared my love of writing. It was like we’d known each other for years. We blended and the moments were golden. I will forever cherish them. Then, suddenly, he locked his eyes with mine. I melted in the seat. My heart throbbed, I felt it At one point, Matthew turned to me and said, “Richard, can I tell you something?” I nodded, feeling a sense of anticipation. “Yeah, come on.” He answered giving him a smile. “I think I might have feelings for you,” he said, his voice low and serious. My heart skipped a beat. I looked into his eyes and saw something there that I hadn’t seen before; a yearning and a desire. “Matthew, I have feelings for you too,” I said my voice barely above a whisper. Richard’s face lit up with a smile, and he took my hand. We sat there for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Then, he came closer, tilting his head, and went straight for my waiting lips. We kissed. It was mutual and we loved it. What was strange was that I thought Matthew was straight. He had a girlfriend, one he had told me about. “I want to be real to myself and to every other person out there.” He responded when I asked about Emmie, his alleged girlfriend. As the days turned into weeks, our relationship blossomed. We explored the city together, holding hands and laughing. We tried new restaurants, visited museums, and even took a weekend trip to the beach. One evening, as we sat on the couch watching the sunset, Matthew turned to me and said, “I’m so glad we met, Richard.” I smiled, feeling grateful. “Me too, Matthew. I never thought I’d find someone like you. I don’t deserve you.” His smile was contagious and I could never have enough of it. I drew him closer and planted a kiss on his lips and as I looked into his eyes, I knew that I had found my forever love. We talked long into the night, sharing our hopes and dreams. We laughed and joked. As the night drew to a close, Matthew leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, gentle kiss, but it sent shivers down my spine. “I love you, Richard,” he whispered. “I love you too, Matthew,” I replied, my heart full of joy. And as we hugged each other tightly, I knew that I had found my soulmate. How love turns! I did not know it could be better with the same gender.

Religion Creates no Boundaries in Love

by
Religion Creates no Boundaries in Love

Everything’s fair in love… and religion. I uncannily discovered this, or dare I say, through the unexpected love story that I witnessed. It was a lesson that unfolded before my young eyes, challenging the beliefs I had been raised with and opening my mind to the unpredictable nature of love. It was about Aunty Zino. Aunty Zino lived in the only self-contained apartment in our compound. Single, alone, rich, beautiful, and quiet. She worked with PZ Cussons and loved her hair cropped low on her head. It seemed long flowery gowns caught her fancy because she had many of them and wore different designs to work every day. My family used free PZ products because of her. She would bring them home sometimes and give them to us. In those moments, we felt rich as we used the Elephant extra detergent, Stella pomade, and Imperial leather soap. We became the happening tenants because of her. She seemed to like us more than other tenants. for some wonderful reasons, She would come home from work and come over to our flat to gist with Mum, sometimes they would stay on our verandah or hers. Mum would always invite her to our numerous special church programs and Aunty Zino would accept or decline as she deemed fit. She never returned the favour and never invited us to her church. Mum would cook on special occasions and include Aunty Zino’s portion which she would serve in one of the big white ceramic plates we owned with matching covers. She would then put it on a tray and ask me or my elder brother to go and give it to Aunty Zino. That always caused a tiff. We all wanted that golden opportunity to go to Aunty Zino’s apartment. Such visits were always rewarded with money, so my brother and I would fight to go and deliver the food. Those squabbles prompted Mum to create a timetable so we could take turns running such errands. One day, Aunty Zino came home and told us she was getting married. My mum was elated and told her how much she had been praying for her to meet the bones of her bones. It was not right that she was still single, a beautiful Christian wealthy woman like her. We were happy for her and jumped on the invitation card she brought later on. It was when we opened the card and read the names that we saw the difference. Deborah Zino and Ismail Mubarak Which one is Ismail? Is he a Muslim? Our questions were left unanswered as we watched Aunty Zino go about her wedding preparations. Mum helped out in any way she could as her wedding fathia drew close. She indeed married a Muslim. That was the first time I was witnessing a Christian marry a Muslim. The day she came to pack all her belongings, she told Mum hurriedly, “I know you would be surprised at my decision. I am 43 and not getting any younger. Ismail is the only man who has shown great interest and love for me. I want a husband and children if I can still have them at this age. I want to be a married woman. Don’t worry about the different religions. I will still be a Christian, we will respect each other’s religions and live peacefully. He loves me and I love him too. I think that is all that truly matters.” My mum only smiled as saw her off to the packing van outside of the gate and waited till it pulled out of our street. READ ALSO: Embracing Love After Life’s Hardest Trials

Goodbye, Afolabi

by
ImgResizer 20240830 0756 45524

I still remember the day I met my husband, Afolabi. He was charming, handsome, and had a way of making me feel like I was the only person in the world. We fell deeply in love, and I thought our relationship was perfect. But little did I know, his mother, Barbara, (she preferred we called her that) would become the reason I’d leave him. The sweet moments we shared are evergreen and I wish I could rewind time. On our wedding day, she prayed for me wholeheartedly. I could remember when she added this. “You will give birth to twins, not once, not twice but three times.” Every bystander exclaimed more than I did. Afolabi just smiled. His mother read our his thoughts. My heart throbbed when I saw this strange attitude from Barbara, my mother-in-law. At first, Barbara was sweet and welcoming. She’d invite me over for dinner, ask me about my day, and show genuine interest in getting to know me. But as time went on, I started to notice a change. She’d call Afolabi multiple times a day, asking him to run errands, fix things around the house, or simply to “check in.” He’d always oblige, saying “Mom needs me.” “I need you too!” I responded coldly in my heart when he said that. One evening, as we were preparing dinner together, Barbara called again. Afolabi dropped everything to answer, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” I asked, trying to hide my frustration. “It’s Mom, I have to take it,” he replied, not even looking up. I felt a knot in my stomach. “Jack, we’re married now. Can’t you set boundaries?” He sighed, “She’s just worried about me, that’s all.” But it wasn’t just worry. Barbara would show up unannounced, criticizing my cooking, my cleaning, even my clothes. Afolabi would just laugh it off, saying “That’s just Mom being Mom.” One day, I’d had enough. “Afolabi, I need to talk to you about your mom,” I said, my voice shaking. “What’s up?” he asked, not looking up from his phone. “Your mom’s obsession with you is suffocating me. I feel like I’m losing myself in this marriage.” He finally looked up, surprised. “What are you talking about? Mom just cares about me.” “Cares about you? She can’t even let you breathe without her! I’m your wife, Afolabi. I need you to prioritize me, our relationship.” He sighed, “I don’t know what to say. Mom’s always been like this.” I felt tears welling up. “Exactly. And that’s why I’m leaving.” He looked stunned. “What? No, please don’t go.” But I knew I had to. For my own sanity, for my own happiness. As I packed my bags, Barbara showed up, as if sensing her grip on Afolabi was slipping. “Where are you going?” she demanded. “I’m leaving Jack,” I said, my voice firm. “Your obsession with him is destroying our marriage.” She gasped, “How dare you! I’m just trying to protect my son!” But I knew the truth. She was trying to control him, to keep him tied to her apron strings forever. As I walked out the door, Afolabi called after me. “Please, don’t go!” But I knew I had to. For myself, for our marriage, I had to break free from Barbara’s suffocating grasp. As I type this, his calls are coming in. I don’t want to seek any advice. I am doing what exactly what will give him some sense. I planned to give him another week. It’s been two weeks I left the house. It’s so cool to see his unending remorseful chats and calls. My heart will be opened next week, I guess. READ ALSO: 10 ways to prevent workplace violence

I Will Never Drink Alcohol Again

by
I will Never Take Alcohol Again (1)

Alcohol almost ended my life and I vowed never  to drink again. Here is my story. The flickering lights in my room sent some cold chills into my body. The eerie sounds coming from the graveyard opposite the house made my body shiver. Although it was fenced but the sounds were always closer to my window as if the site was just by my window side. My stepmom was pounding, I didn’t know exactly what in the middle of the night she was pounding. The lights were stable for a second then started to flicker again. I went straight to the switch to put them off. I didn’t know what was happening to me that night. My heart was throbbed and the sense of fear hovered in my room. I had drunk some alcohol from the old fridge the previous days but the effect tonight was different. It was something I had never experienced. I had taken alcohol before and didn’t feel the way I am feeling right now. I turned to get to my bed after switching the lights off, then, I was glued to the floor of my room. Something beside my bed looked like the figure of a human being, a man but the head was bent to a side. It seemed to be taking his steps towards me. The room was dark but I could see the dark figure, humming a sound. I cringed at a corner, stretched my arm to the switch and immediately the lights were on, the figure was gone. I wasn’t hallucinating. This was real. My window creaked. The wind stayed at my window, whistling greatly. I quickly went to close it. It was seriously disturbing my curtains, and every light object was falling down. Eventually, my room was in a mess. As I wanted to close the window, just by the other side of the road, under a tree in front of Mrs. Jersey’s house, a little girl stood looking at my direction. She was stiff and dripping but her focus was on me. I wondered what a little girl could be doing outside by that time. That she didn’t shift her focus from me got me scared. I closed the window and continued to watch her through my transparent window. After a few minutes, I saw her move to the tree and climb it so swiftly and skillfully. “How could a little girl do that?” A few seconds after, my room started dripping. Little drops from different points from the ceiling started dropping. The leaks became many. The major ones were on top of my bed and eventually, my bed was drenched. I screamed but nobody came to my rescue. The pounding continued. I called out to my stepmom, but the door was locked. I struggled with it for a long time. Then, I noticed that the little girl was beside the tree again, this time around with an adult looking at me. I quivered; my whole body was burning. I thought I was going to die. The leaks became too many, it wasn’t raining at all outside, but my room was getting fuller. It was now falling heavily from my roof. I wanted to open the window; it wasn’t opening. There was no other way out. I stood on my bed as the water reached my knees. I screamed, shouted and called for help but no answers. I couldn’t hear her pound again. I could only hear the sound of the water falling. I shouted for help again. I ran to my table and mounted it. Taking alcohol could impose unnssary experiences on you. This was scary. I couldn’t understand it. I was dying in my room. The water levelled up to my shoulders, to my chin and finally, above my head. Here I was struggling in the water, a chance to shout was a way to get my mouth filled up with water. I couldn’t struggle anymore. I felt my eyes closing and my body lifeless. I could tell I died. “Seth! Seth!” I heard my father shouting my name. Someone was tapping me and the next minutes; I saw a blue bowl being emptied on my face. My whole shirt was drenched. “What happened to you?” She worriedly asked. I was lost as I tried to recall what had happened. Then, I remembered. “My room! Did you enter my room? My room was full.” I explained. The looks I received right there were unbelieving. “I am serious!” I said this to convince them, but they didn’t believe me. I later learnt I had been sleeping since I got drunk the last night. They had been trying to wake me up, but I never responded. So, all I saw were just a dream, a bad dream. I laughed at myself as I remembered every bit of what I passed through. I brought it all on myself. They stood there wondering why I was laughing. I got up and went straight to my bed. Everything was intact. I threw myself on my bed and whispered to myself. “I will never drink again.” ALSO READ: Discipline: A Necessary Habit For Writers.

My Life Ended on a Wednesday

by
My Life Ended on a Wednesday

My life  came crashing down in minutes when my husband confessed he cheated on me with a former secondary school classmate. As he spoke, I felt a sharp pain slice through my heart, through every fibre of my being, and totally knocked me out. I know I was still sitting on the only chair in our bedroom and holding the phone to my ears, I was still still alive but my thoughts were racing at the speed of light leaving me breathless and gasping for air. He couldn’t face me. He had to tell me over the phone to evaluate the tone of my voice and my reaction and then calculate his chances of coming home afterwards. He ended the call with the usual cliche, “I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry for doing this to you, I promise it will never happen again. Please forgive me.” I didn’t yell. I didn’t ask any questions. I was as calm as I could be when I asked if he could end the call. It surprised me: my quietness. It was not something that most women who find themselves in such a situation would do. They get angry, break something, destroy their husband’s property, burn his credentials and business documents or even break his car’s windscreen. I did nothing of such. I was still, managing the ravaging thoughts of my husband with another woman in my head. How did they do it? Where did they do it and how many times? When did they start? It then occurred to me that I had been with him during his escapades with his classmate. I have been sharing his body with a stranger! I wondered how he managed us both, how he coped with sleeping with his wife and a mistress, most times in a single day. I felt smeared with the filth of adultery. I felt disgusted with my own body and I ran to the bathroom, took off my clothes quickly, and turned on the shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed my skin in an attempt to wash away my husband’s filth. My thoughts ran wild at the moment. What if his classmate has HIV or any STDs? Were they careful enough to use protection? What if he has been infected? What if I have been infected as well? It was crazy. I ran out of the bathroom breathing laboriously. I needed to go to the hospital and get myself tested. I wasn’t thinking. My dresser was in shambles in seconds as I couldn’t get the perfect dress to wear. That was when I started crying. The hurt of what my husband did hit me raw, snuffing life out of me and leaving that miserable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I sat down on the floor, pulled my knees up and hugged them. Where did I go wrong in my marriage? What did I do wrong? His confession came back to me again, and I felt so inadequate that my husband could go out to meet someone else when he had me. I felt so small and insignificant. My words came out in a gargle, cracked by tears and catarrh, “Jesus, what did I do wrong? Please help me. Help my heart.” I couldn’t hear God. Maybe I was deafened by my hurt that I couldn’t hear Him saying, “Daughter, I am here. Cast your hurts and cares on me, I’ll bear them.” God was trying to talk to me, to comfort me and pull me out of my misery but I was busy hatching a perfect revenge plan on the man I married. READ ALSO: Marrying Wrong and the Truth It Reveals

A Christian Journey That Started With Theft

by
A Christian Journey That Started With Theft

My journey to becoming a Christian started with Anwuli. She was renowned in our village for her perfectly well-seasoned dried meat. Her art was the finest in our land and even beyond. She alone knows the wonders that go into her cooking pot, the goodness that she adds to the simmering meat and the buds-watering awe that follows when she puts them on Ahiara to dry out. Anwuli had hunters working for her. Fortnightly, they would go neck-deep into the Akika forest and emerge with all sorts of animals that they had managed to kill. She had a way of displaying the meat in her front yard — which was just a stone’s throw to the stream — for all to see. It would take the blind not to see the array of flesh on sets. She was flaunting her wealth and craft and taunting every villager who goes to get water from the stream. I did see. I was taunted, too, and also tempted, especially during the cooking and drying process. The scented aroma of her meat was enough to send one on a quest unasked for. I wanted a taste. Just one bite. But of course, Anwuli would never give anything that wasn’t paid for. By the time those pieces of meat get to our house, I am left with a small portion not bigger than half of my little finger. It would also have been doused with the heavy aroma of my mother’s ogiri and I cannot tell the taste of the meat or the fermented oil seeds apart. I wanted the fresh, perfectly cooked, and dried meat before it entered any cooking pot filled with soup. Well, that was my greatest undoing. I stole a piece of meat from where Anwuli staked it in her yard. Just as I was about to run toward the stream with the piece of neat hidden perfectly between my breasts, she caught me. “You demented thief!” she shrieked. She tore at the lappa covering my breasts and retrieved the piece of meat I had stolen. She held me and then dragged me home shouting all the way. It attracted other villagers who followed and called me a thief. “Your daughter has desecrated this land, she came to my house to steal!” Anwuli told my mother. I could see my mother’s eyes turn into a ball of surprise and shame. She had raised me well and took pride in the fact that though I was an only child, I was ten in one. This would dampen her pride and voice whenever she talks in the clan women’s meeting, especially when the topic is centred on their children. I needed to protect that pride and my reputation as well. So I lied. I called Anwuli a liar and said I would never do such a thing. I was content with the food I ate in my mother’s house and would never steal to quench an unknown hunger. What is meat that I can’t eat in my father’s house? That annoyed Anwuli further. She has no children of her own and took to her trade with the utmost dedication and commitment that one could muster, such lavish obligation that she couldn’t give to a child. Now I call her a liar. She was insulted by a child of another woman in her clan. Right there, she told my mother, “Get ready then; we will go to Ani tomorrow, and this thief of yours will swear that she did not steal from me. Then we would know who the true liar is from the person’s death that would follow.” She pushed me slightly as she turned and walked out of our yard. The other villagers followed her out. I could see in her walk the triumph of victory and also that of wickedness. That was rather too harsh. To go to Ani just because of a piece of meat. I turned to my mother quickly, “I can explain this.” “Shut up!” Mother said. She had tears in her eyes as she sank to the ground slowly. “I’ve always known that you would ruin me but I never thought you would want to render me childless.” She started weeping, wiping her tears with the edge of her lappa. I knew then that the matter was settled. Other villagers had witnessed the affair, and Anwuli is not one to back down on anything, particularly when it has to do with her precious trade. I went into my hut and then the heaviness of my sin began to make sense. I would die for I indeed stole from Anwuli. In my justification, at least I didn’t eat the meat. Ani would spare me because I was only a teenager and did not even taste what I stole. I would be free, I consoled myself. Then again, my mind reproved me further; I was simply being foolish with my consolation; Ani would kill me. Father came home later in the evening. He was humming the tune of a song I’ve never heard before. He was calm, the very picture of peace and happiness at the same time. I waited for Mother to tell him of my crime and also to get him to quickly go to Anwuli or even to Ani to plead my case, to see if it could be dismissed. I didn’t hear Mother’s teary voice. I didn’t hear Father’s raised angry voice either. No one beckoned on me to hear the truth or even the lie. I waited for minutes, and when Mother came to call me, I gave in to sorrow and followed her to my Father’s obi in torment. I was going to die even before I eventually died. “I have accepted the white man’s Chukwu,” Papa said smiling. “I did not go to the farm as you both must have thought, I was in their meeting place at Umokpu. I listened to their spokesperson and I believed what he said about … Read more

How a Teacher’s Faith Helped a Disabled Student Walk

by
How a Teacher's Faith Helped a Disabled Student Walk

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” The Bible verse echoed in Hannah’s subconscious as she watched Freda from the corner of her eye. The feeling came again, yet Hannah could not put a name to it. It was just like her first day at the school. Freda’s bright smile caught her attention when she was introduced to her students. She had asked them to share their names, and one by one, they stood up to introduce themselves. When it was Freda’s turn, she stated her name and made a subtle gesture, as if handing over an invisible baton to the next student, signalling them to proceed with their introduction. Hannah was taken aback when Freda didn’t stand up to introduce herself. That’s when she noticed the special needs chair Freda was sitting in. Suddenly, an uneasy feeling rose from her stomach and exploded in her heart. Really, Lord? Hannah had gone home that day to pray feeling so full. “I don’t think I want any disabled person in my class; my heart is too fragile to accept it. I don’t want to treat her differently; I don’t even know how to teach a disabled person,” she continued in prayers. She prayed, then burst into tears, and eventually, laughter followed. What was happening to her? How different would it be to teach one who has a physical disability? Hannah’s laughter was short-lived, as tears began to flow once more, “I still don’t know what to do; I feel like I owe her a responsibility, and I’m not going to fail her; please help me, Lord.” And so now, she watched as Freda worked her numbers, counting some off with her fingers and eyes furrowed in concentration. Hannah wondered if the class work she had given was too challenging, but then she reminded herself that it was straight from their Grade 4 mathematics textbook. She opened the textbook again to review the assessment and reassured herself that the work was suitable, plus she had just shown them how to do it. Freda was the first to finish and, in her usual way, started to wheel herself to the front to submit. Hannah struggled with standing up and going to meet her halfway to collect it or allow her to come all day. She decided the latter and watched as Freda came forward and placed her note dutifully on her desk, then wheeled back to her position just in between the rows of seats. Hannah exhaled deeply, only then realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time she was watching Freda “Dear Lord, please save me from this feeling. Please help me,” she muttered quietly. She took Freda’s note, scanned through her work quickly and the smile started stretching her lips. The girl was just too brilliant! Hannah took her pen and started marking. Other students soon started submitting one after the other. Hannah knew then that she had nothing to worry about. She would be a great teacher for Freda. Those high thoughts clouded Hannah’s mind till the end of the term, she saw Freda differently and even started including her in every extracurricular activity. She ensured Freda joined the other kids for P.E. She made her join the music class and encouraged her to sing loud just like the others. Next, she encouraged her to join the choreography class as well. She might not be able to stand and move her body like the others, but at least she could move it in her wheelchair and work it with her hands. “I’ve never done this before,” Freda would always say whenever Hannah introduced a new activity for her to do. “Well, today is your lucky day,” Hannah would respond and wheel her out to the table tennis court, to the art and painting class, to the music class and the dance class. So it happened, the day that changed everything. It was a few minutes to their break time for the curricular activity. Hannah erased the whiteboard the second time to continue writing and completing the notes on social studies for the week. She was done in no time and waited for her students to finish writing, too, before erasing the board again. She walked around the class, observing as the students looked up at the board, took in the information, and transferred it to their notes. “Please hurry up, it’s almost time for a break,” Hannah urged them. She walked back to the board to erase a section at the top, making space to write again. Then a glorious thought came to her mind and in no time, it flooded her entire system. Her pulse quickened as she gripped the eraser in her hands and turned to face the class. “Who would like to help me wipe the board?” She asked. All hands went up, as always. Hannah wondered why this task was a class favourite. Everyone except Freda, who never joined in. Hannah knew she wouldn’t raise her hand. “Freda,” Hannah called. The class gasped, all eyes darted at Hannah and then at Freda. What was she trying to do? Freda’s hand would not even get to the top of the board. Freda was shocked as well and sat frozen in her chair. Hannah had never called her before. “Have it,” Hannah stretched the eraser to her, “Come and wipe the top of the board.” Hannah’s eyes got teary immediately as she held out her hand waiting for Freda to come take the eraser. “The top of the board?” Freda asked puzzled “Yes.” “Ma——” “No excuses, please wipe the top of the board,” Hannah said gently. Freda wheeled herself to the front of the class and dutifully collected the eraser from Hannah. “Ma, she can’t do it. Can I come and help?” The class prefect offered. It felt like a punishment. Everyone knew it was impossible so why would Hannah choose to humiliate Freda like that? Hannah … Read more

Why Vetting Household Staff is Essential to Avoid Betrayal

by
Why Vetting Household Staff is Crucial

He was our driver. An elderly man, according to our Dad, applied for the household driver position even though he was too old for it. We never got around to learning his real name, affectionately referring to him as ‘Uncle’ instead. Every morning, he would meticulously wash our cars, then wait patiently by the garage for us to emerge and choose which vehicle to use. Our Dad would leave first, and Uncle would drive him to work with a truly endearing dedication After dropping off my dad, Uncle would swing back to pick us up whenever we were ready to head out. He’d then return to my dad’s workplace at 3:50 pm to drive him home. Uncle had a fun way of addressing us – I was ‘mini-madam’, my sister Machi was ‘small-madam’, and my brother Ekene was ‘boss’. We loved these nicknames and the playful vibe they brought to our time with Uncle Uncle was like a second parent to us, making it perfectly natural for us to chat with him freely and at ease. He would often ask us questions, even personal ones about our family, and we would respond without hesitation or reservation. To us, he was simply ‘Uncle’ – a trusted and beloved figure in our lives, deserving of our openness and affection. We made sure to include Uncle in our family trips and vacations, and Mum would even give him a bonus on top of his monthly pay from Dad. My siblings and I would often confide in him, sharing secrets like when we’d sneak off to places we shouldn’t be. He’d drive us there, but not before warning us, “If I get fired when your parents find out, you’ll all have to pay me a monthly allowance until I find a new job.” We all loved him and he knew. One afternoon, I came home to find my parents searching for something. Dad was in a state of panic, tearing through their room and his study, exclaiming, “It’s a massive business deal, and I can’t afford to lose it! I’ve put everything I own on the line as collateral!” My mum’s eyes were brimming with tears as she meticulously scoured through every document, wiping her eyes and peering closely at each page. I was bewildered, struggling to make sense of the chaos. My Dad’s pleas to God grew more fervent as he rummaged through books we were certain wouldn’t hold the documents he sought: “Please, God, help me! I’m ruined if I don’t find it!” Dad started searching for the business charter when he got to his office in the morning and realized it was nowhere to be found in the stack of files he came with. He’d definitely had it when he left home, so he called Uncle back to his workplace and they thoroughly searched the car. When that didn’t work, they sped back home to continue the search, I trooped to the room I shared with my siblings. “This is just jazz, how can those documents just disappear into thin air? Something he put in his portfolio just this morning,” Ekene said. “Tell me about village people right now and I would believe it,” Machi said in agreement. I was too dazed to contribute as I could still not comprehend what was going on. We went back to our parents room and saw dad crying, mum was hugging him and telling him to calm down. She was crying too. That sight broke me and I started crying, Ekene and Machi soon followed. The police were stunned when we reported the missing document. “You mean to tell me a crucial paper just vanished into thin air?” they seemed to say. My dad had it when he got into the car, and now it was gone. Uncle was beating himself up over it, thinking he should’ve kept a closer eye on the portfolio. Maybe someone swiped it during the ride to the office, but how? Uncle was just as perplexed as the rest of us. We were all stunned, but the reality of our situation hit us like a ton of bricks. The weight of impending homelessness and poverty was crushing. Dad was consumed by despair, openly weeping every day, lamenting his decision to put all our eggs in one basket. Mum, once full of life, was now a shadow of her former self, and our home was shrouded in a depressing gloom. ****** The day Uncle was arrested, we made a shocking discovery. He wasn’t as old as he seemed! All along, he’d been wearing a clever disguise – an organic casted, fake aged body and a manipulated voice and accent. He had us all fooled! He was a skilled con artist, hiding behind a false name, identity, and disguise. Despite being with us for two years, we never suspected that the elderly man we knew was actually a fake. His ability to deceive was uncanny. On that particular day, he had taken my Dad’s portfolio and skillfully removed the business charter when Dad was not watching, and hid it in a carved-out space beneath the front seat. He had worked on creating that space before that day and no one would ever think of searching for anything there. After dropping off my Dad that day, he surreptitiously handed off the stolen documents to his gang, who quickly got to work exploiting my Dad’s identity to process the business deal. His insider was my Dad’s own secretary who had been feeding him intel on my Dad’s every move. Just as they thought they’d pulled off the perfect heist, they were busted at the airport, trying to make a break for it to lay low before striking again. “Let him rot in jail, I will make sure he does not come out of that jail!” Dad was shouting when we received the news. Even though Dad didn’t get all of his money back, we were glad that we could still pay back … Read more

Embracing Love After Life’s Hardest Trials

by
Embracing Love After Life’s Hardest Trials

Mike and Miracle’s love is tested by the cruel hand of fate—cancer, infertility, and heartache threaten to break their bond. Yet, in their quiet moments together, they chose love above all else, finding beauty in each other and the strength to keep going. It wasn’t an easy journey, but Mike took the lead, and gradually, Miracle began to open up to him. One such moment unfolded in the intimacy of their home, where Mike followed Miracle to the bathroom, eager to continue their conversation, having no intention of letting it end just yet. Miracle, conscious of his gaze, slowly removed her clothes while continuing to contribute to their discussion He sat down on the chair he had brought into the bathroom. “For gists and the likes,” he had said when he bought a chair specifically for the bathroom. Their discussion didn’t have to end simply because one of them needed to bathe. The other could simply follow and the discussion could continue. He actually did this. Miracle found it awkward after their wedding to just sit and talk and watch him bathe. He, on the other hand, enjoyed it and most times either joined in the bath or offered to scrub her back. Now, she was so sure he was watching her even as he talked about his colleague, a professor who got a student pregnant and forced her to abort the baby. She panicked, her hands shook as she slid her underwear down her legs. She turned her back as she was about to take off her bralette. “What are you doing? Why are you turning away?” Mike stopped her quickly and stood up from the chair. “I just wanted to take off -” He didn’t let her finish and said, “I’ve told you to stop turning away from me.” The tears welled in her eyes just as her breathing got laboured. “I’m sorry,” Miracle said. “Its fine,” he responded and helped her unhook her bralette. Her left breast fell slightly against her chest. Where her right breast once occupied, stood a straight patched line which appeared after she healed from the mastectomy. The surgery humbled her just as the cancer did when it came. Having just one breast to boast of her femininity made her feel so small and made her hide, especially from Mike. She stopped hugging him, didn’t want his body touching or feeling the absence of one of her breasts. She wore big boubou gowns even in the house and wouldn’t let him touch her as he used to. With time, she recovered and accepted her fate just as the surgical line left a permanent scar on her right breast area. Other parts of her didn’t recover: her womb couldn’t house a baby even after all attempts. They had many speculations and tried different medications but none worked. Their very last attempt was In vitro fertilization, and that took root. They were elated, and just when it was time to receive their baby, she pushed him out, dead. Then the cycle began, again and again, they both watched their hope rise and fall with each miscarriage until there was no pregnancy at all. Miracle had imagined he would find her unattractive after all she had been through. Mike had loved her body and looked at her like she was a prized possession. She loved that very effect she had on him and always found ways to tease him and bring him to do her bidding. Initially, she fought the cancer badly, determined not to be overthrown by the deadly disease, but it came hard as well. She shrunk under its gaze, her succulent body shriveled up, her hips gave way for gaps, she lost a good amount of her hair, and lastly, it took one of her breasts. Then infertility came for her, it broke her further, and she hid even more She hated her body and hated the things it was doing to her. It birthed low self-esteem and it crushed her spirit daily. It broke Mike more. He was clueless and did not know how to help her or help their marriage. “Just talk to her.” It sounded crazy when Pastor Ifemi told him to just talk with his wife daily and build true friendship away from their struggles. So he started talking every day, he called her at intervals during the day, and when he was home, he ensured he took the lead to talk and tell her stories. So he started talking every day, he called her at intervals during the day and when he was home, he ensured he took the lead to talk and tell her stories. She began to open up then. Their devotion returned, she prayed with her voice raised and started singing in the house again. In those moments, he assured her that she was beautiful and he loved her body just as he did when they got married and before their struggles began. And it was then he told her never to turn away or try to hide her body from him. Their devotion returned, she prayed with her voice raised and started singing in the house again. . . He helped her into the bathtub and went back to the chair. He remembered they were having a conversation about his colleague in school and continued from where he stopped. READ ALSO: Scars That Break Us