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.
Amina’s 10th birthday marked a turning point in her life. Instead of celebrating, she was taken to a village where she was forced to undergo female genital mutilation (FGM). The experience was traumatic, and Amina witnessed the devastating consequences of FGM, including the death of a young girl who underwent the procedure before her.
Bolu, a promising youth dies as a result of early exposure to harmful drugs, leading to drug abuse. This article tells you all you need to know about drug abuse.
Man’s fate has been predetermined, and his path has been preordained: to have a vision in unfavorable conditions and to pursue unlimited ends with limited means. He is given the illusion of choice. Like being blindfolded and handed a torch in a dense maze, like a puppet being controlled by a higher hand, like a character in a play acting out an already written script, he is made to ‘choose’. And these choices are not easy choices; they are, in fact, sacrifices. Of a thousand quite similar stories, this is one that indicates the difficulty of man’s choices and how his sacrifices only serve to increase the pain in his heart. In a land far away, there was a boy—a bright young lad. Among his peers, he excelled. In academics, sports, and every other activity, he had no equal. All this was thanks to the iron rod training he received from his father. His father, who had also been bright as a kid, his father, who was given a scholarship to one of the best schools in the country, was a happy-go-lucky chap. Well, at least he was, until he impregnated the boy’s mother, the product of which was the boy himself. Since then, he has developed a morose outlook on life. The father had trained the boy in the harsh ways of life, forcing him to adopt a very strict lifestyle. He once told the boy that living with one’s parents meant living under subsidized conditions. So he had to get his priorities straight and focus on his ambitions. Life is harsher; suffering his constant, he would yell at the boy while flogging him for the tiniest of his mistakes. And surely, the boy became a cold, ambitious young man. Sometimes the father wondered if he didn’t deny the boy the joys of childhood. But he would often brush away this thought. The boy has to make sacrifices for a successful adulthood. He must not end up like me, with a dead-end job and four mouths to feed, he would tell himself. He has to make better choices. The boy was admitted to the university on a fully paid scholarship, of course. It was on the university campus that he met the girl. The girl whose beauty illuminated his gloomy life, whose beautiful smile sent butterflies through his stomach, whose voice made his heart skip. It was at this moment that he tripped and fell in love. The feeling was mutual, and the connection was instantaneous. It was not a matter of choice; they both had no control over it. She was not an engineering student like he was; she was in mass communication. They saw each other more frequently over the next couple of days; anyone would think they were headed towards happiness ever after. But fate had other plans. The boy was not as politically inclined as the girl was. She was more open-minded. She was often in the company of older and politically active male colleagues. The boy went home on a break after the session ended. After the usual scrutiny of the boy’s transcript, the father was surprised to see the boy spending more time with his phone and not on his books or in his automechanic friend’s workshop, where the boy would sometimes go to get his hands busy. The father’s heart dropped when he discovered that the cause of this change in behavior was a woman. The father was dissatisfied, and he let the boy know. He told the boy the story of his own misdemeanor, the story of his own poor choices. The boy was losing sight of his goal. The girl was manipulating him. Why was he talking to her in the first place? Doesn’t he know that when he becomes successful, he will have the luxury of picking his choice of women? After all, women are trophies and symbols of success. Rich men marry beautiful women, while the poor men get whoever’s not taken by the rich men. The words of the father stuck with the boy. When the boy got back to school, he started examining the girl more closely. He started finding fault in everything she did. And soon, cracks started to appear in their relationship. She wasn’t being ambitious enough with her studies; she was flirting with other men, he thought to himself. Things came to a head when the students protested against the military junta in their country. He distanced himself from it. She called him a weakling and then asked him to choose between her and his career, or the future of the nation and his own selfish interests, as she had put it. Of course, he chose his books. It was a very painful decision to let her go, but he convinced himself that it was for the greater good. He made the choice. The girl was arrested while protesting, and she became a national symbol of rebellion. The Junta was later toppled, and democracy took its place. He went on to establish his own engineering company, which later grew and became a multinational. At some point, he was among the richest men in the world. The girl also did fine. She won a Nobel Peace Prize for her humanitarian and activist efforts, which spread beyond her own country throughout her continent. Decades later, married with his own kids, and watching her spread her wings in her activism career, her voice echoing on his TV, reminding him of his cowardice. His heart felt hollow and empty. No amount of money or career accomplishment could fill the void she left in his heart. As the boy played with his own son that night, the innocence in the kid’s eyes tore his heart apart. This is a story, like many others, a tale too familiar, of how one can’t eat one’s cake and have it, of the choices people make for their ambitions. If only man did not want so much, then maybe he would … Read more
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.
Ade got up from the bed wearily. Today was his matriculation ceremony at the prestigious University of Westman. Yesterday had been pretty rough. The notorious elements of his hall wailed and screamed unsavory things at each other all through the night. The fact that it was Valentine didn’t help; there was heavy music and chaos right into the night. Decorum is to some people what peace is to the Taliban. It was despicable. But none of that mattered this morning as he was feeling rather motivated. He had gone from one hostel to the other with some of his friends, indicating his interest in receiving ‘item 7’ from prospective matriculants like himself. He wouldn’t be bringing any, but he would expect some. He looked around the room, surprised that his roommates were not around. He shrugged, picked up his towel, and headed to the bathroom. When he returned, he saw Ustaz, a friend of one of his roommates, unpacking his ironed matriculation gown. The latter looked surprised to see him. “Guy, the matriculation ceremony is 9 o’clock. Are you not going?” Ade glanced at his watch. 8:30 AM! He was surprised; he hurriedly picked on some casual clothes, grabbed his gown, and rushed out. Today is the cruise. He smiled to himself as he waved down a cab. Little did he know about what fate had in store for him. When he alighted from the taxi at the venue, a woman rushed over to his side and pinned a ribbon to his gown as she said some prayers. Ade was pleasantly surprised. He thought the school had arranged this special welcome for the matriculants. He was shocked when the woman asked him for money for “the blessing.” Owo adura, she said. He parted grudgingly with two hundred naira. But fate was just warming up. As Ade entered the compound, he saw a rather long queue of matriculants like himself waiting to enter the hall. He was impressed by the amount of energy these guys had put into looking impressive. The boys rolled around in their carefully pressed suits and sleek sneakers. The girls looked even more glamorous as they glided around in elaborate costumes and makeup. Bling, bling. Despite the news of impending strike action by the lecturers, none of the students seemed to care. Only some students, like him, looked unfashionable in their dresses. As Abraham Lincoln rightly said, you fit the craze if you reason too much. They all waited in line for two hours, with the line crawling slowly and the sun smiling rather unkindly. The heat was detestable. Then he heard people trooping out of the hall en masse; the ceremony was over. He felt dejected, but he was the one who woke up late. People dispersed to take pictures around the hall with their family, friends, new friends, and coursemates. He tried calling some people he knew but realized he knew no one. He was just a reserved guy who was lonely in this crowd. He looked around at the boys running around with the girls; even a day after Valentine, he was still oppressed. He knew he looked even more ridiculous in his matriculation gown. Ade decided to take a picture so as to have something to souvenir when he got home. To show his family. He approached a photographer, and after agreeing to the price and snapping the picture, the latter printed the photo. Ade then dipped his hand casually into his pockets to bring out his fees. Then fate struck a rather impressive blow. The void in his pockets was astonishing. He decided to see with his eyes because seeing is believing. He pulled out his pockets, and alas, nothing was in them. His last one thousand naira note! By then, he was already racing; his heart was racing, and beads of sweat lined his forehead. The photographer looked at him rather dubiously. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to deck this kid without being charged with assault. READ ALSO: Symptoms and Antidotes for giving up Just then, a random lady inviting him to her fellowship walked up to him and paid on his behalf. She had noticed his frantic actions and knew the poor guy had nothing in his pockets. Ade was extremely relieved. He made up his mind to pay her back in full and to keep going to her fellowship. The photographer handed her the picture and left. He was downcast and a little bit depressed but heavily relieved. The lady, whose name he later knew to be Sara, smiled. “Welcome to Westman,” she said cheerily. He smiled weakly and said: “Thanks”
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
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”