creative writing

Sexual Assault Awareness and Stories of 4 Victims of Sexual Assault

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Sexual Assault Awareness (1)

Sexual Assault is a silent pandemic in our contemporary society. It involves sexual actions that are carried out without the consent of the other party. It is a crime, and sexual assault affects the victim all around. This, sexual assault awareness must be carried out by you and me. Sexual Assault Awareness involves teaching people how to protect themselves from sexual assault, heal from sexual assault, and educate people to not be perpetrators of sexual assault. Read this article to read about sexual assault, sexual assault awareness, and stories of victims of sexual assault.

A Tale of 3 Women Who Broke Barriers

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Birds Who Flew Without Wings A Tale of Three Women Who Broke Barriers

A Tale of 3 women who against all odds broke barriers, Dr. Yvonne, Miss Ara, and Mrs. Ayanfe, didn’t let their past and background define them; read this article to see their stories, how they flew even when it seemed as though their wings had been cut.

Aminah, my friend smiled last

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Aminah, my friend smiled last

I didn’t need a soothsayer to tell me Aminah had cried all night. Was it her swollen eyes that didn’t pass the message to me or her gloomy face? It was Aminah’s husband that called me at the odd hours of the night. He had travelled and wasn’t at home; he pleaded with me to try as much as possible to be at their place the following morning; someone called her barren again. He said bitterly. Aminah was a waiting mother for 11 years; she had been strong and carried on with her life, hoping Allah would answer her prayers on time.  Until some folks started calling her barren, Aminah was an online chef who shared recipes that she thought would be useful for her followers, but anytime any of the recipes didn’t sit well with them, they would go to her DM to call her all sorts of names. Some even went as far as telling her to divert all her energy into how she would have children, forgetting she was not Allah. That morning, I didn’t bother to ask her why she was crying; all I did was to pacify her. I made sure she ate and slept before going to my home. READ ALSO: Indeed Dreams Come Through Hardwork And Perseverance  A  month after, I visited her randomly as I always did and noticed the smile on my baby girl’s face was contagious, I could sense she was genuinely happy. Before I could ask her what was up she handed a paper to me, it was a doctor’s report that stated my friend was 5 weeks pregnant!!! IN THAT MOMENT, the only thing that kept coming out of my mouth was ALHAMDULILAH!!!!!..

Journey Away From Home

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Journey Away From Home

Dele slouched on his seat. He put his head between his head between his knees and stretched. Even in the tight spaces of the bus, his height allowed him this luxury. The journey has been quite stressful, the driver just seemed to look for every bump and hole to run into. The continuous groan and agitation of the passengers didn’t seem to bother him; the man just kept swerving his rickety bus the way he liked.  Also, he kept bringing in new passengers, farmers with their produce, traders on their way to the market, mothers with their offspring, noisy garage thugs, every Tom, Dick and Harry on the road. The bus was smelly and noisy, the odour of the sweat and goods of the passengers is beyond words. He knew he shouldn’t have boarded this moving hell. But he had spent hours waving down the Ibadan-bound buses and this was the only one that stopped; the others were filled up. In a bid to get to his uncle’s house before ten o’clock, Dele decided to board this one. He disregarded the unkempt appearance of the driver, his blood shot eyes and the trace of alcohol in his breath . But his younger sister, Vero, was not going to let her suspicions be buried. “Don’t enter this bus, he looks like a kidnapper” But he had played down her fears. The bus swerved wildly to the right again. Dele raised his head. This time the driver was trying to avoid an head on collision with an oncoming lorry that was also trying to overtake another car. The rest of the passengers screamed and cursed and continued with their chattering. Dele leaned back on his seat and looked out , they were already at Olodo, a few more minutes, they will be in Apata. He went back to his thoughts. He started reminiscing about home. READ ALSO: The Rejected Stone Became The Most Celebrated He remembered, the lazy days he spent strolling the neighborhood with his sisters. He remembered the cheerful Saturdays and the bright Sunday mornings. He remembered the laughter and the joy. All that changed when his uncle called to tell him that the premier university has resumed and it was time for freshermen’ registration, that was a week ago. He remembered how Tutu cried when she was told that her big brother would be leaving soon, she refused to let him out of her sight, everywhere he went, she tagged along. Dele sighed. A tired smile spread across his face as he stared out the window of the bus. This is a journey he has to embark on alone. He felt rather lonely. The woman beside him tapped him back to reality. Dele scanned her. She was a middle-aged woman with three kids on her lap and luggages she refused to put in the back of the bus. He had been the one carrying it for her since the journey started. “What?” “Your money?” “Oh” He dipped his hand into his pockets and gave her a thousand naira note. She proceeded to collect the fare from the passengers around her before passing it to the driver. Dele wondered why people are like that, collecting money from the rest of the passengers before giving it to the driver . He shrugged as the woman gave him his change. He sighed and he put his head on the seat before him, drifting into an uneasy sleep this time. By the time he woke up, the sun had fully risen . He looked around and saw the jostling and buzzing around him. The other passengers were already alighting . He scrambled down to get his bags. The noise and crowd around Apata was unfamiliar to him. He felt out of place. He glanced at his watch and his heart skipped a beat. It was already 11 am. His uncle would have gone to work . He would have to trek to his uncle’s office. Dele sighed wearily. He had a very long day ahead. His journey was just beginning, but he was determined.

New Haven

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New Haven

It was a bright Wednesday morning. The streets of New Haven were filled with people of different walks of life thronging to work and to make a living. Trying to make sense of their miserable lives. The tall towers and skyscrapers, the huge billboards, and the heavy human and vehicular traffic. This was the haven. The grind was effing real. It was a haven indeed. A bright orange cab pulled up in front of the Anson building. The vehicle’s color suggests the driver was new to the business, and of course, the driver was a man in his mid-sixties. The passengers were Rose Kelly and her son, Tom. The boy was a particularly lively kid; he seemed oblivious to the depression on his mother’s face. Nor the silent, angry, and morose faces the people on the street wore. He was just like an innocent eight-year-old boy. And he was considerably short for his age. His teachers had grown tired of his overactive persona. He was a bright kid, but somehow he lagged behind in his academics; he had some learning difficulties. This morning, he was prattling about how some kids in his school brought a frog to school. “Momma, so do you know that frogs are one of the strangest breeds of animals on earth?” Tom prattled excitedly, “Those damn things can be dangerous, and Kevin brought one into his pocket. Actually, no one noticed at first, but when I saw…” “Here we are, ma’am,” the old driver said exhaustedly, glad that he survived the boy’s rattling. “Oh,”  Grace Kelly said, snapping out of her thoughts. She is a very young woman, in her late twenties. Married to Paul Kelly, a sergeant in the Royal Marines, at 21. She is a petite and voluptuous woman. She is beautiful to behold in her black, long, wavy hair. A stunner. Last week, she had a rumor of her husband going AWOL. Just completely disappearing during a mission in a foreign land—no message or anything—just completely off-grid. His superiors haven’t been able to find him. They’d told her he was just missing. As much as it broke her heart, she feared they’d sent him on one of those high-risk missions they normally assign to his squad of Kobra M9, and his team had probably been wiped out, and the army was probably just covering their tracks. But she got the shock of her life when the army discharged her husband without any compensation, declared his squad traitors, and put a bounty on their heads. The news spread like wildfire in the harmattan. The media and news outlets had a field day. National heroes had been declared traitors by the popular Kobra M9 squad. Of course, there was no official announcement, and no one in the army disclaimed it either. Rose felt shattered. The Paul she knew was a very strong nationalist, the most passionate one she knew. He had taken several bullets for his country, and he had indicated on multiple occasions that money would not move him. As Rose and her kid stepped out of the cab into the bathing sunlight, feeling the thronging and pushing, particularly in front of the Anson building, she felt a cloud of dizziness descend upon her. It had been six days since she heard what happened to Paul, and she hadn’t slept since. The math just doesn’t add up. She wanted answers. She needed answers. She set her jaw and determinedly drew all the strength in her. The blabbering kid by her side didn’t seem to notice anything wrong with his mother today. Normally, he would have noticed, Rose thought. The poor kid does not understand why his mom was always lost in thought and constantly flipping through papers in their home. He just glided forward like the child with zero worries he is. Sweet kid. Somewhere, three buildings down the busy street, a tall bloke appeared. From the corner,an alley between two buildings. He had a solid build, one of a bodybuilder. He was wearing a helmet and overalls, black boots, and, oh, he was carrying a big, heavy-looking travel bag. Lloyd Dawson stopped and looked up at the Anson building. Mensely, you fucking bastard, he thought to himself, you ain’t going to see this coming. With that, he kept walking his stride longer than before. New Haven was about to witness history. He stopped by the entrance of the building. He looked around through the crowd of enthusiastic tourists who were admiring the Gothic-themed architecture and various relics in the building and various office men and women who were oblivious to the rage burning in the random technician standing a few feet from them, who had no idea what shit was about to go down. Lloyd approached security and identified himself as a technician, a maintenance guy. The bored dude didn’t check on him further and gave him an access card. The plan was working. He ran enthusiastically to catch up with the mom and son, who were about to get in the elevator. As Rose and Tommy got in the elevator, a huge guy in overalls rushed over to join them. Rose punched 20 in the keypad and glanced at the guy before drifting away in her thoughts. But Tommy quieted, looking intently at the big man beside his mother. The man looked down at him. His cold look sent shivers down the kid’s spine. Lloyd was feeling powered up. The way the kid beside him kept staring at him gave him the creeps. The brown eyes looked familiar. He tried to shut down every feeling and sensitivity in his body. He had work to do. Brothers to avenge. Rose, on the other hand, was still reviewing her mission in Anson Tower in her head. Last week, when the news broke that some traitors in the army had fled, she got different calls from different people. Her mother and sister had called to make sure she was okay. Her mother, Lily, had … Read more

A Detective Story

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A Detective Story

Different detective stories have their own unique twist. This one is no different. It all started on a lazy Saturday evening. The usually calm streets of Truman Lane were deserted, save for some occasional cabs splashing through the muddy streets and a few people running some pressing errands. The weather was unfavorably cold. It had been raining all day and had just begun to let up towards evening. The sun had a pale, sickly brightness. The clouds also had an ashen-grey appearance. Dusk was fast approaching, and no one knew what to expect—a rainstorm or worse. Given the weather, most people and animals stayed in their homes. However, the house on 61C had a completely different vibe; there was a small, excited crowd outside this particular building that was situated towards the very end of the street. Two police cars and an ambulance were parked on either side of the street. The curious onlookers and news-hungry reporters tried to get past the guard of constables posted at the entrance of the building to keep them at bay. The usually bright colors of the building had an ominous feeling; despite the general feeling of moodiness, the house appeared to be two shades darker. The odd house belonged to Theo Cozron. Theo Cozron was a famous author and entertainer, beloved in his day. With a rather rapid rise among his peers, he became more popular and enjoyed life in Hollywood as a writer and comedian. The Ball, he was called. Until a sexual scandal ruined his reputation. His sponsors cast him aside. His fans turned their backs on him. He was no longer the big, fat, bubbling ball of energy he was known as; he had become an even bigger blob of desperation and depression, retiring into an ordinary neighborhood in West County and trying to fight his way back to the top. No wonder the gossip of a mysterious murder in 61C quickly gained ground. Another squad car pulled up opposite the street, and two pale-looking men got out and stood looking straight at the building. The taller of the two was holding a pager and looking hard at it as if contemplating a message. “This is not your usual nasty case, Detective,” the shorter man with a cigar in his mouth said to his partner. “I’ll bet you 100 pounds; it’s suicide.” “Crimes, detectives, and conclusions,”  Al replied slowly with a sigh as he continued to fumble with the buttons on his pager. “You might not have to call that gold star guy; he’s a douchebag. I’m a Silver Star detective too, y’know.”. With that, the shorter guy crossed the street, through the crowd, and into the house. Calling a Gold Star detective before going in was protocol, but Al knew better than to argue. He dropped his pager wearily into his pockets and walked. The officer on duty, Ken, ushered them both into the building. “The maid called the station around 1600 hours,” Ken began as he led them down the hall, through the living room. “She found his study locked as was his habit, but when the hours stretched on for too long and continuous knocking couldn’t open the door, she opened the door and found the body in his office.” The officer ended the tale just as they got to the study. “Does she live here?” Herb inquired. “No,” the officer replied, eyeing the door handle nervously. “Has anyone entered the place since she called you?” “No” “Have her wait around, will you?” Herb said as he turned the handle. Ken made a move as if to stop him, then stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong?” Al inquired “The body… I’ve not quite seen something like it, sir; a couple of the recruits couldn’t go in, sir, and I think there might be a bomb in there; all our machines just…” ”Bull shit,”  Herb interjected angrily. He glanced briefly at Al and chuckled amusedly. “What do you know about crime cases?” The officer stammered some incomprehensible words. Herb eyed him wearily and pulled the knob; it didn’t budge. Irritated, he darted at the startled officer and roughed him up for the keys. The junior officer ran, half scared, half embarrassed, to the hallway. The door of the study creaked open. Al prayed quietly under his breath. A cold shiver ran down the spines of the two detectives. Inside this modest house, owned by Theo Cozron, in the study of Theo Cozron lay the body of Theo Cozron. The room was dark except for the table lamp glowing ominously, and the windows were shut. On the rug lay Theo Cozron’s body, or was it on the chair? It appeared that he fell backward in his chair and broke his neck. A joker-esque smile was etched on his face. That strange, frightening smile. There also appeared to be a hole in Theo’s head. A fat man fell over in his chair, his back and neck twisted awkwardly, a hole in his head, and a small pool of blood on the floor. Just so much could be seen from outside. The more you look at it, the worse it gets. The short detective couldn’t move. “Al?” “Yes?” “Call Gold Star.” “Right”

4 Proven Strategies to Prevent Writer’s Block.

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Writer’s block is every writer’s worst nightmare. Are you battling writer’s block or tired of constantly running out of creative ideas when you’re writing? It’s a common challenge for many writers, and I’ve been there too. Here are 4 proven strategies to prevent writer’s block and fuel your creative writing. Read, Observe, and Listen: Stimulate your creativity by immersing yourself in different sources of inspiration. Reading not only provides valuable information but also generates mental images that can fuel your creative writing. Watching movies and visuals related to your niche, as well as observing your surroundings, can spark fresh ideas. Additionally, listening to various forms of content can stimulate your brain in unique ways. By combining these activities, you’ll find your pen flowing effortlessly. Keep a Digital Notebook:  Taking the previous tip a step further, it’s crucial to capture those fleeting moments of inspiration. Our minds can get overwhelmed with daily activities, making it easy to forget brilliant ideas and experience writer’s block. Thankfully, we now have electronic notepads that allow us to jot down thoughts on the go. With a simple press of a button, you can record your ideas, ensuring you never miss an opportunity to nurture your creative content. With this, you can say farewell to writer’s block! Write, Write, Write: Once you’ve gathered your creative ideas in their raw form, it’s time to refine them through writing. Remember, these ideas won’t refine themselves. Consistency is key. Commit to writing regularly, as creative content thrives when you nurture it consistently. Consider embarking on a writing challenge, whether it’s for 10, 20, or even 100 days. Don’t worry about the length; focus on maintaining a steady writing routine. The more you write, the more your creative well will deepen and overflow with fresh ideas. Writer’s block worst enemy is consistent writing.   4.  Ask for feedback: Working with other authors and getting input from your peers is one of the best methods to keep your original work flowing. Working with others in your niche might provide you new insights and concepts that you might not have thought of on your own. It’s a fantastic way to stretch your imagination and broaden your perspectives. Don’t be afraid to share your work for helpful feedback, participate in writing clubs, or join writing forums. Accepting comments and participation might act as a catalyst for your creative content writing and bid writer’s block farewell. By implementing these three strategies, you’ll not only avoid the frustration of writer’s block or of running out of creative content but also enhance your writing skills and productivity. So, grab your pen and start creating the magic your audience is waiting for. Happy writing!   Evelyn Temitayo Ajimuda is a versatile creative writer, content creator, poet, and captivating storyteller. With her words, she weaves narratives that inspire hope and spread boundless joy to her readers.