DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, organizations, and events depicted are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The promise of the Encampment was that it would make us “whole”. At least, that was what they told us. It was what they printed on the brochures, it was what they hung on the signs, and it was what the Officers recited at every orientation assembly or camp-wide gathering.

“All we need is your co-operation in these four years,” they chorused. “Four years and you will emerge refined and prepared as a citizen of genuine worth. A new generation leader.”

Society had decreed attendance at the Encampment mandatory, and because every decent profession required proof of completion, every cycle, thousands of us found ourselves at its gates with our bags and our anxieties. We arrived, signed forms, and essentially handed over the full control of our lives and our well-being to strangers on a council who we did not know.

I wish this story were mostly about me, but it’s not. I survived. I completed my four years, and I left. But there are many others who did not. Many others like Dara. Dara is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing but to tell the story of what happens behind those large, imposing walls.

The first thing they taught us about the Encampment was the Supreme.

The Supreme was not a man but an unseen force that they claimed was the original architect of the Encampment. They said it was by His wisdom the Founders had shaped every rule and every tenet and every waking hour of the four-year programme.

The Founders had been devout men, and their devotion had become the skeleton of the Encampment. It was something you could see and feel everywhere: in the morning calls, in the evening assemblies, in the way the Officers invoked the Supreme’s name before announcing an outrageous policy change, or an intrusive inspection, or an unfair punishment.

The Supreme wasn’t strange to us by any means, but what was strange was the way they presented Him to us. The Supreme was always their reason. The Supreme was their justification. ‘The Supreme’ was, when nothing else would suffice, the only answer they would give.

This was one thing about the way the Officers managed the Encampment that always got us angry, sad, and frustrated. The way they outsourced all the blame and fallout of their bad decisions to the Supreme, like He was the one who made the choices for them.

Why would they never admit their wrongs? Why would they never take responsibility for their actions? Why would they never apologise for their mistakes?

We never understood it, but we hated it. We had no love for Management and we hated the Officers for a lot of things they did to us. Some even resented the Supreme because of the actions of these men.

Maybe the Encampment was built by the Founders due to a genuine desire for formation and flourishing. Many old members from the early cycles speak of their experiences differently. They said the rigour felt purposeful and the strictness had warmth underneath it, and whilst I have no reason to doubt them, that was not the version of the Encampment that I met.

From what I’ve gathered, the Encampment stopped being that way a long, long time ago.

By the time my cohort arrived, the Supreme had become almost nothing but a management tool in the hands of the Officers. We were required to attend the Assemblies of Devotion twice per week at minimum, thrice in certain cycles, four times during the high seasons, and all our attendance was logged. According to the Officers, no excuse could suffice as a reason not to attend. None at all.

If your tally fell below the threshold, you were barred from the Competency Reviews and failure to write or pass the Competency Reviews meant that your four years meant nothing. You would not be able to finish, and you would not leave the Encampment with the credential you came for.

I attended every Assembly the same way most of us did. We would sit in the rows as we listened and let the words pass through us. Many of us became, in this way, very skilled at the performance of belief. Even as we chattered our way through Assemblies, silently hoping for the time to pass away faster, the Management or Officers never seemed to care. As long as they had us all gathered when we were supposed to be, they seemed to be content.

I never understood it. If the Supreme were as powerful and important to our lives as they claimed He was, why were they more concerned with using Him to control us than with us actually understanding His ways? It never made sense to me.

The most obvious expression of Management’s desire for total control was a division within the Encampment known as the Enforcement and Regulation Forces or the ERF.

The ERF’s stated function was to maintain order, to uphold the Encampment’s Code of Conduct, and to ensure that all members were adhering to the standards of dressing, behaviour, and schedule that the programme required. I do not pretend that their presence was not necessary, as I know that some degree of structure is always required for any communal institution to operate in sanity.

However, when it came to the ERF, their power operated with almost no form of accountability.

They moved menacingly through the compound in pairs, sometimes in groups, and they had absolute authority to detain and to report and to recommend punishment. The Code of Conduct gave them a wide latitude for both direct and indirect oppression, and they used it as much as they could.

A member wearing the wrong shade of clothing could be stopped, documented, and sanctioned. A member walking unescorted in certain areas after certain hours could be detained for the remainder of the evening. A member who spoke too plainly to an Officer could find himself or herself reviewed, then restricted, and then isolated for a period of time.

Some of the ERF officers were simply rigid, or heartless, as many members described them. They were people who had internalised the Code so thoroughly that they had lost the ability to distinguish between its letter and its spirit. They had no empathy within them, and it was as if they had found the perfect opportunity to unleash the malice buried deep within their hearts. An opportunity they took advantage of every chance that they got.

There were other Officers too, those who accepted bribes. Small things at first, like a fee paid in exchange for a warning not becoming a formal report, or a favour exchanged for a blind eye. It was understood by both Officers and members, but it was never directly acknowledged. Many even believed that Management sometimes had a part to play in this corruption but barely ever spoke loudly about it.

The Encampment had created a system of enforcement without oversight, and systems without oversight tend to find their own economies and end up operating beyond their confines. It broke my heart to hear that while Dara was dying in her residential block, somewhere in the compound, ERF officers were inspecting the hemlines of members.

I’m trying to concentrate as I write this, but I keep tearing up because of Dara. My dear friend, Dara. The one who died within the very walls of the Encampment.

Dara was not the first of her kind, as there have been many others before her. Many lost their lives in the Encampment because the very people and facilities that were meant to save them fell short of their duty.

I blame the Medical Unit of the Encampment for the death of my friend.

There are ten residential blocks in that compound. Ten buildings, housing somewhere between three hundred and eight hundred members each, depending on the cycle and depending on how crowded Management had allowed things to become. Of these ten blocks, not a single one has ever contained a treatment bay or a trained medical attendant that was stationed overnight. There were basic kits with tin boxes, antiseptic rubs, and some bandages, but considering the type of illnesses and health dangers we faced, those things could never do anything to help us in times of need.

There was one medical vehicle, just a single transport that was used by the entire Encampment, which meant it was shared by the thousands of people living, working, and sleeping in that compound.

In the event of a medical emergency, the procedure was for members to find a way to get themselves to the Medical Unit office or to alert the nearest Officer, who would then alert the Unit, which would dispatch the vehicle if the vehicle was available and if the driver was reachable and if enough time had not already passed for the situation to become irreversible.

In my first year, a member that lived two blocks away from mine went into a sudden crisis in the middle of the night. They said it went from fever to convulsions and then to stillness and that he stayed that way, unconscious on the ground, for a long time until the vehicle arrived eventually. They rushed him and whatever life that was left in him to the Medical Unit, but he did not survive. He had already died. We heard about this story the same way we heard about most negative things that happened in the Encampment, through whispers and through the gatherings of different fragmented stories.

Management released a statement about the death, and it came as a surprise to us all because they never publicly acknowledged events like that. What was unsurprising, however, was the nature of the statement. Whilst they expressed their “sorrow” and their “support” for his family members, they did not mention the forty-minute delay, and they took no responsibility for his death. As always, they downplayed the role of their negligence, and they did all they could to prevent the news from spreading too far beyond the walls of the Encampment.

The following year, another member died. Then the year after that, and the year after that. Each time, Management would either ignore it or put out a statement, but every time, they made no further changes. Those deaths, as painful and sad as they were to hear about, always seemed like they were happening in a floating, parallel reality until my friend, Dara, died.

By the time Dara died, I had already left the Encampment. I heard about it through someone who had heard about it through someone else, the news travelling the way bad news does in that place, reluctantly and in pieces. Dara was in her final year, and they told me that she had complained of pain in her abdomen for two whole days before she collapsed, but the Officers in the Medical Unit had dismissed her complaints.

Her friends had done everything within their means to help her, but it was not enough. Of course it wasn’t, because saving her life had never been their responsibility in the first place.

Maybe these things would make more sense if all parts of the Encampment were abandoned by Management to rot, but they weren’t. In fact, many other aspects got more attention than the parts that we, the members, deemed were more critical to our survival.

It was near the end of my second year that I first noticed the cameras. They appeared gradually across the compound – above the entrances to the residential blocks, along the main walkways, and at the corners of the Assembly Hall, the administrative buildings, and the dining facilities. They were small and dark and steady, with their blinking lenses pointing outward in all directions.

We didn’t need an invoice to know that Management had invested substantially in this infrastructure. We didn’t need a memorandum to know that the cameras were networked and that someone, somewhere, was watching us all the time. We didn’t need an explanation to know why.

I thought about this for a long time too, and I tried to understand the logic behind it.

If you claimed the Encampment’s purpose was formation, the genuine development of its members, then you should be more concerned with investing in other critical things. Like the outdated and incompetent Medical Unit, for example. You would ensure that the people in your care would not keep dying from preventable causes. You would build structures that kept them safe, and healthy, and capable of growing into the leaders you claimed to be forming. You would not be building a surveillance network of total control.

But, of course, formation was not the primary goal. It was something else, something they would never ever admit out loud.

Over the years, we have had different members who tried to speak out, both internally and externally, against the ills that went on in the Encampment.

In my third year, a group drafted a formal complaint about the Medical Unit’s failures that was detailed, documented, and signed anonymously by over two hundred members. They followed all the due processes and submitted it through the official channels, but the complaint was never formally acknowledged, and the following week two of the lead drafters were placed on disciplinary review.

A former member of the Encampment who was several cycles ahead of mine published an account of her experiences a few years after she left. She had been careful to be specific in her claims, restrained in her language, and scrupulous about documentation. Unsurprisingly, her work went viral on the internet, and it sparked a lot of outrage from people in society as they called for different forms of justice and external intervention.

However, the response of Management was to engage legal representatives, and the woman was served with different letters threatening judicial action. Before anybody knew what was happening, she redacted her claims, deleted all traces of her work, and her social channels fell into total radio silence. They’ve been that way ever since then.

If there’s one thing I know about Management, it’s that they place a high premium on the reputation of the Encampment being spotless, even when the threats to it are justified. And with the threat of sanctions constantly hanging over the heads of current members and their unlimited resources to take legal action against past members, it’s no wonder you barely ever find anybody speaking out.

Even whilst the losses and the inhumane actions continue to pile up.

I have been asked, since leaving the Encampment, whether I believe at all in the Supreme. It is a complicated question to answer, but I believe that I do. I believe that the Supreme is not who was shown to us in our time. What was shown to us was a version of the Supreme that happened to be convenient for the people in charge. A version that Management and the Officers could use as a justification for their excesses and inactions.

Many members, including friends of mine, have left the Encampment with a profound and unresolvable coldness toward the Supreme and everything associated with Him. I understand this, and even though I believe the coldness is being directed in the wrong manner, it’s not hard for me to understand why they carry such sentiment.

When something has been used to cause you harm and when it has been the instrument of your silencing and your coercion, it becomes difficult to approach it with anything other than suspicion.

This is what the Encampment and its Management did to the belief of many in the Supreme and I believe it is very shameful that this is the testimony of thousands of past and current members about that place.

Dara is dead, and I am writing this from a room far from the Encampment’s walls. I do not know who will read it, but I am not naive enough to believe that these words will change anything.

I know that the Encampment will still wax on stronger. Management will continue, and the ERF will continue. More charges will appear in the portals, and the Assembly Halls will be filled with more and more members performing belief. And the most unfortunate of all is that, somewhere, one day, because of the Medical Unit’s overall negligence, another person will run out of time.

It breaks my heart. However, I also know this: the Encampment is not inevitable.

It was built by people who made choices, and it continues this way because people continue to make those choices. I was inside those walls for four years, so I know how permanent and trapping they feel from within, but I am outside now, and from out here, I can see that they have edges. I can see the cracks slowly starting to form.

Dara deserved to leave through the front gate. She was owed that. She was owed it by every invocation of the Supreme’s name, by every Assembly she sat through, by every charge she paid, and by every day she spent within those walls. Dara is owed a reckoning.

I will not pretend that I know when it will come; after all, I have learnt not to make promises about timing. But I have also learnt that institutions do not fall from the outside but from the inside. They hollow from within, quietly, from all the compromises they could not afford and made anyway, and one day – one day – the entire façade of the Encampment will fall and be revealed for what it truly is.

I will be here when that day comes, the same way I have been here all along.

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I will always remember my Mummy’s tears because they sounded much different from her laughter.

Whilst her laughter bubbled, her tears were heavy, and every time those drops fell down from her eyes, they pressed heavily against my tiny heart.

I felt Mummy’s tremors, the way her heart would shake and her breath would refuse to settle. I felt everything.

Mummy knew I could tell whenever she was worried, so she would rub me where I rested and whisper repeatedly into the dark, “My beautiful baby, you will be okay. Everything is fine.”

I’m still not sure if she ever believed her own words.

While my Mummy was in a constant state of stress, my Daddy would say she was overthinking. He told her that women had been giving birth to children since the beginning of time and that when the time came, her body would naturally “know what to do”.

Daddy’s mummy said much more. She said no woman in their family had ever given birth through surgery and that they had all been strong women since their lineage began. She described her own mother, grandmother, and aunts as “Hebrew women with strong thighs and stronger spirits”.

Daddy’s mummy would beam with pride as she boasted about how she had pushed out all her six children without a single knife touching her skin.

On some nights, she would lament bitterly and ask my Daddy where he found this “spineless woman” who was already afraid before the real pain began. She would remind my Daddy how she had warned him not to marry my Mummy, a woman that was “outside their kind”.

Then Daddy’s mummy would shout and warn both my Daddy and Mummy sternly. She insisted that it would not happen, that her prophet had spoken clearly to her, and his instruction was that no surgery of any kind was to take place.

It had never happened in their family before, and so it mustn’t begin now.

I did not know what surgery was, but I knew that whenever that word was spoken, Mummy’s heart would begin to race.

Those days, my Mummy was very confused because, whilst there was debate at home, the doctors in the hospital strongly advised her to undergo the operation.

Their voices would be firm and urgent as they showed her scans and cited medical reports, telling her how the baby was big and the pelvis was narrow and how any form of prolonged waiting would be dangerous.

To them, mother and child mattered more than family patterns and the words of any “prophet”.

Mummy agreed with them, but when she informed my Daddy again that night, all he said was that they should pray. Daddy said God did not bring them this far to abandon them, so there was no cause for them to be alarmed.

I remember that my Mummy tried to argue with him, but my Daddy was not having any of it.

My Daddy said he wanted a normal birth, a normal child. He did not want people saying that his first son came through surgery, and he wasn’t going to spend money on an operation when they still had diapers to buy, a cot to prepare, and the baby’s future to save for.

I felt Mummy’s tears as heat, pressing heavily on me as she wept alone that night. She called her friends to ask them if she was really weak or if her fear meant that she had no faith.

My Mummy had prayed, she had fasted, and she believed, but her body was tired and her bones felt fragile. She was already in pain long before she was meant to be; was that also her fault?

As she cried herself to sleep that night, Mummy wondered if God did have favourites.

However, when she woke up the next morning, I saw and felt strength radiate from within her. She told herself it did not matter how her child came into the world. Whether it was by push or by knife, he was still hers, and she would love him with all her heart.

She promised she would be there for his first step; she promised she would clap the loudest at all his graduations, and she promised to tell this story one day as she laughed in the faces of everyone who had doubted her strength.

Mummy believed this with a strong conviction, and I believed her too, but when my Mummy’s labour suddenly arrived, the pain grew teeth and its fangs almost consumed all her faith.

On the first day, Mummy tried to breathe through it as Daddy encouraged her and said that she was doing well. At the same time, Daddy’s mummy was walking around the hospital hallway with some older women from her church as they intensified with prayers.

By the third day of her labour, my Mummy’s voice had changed completely. It had cracks in it as she begged and pleaded for help and for mercy and for any sort of relief.

The doctors again pleaded with my dad, almost angrily this time. They said that same word I had now grown familiar to hearing around me, “surgery”, but this time their pleas were more urgent, more critical.

Regardless of how they begged for his permission, my Daddy said they should give my Mummy some more time.

Daddy’s mummy agreed with him too. She said that many women had laboured longer than this and still survived and that fear was the real enemy in that situation.

To their utmost surprise, she also said boldly to the faces of the doctors that faith in God would open what their “bitter medicines” and “sharp knives” could not.

On her fifth day of labour, my Mummy’s prayers were nothing but whispers. Whispers born out of excruciating pain and tears. She told God she did not want to disappoint anyone, and she asked for strength. My Mummy asked to live so that she could see the face she had been waiting for: the face of her precious baby.

On the seventh day of her labour, everything else around my Mummy became noise. Her heartbeat stumbled rapidly, and she could only breathe in sharp fragments.

Many hands around her moved with urgency as voices rose in panic, and, once again, I heard it all.

My Mummy’s strength was failing, but she suddenly screamed with all of her might, and I felt the final push tear through her like a storm. My world collapsed into light and cold and air, and I could hear it… tears, clearer than ever.

Except this time, the tears were mine.

Underneath all of this, there was a strange silence, and I knew something was terribly wrong. My Mummy had gone quiet, too quiet.

Why don’t I feel her warmth again? Why isn’t she soothing me with affirming words and songs? Why am I being carried away from my Mummy?

My Daddy cried afterward, and that was the first time I ever heard that sound from him. Daddy’s mummy was there too, but she did not speak a single word. All the doctors moved differently now, slower and softer as they spoke in hushed tones.

“We’re so sorry; we lost her.”

Before I heard them or understood them, I already knew. I had felt it. I knew because in that space where Mummy’s heartbeat used to be, there was now only absence.

The child survived, and they called it a miracle; they said that God had saved the child and that His will had been done.

But had it really been God’s will?

I had heard everything. I heard the doctors; I heard their fear. I heard my Mummy quietly wish and pray for another way. I felt her fear - her deep, haunting fear – that her body would fail and that she would not make it.

But my Mummy’s body did not fail, it was failed.

They will say she gave her life for the child’s, and they will call it sacrifice, but I will always know that dying was a choice that was not hers.

It was a choice she was not allowed to make, a choice that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Mummy, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that child cost you your life, and I’m so sorry that child was me.

As I get older, they will tell me I was just a child and that it was not my fault, but it was and I know that because I was there.

Mummy, I felt you fading as I arrived, I felt you trying desperately to hold on, and there was nothing I could do.

I’m sorry for killing you and I will spend my whole life wishing I had been a normal child whose life did not have to cost you yours.

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⚠️ Note - This story contains themes that might be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

My dress for the wedding arrives on a Tuesday evening, and Mummy carries it inside like it’s made of glass, her hands trembling slightly as she hangs it carefully in the parlour.

It’s ivory silk with a pearl beading that catches the light, and when she stands back to look at it, an expression I can’t explain sits on her face.

It’s not happiness, but it’s not unhappiness either; it’s something a little more… desperate than that. I’m not sure; I might be seeing what’s not there.

After all, I’m only fourteen, and all the adults say I pay too much attention to things. They’re right because every day, I notice things about them that I wish I could un-notice. And also because adults are always right.

Uncle Tunde has been staying with us since the beginning of the month. He’s the one getting married, and Mummy says we’re lucky to have him here with us because it gives us a chance to help with the preparations.

I think I like him, but only because everybody else likes him.

Everyone is always delighted when he walks into a room. Daddy laughs at his jokes that aren’t really funny, and Mummy always brings him cold drinks without being asked. Even my little brother follows him around like a puppy, asking him questions about football or about his fiancée, Chioma.

I don’t know her, but I heard her family is rich, much richer than our own.

Uncle Tunde is nice. I use that word because I don’t know which other to use. He’s nice in the same way my other uncles are. I think my mother’s brothers are all really just the same person in different bodies.

My uncle loves to give compliments to everybody, especially me. I think he’s really liked me since I was born. He calls me his favourite niece, and he would always pinch my cheeks as he calls me “his princess”.

Daddy loves seeing Uncle Tunde play with me, and he always tells him that he would be a great “girl dad” too. I think that means he’ll be a great father.

If that’s true, then I don’t agree because Daddy is not really a great father.

I might not really like Daddy or Uncle Tunde, but I like our house so much. I know everything about it. For example, the downstairs bathroom door has a lock that does not work, so anybody can push it open with one hand.

Do you know that my Mummy snores at night? It’s a very funny sound that starts around ten and doesn’t stop till it’s time for devotion in the morning.

Anyways, back to my house. My little brother’s room is far from mine, too far. I wish it was closer; maybe I would be able to run there at night when I get scared.

Daddy separated our rooms when I turned twelve because he said I was now a “big girl”, and big girls need to be “safe” from boys. Maybe that’s why I don’t like Daddy anymore.

The morning after, I feel like I woke up in a different world, except everything looks exactly the same. The sun comes through the windows the same way, and our neighbour’s generator is still making the same annoying noise.

I can hear Mummy in the kitchen downstairs because she’s humming out loud, and I can smell breakfast – today must be yam and egg. I don’t like yam or egg.

Even the dirty patterns on our ceiling have remained the same, so that means that something must be wrong with me.

I’m the only thing that feels different. What’s wrong with me?

I manage to drag myself out of bed, and even though I don’t want to look down at myself, I eventually do. I made sure to lock the bathroom door before I checked, and when I did, there was blood.

It’s not a lot of blood, though, so that’s a good thing. Right? I’m not sure what ‘plenty’ or ‘little’ blood means or doesn’t mean.

Does that make me stupid? No, I got a B in Health Education last term; I can’t be stupid.

We learnt about periods in school last term, but I know that this isn’t that. This blood is redder, and my body is aching weirdly. I didn’t even know I could ache like this.

Is something really wrong with me? I don’t want to be weird. I don’t want to be a weirdo.

I sit on the bathroom floor and I start to cry.

I’m on the bathroom floor for a long time, and I’m crying, but silently because I don’t want Mummy or Daddy to hear me. I try to think of what to do or who to tell.

Should I tell Mummy? No, I can’t; that’s too scary.

What if she beats me? Or what if she tells Daddy? No, not them. They’ll ask me questions. I’m not even sure if I understand.

Maybe I’m hungry; let me go and eat. Oh God, today is Wednesday. I have to go to school.

I wash myself, and I throw my nightdress out the window into the bush, then I dress in my school uniform, and I go downstairs. Walking down the stairs feels so weird.

Uncle Tunde is already at the breakfast table, and he’s laughing with Daddy again. Did I mention that I don’t like his voice? It’s always too loud, especially in the mornings.

I greet both of them as I sit at the dining table, but I don’t think they hear me. They’re talking about some “goods from China”, so I guess that’s more important.

I don’t say anything, and nobody asks me anything; I just eat my eggs as quickly as possible. I’m surprised that I like how it tastes today.

I’m looking at my plate, but I know Uncle Tunde is looking at me.

On Friday night, I hear Mummy and Daddy arguing from the parlour downstairs. They’re trying to be silent, I think, but it’s weird because they never argue.

I’m curious.

I sneak slowly downstairs, and I hide behind the door in the passage. I know they’ll beat me if they catch me. I’m so scared, and my heart sounds like it’s beating from my ears.

Daddy sounds really angry, but his voice is still not loud. I wish he’d speak louder so I can hear what he’s saying. I can’t see his face either.

Mummy is whispering too, but it sounds like she’s crying. What did Daddy tell Mummy to make her cry? I need to hear. I crawl closer to the living room in the darkness, hoping I don’t make any sound or bump into the wall.

I hear them clearer now.

Daddy is saying something about timing, saying how they can’t “afford this right now”. Is he talking about the China thing Uncle Tunde mentioned? Daddy’s voice is strange, like he sounds tired.

Mummy is still crying silently, and she’s talking about the wedding that’s in three weeks. She says that Chioma’s family will be unhappy and they will cancel the wedding.

Why will they cancel the wedding? Did Uncle Tunde lose the wedding money in China? But Chioma’s family is rich; they will pay for the wedding. They can’t cancel it. I really want to wear my dress.

Daddy finally says something loud enough for me to hear. He says, “She’s our daughter. Our only daughter.”

Wait, they’re talking about me? What did I do? I’m even more scared now.

Mummy’s voice breaks when she answers. She says, “Yes, I know. But what do you want me to do? Report my brother to the police?”

Oh, they’re still talking about Uncle Tunde. Why?

Mummy is still talking; she says that Uncle Tunde said he was sorry and that it was a mistake. Maybe he actually spent all the wedding money in China. That’s not very smart.

Mummy is reminding Daddy that her brother is about to marry the daughter of a senator and asking him if he understands what that means. She says it means that there will be big opportunities for all of us.

Daddy is silent; he doesn’t say anything. Then he mentions my name, and I flinch.

I suddenly feel sick. Have they caught me? I’m about to run back upstairs when he calls my mother’s name. He asks her if I’m okay.

Mummy is saying that I’m confused about what happened and that maybe I don’t remember the night correctly. She says I’ll be fine and that she’ll keep an eye on me.

I press my eyes shut so hard that I see colours of bright reds and yellows, like my head is on fire. The images come back sharply, and I remember the pain and the smell and the feeling.

I feel like crying again.

Daddy says very quietly that I’m fourteen. Just that. I’m fourteen.

Mummy’s voice shakes. She says that she knows, she knows, but they’ll be kind to me. She says they’ll “help me move on”, and everybody will be “okay”.

I sob silently as I hide behind the chair.

So, they know? They know what he did? So, why didn’t they say anything since Tuesday? I feel tears pouring down my eyes as I crawl back to my room upstairs.

I lock the door, and I lie down on the floor. I’ve been sleeping on the ground since that night; my bed is too scary for me.

It’s hard for me to sleep, so I think.

I remember everything they said.

Daddy doesn’t want to confront Uncle Tunde, and Mummy doesn’t want to spoil the wedding. What does that mean?

I know the wedding is important, but will it get cancelled because of me? I don’t want that to happen.

Maybe they’re right since they are the adults. Adults are always right since they are older than me.

But do they have to cancel the wedding to help me?

I know something is wrong with me. I feel weird, and I can’t sleep, and my skin always itches.

My body just feels like it’s broken and…

I feel weird.

I notice that Mummy starts touching me differently after that night. Her hands are always on my hair anytime that we’re together, and she doesn’t stop kissing my forehead.

She makes my favourite foods, jollof rice, almost every day now. It’s extra sweet when she adds plantain with it. I think I like the food a lot, but I still feel weird, though.

Aunty Funmi, my mummy’s younger sister, visits us more often now too, and she hugs me longer than she used to. She asks how school is going, how my friends are, and whether I need new uniforms for the new term. Does she know too? Is that why she looks at me like she wants to cry too?

She brought me a gift yesterday morning. She said it was for the traditional wedding and that I’ll look so pretty in it. She smiled at me, but I didn’t like her smile.

I don’t like Aunty Funmi’s smile anymore. It’s too wide and too bright, and I know it’s fake. She didn’t smile like this before. I wish she would stop. I wish they would all stop acting weird to me and act normal; I already feel weird enough.

Even Uncle Tunde is acting weird, but at least he doesn’t bother me. I think he pretends like I’m not even in this house. When I enter a room, he doesn’t look at me. I watch him laugh with my father and help Mummy in the kitchen; he still plays with my brother too.

He’s normal with everyone except for me because I’m the one that something is wrong with.

I hear Mummy say he’ll move out after the wedding, and I’m more eager for the wedding to happen. I don’t think I want to go again, but I know I have no choice.

Mummy shows me pictures of Chioma, and she’s very beautiful. She’s smiling, and she looks happy. She doesn’t look weird.

I don’t think I’ll ever be beautiful like her because nothing is wrong with her. Unlike me.

I’m weird, and something is wrong with me.

I don’t like this church because everything is too white. White dresses and white flowers and white – I don’t think I want my wedding to be white like this. I prefer purple. I want a purple wedding.

I think I want to get married too. But not to a man like Uncle Tunde or a man like Daddy. I want a man like… I don’t know. I don’t have any example.

I’m a bridesmaid today even though I don’t want to be. I tried to fake being sick, but I couldn’t bring myself to not eat the pepper soup that Aunty Funmi brought for me last night.

Mummy fastens the clasp of the dress at my neck, and her hands are shaking. She tells me I’ll carry myself beautifully, and I can hear the desperation in her voice.

Is this that important to her, or is she scared I’ll mess it up? What does she think I’ll do? I can’t do anything.

I just sit in the front pew in my bridesmaid dress, wishing I were as powerful as Hermione Granger so I could run away from everybody here.

Uncle Tunde looks happy today. He’s standing in front of the pastor, and he’s smiling at Chioma as they hold hands. Even after, I see him smiling with all his friends as they take pictures, his arm slung around one of them as they all laugh.

I think I’m jealous because I want to smile too.

I wonder if any of his friends know that he raped me. Rape. That’s the word that describes what he did, right? At least that’s what Tolani, my school mother, told me.

Yeah, I told her what happened.

I think she already figured it out beforehand though. She’s the only one who seems to care, even though her words didn’t stop me from feeling weird.

At least, she understood me. Do you think her own uncle did the same to her too? I hope not. She’s a nice person.

I tried to ask Mummy last week if that was the right word, and she immediately changed the topic. She looked so sad after, and I wondered why. How can a question make someone sad? I wish I knew.

I didn’t even think about asking Daddy. His arms are around me right now as he’s calling for a photographer. He tries to make us do funny poses and smile into the camera, but I’m really tired. I want to go back home and sleep on the cold floor.

I don’t get my wish because the ceremony continues into the night.

I sit at a table, yawning and trying not to sleep. No one talks to me about anything; I don’t even think anybody notices me.

I’m fine with being alone because I don’t want to talk to anybody. But I wish someone would talk to me. I don’t like feeling so alone.

I’m twenty-six years old when I finally start therapy. I feel like I should have started ten years ago when I first tried to take my own life, but better late than never, I guess.

I definitely wish I had started before I began to discolour my wrists with so many scars.

On a much lighter note, I really hate Lagos. I live in a small flat that I can barely afford, and I’m working a job that doesn’t ask much of me, but discontent doesn’t even describe how I feel.

Dr Okafor sits across from me in her office that smells like wood and something floral. I like her, I think. I really do.

Even though she asks me some questions that are so gentle they feel like they would hurt less if she were harsh. What I don’t understand is why she seems to like me so much.

This is like our 3rd session, and I’m getting a hang of this hour-long routine that we do every week.

She asks about boundaries; I tell her I have none. She asks about family systems; I tell her I don’t want a family.

She uses words like “denial”, “complicity”, and “secondary trauma”, and I use words like “enablement” and “collective denial”.

It’s kind of fun now, like our own little game.

I don’t think therapy is working right now or if it will work in the future, but I’m not paying for it, so why not?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my therapist; I just think her job forces her to want to complicate everything with fancy words and catchy terms.

It’s much easier to just explain to me that I hate myself because I learnt at a young age that I wasn’t worth protecting and that I’ve learnt to mask my pain because it was an inconvenience to people who “loved” me.

That’s not so difficult, is it? Maybe I should be my own therapist.

Random thought, but my mother’s birthday is in five days. Should I call her? What do you think?

Honestly, I don’t think it matters much. I haven’t seen her in years, and I don’t bother replying to her incessant calls. I have nothing against her, I swear.

I just like myself better when I’m not staring into her face and remembering.

I think our relationship died the night I eavesdropped on her conversation with my father. A thickness grew between us in that moment, and it was only as I got older that I was able to define it and enforce it.

She sends money sometimes, even though I tell her not to. I don’t spend the money, but I don’t return it either.

She’s an old woman now; if doing this brings her some form of remorse, I’m happy to indulge her.

Oh, my dad? I prefer not to speak about him.

I can speak about Uncle Tunde, though, mostly because I don’t have anything against him. I know that’s a lie, but I’m sure I don’t hate him anymore.

My uncle is really doing well in life, good for him.

I don’t know if I’m happy for him, but since all my curses and prayers of damnation over the years have done nothing to him, I might as well live in peace with his success.

He and Chioma have three children now. Three girls, interestingly enough.

On some painful nights, I have such dark thoughts toward them, but my pastor often says that children shouldn’t have to suffer for the sins of their parents.

Very ironic, if you ask me.

I decided to cut off all contact with my mother after she asked if I would attend Uncle Tunde’s 40th birthday party.

She said, and I quote, “Can you find it in you to be there for family?” If her voice hadn’t been so careful and if she didn’t look like she was ashamed to be asking, I’m pretty sure I would have slapped her.

I didn’t, though. I just asked her why I would do that.

Why I would want to have anything to do with the man who stole a piece of me that I’ve been desperately trying to get back ever since.

She said because he’s family. I asked her if 14-year-old me wasn’t family too.

The silence that followed was the same silence from that night in the parlour, stretched out over twelve years, calcified into something permanent.

I’m in Dr Okafor’s office again today, and we’re talking about what it means to stay connected to people who failed you so completely.

I genuinely believe that this will be my last session because she’s been branching into the waters of “reconciliation”, and I’m having none of it.

She asks me if I’ve thought about what I want from my family, and my instinct is to tell her that they could all burn in hell for all I care.

However, she won’t see me again after today, so I decide to play along.

I tell her I want acknowledgement. I want someone to say what happened out loud. I want them to say his name and then say what he did. I want them to say they failed me. I want them to understand that their silence was a choice, that protecting him was a choice, and that choosing the family reputation over their daughter was a choice.

My attempts to keep a measured face whilst saying all this fails miserably and I feel like that weird 14-year-old me again.

I can’t help but get teary-eyed and it’s so embarrassing.

So much for character development.

Dr Okafor asks what I’ll do if they never say any of these things and I suddenly regain my composure.

I tell her that she just described every day of my life for the last twelve years and that I’m hoping every day of my life till I die remains the same.

For the first time, she looks surprised at my response.

I keep thinking about the night before. Not the night itself, but the last night I ever felt… not weird.

I remember the smell of the air and how our neighbour’s generator hummed noisily in the background as it always does. I was in my room doing homework while Mummy was preparing Daddy’s favourite Egusi soup.

It was just a normal evening. Nothing different. Nothing that would have warned me of anything.

I remember my fourteen-year-old self sitting at that desk, completely unaware that in barely a day, everything would change. That girl didn’t know that her body would soon forever feel like it belonged to someone else.

She didn’t know that her family would choose a wedding over her. She didn’t know she would probably spend the rest of her life loathing herself even though she knew she wasn’t responsible for the pain she felt.

She was just sitting there, doing her homework, naïve in her innocence.

That girl is still there, in that moment, doing her homework while the generator hums and the smell of cooking drifts up the stairs.

I envy her because she’ll never know what it’s like to be me, and I’ll never know what it’s like to be her again.

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Zakim had spent his entire life in the village of Arisahel, a remote town beyond the mountains where the houses were made of mud and straw, and the dreams of its inhabitants were made of even more fragile material. He was the son of a potter, a local legend whose vessels were smooth and beautiful and were adored by all the villagers alike.

Since he was a young boy, his father had taught him the craft. Zakim’s hands had learnt to shape clay into different shapes and sizes, and although the little hut that served as his workspace was seldom busy, he always worked from morning to night.

All the villagers agreed that Zakim was as gifted as his father, but the young potter often thought of this as an exaggeration. As far as he was concerned, the only thing he had in common with his father was his inability to turn the knowledge of his hands and the beauty of his creations into prosperity for his family.

Zakim, like his father before him, was by no means a rich or wealthy man. He was good at his craft, but he barely had any wealthy customers who bought from him regularly. The richest men in Arisahel preferred to buy their utensils from the travelling merchants once they came into town.

So, whilst the pottery kept Zakim fed and gave him a roof that did not leak during most rains, it didn’t give him enough to afford the best spinning wheels from Arabia or the leopard leather imports that the eunuchs brought from Asia.

All his life, scarcity and contentment were all that Zakim had known, but as he got older, his desires began to rebel against him. He started to grow tired of his growling stomach on windy nights, and he no longer found solace in the company of neighbours who were just as poor as he was.

Zakim dreamed of a life of plenty, one where he could do what he wanted whenever he wanted. A life where he could live in opulence and wealth, without constantly fearing that the coins in the box under his creaky mattress would run out.

He dreamed, like his father before him, that he would have lots of gold, more than he could ever imagine. However, it seemed like his dreams would remain mere dreams until he started to hear the stories.

Twice every year, trading merchants from distant lands would pass through Arisahel. They were men with dark skin and brown eyes that had witnessed the vastness of continents, and they carried along with them spices, silks, and various other luxury imports.

Their arrival always came with a sense of mystery and intrigue, and it meant different things to different people.

For the rich villagers, it was a time to haggle over expensive turbans and shiny gold bracelets, and for the poor villagers, like Zakim, it was a time to listen to the colourful stories and the captivating rumours that would be told by the traders.

It was from some of these merchants, sitting in the local tavern that evening, that Zakim first heard the name: the Seer of Orokut.

According to the merchants’ accounts, there existed far to the east a seer who possessed knowledge that could transform a man’s fortune as surely as fire could transform clay.

This seer was said to have revealed to a farmer the location of a hidden gold field and also showed many other men the secrets of great riches.

When they told these stories to the villagers who were always gathered to listen, the merchants whispered with a certain reverence. As usual, these tales spread like wildfire around the village.

Zakim listened to these stories with an ache in his chest that grew larger with each hearing.

At night, he would lie in his small room, listening to the sounds of the village as it settled into sleep, and he would feel the weight of his ordinary life pressing down upon him.

He was not content; he had not been for a long time. Contentment, to him, was merely another word for surrender. Why would he surrender to a life that he found mundane and unsatisfactory?

Every day, as he walked through the village, he saw men whose fingers were adorned with gold rings. Their wives smelt of expensive fragrances, and they wore fabrics laced with colours that were spun in strange patterns. Some days, Zakim barely had food to eat, but the children of these men ate fruits from trees that were grown in faraway lands.

What did they know that he did not? What gift had been given to them that had been withheld from him? Would this strange seer from the merchants’ stories have the answers to his questions?

These were the thoughts that swam through his mind every night and prevented him from closing his eyes to rest.

One evening, as he sat with an oil merchant who had just arrived from the south, Zakim asked directly about the Seer. The merchant smiled, but his eyes grew distant, like he was suddenly transported away from the dusty tavern.

“Many have gone in search of him,” the trader had said slowly. “Many have sought the Seer of Orokut. Some found him; some gave up along the way. Of those who have found him, I have known a few who returned.”

The merchant paused, lifting his cup to his lips.

“Whether they returned changed with abundant riches or with something else, I cannot say with certainty. But they returned different men than when they left. In all honesty, I believe there might be some truth to the rumours.”

Zakim opened his mouth to ask some more questions, but he immediately closed it again. Again, that night, he lay restless on his bed, pondering the weight of the decision he knew he now had to make.

The village and this life were all that he had known; would he really leave it all behind in search of some fabled man in a distant land? Would he leave his pottery wheels and his craft for the hope of a better future? What would happen to his widowed mother and his father’s legacy if he did not return?

From the owl’s first hoot at dusk till the first crow of the cock at dawn, Zakim wrestled with himself. But when the sun’s first rays shone on Arisahel that morning, he had made his decision.

The hunger in him had become too great for him to ignore and too loud for him to resist. It now spoke to him in the voice of possibility, and he could not silence it.

He would rather attempt the search and fail than refuse to try and live the rest of his life not knowing what he could have been.

Zakim’s journey began with a hope and excitement that could almost be tangibly felt. The blood in his veins flowed faster, and as he walked, there was a certain lightness in his limbs despite the weight of the provisions he carried.

He travelled East, following the routes the merchants had described, moving through villages, towns, and forgotten ruins. As the days passed, he went further and became more distant from the only world he had known.

Zakim had tried to get a map from some of the merchants, but they all claimed not to be in possession of one.

He had a feeling they did not want to help him on his journey, and although their voices echoed encouragement and optimism, their eyes told a story of fear and uncertainty.

He wondered why men who were too cowardly to chase their dreams often showed disdain for those who were brave enough to go after the life they wanted.

He was left feeling burdened and overwhelmed by the quest he was about to embark on, but it was too late for him to back down.

He had already sold his house, his pottery hut, and all his properties to raise the money to buy the supplies he needed for his mission.

Zakim knew in his heart that he was embarking on a one-way journey of success or failure.

The days blended into more days, with the landscape morphing from the familiar brown hills of the country into vast green grasslands where the sky seemed to stretch for an infinity. Zakim marvelled at the beauty of the world.

The Creator is truly magnificent, he mused to himself.

He entertained no thoughts of failure in his mind, but he knew that even if he did, he would still be pleased to have seen parts of the Earth he didn’t know existed.

A small part of him had accepted that this alone was worth the price he paid.

It was in a village called Moruk, a small settlement built into the sides of a deep cavern, that Zakim first felt the journey’s toll.

His feet were blistered, his supplies were diminishing, and doubt had begun to whisper seductively at the edges of his mind.

He wandered wearily through the village, seeking shelter and food, until he was finally directed by a young woman to an inn.

The inn was owned by a man named Kerem. It was a small establishment where he sold bread, wine, and whatever meagre goods the village produced.

The tavern was cool and deep, and somewhere in its darkness, Zakim could hear the refreshing sound of running water.

The scent of the fresh liquid comforted him before it even touched his tongue, and it felt like the Earth itself had infused life into him.

Kerem was an old man, older than Zakim’s father was when he died, and although the tavern was a bit dark, the young potter could see the lines and wrinkles that stretched on the keeper’s face.

Zakim wondered if Kerem always looked so disappointed and if that was the reason he looked so old.

The inn was well-built, and there was some bustle of activity around the space. Zakim caught glimpses of a woman who might have been Kerem’s wife, and he also thought he could hear the sound of children’s voices from somewhere in the back.

He thought to himself that many of the men back in Arisahel would give an arm to have an establishment like this.

The keeper seemed to have more than many of the men he knew did, so it was to Zakim’s surprise that Kerem never stopped muttering an unceasing stream of complaints.

“The wine is never quite right,” Kerem mumbled as he poured a cup for the tired traveller. “The grapes this year are too bitter. The merchant who supplies them has now become unreliable, the bloody dolt! He was much better ten years ago.”

Zakim said nothing as he ate the bread and cheese that was served to him, avoiding the keeper’s face.

He told himself that the man was probably just in a foul mood that morning, so he left him to his mutters while he focused on regaining some energy from the food on his plate.

However, as the minutes passed, the grumblings of the keeper only increased.

“Nothing is as good as it once was,” Kerem said to himself as he cleaned wooden bowls in the corner of the tavern. “There are too many strangers in the village now. There’s way too much traffic and too much noise. Back in the day, we had more peace. Now, we don’t.”

The keeper continued to complain as he shuffled out through the backdoor of the tavern, his voice a constant mumbling grievance.

He was only gone for a few seconds, and when he walked back in carrying a tray of freshly baked bread, he was complaining about how the world had shifted beneath his feet.

His voice was bitter as he spoke about the things he had wanted to accomplish in his life and how he no longer could because it was now too late.

Zakim found himself growing increasingly irritated as Kerem continued to mutter to himself. He looked around the inn, and nobody else seemed to be phased or concerned by the keeper’s grumblings.

‘They must all be used to it,’ Zakim thought as he tried to zone out the noise. He filled his mind with images from his journey so far and with hopeful thoughts of what was to come.

When he left Kerem’s inn in the morning, the keeper was dressed in new clothes, but the bitter scowl was still etched on his face.

Zakim wondered what could make a man so angry at life, driving him to the point where his whole identity was inclined toward discontent. Especially since his life seemed to be going okay.

He would have loved to stay longer to ask the keeper some questions, but he did not believe there was a thing he could learn from a soul that was entrenched in so much frustration.

As he left the cavern village with renewed strength and passion, he desperately hoped that he would meet the Seer and that he would have some real wisdom for him.

For several days after leaving Moruk, Zakim pushed forward with determination, eager to outrun both his exhaustion and the distasteful impression that Kerem had left on him.

The landscape had long begun to change again, and the flat savanna now gave way to rolling hills and running streams.

The young potter had long chosen to mute his optimism, but he could now see the great mountains that he sought ahead on the horizon.

They were getting closer to him with each day’s travel.

It was near midday, and the sun was reaching its most merciless intensity when Zakim heard the sound of splashing water and children’s laughter.

Curious, he deviated off his path and followed the sound down a muddy slope that was covered in sparse vegetation. After walking for a few minutes, he found himself facing a clear and cold stream that ran cheerfully over smooth stones.

The children he had heard were a group of boys, and they were all swimming in the water, with a few of them watching from the banks.

There were perhaps ten or twelve of them, and they were all naked as they played around, unselfconscious and seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world around them.

Zakim watched for what seemed like an eternity, unable to look away.

He watched as the children splashed each other, dove beneath the surface with shrieks of joy, chased each other across the smooth rocks, and climbed the banks only to run back down into the water.

One small boy found something in the rocks, and he showed it to his companions. They all ogled it as they gathered, admiring it with genuine wonder, and then the item was thrown back into the stream with screams and shouts.

The young potter sat on a rock at the stream’s edge, watching. A part of him wished he could have joined them to wonder at whatever it was that they found, but he knew it would be out of place.

He was not a part of them, and joining them would have meant interrupting something sacred. His heart performed a strange movement in his chest: part longing, part grief, and part desperate envy.

He remembered what it was like to be a child, the time when tomorrow held no weight because today was sufficient. Somewhere along his journey of life, all this simplicity had been taken from him.

Well… not taken, but relinquished by himself.

Exchanged for the hunger and the insatiable desire for more, the same desire that now drove him toward distant mountains.

The children didn’t notice Zakim, even when he stood to leave. They played as though the world contained nothing but themselves and the stream and the sky.

He felt something stir within him, and for the first time since he began his journey, he considered returning home.

He had come seeking the Seer of Orokut to gain something, but watching the children play as if there was no future they were looking toward and no past they were looking away from, he wondered if he had taken the simpleness he had back home for granted.

Zakim hoped he would not have any regrets by the time he walked past this stream again on his way back home.

The mountains grew larger as Zakim’s supplies grew smaller. His body was fully exhausted now, but he drove on, driven by a momentum that had less to do with hope and more to do with the hopelessness.

He had sold all that he had to get here; how could he go back now? He couldn’t; there was nothing to go back to.

And so, he pressed on, step after step, eating the last of his provisions as his body grew leaner and his determination grew more desperate.

At last, after following the merchants’ instructions with precision for weeks, Zakim finally found the cave they had described.

It was high on a mountainside, accessible only by a small, narrow path. The mere thought of making such a climb made his exhausted body grow even more limp, so he decided to sleep at the foot of the mountain for a few hours.

After the sun had set fully that evening, he began his climb.

Zakim climbed for hours, his lungs burning with the thin air and his legs trembling with fatigue. It was not a difficult climb, but each stretch of his hand forward felt like a tearing sensation.

However, he refused to yield to the pain.

He was so close now, so close to the secrets of wealth and riches. His entire journey would be worth it as soon as he met the seer at the top of the mountain.

That thought sent a renewed burst of strength through his limbs, and he surged forward, climbing higher and higher.

Around midnight, he arrived at the entrance of the cave. It was a simple opening in the rock, and as Zakim stepped inside, his eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness.

When they finally did, an emotion he did not expect hit him heavily like a tonne of bricks: profound disappointment.

Throughout his journey, he had fantasised about this moment – this moment when he finally stepped into the cave and met the seer. His mind had conjured up hundreds of images and pictures, but as he stood in that cave, what he saw was different from what he had expected.

The cave was sparse, not merely modest, but deliberately barren. The stone walls were bare and unadorned. Around the cave, there was no hint of the wealth he had imagined, no glimpse of the riches that a man of such power and knowledge surely must possess.

The merchants’ tales had suggested that opulence was hidden away in this secret place, and Zakim had expected to find chambers adorned with gold, cushions of silk, and vessels of precious metals.

There was nothing of such in that cave, only stone and emptiness and flickering shadows.

And then he saw the man.

The Seer of Orokut sat cross-legged on the ground near a small hearth, seemingly oblivious of the young potter’s presence. He was small, smaller than Zakim had expected, diminished perhaps by his deliberate asceticism.

His clothes were what Zakim could only describe as rags: worn, patched and faded to the colour of old dust. His feet lay bare on the cold stone, and he was performing a simple task with his hands, so his eyes were trained downward.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was sharp and curious as it met Zakim’s, and a slow smile spread across his weathered face.

“You’re disappointed,” the Seer said. It was not a question, and his voice carried a note of amusement. “Most of the men who find me are.”

The Seer returned to his task, unconcerned about a reply, and Zakim saw that he was heating water in a simple clay pot over a fire.

“Sit,” the Seer said, not looking up. “Sit there, where you are. We will drink something, and then we will speak. I’ve been expecting you.”

Zakim sat on the cold stone floor, his mind churning with confusion and a bitter anger that he didn’t know how to express.

He had come all this way, had sacrificed his comfort, his security, his entire craft and life, only to find this? A shrivelled old man in rags, living like a beggar in a bare cave?

The merchants and travellers had spoken of a figure of mystery and power, a man whose wisdom had given others unspeakable wealth. And yet what he could see here was merely an old pauper, heating water in a cracked pot, as though he were any beggar squatting by a roadside fire.

The anger continued to bubble hot in Zakim’s chest as he sat in silence, watching the Seer work.

Tears pricked his eyes as every muscle in his body burnt, and he suddenly realised that he was exhausted. And that he was a young man with nothing left to his name in the entire world.

Was this a trick? A test to see if he was worthy of the secrets of wealth? Or had the merchants simply been liars, spinning fables to poor villagers, making him come all this distance for nothing?

Zakim’s mind was still racing with questions and emotions as the Seer removed the pot from the fire with practised care. He brought out two cups, and he poured a dark liquid into each. It smelt of herbs that were bitter and foreign.

When the Seer handed one cup to Zakim, the young potter took it without enthusiasm. The older man then settled himself with the other cup, cradling it between his weathered hands.

“Drink,” the Seer said simply. “It will warm you from within. Seems to me like you need it.”

He added the last part with a little laugh, and although Zakim wanted to feel insulted, he was too weary to respond.

So, he drank. The liquid was warm and bitter, but not unpleasant, and after a moment, he felt a subtle sweetness hit the bottom of his tongue.

They sat in silence for a long time, drinking slowly, and the only sound present was the occasional pop of the fire and the wind whistling around the entrance of the cave.

When the Seer finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“You came seeking gold like the others,” the Seer said. “You too had heard the stories. They told you I had the secret of making men wealthy and I could show you the path to riches.”

He sipped from his cup, and he laughed a bit.

“And now you see me, and you see this cave, and you are angry because I am not what you imagined. I do not seem like the man who has the secrets of all wealth, and you are right, because I do not.”

Fresh disappointment washed through Zakim, and he felt totally deflated.

An impulse to stand up and storm out of the cave rose in him, but something in the Seer’s gaze held him silent.

“Truly, I can’t tell you why those rumours persist, but I can tell you where they came from. I once advised a farmer to buy an old piece of land; he did, and then he found gold in it, lots of gold. And ever since then, many men like yourself have sought me out from far and wide for the secrets of riches. I wonder if those stories will ever die out. Probably not.”

The Seer sipped from his cup again, visibly amused, and Zakim was visibly upset at the fact that he seemed to be enjoying his disappointment.

“I’ll ask you the same questions I asked the others. What do you think the secret of wealth is? How would you even describe wealth?”

Zakim did not respond for a moment.

Whatever the Seer had given him to drink had awoken him, and his senses felt a little sharper, but the question had caught him off guard. He pondered it within himself.

What did he think wealth was? Having big townhouses in the village? Being invited to eat dinner with the king at the end of every year? Having his choice selection of horses to ride around the town?

He wasn’t sure, and he realised with great surprise that he hadn’t ever truly thought about it before.

Zakim had no response to the question, so he looked away from the Seer’s eyes. The old man’s gaze seemed to be boring into his soul, reading the entire essence of his being, and he didn’t like it.

“You have no answer, just like the other men who came before you,” the Seer said.

Zakim did not understand why he felt overwhelmed with shame, like he had just failed a simple test. It reminded him of how he felt as a child when his father would look at him in disappointment before asking him to destroy his work and remould it again.

“Many men come here seeking the knowledge of wealth: how to accumulate, how to possess, and how to gather. They believe that I have a formula or a secret incantation that will transform their circumstance.”

He laughed again.

“You know what? I do not doubt that many of the men who leave here do become wealthy. However, I did not give them anything that they did not already bring with them.”

The Seer took another slow sip from his cup.

Zakim hated to admit it, but he was now fully invested in this strange man and the words that he spoke.

“A man came here once. He was clever and ambitious, and he asked me the same question you are burning to ask: ‘How do I become rich?’ I told him something then, and I will tell you the same now, though you have not asked. I told him, ‘Even if you gather all the gold in the world until your hands are cramped with holding it, you will have gained nothing that cannot be lost.’“

Zakim felt something in his chest tighten.

He did not come all this way and lose all that he ever had to be told that it had all been for nothing.

He wanted to speak, but the Seer held a finger up to silence him, then he gestured toward the cave’s opening.

“Out there, below this mountain, men are gathering gold. Some of them will succeed, and their fingers will grow heavy with rings. Their homes will be filled with beautiful things, and their children will wear clothes dyed with expensive colours, yet only a few of them will be able to close their eyes at night to sleep in peace.”

He paused.

“Many of them will suspect their neighbours of envy. They will doubt the loyalty of those around them. They will forget life’s little pleasures as they grow older and their bodies become frail. Then one day, they will die, and everything they ever got will become the possession of someone else, or of no one at all.”

Zakim sat in the gathering darkness, the Seer’s words falling like stones into the rumbling waves of his heart.

“Then what is the point of it?” Zakim asked, finally speaking for the first time in hours. “If everything is futile, if nothing we gain matters, why do we do anything at all?”

The Seer smiled, truly smiled, as if he was pleased with the question.

“That”, he said, “is the question that separates the dead from the living. That is the question whose answer will liberate you, if you can bear to let it. But first, you must understand what is truly valuable to you.”

Zakim thought about it as the cave fell into silence again.

His pottery hut had been valuable to him, and so had his friends back in Arisahel, poor and content as they were. His father’s legacy had been valuable to him too, and he was carrying on the family craft.

A fresh wave of despair washed over him. Had he really given up everything in the world that was valuable to him?

The fire was dying now, and the Seer rose with surprising grace for a man so aged and began to prepare a simple meal. When he was done, they ate together in near-total darkness, lit only by the fading embers, and as they ate, the Seer spoke again.

“I will tell you a truth that many men and merchants alike do not know,” the Seer said. “The true secret to wealth is not wanting more, but wanting less.”

He laughed.

“I know it’s not an answer most want to hear. An Arabian trader once threatened to cut my throat with a knife when I gave him that response.”

The Seer smiled at the memory.

“Men like him are trapped in the illusion that more will be enough, but more never is. Freedom is not gold; rather, it is peace. The peace that comes when you’re free to work without desperation, free to build without fear, and free to live without the constant hunger to satisfy an insatiable desire. Who do you think is truly wealthy? The man who clings dearly to his possessions, or the one who has learnt to live as though he has nothing to lose?”

Zakim remained in silence, and the Seer did not press him further. The images of the children playing carefree in the waters flashed in his mind, and he knew his answer.

He was still angry, and he still felt a deep disappointment, but there was also something else stirring within him; he just didn’t know what it was.

All he knew was that his expectations and fantasies had been dashed, and he was now just an ordinary potter. A potter who had nothing, not even have a spinning wheel.

After another long silence, the Seer spoke again.

“I want to ask you something,” he said. “When you were on your journey, did you encounter other people? Did your path show you anything beyond the mountains in the distance?”

Zakim nodded slowly, his mind casting back to Kerem for the first time in many days.

“There was a man,” he said. “A keeper of an inn in a cavern, all he did was complain about everything.”

“And what did you feel when you were near him?” the Seer asked.

“Irritation,” Zakim admitted, remembering how Kerem’s negativity seemed to suck all the air out of the room. “And confusion. It seemed to me like his life was going well; how could he be so consumed with what he lacked?”

The Seer nodded slowly. “And was there anything else? Anyone else?”

Zakim’s mind drifted back to the sound of the calm waters.

“There was a group of children,” he said quietly. “At a stream. They were playing in the water, naked and free, without a care in the world.”

“Yes,” the old Seer mused. “Children are the simplest creatures in the entire world; they possess a certain joy that gold can never purchase. Almost every lesson on living a fulfilled life can be learnt from them because they live only in the present, ignorant about how to live anywhere else. It’s a cruel irony that we go from that into, you know…”

The Seer gestured at him in amusement, and Zakim couldn’t help but laugh slightly too.

“Those encounters,” the Seer said, leaning forward slightly, “were not a coincidence. Just a simple lesson to be learnt. You can have it all and be miserable, and you can have nothing at all and be free. The choice is in your hands.”

Zakim hung his head in his hands as the weight of those words settled on him.

Suddenly, before he could stop it, his shoulders slumped and he began to cry, loudly and profusely. He felt ashamed to be crying in front of this man, but it felt too freeing for him to stop.

The Seer didn’t say anything; he just watched in silence.

“So, what do I do now?” Zakim finally asked. “I have sold and given all that I have to come here.”

The old man looked at him with sympathy. “You have no choice but to go back to your village and start all over again. You have seen what you needed to see, and now you know what you needed to know. Your life is not defined by the abundance that you possess.”

Zakim looked away from the seer, a bitter taste in his mouth.

The merchant wasn’t lying when he said men didn’t return from the cave as the same men. How could he stay the same after all this?

And how exactly was he meant to start all over again?

The day was starting to break as Zakim walked to the entrance of the cave, and he paused at the threshold. He looked back at the Seer who was already settling back into his place by the dying fire.

“Will I become like him?” Zakim asked. “The bitter keeper?”

The Seer did not look up.

“Only if you forget,” he said softly. “You have seen both what you were and what you might become. That knowledge is a mercy, Zakim. Use it wisely.”

And with that, Zakim stepped out into the early morning, leaving behind the cave and the strange seer.

His words and their conversations replayed in his mind, but he truly did not know what to make of it. He did not yet know what it would mean, but as he walked down the mountain that morning, he knew something had changed.

Hours later, when the first rays of the sun hit his skin, finally he understood what it was. It was a fresh start that had been handed over to him, like the dawning of the sun on a new day.

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This is a fictional take on the Biblical events from:

Luke 1:26-38 and Matthew 1:18-25.

I look at Mary in disbelief, my mind unable to comprehend the words that just came out of her mouth.

“What did you say?” I ask her. I’m trying to contain my shock from reflecting in my voice, but I fail miserably.

She keeps her eyes trained on mine, and her irises reflect a calm I do not understand.

“I am pregnant, Joseph,” she repeats softly with a smile.

My heart starts to pound loudly in my chest as her words sink in deeper.

Pregnant. I repeat the word in my mind, over and over again, and yet I can’t seem to fully grasp its meaning.

Pregnant? How can Mary be pregnant? We are not married yet, and we’ve not even… How could that be possible? Unless she— No! It can’t be. The thought sends a sharp pang into my heart, and I look up at her again.

Mary’s smile still hasn’t dropped, and I feel a certain annoyance rise inside of me. Is she playing some sort of joke? What could possibly be so amusing to her in this situation?

“Mary,” I begin. I speak slowly because my voice is thick with emotion. “What do you mean? How can you be pregnant?”

“Joseph, I told you what happened a few weeks ago,” she replies, her gaze holding mine with an unflinching intensity.

I immediately cast my mind back, and all I can remember is some fantasy story about an Angel, one I’m sure she must have dreamt up.

“The Angel said I would conceive—” she continues, putting her hand on her stomach, “by the power of the Holy Spirit, and that I would give birth to a son.”

“Mary…” I counter, willing myself to be patient. “I told you, you just had a dream. There have been no sightings of Angels in our land for many decades.”

She shakes her head in defiance. “No, Joseph, I know what I saw.”

I can only stare at her. I search her eyes for anything that betrays her words, a sign that this is all a joke, but I don’t find anything. She seems to be saying the truth.

But how?

“Mary…” I walk slowly towards her and hold her hands, subtly checking the temperature of her body. “Perhaps you’re having a fever? There’s no way you can be pregnant, Mary. You are a virgin.”

“Are you saying I’m lying, Joseph? Do you think I’m making all these things up? Why would I even do that?”

I pause, weighing my next words carefully.

“Mary, if you’re pregnant with another man’s child, then—”

Hurt flashes across her face, and she drops my hands immediately.

“Joseph, are you accusing me of being unfaithful!?”

I avert her gaze, and I look at the ground. I’m ashamed to admit that the thought crossed my mind. Yes, I know that Mary loves me and that she has a strong moral code.

But if she is truly pregnant, as she says she is, surely that’s the only reasonable explanation?

“I cannot believe this,” Mary whispers, almost to herself. “Joseph, I am not making any of this up. I am not sick, neither have I lied to you, and I certainly have not been with another man!”

I muster the courage to look at her again, and I see pain clearly written across her face. The guilt from my accusation claws at my heart, yet it’s wrestled fiercely by the pain I feel from her confession.

How could Mary be pregnant? How? It can’t be for me, so who could it be for? Is he a fisherman or a rich tax collector? That mere thought makes tears prick the back of my eyes.

And what is she trying to do by claiming to have seen Angels?

I’m a devout Jew and a believer in God, but this is absurd talk. There’s no way she could have seen an Angel, let alone spoken to one. Something is not right about this whole situation, and I can’t seem to figure it out.

I sigh audibly as I look away from her gaze. My emotions are all tangled up, and I feel a mix of fear, doubt, anger, and confusion.

“I need some time to think, Mary,” I whisper. “I need to think about what happens next to… us.”

Mary doesn’t say anything; she just nods and starts to walk toward the door of my house. She’s about to leave when she turns back to face me, and I’m forced to look her in the eyes again.

I can see hurt linger on her face.

“The Angel called me Blessed, Joseph,” she says, her tone unwavering. “He said our son’s name will be Jesus, and He will rule over God’s people forever. Those were his exact words.”

I don’t say anything, but the conviction in her voice amplifies the guilt that gnaws at me. Am I being too harsh with her?

“My cousin Elizabeth is having a child, Joseph. Did you know that? We all thought it would never happen, but now it’s obvious that nothing is impossible with God.”

With that, Mary leaves and closes the door, and I’m left alone, standing in the middle of the room with a troubled heart and a racing mind.

All night, I toss and turn on my bed. I am unable to sleep and even more unable to quieten the millions of thoughts that are spinning around in my head.

My heart aches with an unfamiliar sensation of both loss and betrayal, and it feels like someone keeps poking it with the sharp end of a sword.

I am deeply hurt, and yet, there’s still a longing within me. A longing to believe Mary and her words.

I want to trust her as I always have; I want to believe that all this is some divine arrangement, but the weight of her words is impossible to bear.

Getting pregnant as a virgin is unbelievable, and even if this child was some divine miracle, what difference would it make? He would still be a child conceived out of wedlock, and it would be a huge disgrace to the both of us.

I’m a devout follower of the law, and everybody who knows me knows this. I visit the temple in Jerusalem regularly, I offer my sacrifices when due, and I pay all my taxes.

I have never, for once, intentionally broken the law or accommodated people who did, and the law of Moses is clear on matters like this.

What would be said of me when it becomes public knowledge that Mary is pregnant? Would people also believe that it’s a miracle from God? Or will they scorn me and call me a sinner?

I can’t let that happen; I can’t bear the shame for something I know nothing about.

But… but I cannot bear the thought of Mary being put to shame either. Even if she’s lying, I love her too much to see her get stoned to death.

But what if she is telling the truth?

I still remember the determined look in her eyes and the unshaking confidence with which she spoke those words earlier in the day. She seemed to be utterly convinced about what she was saying.

And I admit that it is unlike Mary to do anything that breaks the law of God. Mary would never defile herself with another man or lie against God and His hallowed Angels.

So, she must be telling the truth; she has to be.

However, the Law is clear, and I am a man of the Law, I simply cannot ignore what must be done.

As the night draws longer and sleep starts to lay hold of me, I resolve to do what seems to be the only option left to me.

I will divorce her quietly.

I won’t expose her publicly to the teachers of the Law, but I also won’t claim the child as my own. This is the only way I can ensure that the both of us are protected.

I’m pondering exactly how I’ll do this when I finally drift away into my dreams.

My dream is strange.

There’s an unusual sensation that fills my entire body.

I know that I am asleep, yet all my senses are alive, aware, and functioning as if I am awake.

Suddenly, I see a figure. He’s a… man?

His face is too bright for me to look at, and his body radiates with a beam stronger than any light I have ever seen.

I immediately know that he’s an Angel of the Lord, so I fall flat on my face and bow before him.

“Joseph, son of David,” the Angel says.

His presence before me is overwhelming, yet as soon as he speaks, an immediate peace fills my soul, and every unease in my system vanishes.

The raging storm that troubled my heart and mind as I was awake seems to dissipate into the air.

Yet I remain face down on the ground.

“Don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.“

Jesus.

The name echoes repeatedly in my mind.

So, Mary was right! Relief immediately fills my senses.

I want to thank the Angel, to beg him to forgive my doubt, and to tell me what to do next, but before I can say a word, he’s gone.

The light vanishes, and I feel his presence depart, but the peace he brought remains, and it settles over me like a warm blanket.

I wake up with a start, the morning light streaming through the window, and I immediately know what I must do as I jump up from my bed.

The choice that seemed impossible before was now as clear as the skies above my head.

The Lord has spoken, and now I must obey; it matters less what people will say. I cannot divorce Mary any longer. I will take her as my wife, and we will raise the child as our own.

Mary. I doubted her before, and now I must make amends, so I dress quickly, and I make my way to her house.

The morning air is cool, and the village is just beginning to stir. I’m filled with strong bursts of energy as I rush through the streets and across the cobbled steps, paying little attention to those who greet me.

When I reach Mary’s door, I knock on it rapidly. I think of the words to say in order to convey how deeply apologetic I am. And to promise her that I will stand by her side and never doubt her again.

The door opens, and when she stands before me, I can’t help but smile at her. Mary, my wife, the mother of my Lord. She’s visibly surprised to see me.

“Joseph, what—”

“I saw the Angel, Mary!” I cut her off. “He confirmed all that you said.”

Her confusion vanishes, and it’s replaced by relief. “Oh, Joseph. Thank the Lord!”

I step closer to her and hold her hands.

“I’m sorry for not believing you, Mary. We will raise this child together, and His name will be called Jesus. Truly, nothing is impossible with God.”

She cries softly, tears welling in her eyes. “Nothing is truly impossible; the Messiah is here.”

I squeeze her hands tight as I feel my own eyes also start to grow moist. “We shall be called the parents of the Saviour of the world.”

I pull her into an embrace, and I feel the same peace I felt after the words of the Angel in my dream. A renewed burst of energy arises in me, and I say a silent prayer.

The road ahead will not be easy. There will be whispers, questions, and perhaps even scorn from both our friends and families. People will mock my integrity and spit on Mary’s chastity, but we must make sure that none of those things matter to us.

A bigger purpose has been laid before our feet: to bring the son of the Most High into the world.

And just as the prophets foretold, God is now going to well and truly dwell with us. Amen.

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Never, ever forget the true purpose of Christmas.

Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the Saviour of the world.

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Enjoy.

Maybe this text I received from Bayo that morning would have been cute if I hadn’t known that he had sent it from the arms of Feyi, my best friend.

I wonder how much longer he had planned to continue with that façade of pretending that he was wholly in love, whilst thinking he was deceiving me.

At least Feyi had started to pretend like I did not exist anymore.

You see, Bayo and I met at a wedding two years ago, when a wealthy politician’s son was getting married to an even wealthier governor’s daughter.

Somehow, I had gotten an invite, and even though I was thrilled to attend, I was quickly disappointed on the day of the event.

The food was mediocre, the drinks were too sweet, and I was not having a great time until a random stranger approached me and started a conversation.

I found Bayo very amusing at first, with the way he tried to charm me with his boyish grin and his semi-foreign accent. He was a good-looking guy, no doubt, but I immediately knew that he was not my type, and this is exactly why I agreed to go out with him.

Our first date led to a second date, and then to a third date, and a few months after we first met, he asked me to be his girlfriend.

Naturally, he was the sweetest guy for the first few months, doting over me like I was the most precious thing in the world while doing and saying all the right things.

If I didn’t know better, both by experience and observation, I’d have been completely smitten by him.

Eventually, as expected, the “spark” between us, if you can even call it that, began to wane. Our conversations became forced, and we grew more and more apart as time passed, even though we lived together in the same apartment.

It was clear that we had hit rock bottom and there was no way forward for us, but we still stayed together. I think we were both too lazy to end the relationship, or at least, he was.

Everything changed around the time he started cheating, though.

Magically, Bayo’s devotion returned, and he returned to being the sweet, intentional guy that he was in the early months of our relationship.

He started showering me again with love, affectionate words and gifts – lots and lots of gifts. His sudden and intense 180-degree change in attitude was surprising; however, I was everything but flattered.

Bayo reminded me of how Mama would steal money from Papa’s wardrobe when I was still a child and then welcome him back home from work with sweet name-callings and a deliciously prepared meal.

Papa would be too fed and elated to realise his money was missing until a few days later, when Mama had already spent all the money and there was nothing he could do about it.

That was when they would revert to their usual custom of shouting abuses and raining curses on each other. Sometimes my father would hit her repeatedly until she fell to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Men are very useless creatures, Sade!” Mama would tell me in tears after Papa had stormed angrily out of the house. “They are liars by nature; never trust a man, my beautiful daughter.”

She said this to me more times than I could count, and yet she would fall back into Papa’s arms a few hours later, once he returned home with a weak apology or a bare minimum gift.

I never understood her contradictory actions, but as I got older, I realised just how right her words were. I grew to believe that men were liars and they were all the same, and I carried this belief with me everywhere I went.

Of course, it affected all my relationships with the male gender, including my father. I didn’t even cry the day he slipped, cracked his skull, and died on the bathroom floor.

I found out that Bayo was cheating on me with my best friend about four months into their relationship. One random morning while he was in the shower, I went through his phone, and well, the rest, as they say, is history.

It was so embarrassing that I caught him so easily, and it lowkey hurt my ego that he did not even have the decency to cheat on me properly.

It was too obvious to me that something was off because he was very sloppy, and he was always overcompensating; buying a new gift or sending me money, every time his guilty conscience got the best of him.

Not that I ever complained anyways, I just saved every Naira he sent and sold the most expensive gifts. Even though I was irritated by how easy he was making it, I was cautious not to give away my knowledge of his affair.

I had been thinking long-term for way too long, and although part of me had hoped for a challenge this time, I couldn’t throw away all of my progress.

In hindsight, I think Bayo actually loved me; he was just a fool who could not control his urges.

He was everything I avoided in men, and from the first time we started going out, I already knew that he was way below my intelligence and emotional quotient. But in all honesty, fair play to him, I never thought he had it in him to cheat.

Or at least, to cheat with so little persuasion.

Bayo was ignorant, and that cost him a lot. He was ignorant of the fact that a woman like me would have never settled for him in the first place.

If I wasn’t aware of the hundreds of millions in his bank accounts and the fact that he was the heir to the biggest insurance firm in West Africa, I would have never paid any attention to him.

I wouldn’t even have bothered to bribe my way into the wedding reception so I could meet him in the first place. The fact that he always thought he stole my heart and that I “fell” for him used to make me laugh a lot.

Bayo also didn’t know that Feyi was just like me and that she would have never settled for him either. She was even disgusted by the idea of snooping around with him when I first suggested it to her.

I didn’t like it either; it was too reckless, even for me, but too much time had already passed, and I was starting to get sick of my “relationship” with Bayo. I desperately needed out.

“Just long enough for us to get what we need, then we’ll leave him alone,” was what I told her. Luckily, she saw the genius in my plan and went along with it.

Sigh, I miss Feyi a lot. My best girl.

I had half expected the plan to fail, honestly. Part of me had thought, and maybe even hoped, that he would remain loyal to me. But alas, a man is a man.

If Bayo had any ounce of common sense, he would have known that it was suspicious for the girl he was cheating with to constantly encourage him to shower his girlfriend with gifts and money.

Especially since he knew that they were very close friends, but like I said, his ignorance cost him a lot.

He was an ignorant fool that didn’t know many things.

He didn’t know how much I hate men.

He didn’t know that I had stopped taking my regular contraceptives a long time ago.

He didn’t know that I was already a few weeks pregnant with my baby before that night happened.

He didn’t know that Feyi inviting him over that night was a stroke of genius by yours truly.

He didn’t know that I had to travel for three hours to and fro to the remote town that had the filling station where I bought the gallons of fuel.

He didn’t know that I paid the clerk with cash.

He didn’t know that I was entering Feyi’s house through the back door when his text came in that night.

He didn’t know how much I cringed at the sounds he made from her room while I emptied the cans of petrol around the house.

He didn’t know the pack of matches I bought was just 50 Naira.

He didn’t know that I was the one who locked the doors of the house from the outside.

He didn’t know that in my original plan, Feyi did not die with him.

I’m also sure he didn’t know that human skin generally burns at temperatures above 44°C, but I’m very sure he felt it. I still remember how loud their screams were that early morning; it was… exhilarating, to say the least.

Especially Feyi’s screams. Sigh, Feyi, my sweet, sweet girl.

Some days I think burning my best friend of sixteen years to death was a mistake, but every time the thought comes, I remind myself of her tendency to always run her mouth, and I am appeased.

She would have ruined the whole thing and got us caught eventually if I hadn’t taken care of her. I knew I couldn’t trust her again when Feyi told Bayo that I knew about their affair. Maybe she would still be alive today if she hadn’t done that.

She had started to grow distant from me, and I feared that she was getting too sympathetic towards him. It was just hard for me to trust her again.

In her own litle way, she was also ignorant too.

I can only imagine her reaction when she realised that her house was burning. She would have known that it was me, and she would have probably had that look in her eyes as she screamed and died.

The same look Papa had when I pushed him down on the wet bathroom floor when I was twelve years old.

That look of fear and shock. Betrayal too, maybe.

The police had conducted their investigation, and their conclusion was that it was arson. That part was pretty obvious, but the question was, who set the house on fire?

It couldn’t have been me.

I was in Abuja that same day, attending a women’s empowerment conference, or at least that’s the story the pictures and receipts I gave the police aimed to tell. They had tracked my phone too, and it confirmed my alibi at the time of the incident.

I thank the Universe that I had the last-minute sense to buy and send a new phone with my SIM card on it to Abuja on one random night bus the day before I did what I did.

It’s pathetic that even now, in 2025, the Nigerian Police Force still doesn’t have effective ways to corroborate evidence, but that’s another story for another time.

Their negligence had worked in my favour once again, and I’m not about to start complaining. I just hope it works again next time.

Of course, the spotlight was on me for a very long time, but I was well-prepared for it.

Public opinion was raging all over the news and the internet: “The angry girlfriend did it.” “He was cheating on her; this was revenge.” “She was jealous of all of his family’s wealth and power.”

I patiently waited while the narrative built up, and right before it hit the tipping point, I broke the news of my pregnancy to the world and showed them the diamond ring Bayo had “proposed” to me with.

“We were going to start a family together; Bayo was all that I had,” I had wailed desperately to Arise News, or was it Channels Television?

I can’t quite remember; I did a lot of interviews.

Either way, the media bought my sob story because it told the perfect victim narrative. And I think my never-ending tears also helped to sell the lie too.

The blogs and comment sections immediately went from labelling me as the “guilty girlfriend” to the “mistreated and grieving fiancée”.

Public opinion rapidly swung my way: “How can he cheat on his pregnant wife after he proposed to her?” “What kind of man was he!?” “What kind of a family was he from!?”

It was at that point that Bayo’s family quickly paid me a few million Naira as “hush money” so I would stop talking to journalists about their dead son.

I wonder what was in their family affairs that they didn’t want anybody sniffing around, but it honestly doesn’t concern me.

Eventually, the buzz around their son’s death quietened and the whole country moved on to more trivial matters.

I honestly wasn’t expecting them to give me any sort of compensation after your father died. We didn’t need the money because I had saved enough from him for us to be comfortable for a very long time, but I was still grateful for the money.

Part of it was used to buy this house that we currently live in and the one in Chicago that we’ll be moving to in a few months.

You’re probably wondering why I did all of this, wondering what your father did to deserve such a horrible end. Maybe one day you’ll be old enough to understand; right now, you are only a few months old.

So as I hold you now in my arms, rocking you to sleep, I wonder what type of woman you will become.

Would you be like Mama, constantly complaining about your oppressor without doing anything about it? Or would you be like Feyi, eventually falling to the same charm that our enemy has used to keep us trapped for years?

I hope you’ll be like me, daring enough to do something about it.

I really hope you’ll be like me.

I won’t raise you to be a weak woman, and when you’re old enough, I’ll teach you how not to end up like either of them.

Maybe I’ll also tell you about the other boyfriends that I had before Bayo. They were all different guys, but they had met the same fate.

I hope you’ll understand that if it wasn’t Bayo’s infidelity and lies or Papa’s violence and short temper, then it would have been another one of them somewhere else, doing something to harm us.

The world we live in is unfair to us, and it has been so for generations. They try to tell us that there’s only little we can do to defend ourselves and even much less we can do to stand up for ourselves.

But I have chosen to take a different path, and so will you, my beautiful daughter.

We will never be their victims, even if it means burning them all to death, one after the other.

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Will our love endure the war?

April 1939. Brighton, England.

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and distant rain through the Brighton streets. The sun was a rare sight to see those times, covered by a sea of endless gloomy clouds, and the days stretched endlessly.

The weather perfectly matched the mood in Europe and the rest of the world as rumours of impending war and conflict grew with each passing moment.

Mother Nature seemed to be mourning the loss of something.

Olivia Miller and Leyton Harris walked hand-in-hand through the semi-empty city streets, neither saying a word to the other.

The silence was comfortable, but it was also strange. There was something unspoken in the air between them, and Leyton’s mind seemed so far away from the present.

Olivia could see the distant look in his eyes, and in her heart, she feared that she knew what it meant. They continued their long walk through the paved roads until they reached a park near the city’s outskirts.

With their hands intertwined, they sat on an empty bench and watched as the seagulls flew across the sea, into the sky, and back across the sea, squealing in excitement.

Littered on the floor around them were propaganda flyers calling for Britain to join the war as the German threat began to seem more tangible.

A slight wind whipped one of the papers straight to the couple’s feet.

“I wonder…” Leyton began, picking up the paper. His voice was barely a whisper. “Why the world won’t just get along.”

Olivia squeezed his hand and looked up into his earnest blue eyes.

“It’s all still rumours for now, Leyton,” she replied, attempting to soothe him with her voice. “Nobody wants a repeat of what happened barely twenty years ago.”

He scoffed in response, and she squeezed his hand even tighter.

They both knew she wasn’t being realistic. They had read the newspaper together earlier that week, and everyone around town had heard the reports coming out of Western Europe.

Olivia understood his fears and shared them with him, but why were they so certain the war would happen? The world had barely healed from the last global conflict; it would be foolishness to start another so soon. Right?

She wasn’t so sure herself.

Leyton reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, then he handed it to her as he looked away.

“I’ve been called up,” he said, his eyes staring straight into the distance. “The army needs all the help they can get. Just in case.”

Olivia’s hands trembled as she stared at the envelope, the unmistakable stamp of the Queen’s office staring back at her, bold and signed.

The words in the letter confirmed all of her fears.

The British Army was recruiting young Englishmen for a provisional army, and Leyton was to join them in a few weeks.

The reality of war had finally reached their doorstep, anticipated, dreaded, and yet thoroughly unprepared for.

“Oh, my dearest Leyton!” She cried, pulling him into her arms as tears welled in her eyes.

They held each other for a long time, her grip fierce and unflinching for fear that he would slip from her hands.

“It’s like you said,” Leyton said, pulling out slightly from her embrace. “Who knows? We might never be called up to the frontlines. There is still hope. For the world. For us.”

Olivia knew he was just trying to make her feel better, but it wasn’t working.

The horrific war stories she heard from her father as a child had exposed her to the harsh nature of war, and there was nothing hopeful about it.

Just a world of pain and death and loss.

Despair rose anew in her, and she fell into his arms, crying even harder.

“I want you to promise me something,” Leyton said, his voice thick and his eyes puffy.

He took her hands in his.

“In case we ever do go to fight, promise you’ll write to me. No matter what happens, just keep writing. It’s the only way I can have you with me.”

“I promise,” Olivia whispered, her voice breaking. “And you must promise to come back to me, Leyton. You must come back and hold me just like this.”

“I promise,” he replied fiercely, holding her face in his hands. “I will come back to you, Olivia, because I love you. You are my heart. You are all I have, so, please, wait for me.”

“I will wait. I love you too,” she replied as she brought her lips up to kiss him.

The kiss was frantic and desperate and passionate. Their skins burnt with fire, and for what seemed like an eternity, oxygen lost its priority. They held onto each other, both afraid to let go, and nothing else around them mattered.

Eventually they broke into an embrace, the chill of the ocean wind enveloping them as they both pondered their uncertain future in their hearts.

May 12, 1939 - Brighton, England

My dearest Leyton,

The sun has been unkind today.

It shows its face for the first time in months, and it seems to have decided to burn everything within its reach.

I’m probably exaggerating, but everything has been overwhelming since we parted ways at the train station.

I know it’s just been a few days, but you being here made life so much easier to bear for me.

I keep waiting for you to walk back through the door, grinning and saying that it’s all over and that you don’t have to be so far away from me anymore.

Mum says I should keep busy, so I’ve been helping out more on the farm, but all I want to do is sit in the garden and think of you, your smile and your big, strong hands.

I miss all of you. Do you remember the roses we planted last spring?

They’re blooming now, and their colours are so vivid, it’s almost unreal.

I water them every day, wishing you were here to admire them with me.

You’d have showered me with a thousand compliments.

Every day we check the news and read the papers, hoping that the war is called off or some agreement is reached, so you don’t have to go to battle.

Dad says it’s almost impossible now, but he’s a bitter old man, still haunted by his experiences in the last war.

He knows nothing about hope. Or faith.

I pray at the chapel every morning now, begging God to avert the war and bring you back to me if He could.

You always say He can do anything, so I guess we’ll see.

Leyton, remember your promise.

You said you’d come back to me, and I believe you.

I have to; if not, I’ll go mad just thinking of what happens if you don’t.

Please write me as soon as you can, so I know you’re okay.

Life makes so much less meaning without you, my dearest.

Your heart,

Olivia.

August 20, 1939 – Aldershot Garrison, England.

My Olivia,

I miss you more than I can put into words, and I wish I were there to admire the roses with you.

However, no matter how beautiful they are, you will always be the Miller farm’s most beautiful.

I miss you every day, my heart.

The lads here are decent guys.

There’s a guy from Brighton like us; his name is Steve; you’ll absolutely love him.

Then there’s Simon, Oscar, Luca, and Leyton. What are the odds, eh? Me meeting a namesake.

There’s also Dele. He’s an African migrant, and he tells the best stories.

These first months of training have been intense, but you give me strength.

The thoughts of our future, of our family, keep me going.

These barracks are so crowded; I’ve never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet I am lonelier than ever.

Thank you for writing as you promised you would.

I’ll get into trouble if I say much about it in this letter, but I don’t think I’m coming home anytime soon.

The world is going to war again, but I’m not afraid, Olivia, and you shouldn’t be either.

I’m glad to hear you’ve been praying.

Pray for us.

Your love and your faith will keep me going.

I haven’t forgotten my promise, and I intend to keep it.

Keep writing to me, my love.

I need your words more than you know.

Your soldier will never stop fighting.

Your dearest,

Leyton.

October 5, 1939 - Brighton, England.

My Dearest,

I received your last letter, and I burst into tears before I even read it. It was a tad embarrassing.

The mailman probably thinks I’m a little unwell upstairs. I might be, to be honest.

I’ve been going insane in anticipation, just waiting for you to write.

When I read in the paper that you’ve been deployed properly into the war, I was so scared, Leyton.

Your letter came at the perfect time, and I felt your presence beside me as I read it.

The days have grown shorter here, and the air smells like rain all the time. I miss you terribly.

The war feels so much closer now, and since a report in the paper said Germany might attack England, everyone has been on edge. The slightest sound has us all flinching.

Dad had another heart attack, and I think he might die soon. The poor man can’t handle another war.

To be honest, all I care about is where you are and when I’ll see you again.

Nobody in the military is telling us anything, and I know it’s sensitive times, but it’s all so frustrating.

I joined the local women’s committee to help with the war effort.

We’re knitting scarves for the soldiers, and I think of you with every one I make, hoping that it gets to you and keeps you warm.

I hope it keeps you safe and keeps us connected, even from so far away.

Every evening, we go to the chapel to sing safety hymns for all the soldiers.

The women at the church are all really nice people. Many of us have loved ones in the army, so we’ve sort of bonded over the fear that we’ll never see any of you again.

It’s all so absurd, but it’s oddly comforting.

I feel closer to God too. Every night, I say a little prayer that you’ll be safe, you and your new friends. I hope He brings you back to me.

I hope you come back to me, Leyton, just like you promised. I await you, my dearest.

Please write back soon.

I’ll lose my mind if I have to wait as much as I did the last time.

There’s a little gift attached to this letter for you.

Your heart,

Olivia.

January 5, 1940 - Northern France

Olivia,

It felt wonderful to see your face again. Thank you for the gift; it was thoughtful.

I’ll keep it in my uniform so you can be with me as I fight.

You give me strength. You are my strength.

The days are cold, brutally cold, and the nights are even worse, stretching on endlessly.

The scarves do little, but it’s lovely to have a piece of you here with me.

It’s a nightmare out here, Olivia.

The fighting’s intensifying, and I’ve seen more death than I ever thought possible.

We are all afraid, though none of the lads will admit it out loud.

Thank you for praying for us.

I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.

He might not be the best father, but you have to spend more time with him. In case these days are his last.

I hope this reaches you soon.

We’ve been told that letters might take longer to be sent and received since we’re overseas.

Letters go missing too, so if you don’t hear from me for long, just know that I am okay.

I’m also sending back a picture with this letter.

That’s me on the left, obviously.

Then to my left is the other Leyton, then Dele, then Oscar, Luca, and Simon.

They’re all really good guys, and I hope you can meet them after the war is over.

I don’t know when that would be, but I promise you, my love, that I will come back.

Your dearest,

Leyton.

April 28, 1940 - Brighton, England.

My Love,

It’s been a year since you left, and it’s been so long since your last letter.

My heart is still as heavy as it was on the first day, and I’ve been trying to stay strong, but I won’t lie, I’m so worried.

The papers are full of terrible news from France, and every time the post comes, I hold my breath, hoping it’s a letter from you.

When none arrives, the heartache is unbearable.

Dad died a few weeks after my last letter to you.

I didn’t spend much time with him, but he didn’t die with us on bad terms, so I guess that’s okay.

England is in so much disarray. Food prices have hiked drastically, and the winter really did a number.

It’s all so hard.

Mum says I must keep faith, that no news is good news, but it’s very hard to quiet the fear that creeps in at night.

I keep dreaming of you. In my dreams, you’re home, but when I reach for you, you disappear.

I wake up with tears on my pillow.

The roses withered in the cold, but I know they’ll bloom again, just like you will come home again.

I framed the picture you sent, and I look at it every morning.

With all my love, your heart,

Olivia.

August 18, 1940 – Undisclosed Location

Olivia,

I’m so sorry for the silence.

The war has a way of swallowing the months, and nowadays I don’t even know what time is anymore.

Oscar and Simon died in a blast a week ago, Dele and some others went missing in action, and I keep wondering why God is letting all these things happen.

Are you still praying for me? I really do need your strength, my heart.

Sorry to hear about your dad. He was a decent man.

I’ve not forgotten my promise to you, Olivia, but some days I wonder if it was fair to you.

I gave you hope for something that is completely out of both our powers.

However, I still want to come back to you, and I will fight till my last breath to make sure I do. I swear it.

Your dearest,

Leyton.

November 1, 1940 - Brighton, England

Leyton, my love,

The German attacks were devastating.

London and many other cities were severely hit, and we’re still feeling the aftermath.

I hate war so much, and I don’t know why this all is happening now.

I’m sorry to hear about your comrades; they sounded like really good men.

Every week, the army now publishes a list of names of the soldiers who have died in the war or are missing in action, and I check it every day.

It might seem selfish, but I always feel relieved when I don’t see your name on the list.

I will keep writing, and I want you to write back, but it’s easier on my heart to know that you’re still alive out there.

In your last letter, it sounded like you were starting to doubt.

I don’t know if you doubt my love or your promise. Either way, you made me sad, Leyton.

You always say that a man is nothing without his word, and you gave me that word.

So, don’t you dare give up on me now. Don’t you dare.

P.S - Happy birthday in advance, my dearest.

Your heart,

Olivia.

February 10, 1941 – Northern France

Olivia,

How are you? Well, I hope.

I’ve been thinking about the man I used to be—the man you loved.

The man you saw a future with.

The man who promised you a future.

In many ways, I am no longer that man.

I think about the things I have done to survive, and I wonder if you’d still love me as much as you did when I left two years ago.

I see men die here every day, some in the most horrific ways.

But what’s worse is that I’m starting to feel nothing.

At first, it was grief, then anger, and now... now there’s just numbness.

Some nights, I lie awake and question what the point of it all is.

Why are we here, slaughtering one another? For whose glory? For whose victory?

None of it feels like it matters anymore.

I’m sorry if my last letter hurt you; you know that was never my intention.

I’m still holding onto my promise, but I fear the man who will return to you may not be the man you knew.

Maybe you’d be better off without him.

Leyton.

August 18, 1941. Brighton, England.

My dearest Leyton,

I really hope my letters still get to you.

Last week I thought I saw your name on the dead soldiers list, and my heart broke into a million pieces.

I was crying in front of the post office till Mother pointed out that it was someone else’s name.

I felt a mix of silliness and guilt, but the relief that came after made me laugh harder than I have in a very long time.

You’re still alive, and that comforts me more than anything else.

I’ve been volunteering more at the hospital, helping with the soldiers who returned wounded.

Some of them are not the same as they were when they left. They tell me stories about the war, and it all sounds so horrible.

It’s sad that anybody has to go through that.

Every time I see one of them, I think of you.

I remember what you’re going through, and I wish I was by your side to help you.

Leyton, I don’t care if you come back whole or in half; all I want is you.

I don’t care how much the war changes you; I know the man you are deep down.

You are a good man.

You are all my heart desires.

Mom is starting to resent me for waiting for you for so long, but she won’t understand.

She married my father, so she’s not exactly qualified to give me advice on men.

She keeps saying time isn’t on my side and that I should move on, but I don’t care.

It’s my life, and I choose to wait for you, my dearest. However long it takes.

Write back to me soon; my hope is slipping. It’s the only sign I need.

And please, please, come back home to me.

Your heart,

Olivia.

February 14, 1943 – Brighton, England.

My dearest Leyton,

It brings me immense sadness to write these words, but this will be the last letter I send to you.

It’s been two years without a word, and as much as I want to hold on to hope, my heart can’t take this anymore.

I’ve sent four different letters since your last response, and yet, nothing.

You’ve been gone for four years, and the war is still relentless, raging worse with every passing month.

So many lives have been lost, and so much has changed.

Holding on to your promised return was a glimmer of salvation for me in my darkest times, but now... now, I don’t know anymore.

The army stopped posting the names of deceased soldiers because there were just too many of them, but the last time I checked, a month ago, your name still wasn’t on the list.

So, why haven’t you written to me in so long, Leyton? You said you would always write.

Did your letters get misplaced?

I’ve read your last letter over a thousand times, and each time I do, my heart breaks a little more.

It sounded like a farewell, like you were tired of trying. It feels like you’ve given up on us, and I don’t blame you if you have.

I’m not bitter or resentful.

It was incredibly naïve of us to think that our desires could shape the outcomes of an event as unpredictable as war.

War changes people, and perhaps you’re now the man who no longer desires my love or my strength.

I release you from the promise you made to me, and I hope you do the same to me.

I was twenty and in love and foolish, and while it felt good to dream for a while, we must now face reality, for both our sakes.

Thank you for loving me since we were children.

Thank you for the things you showed and taught me. You will forever be my dearest.

Your heart,

Olivia.

Manchester, England. May 1983.

As he drove steadily across the massive estate’s rocky road, his nervousness grew with every second, and he considered pulling the plug on his entire plan for the millionth time.

It had been long, too long, and he wondered if she would even be interested in what he had to say.

Was he even in the right position to talk to her?

He wasn’t sure, but it was too late to give up. Too much time and effort had been spent to bring him to this house today.

Finding her had been the most difficult part. Many years after the war had ended, Olivia had moved away from Brighton, and she married a rich politician.

Now, she lived with him and her children on this estate. It was clear that she had moved on a long time ago, so why was he there to bring up the past?

At first, he thought his investigations might bring her some closure, but as he parked his car in front of the new house, where she lived her new life with her new family, he wasn’t sure if she needed it.

Conflicted, he sighed deeply as he turned off his engine. This was the part of his job he hated the most.

Picking up his bag from the car, he walked straight to the front door, inhaled deeply, and rang the bell.

Almost immediately, a maid appeared at the door, holding a cleaning brush and smiling pleasantly at him.

“Good morning, sir,” she beamed. “Welcome to the Arnold estate. How may I help you?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Mrs Olivia Mi- Arnold.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you want to see her? She doesn’t get a lot of visitors.”

“I understand, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” he replied, showing her his military badge.

Her eyes widened slightly, then she opened the door for him to enter.

“Please, come with me.”

The housekeeper closed the door behind them, leading him into a grand, opulent home that radiated timeless elegance.

The marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers hanging from towering ceilings, while the walls were adorned with tastefully framed art and mirrors that reflected the light, making the space feel even more expansive.

Rich velvet drapes framed the tall, arched windows that offered a view of meticulously manicured gardens outside.

Plush sofas and armchairs, upholstered in luxurious fabrics, were arranged in the spacious sitting room around a grand fireplace, where a crackling fire added warmth to the polished atmosphere.

Olivia sat in the living room, rocking in her chair and humming an old nursery tune as she knitted.

He stood in the hallway as the maid walked into the room to speak to her.

“Ma’am, there’s a man here to see you.”

She didn’t look up from her knitting.

“Who is he?”

“He’s from the military, ma’am.”

Olivia raised her head slightly.

She studied him from afar for a moment, trying to place the face, but her mind came up blank, so she gestured for him to come in.

“Very well then, let him in.”

Marie nodded slightly and waved for him to come, then she left them in the room.

“Please, come in,” Olivia said, motioning to a large sofa. “Have a seat.”

He walked in and sat on the chair, placing the document on his lap. She sat across from him, and he suddenly felt shy.

She was still as beautiful in her old age as she was in the old pictures he had seen.

“How may I help you, young man?”

“Mrs Arnold,” he said, clearing his throat. “My name is Paul. I’m a journalist from the British News Agency, Military Division. I’m here to talk to you about Lieutenant Leyton Harris.”

Olivia’s expression didn’t change.

She had heard the name so many times over the decades, it didn’t make her flinch anymore.

Paul was a bit disappointed and internally swore at himself. He had been right; of course she moved on already. He wished he could leave, but it was already too late for him to stop.

“You’re not the first person to find me in relation to Leyton, and you’re not the first one from the press either. Do you want something from me?”

Her expression was kind, but it held a form of sternness.

“No, no, ma’am. Actually, I found something I wanted to give you.”

He picked up his bag and pulled out an old letter, then it handed it over to her.

Olivia’s eyes widened as she collected the rumpled piece of paper and caught sight of the familiar handwriting.

She could immediately feel emotions from long ago wash over her anew, and tears glistened in her dull, grey eyes.

“I was gathering information for a documentary on the war when I found that letter. It was in the military archives with items that were recovered after the war but never claimed by anybody. The letter was addressed to your old house in Brighton, so I had to do some extra searching to find you here today. After I did, it just felt like the right thing to finally deliver it.”

After a long, silent moment, she looked at Paul with gratitude, and her voice trembled slightly when she spoke.

“Thank you for this, Paul. It means much more than you know.”

He nodded at her and stood up to leave.

“How old are you?” she asked, stopping him in his tracks.

“Twenty-three, ma’am,” he replied.

“Have you ever been in love before, Paul?”

He chuckled nervously, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, ma’am. I haven’t.”

She gave him a small smile.

“Don’t be too scared to let love go if the time ever comes for you too. Love will come again, and if you’re lucky enough to find another, never compare. Each love is its own.”

Paul nodded, forcing a small smile as he walked out of the room. He felt a certain weight behind her words that made him slightly uncomfortable.

Left alone in the silence, Olivia’s hands shook as she opened the letter and read its contents. The tears flowed freely from her eyes as she read his words, written so long ago.

It was dated a few months after her last letter over forty years ago.

Forty years. She had searched and waited for so long, wondering why he never wrote back, even after her last letter.

Forty years since she had mourned him, piece by piece, until the only thing left was the space he had once filled in her heart.

Had it been selfish of her to still hope, even after she had told him to let her go?

She didn’t know, but even after the long years passed, he still remained a part of her.

She had moved on and built a life and a family, but she had never stopped wondering why he did not return from the war.

What had happened to him? Had he suffered? Had he thought of her in his final moments? Was he angry at her for her decision?

She stared at his framed photo from the war, the one that hung on the wall beside her childhood photos, and she smiled.

Olivia read the letter again, and the tears poured down her cheek, hot and heavy with grief.

She’ll probably never know what happened to Leyton back in France; his body was never recovered, and he was reported MIA after the end of the war.

However, it comforted her to know that her soldier never stopped fighting for her.

May 5, 1943 – Somewhere in France

Olivia,

Your last letter reached me through the haze of war, and I feel as though it has pierced me more deeply than any wound I’ve suffered here.

I am so sorry that my silence made it seem like I gave up on us or that I didn’t need your love or strength anymore.

I wanted to write to you to tell you that I am still here, still fighting for Britain and for us.

But I feared that if I wrote, my words would be too heavy, too filled with the darkness that surrounds me.

I understand your decision to release me from my promise, and I am grateful for it.

The thought that you would have to wait indefinitely for me to return when I could no longer guarantee it was a burden that killed me to bear.

I should not expect you to wait for me anymore, and your strength in letting go is something I admire, even as it tears up my soul.

However, I promise you this: I will do everything in my power to make it back to you.

I will carry your love with me and take solace in knowing that your future will be free of the shadows of this war and the shadows I now carry with me.

I am forever grateful for you, and you will always remain in my heart.

Your dearest soldier,

Leyton.

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A little throwback for the uninitiated.

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TRIGGER WARNING  —  This story contains themes, messages, and depictions which may be distressing or triggering for some readers.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek support from a trusted individual or contact a mental health professional.

The silence in Maya's room is so strange.

In the many times I have been here in the past, there has always been one sound or another that's filling up the entire space.

Sometimes it's Maya screaming excitedly at me or her brother as she narrates one of her unbelievable stories; other times it was her vinyl record playing the album of an 80s jazz band only she knew existed.

In the more silent moments, you'd hear the furious sound of pen stroking paper as she wrote another entry into her journal.

Today, though, there's nothing, absolutely nothing at all. There's no euphoria-induced screaming, no loud, unfamiliar music, and no sound of pen scribbling on paper.

Her entire room is just… silent. I hate it so much, and I terribly wish Maya were here to change it.

This is the first time I've been in her room since the funeral and only my second time being in here since she took her own life three months ago.

Since that time, I have made up every possible excuse to avoid coming here.

I've told myself so many lies and cooked up so many rationalisations, almost to the point where I convinced myself that there was no need for me to ever step foot into this room again.

That there was no point for me to visit the space that housed my best friend for the seventeen years of her life, the space that housed us, since she won't be there to receive me.

My shallow justifications aside, the truth is that I've been so scared, terrified even.

Scared that if I did come here, into this room, and Maya was not sitting on her bed, waiting for me with her legs crossed and with a huge grin on her face, then it would be real. Then she would really be gone.

It's all so silly, now that I think about it. The pills she swallowed were real.

The call I got from her mom, weeping through the phone that her "baby is gone", was real.

The coffin housing her lifeless, pale body that we lowered into the ground was real.

The fact that we'll never know why she did it is real.

The fact that I'll never see her again is real.

So what was it about coming here, being so close to her too-familiar scent and the faint tangibility of her presence, that was too difficult for me to handle?

I was just being a coward, and in more ways than one, I've been a coward since Maya died.

I take in a deep breath, and I step into her room. After closing the door gently, I slowly take in the room.

It's messy, way too messy.

Her bed is laid, and there are no clothes strewn around the room, but her writing table isn't arranged, and her records cabinet is wide open, with multiple vinyls scattered on the ground in front of it.

If Maya were here, she'd be sitting with her legs crossed in front of the drawer, arranging the records in an order that only she knew of.

She had a new one on every other day, depending on what her mood was.

I go on my knees in front of the drawer, roll my sleeves, and arrange the records by title in backwards alphabetical order.

She always told me that it was the safest way to go.

Talking about my best friend in the past tense for the last few months has been so weird and painful as hell too.

At first, I wondered why everybody kept talking about her like she no longer existed, because it made no sense to me.

For the first few weeks after the incident, I threw fits when anyone talked about her like she wasn't still with us.

"Maya is not dead! She's not gone anywhere!" I would yell because I genuinely didn't believe that she was.

Not even when I kissed her forehead in the coffin, and not even after we lowered her body into the ground and covered it with dirt.

Did people just go like that? Do they really just stop being with no prior notice? I still don't get it.

Maya might not be here anymore, but she hasn't gone anywhere; I still see her everywhere and in everything.

I see her in the mirror when I brush my teeth, I hear her laugh through my headphones when I walk down the road, and when I sleep, she's all I can dream about.

On the good nights, I dream of her laughter filling the air as she drags me along with her in an endless, beautiful field.

On the not-so-good nights, I dream of Maya screaming at me from her coffin as she's being buried alive, begging me to help, begging me to do something to save her.

I wake up on those nights with a heavy heart, soaked with sweat and tears pouring from my eyes.

Grief is much worse when a part of you feels at fault for it.

On my phone, Maya is in every other photo in my gallery. It's filled with pictures of many different moments taken over the years of our friendship; even my current wallpaper is a picture of her laughing with that beautiful glint in her eyes.

I carry her scent with me all the time, as thick as ever, and it lingers in my memory because we've used the same perfumes and hair products since we were seven years old.

Maya is everywhere I go because Maya is a part of me. A part of my soul that has been snatched away viciously from my hands.

I close the drawer and stand to my feet, dusting imaginary dust off my pants, and I look around the room again.

It's so still that I believe the walls and floorboards know what happened too. They must also be mourning, just like the rest of us.

I find it ironic that I postponed my coming here for a long time, and now that I'm here, I have no idea of what to even do.

Mr and Mrs Aarons, Maya's parents, told me when I came in this morning that I could have any of her stuff that I wanted.

They had been putting off their plan to donate most of her belongings to the community church for a month because they were waiting for me to visit first.

And also because they couldn't bring themselves to stay in her room for too long.

Mrs Aarons broke down a bit when she mentioned that last part; even her husband that was holding her had a grave look in his eyes, and they both looked exhausted.

I could clearly read the sorrow on their faces, and I realised how selfish I had been.

Yes, I lost my best friend, but they lost their daughter, their first child, and to suicide, of all things.

I can't imagine the heavy guilt and burdensome questions that have plagued their hearts since that dreadful night.

Maya's death must have been very difficult for them to deal with, and I should have been present to grieve with them, rather than vanish and keep to myself.

For many years, I have been like a second daughter to them, and at the time they needed the comfort of a child, I was absent the same way I wasn't absent when Maya needed me the most.

I take in a deep sigh as I sit at her writing table.

I'm very meticulous as I take my time to arrange it, closing notepads, stacking the papers together, and organising her highlighters in the order she likes them – from darkest to brightest.

With another deep intake of air, I open her laptop, a MacBook Pro with roses painted all around the casing.

Her parents gave it to her as a birthday gift two years ago, and I painted the casing. It wasn't my best work, but she loved it all the same; Maya loved every single thing that I did for her.

Maya is – was so obsessed with writing, and she wrote about anything and everything, every time and everywhere that she could.

She was like that since she was a child, and she still has journals from back when she was three years old.

Maya took notes of every thought, every notion, and every idea that crossed her mind, and then she organised them neatly in different boxes.

She dreamed of winning a Nobel Prize for her writing one day, and she had a plan to compile all her journals from her childhood till whenever she died and then have them all published posthumously.

I look at the open wardrobe, and I see the boxes of her journals stacked neatly on top of one another.

A thought nudges at my heart, but I can't make sense of it, so I push it aside.

There's no passcode on her laptop, so I'm greeted by the picture we took during vacation last summer when I open it. We're both smiling happily, oblivious to the events that would come barely a year after.

I stare at the wallpaper till it goes out of focus.

I'm stalling because I am ashamed to admit the reason I'm even back in this room in the first place, opening her laptop.

My best friend was one to express every single thought that she had, and it did not matter to her if she wrote it out on paper or typed it down somewhere.

Once Maya had a feeling she felt was good enough to pass through her mind, she breathed it out into the world.

So, it just kills me to wonder… why didn't she leave a note?

The police said there had been no note in her car when she was found. She also didn't leave any messages for me or her parents on the day it happened.

This same Maya wrote out every inner monologue she had when we were not on speaking terms just so we could talk about them later, so why won't she bother to explain why she did what she did? Or to at least say goodbye.

This nagging thought pricks me every single day, joining the grief and guilt to eat me up from within.

So, for the next hour, I snoop through her laptop, desperately searching for anything that can give some sort of relief.

Maybe a clue, or an explanation, or a reason… just something.

Anything that will tell me why Maya killed herself four months before she turned eighteen and seven months before we were to leave for college together.

However, despite all my searching, I don't find anything. Nothing to indicate that Maya was going through something that she kept away from me.

Guilt for doubting the transparency of our friendship rises in my chest, but I ignore it, and I open her gallery. I'm positive that about ninety percent of the pictures and videos in here were taken by me.

Maya was not as passionate about the camera as she was about the pen, and sometimes, I would literally have to force her to take a picture or do a TikTok with me.

I scroll down the timeline, pausing a few times to dwell on a picture or to watch a video. Seeing her face expressing different emotions, and mentally reliving those moments all by myself, makes my heart ache.

I'm still scrolling down when a thumbnail catches my eye.

The date shows that the video was taken the week before she died, but it looks unfamiliar, so I hold my breath and I click on play.

In the video, Maya is staring into the camera with that familiar glint of mischief in her eyes.

"So," she whispers. "My best friend is upset with me, and she won't tell me that she loves me. So, I'm going to tickle her until she says it. This recording is proof so she can't deny it later. Watch."

I can't help but laugh slightly because I remember the exact moment, but I had no idea she was even recording it.

The video was cut off because I had jumped on her back and the phone had fallen to the ground.

I close the laptop and wipe away the tears that came to my eyes while I was laughing, and then almost immediately, the sadness returns, as fresh and painful as it was the day it was born.

My best friend is really gone, and I'll never see her again; I'll never hear the sound of her laughter again.

I hated it when Maya tickled me, but I'd give the whole world just to relive that moment again.

I feel tears prick the back of my eyes, and I blink them away furiously. No, I'm not going to cry; that's the one condition I gave myself for coming here.

'You make me so happy,' her voice rings in my head.

"Then why did you do it!?" I yell out loud in frustration, my voice breaking as I slump down to the ground beside her bed.

The worst part of this whole thing has been the questions.

So, so many questions, swirling round and round every day in my head like a storm.

Questions that will never be met with any answers.

Why did she do it? What signs did I miss? Was there anything I could have done?

They have gnawed at me every single day for the past three months, relentless and unforgiving, and the guilt I feel makes it all worse.

Maya was my best friend, and we shared absolutely everything together.

How could I have not sensed that something was wrong? I should have known if she was unhappy or if she was going through anything.

In all fairness, there had been no change in her behaviour in the days leading up to her death, so she seemed okay. Or at least we thought she was.

My dad says it’s unhealthy for me to shoulder all the guilt since I wasn't the one who made her swallow a whole bottle of painkillers. That man is always so blunt, and while I know he has a point, I can't help but feel responsible in some way.

My mind honestly hasn't wrapped itself around Maya’s suicide.

Her parents had given her the keys to a beaten-down Mazda that morning, and it was supposed to be her eighteenth birthday gift.

She had also just gotten her driver's license, and she was so excited it was all she could talk about.

We made plans to go see a movie together on the farthest side of town that day, just so she could drive us around.

That same morning, she left her house saying she was coming to my place, which is about a fifteen-minute drive from hers, but she never showed up.

Hours later, when I came to ask her why she wasn't replying to my texts, her parents told me that she had left home in the morning.

After more hours passed with no word from or sign of Maya, her parents started to get worried, and so did I because it was very unlike her to just run off.

Our town is a very safe and peaceful one, but when nobody had seen or heard from her by five o'clock that evening, we called the Sheriff's office.

Immediately, they mobilised a search party and started to look for her around town.

I was still blowing up her phone with texts and threats when I got that call from her mother around eight o'clock. The call I will never forget.

"Calandra, she's gone," Mrs Aarons had wailed into my ears over the phone. "My baby is dead!. She's gone!"

The pain that tore through my soul as I made sense of her words is the worst sensation I have ever experienced.

That night, I ran from my house to Maya's house, screaming and demanding that they stop the prank and show me where my best friend was hiding.

All the sympathisers gave me pitiful looks as I broke down in the middle of the house, crying and swearing to kill anybody who came near me.

Maya always said that my dramatic nature matched my love for cameras.

They had found her car in the woods at the other end of town, about three hours away from her house, and her lifeless body was in it.

She was sitting in the driver's seat with her eyes wide open, her pupils dilated, and an empty bottle of ibuprofen on the passenger's seat beside her.

They say she swallowed the entire thing.

The whole town was devastated because everybody knew the Aarons family. Everyone knew Maya as this brilliant girl with a lot of prospects, so nobody understood why she did such a thing.

The police finished their investigation, and they concluded that there was no foul play or strange detail about her death.

Just another teenage girl who got tired of her life and decided to end it.

Except that this one had no reason to end her life, and it pisses me off that everyone just moved on from that so quickly.

A week later, her funeral was held in the town cemetery with no guests, just family members present. Mr Aarons had insisted that it be a quiet affair, and nobody disagreed with him.

His seventeen-year-old daughter took her own life in what was supposed to be her eighteenth birthday gift; there was nothing to be elaborate about in that situation.

Personally, I was grateful for the private space to mourn my best friend properly, without having to deal with annoying "well-wishers" who didn't know a damn thing about her.

They didn't know she had a fear of heights, or that one of her favourite books was Colleen Hoover's Verity, or that she was going to build her own school, where she'd teach less-privileged girls how to read and write.

They didn't know her while she was alive, so why should they get to grieve her death?

Since Maya died, my entire life has made no sense.

Everything I love to do – vlogging, painting, taking pictures of nature – feels so pointless without her here with me.

All the joy has seeped out of my day-to-day activities, and what's left is a wide, hollow void that's begging to be filled.

To be honest, I don't know what to do, and nobody else seems to understand the way I feel. I don't think this type of pain will get better with time, because I don't think it will ever leave.

How do I possibly move on without her? Maya and I were meant to conquer the world together: me with my camera and her with her pen. What happens to all those plans now?

All the dreams we ever had seem so pointless in this moment.

The thought comes back to me again, much louder this time: Why did you do it, Maya? It suffocates me and threatens to drag me under.

I miss her so much: her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and her fierce loyalty.

I miss everything.

Maya understood me more than anybody else – she knew me, and she loved me for all that I am.

I look up at the wardrobe; my eye catches a stack of some of her journals, and then anger suddenly fills me, and I shoot up to my feet.

"Maya, you're such a stupid girl; who is going to tell your stories for you now!?" I yell around the room, tears filling my eyes. "Who is going to teach those little girls how to write!? You think you're going to win a Nobel Prize for just fourteen years' worth of journaling!? You said it would be at least seventy-seven years!"

My voice breaks, and I am shaking violently.

"Answer me, Maya! Answer me, for God's sake! You coward! I hate you! I hate you so much! You've left me all alone, Maya!! What am I supposed to do without you!? What do I do now!? You're a coward, and I hate you!!"

I don't know how long I'm shouting and screaming, but it's not until I feel two arms wrap around me that I finally do break down completely.

Tears are pouring down both sides of my face and soaking my shirt as I fall back slowly to the ground.

The many times I have cried in this room before, she was here with me, holding me and telling me that it would be okay.

She was always right then, but this time, she is not here, so nothing will ever be okay again.

"Shh, shh, darling, it's okay," Mrs Aarons coos into my ears as I cry into her arms.

"I hate her so much," I whisper. "I hate her for leaving us alone."

She doesn't say anything, and I feel her stroking my hair and rubbing my back repeatedly.

"I miss her," I say, remorse swelling up my heart. "How could she do this to us?"

Maya's mother still doesn't respond to me, but I hear her sniffle, and then she starts to cry too.

We lay there on the ground, crying in each other's arms for the longest time.

I look up, and Mr Aarons is standing by the door; his eyes are red and puffy too, and when I make contact with them, he gives me a slight, solemn nod.

Wherever Maya is, I hope she can see what she has done, and I hope she feels terrible about it.

I want to be angry with her, I really do.

Anger would be a much better emotion to feel than the overwhelming sadness that washes over me every morning I wake and my phone isn't blown up with texts from her telling me about the wild dream that she just had.

Every moment of every day, this grief just threatens to eat me whole.

What happens next? What do I do? How do I even move on?

More questions that I don't have any answers to.

The only thing I know is that I will live on, for my sake and for Maya's sake, because as long as I am alive, she is alive too.

She's alive in my head, she's alive in my heart, and she's alive in the memories that I will never forget.

When my eyes wander to her wardrobe again, the vague thought I had earlier is much clearer now.

I realise that Maya is alive in her journals too, in the stories she did not get the chance to tell.

The stories I will now share with the world on her behalf.

The whole world will know the kind of person she was while she lived, not just who she was when she died.

I will tell of her dreams, her aspirations, and everything else that made her the beautiful woman she was. She will live forever because her words will never die.

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Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.

Over 700,000 people end their lives each year, and that’s a damning number.

Behind each person is a soul, a face, a name, and dreams that were never fulfilled.

Each death leaves behind nothing but pain that goes on to echo in families, friendships, and communities for a very long time.

Suicide often comes as a result of the unseen battles that many people face, and a product of their struggles that remain unspoken.

So many people look “fine” on the outside but are fighting storms within.

There’s an urgent need for us to listen better, to notice more, and to create spaces where both men and women can vulnerable with no shame or stigma.

If you’re struggling, please know that your life has value beyond measure. Find a space to reach out and talking about it; you are not alone.

For the rest of us, let’s always be good to one another. Say a kind word, be polite, check up on your friends regularly.

May God be with us all. Amen.

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PART 1: It’s Too Late For Us.

It's been three days.

Three days of tangible silence, a silence so thick that I'm starting to think it lives with me in this big apartment as my roommate.

I've ghosted all my friends and cancelled all my plans – I really just want to be alone right now.

There's only one person in the world that I want to see, and he's made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me, so everybody else can honestly get lost.

Three days. Seventy-two whole hours, and that haunting image is still burnt onto the back of my eyelids.

The images of the puffy skin around his eyes in the porch light, the unfamiliar coldness of his voice, and the way his hand trembled slightly before he closed the door.

Like a goodbye.

I thought I knew him, you know. Tyrone. I thought I had the dynamics of our relationship completely figured out, right until that moment, three nights ago.

That was when I realised that I had been oblivious to a whole part of us – a whole part of him.

Might sound cliché, but Tyrone is – or was – my fortress, the only man who had taken the time to learn the language of love for me.

He just got me. He was so perfect at talking about our day, resolving our petty squabbles, and being my unwavering support.

He was so… good with us, or should I say with me, because apparently, what we had was one-sided.

God, I can't believe I was so oblivious and selfish.

Back when we first got together, I was persistent about knocking down those high walls that he had built around his heart.

I guess that somewhere along the way, I must have mistaken his fluency in my emotional language for him letting me all the way in, and that was why I relented.

Or maybe I just gave up and got tired of trying.

We were happy, and we were in love.

Why did it matter that the basement door was locked when he had built a beautiful, spacious room for me in his heart?

Even thinking that out loud makes me feel like a terrible person.

I must have been the worst partner ever. Ironically, I don't believe Tyrone ever truly minded it; perhaps he just convinced himself that he didn't.

He always seemed content to be in love with me while I just loved him.

Now that I think about it, his greatest strength as an individual, that relentless self-sufficiency, is probably what was our greatest weakness as a couple.

I'm not trying to absolve responsibility for that night – I know what I did, and I regret it with every fibre of my being.

I thought my absence would be a minor oversight because Tyrone was always fine.

All the time that I've known him, he has never not been fine. Even the times when he obviously wasn't, he always found a way to make it work.

For almost three years, I have watched him handle everything that life has thrown at him with a quiet, stoic grace.

He was always the one who fixed things and made them right, and I admired it a lot because he was everything that I was not.

Maybe that's what makes this whole thing worse. The fact that the one time that he did admit that he needed help, I was nowhere to be found.

He dropped the rope from down the wall, something I had been wanting him to do for ages, and I wasn't there to catch it.

I was off, doing my own thing, assuming that one moment of not being there wouldn’t make any difference.

Tyrone is perfectly right to be hurt or angry or whatever; I know that my actions are not justifiable, but the hypocrisy of it all stings me so badly.

He was always the one preaching about open communication. Always emphasising that "We can talk it out" and whispering "Just talk to me, Leila," in my ears till I caved and unburdened my entire heart to him.

I let him see every insecure, messy part of me; he probably knows me better than I know myself. He knows me, all of me, and I… I just know about him.

Ugh, the thought is so heart-wrenching, and I think I'm going to start crying again. I've cried so much in the past few days, and it's so embarrassing.

My only consolation is that there is nobody here to see me this way. I don't even know how I'd explain to them that the best thing that ever happened to me is gone, and it's all my fault.

I stare at the digital clock beside my bedstand, and a half-laugh, half-sob escapes my throat before I can stop it.

14/3/25, 12:07am.

"Happy anniversary, Tyrone," I whisper to myself in the dark of my room.

The only reply I get is the mocking stillness of the silence all around me.

If I stay in this house any longer, I am probably going to lose my mind.

I desperately need some air, so I drag myself out of bed, wash my face and step out into the chilly evening.

I pretend to be oblivious, but I'm well aware of the direction I'm headed. Muscle memory guides me down to the small downtown park, in the direction of the old wrought-iron bench that's beneath the sprawling oak tree.

Our bench in the place where it all started, three years ago. The irony is not lost on me.

The place where, three years ago, today, Tyrone had fumbled with his words before just blurting, "I'll probably be bad at it, but… would you let me try? With you?"

He didn't have to say anymore; I already understood him perfectly, and I must have nodded my head a million times while trying not to cry.

His hand had been so warm around mine, and the cheesiness of it all made me giggle so hard. I felt like a teenager again, the protagonist in one of those cheesy romance novels.

It's a beautiful evening, a very cruel contrast to the inner turmoil that's currently raging within me.

The air is cool, and it carries the clean scent of impending rain and freshly cut grass. The sun is going to set soon, and right now it's bleeding orange and deep purple across the sky.

I love nature; nature is peace.

The park seems empty, and I appreciate the solitude in advance. I hope I'll be alone, but deep down, I don’t want to be.

From the edge of the park, I look across to the bench, and, even though I'd like to say that I'm surprised, I'm not surprised that he's already sitting there.

I would have been beyond devastated if he wasn't.

All of a sudden I'm very nervous; my heart stutters, and then it hammers violently against my ribs.

I have replayed this moment in my head all day, planning the right words to say and the perfect way to act, and now, everything has deserted me.

Tyrone is sitting on the far end of the bench, and he's wearing a black hoodie, but I know that he's the one. His back is slouched, elbows on his knees, and his head hangs low.

I stop a few feet away from the tree, and I just watch him.

The urge to run to him is exhilarating, and the urge to run away is overwhelming – both sides warring for control within me.

I take a deep breath, and I choose the middle path.

I walk forward, my steps silent on the grass, and I lower myself onto the very opposite end of the bench. The cold iron seeps through my jeans, sending goosebumps across my skin.

I'm suddenly aware of just how cold the weather is, and I wish I had brought my sweater along with me.

Tyrone and I sit in silence, and the space between us might as well be a canyon. The only sounds around us are the rustling leaves and the distant, muffled sounds of the city.

Many minutes pass, and neither of us says a word. I watch his back rise and fall with each breath, his head still faced straight ahead and bowed low.

He seems so lost in his head that I want to doubt if he's even aware of my presence, but he turns his head slightly to look at me.

His jaw is clenched tight, and… wait. Has he been… crying?

The thought is a sharp knife that pierces my soul with guilt, shame, and another emotion that I can't describe.

Every last bit of my defensive anger shatters as I look at him.

It's so absurd to me that this is the first time I realise that he is even capable of crying. Of course, he is; all humans cry, even the ones among us who always want to be the strongest.

I'm ashamed that I am the one that hurt him.

"I'm sorry." His voice is rough and almost inaudible, and the words hang between us, simple and profoundly heavy.

"I'm sorry too," I whisper back, my voice thick with emotion. I tell myself that it's too early to turn into a sobbing mess. "I am so, so, sorry, Tyrone."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then he speaks again, slowly this time.

"I don't… I didn't mean what I said about not knowing. I do know… I know that I don't want to lose you, Leila."

My heart lurches within me, and I feel the tears sting the back of my eyes with more intensity, pleading to be allowed to fall.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, reaching out to hold his hand. "I'm right here."

He turns to face me fully as he squeezes my hand in return.

The raw anguish in his red-rimmed eyes steals my breath, and I feel the first teardrop slide down my left cheek.

"You'd think that after three years, I'd be better at this…" he says with a bitter laugh. "This whole… thing. I don't know; it's all a bit harder than it seems."

I take in a silent breath, willing myself to choose my next words carefully. I don't want to scare him back into silence.

"I know it is. "But I've never asked you to be someone you weren't, Tyrone," I start, looking at him with intent, desperate that he hears and feels the honesty in my words."But I need you to try, please. I need you to trust me with the hard stuff, more than just the easy things. The same way you always are with me, I want to be that with you, but I need you to trust me."

He nods, his gaze fixed on our intertwined hands that rest on his lap.

"I do trust you, Leila. It's just…" He pauses to search for the words. "I don't want you to see me when I'm like that. You'd probably hate what you see."

"That's not your decision to make," I say, my voice gentle but firm as I squeeze his hands again.

"It's mine, okay? It's my choice to make, and I have decided to love you in the entirety of who you are, Tyrone. Even when you don't feel confident or have it all under control like you always want to. When you shut me out, you take that choice away from me, and I hate it."

He doesn't reply; he just looks away and stares around at the park.

"Sometimes, I feel like I don't even know you. Other times, I feel so… useless." The word hitches in my throat. "Like you don't think I can handle it. You probably never trusted me enough to be there for you, and then I went and proved you right by not being there when you finally did ask."

I shake my head slightly, a sad laugh leaving my throat.

He’s silent for a long moment, absorbing my words. The breeze picks up, swirling dried leaves around the park.

"I wanted to be angry at you," he admits quietly. "It really hurt that you weren't there, Leila. And then when you came that night, so open and willing, I convinced myself that it was easier to focus on your absence than to do anything else." He looks back at me. "I'm sorry for making you feel that way; it wasn't fair."

"And I'm sorry for not being there; I should have been there. I should have been there that night and the many other times that you needed help. Even when you didn't – or couldn't – ask for it."

Our shared admission hangs in the air; something has shifted, and I really hope that it's the distance between us.

"Happy anniversary," I whisper.

"Happy anniversary, Leila," he replies, a sad, small smile touching his lips.

Tyrone shifts, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, and he pulls out a single white rose.

It’s a little wilted, its stem wrapped in a simple paper napkin, but he stretches it out to me, and I collect it anyways.

My heart clenches as my fingers brush against the soft petals.

"Sorry, I… I wasn't sure you'd come," he mumbles, his voice thick with emotion. He looks a bit embarrassed, and I resist the urge to laugh.

I bring the rose to my nose, inhaling its faint, sweet scent, and I whisper. "Thank you."

The silence we sit in is more comfortable now. The sun has dipped fully below the horizon, leaving the park bathed in the soft, blue light of dusk.

A few people walk around the benches and trees, each of them lost in their worries and joys. The warm glow of the street lamps casts a shadow on their figures as they pass.

"Leila," Tyrone says, his voice clear. I look back at him, and all the uncertainty and guilt I saw when I first came has vanished. "Do you want to try again? I'll… I'll try harder. I can't promise to be good at it, but I'm promising to try."

I don't hesitate; I slide across the cold bench, and I take his large, warm hands in both of mine. I smile as I lace our fingers together; it's a very familiar comfort.

"Trying is all I've ever wanted, Tyrone," I say, looking directly into his eyes. "I promise to do better too."

He smiles back at me as his fingers tighten around mine.

I return my gaze back to the park, and I shudder a bit at the cold air that suddenly swirls around us.

I'm about to wrap my arms around myself when I feel his arms wrap his hoodie around me. It's warm, and it smells like him, and I feel my cheeks flame up.

I look up at him, and his expression is sullen as he stares into the darkness.

"What's on your mind?" I whisper.

He looks at me and then looks away again.

"You. Me. Us."

"And what exactly are you thinking about?" I ask again.

"Nothing," he replies. For a second I think he's about to close off again, but he pulls me closer, and he kisses my forehead. "I'm just glad it's not too late for us."

I hug him closer, shutting my eyes as I try not to smile.

I'm glad it's not too late for us too.

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She's the only one who knocks with that same rhythm – two quick taps then one – and she does it every time without fail.

I don’t move at first. I just sit silently in the darkness of my living room, watching the fan blades turn slowly as I drink from another soda can.

A part of me hopes that she’ll go away. That she'll leave without a word and let what's done be done, but that same part of me is not surprised that she doesn't.

The knock comes again, and it's louder this time, more insistent.

I get off the couch with a sigh, and I trudge to the door, taking in another deep breath before I open it.

Leila is standing there on the porch, framed by the weak glow of the light above her head.

She folds her arms tightly, wrapping them around her body like she’s cold, but it looks more like she's trying to hold herself together.

Her hair is loose, curling at the ends from the damp air, and I can tell by the way her eyes glisten subtly in the darkness that she's been crying.

She searches my face, a desperate intensity coated in her gaze, and I can't help but be enthralled by how beautiful she is.

I have looked at this woman a million times, and yet the devastating reality of her still manages to hit me like a physical blow, tightening my chest until I can barely breathe.

Tonight, the hurt I feel amplifies that ache even more.

"Tyrone, hey," she whispers, her voice frayed at the edges.

I put my hands in my pocket and lean my shoulder against the frame.

"Hey."

She glances past me into the darkened room and then reverts her gaze to me again.

"Can we talk?"

"What's there to talk about, Leila?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"Well, for one, you’re not replying to my texts or picking my calls." Her chin lifts slightly, almost like in defiance. "You're ignoring me, Tyrone, and I don't know why."

"Maybe it's because I have nothing to say to you."

The words hang in the humid air between us for a few seconds, and her brow creases in surprise.

She takes a half-step closer, the thick scent of her almond perfume cutting through the stale air and tickling something very familiar in my senses.

"Are you mad at me?"

"What do you think?" I finally meet her gaze, and the hurt swimming in them makes me want to look away.

"I think you’re mad at me."

"Okay, well, did you do anything to get me mad?" I ask, my voice low and deliberate.

Her lips part, but no words come out. I see a flicker of confusion or denial cross her face before it shutters, and I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to scoff out loudly.

The fact that she's acting so oblivious irks me, and I can't resist my patience from waning.

"Why are you acting like this?" she presses, frustration edging into her voice.

"Acting like what?"

"Like… this, Tyrone! Like you're angry with me." She closes the distance, her hand darting out as she tries to grab mine. "Ty, I’m sorry, alright? I messed up. I know I did. I’m so, so sorry."

"Alright then," I reply, straightening and pulling my hand away. “It’s all good, Leila. I’m over it.”

I'm pacified with the fact that she's taken responsibility for what she did, but I honestly don't want to be having this conversation right now.

I retreat back inside and try to push the door in, but her hand catches it before it shuts close.

"Wait, that's it?" She asks, confusion written clearly on her face. "You won't invite me in? Don't you want us to talk about it?"

"Nah, I'd really like to be alone right now, Leila."

I put more weight against the door, but she holds it firmly in place.

"No, no, don't do this, Ty. Don't shut me out; just… let's talk about it. Okay?"

"There’s nothing more to be said, Leila. You've apologised; apology accepted. Now I'd like some space."

I'm surprised at the exhaustion in my own voice but even more surprised that she suddenly seems offended.

"Space?" Her laugh is disbelieving as she folds her arms together. "Really, Tyrone? You're asking me for space? What happened to 'We can always talk it out, Leila, no matter what it is'? Or does that not apply when it's your own feelings involved?"

Her words are arrows, and they find their mark in parts of my heart that always make me so uncomfortable.

This is hard enough as it is; I don't understand why it has to be any harder.

I close my eyes and sigh again.

"No, it doesn't apply in this situation, Leila."

"Why? Why can't you tell me what's really wrong?" She shakes her head vehemently. "No, I'm not giving you any 'space' till we've had a conversation and until I'm sure that we're good."

I look at her, both eyes locked with mine and her gaze unflinching.

Then she raises an eyebrow impatiently, and I feel a sudden spike of irritation course through my veins.

"I've told you, Leila, it's fine. "Let's leave it alone, please," I say, my voice rising. "I just don’t know why you think you can show up with an 'apology' after what happened tonight and expect everything to zap back into normal like you flipped a damn switch."

She flinches a bit, taken aback at my tone, but she recovers immediately.

"Of course, I don't! That's why I'm here. I want to make it right, Tyrone, but you won't even let me try. You're shutting me out again."

I shake my head slowly.

"There’s no point in ‘trying’, Leila. No, not this time."

She bites her lower lip.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means I needed you tonight, Leila!" I admit, almost screaming in the process. "I needed you more than ever before, and you weren't there." My throat feels thick, and I look away from her because I feel a sharp prick at the back of my eyes. "You knew I was struggling, Leila. You did, and… You didn't care. You just went and did your own thing."

"Of course, I did care, Tyrone!" She cries. "I… just thought you’d be fine without me. I didn't… I didn’t realise how important it was."

She ends her words silently, and I can't hold back the laughter that escapes from me. It's a bitterly strained sound.

"Really? Your excuse is that you 'thought I'd be fine without you.' I've been fine without anybody my entire life, Leila!" I scoff and shake my head. "But tonight, I asked you to be there because I needed you to be. I-”

All my instincts beg me to stop, but I ignore them and keep talking.

“Three years we've been together. Three years, and I've never for once hesitated whenever you called. When you’re in trouble, I'm there to help. When you’re hurt, I offer any comfort I can. When you’re lonely, I show up. I have been your shoulder, your safety net, your… constant. And I never complained for once, because I wanted to be all this. I did all that because I loved you."

My throat tightens again.

"And tonight, for once… One time, you just couldn’t be the same for me."

Her lips tremble as she whispers, "I didn’t know…"

"Yeah, well, you do know, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, Ty, I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."

Her voice breaks, and I feel all the fight drain out of me, leaving a dull, hollow ache in my heart.

"I know," I sigh in response. "But you did. And now… Now, I don't even know anymore."

"Please, let me make it right." She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater quickly. "I'm here now, okay? I'm here, and I'm never leaving you again, I promise. I love you, Tyrone."

I feel those words ripple in my chest, twisting something within me, and it takes a lot of willpower for me not to groan at the agonising sincerity in her voice.

All the certainty I thought I had built in the past few hours fades into dust, and all I see is her, standing in front of me.

I love Leila, I really do, and God, the ache of it is so physical that I want to rip my heart out and give it to her.

"Well," I say quietly, after more moments of silence pass. "I think it's too late this time.”

"So what? Are you saying it's over? You're breaking up with me?"

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she chokes back a sob.

"I don't know," I admit, looking away from her. I thought holding it in was bad, but being honest hurts even more. "I really don't."

I step back into my room, hand on the door, but before I close it, I look back at her, and the sight shatters me more than I can explain with words.

Her face is planted into her palms as she sobs silently into them, her whole body riddled with a hurt that I once swore to never make her feel.

"I’m sorry, Leila," I say, hating the finality of my words.

I close the door gently, the latch clicking into place.

Inside the house, I stand in front of the door, my hand still on the handle, and there's an unnerving silence for a long time.

Then I hear a soft thud against the wood as she sits down on the floor, her back against the door.

A raw, aching sob suddenly breaks the quiet, then another, then she's fully crying again.

I almost open the door, and it's all I can do not to kick it down so I can scoop her in my arms.

But instead, my own legs buckle, and I sink to the floor, mirroring her as I rest my head back against the door.

We sit back-to-back, separated by a few inches of wood, and years' worth of unspoken hurt and unresolved emotions standing between us.

I listen to her cry for what seems like an eternity, with each second of listening to that heartbreaking sound tearing away a new part of my soul.

Her tears then finally quiet into shaky breaths, and the next sound I hear is the rustling of her footsteps as she stands, and then, slow and heavy, they fade into the night as she walks away.

My body burns with grief, pain, and something that feels like regret. I want to scream, shout, and break something, but I remain motionless on the ground.

Involuntarily, my mind starts to replay certain moments from the past three years.

Moments where I felt neglected, unseen, and invisible.

The moments where I had to put away my hurt just to make sure she was okay.

The moments where she didn’t ask or seem to notice.

The moments where maybe I could have and should have said something… anything, to prevent this hole in my heart from growing bigger and bigger, but I didn’t.

And now I hate to admit it, but… it’s too late for us.

Right here, in the echoing dark of my house, and for the first time in forever, I feel a single, hot tear trace a path down my cheek.

Then before I know it, I, too, come undone in my tears, sobbing and groaning as I fall apart on the cold, welcoming floor.

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PART 2:

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She's holding a white bouquet of roses in her hand, and murmurs trail her as she moves, some of them confused and some of them surprised.

She ignores them all. With a smile etched on her face, she continues to walk, her eyes focused solely on the man that's dressed in black and sitting in front of the hall.

She has waited for today for a long time, and now that it is here, she basks in every moment of it.

***

First there's confusion, then there's screaming, and all of a sudden—bang!

The gunshot echoes loudly around the wedding hall, and it is immediately followed by a countless number of horrified screams.

Somewhere in the chaos, a child is crying.

Glass plates and tumblers shatter. Chairs and tables are dragged and pushed in different directions as high heels and leather loafers scramble against polished tiles in a bid to escape.

The woman dressed in white falls to the ground with a loud thud.

***

At the centre of the hall, she lies still and motionless, her white wedding gown a sharp contrast to the crimson red blood that flows from the side of her head.

Her left hand still clutches the bouquet of white roses, and the metal weapon that just took her life lies on the ground beside her.

***

People flee the hall while others call frantically for help, but the groom does not move. He just stands there, frozen and broken.

Tears fall freely from his eyes, and his two hands tremble uncontrollably at his sides. His mouth remains parted in shock, the ghost of her name still dancing on his lips.

Shame, guilt, and regret tear through his body as he stares at the lifeless form of the woman who had loved him fiercely, even unto the point of her death.

***

"Damola," he whispers, grief choking his voice.

***

He walks closer to the body, and as he kneels down to close her lifeless eyelids, her thick jasmine perfume attaches itself to somewhere deep in his memory.

It becomes another piece of this terrible day that will now stay with him forever. His wedding day was meant to be the most joyful day of his life.

But now, this image of her, bloody and dead in the white wedding gown she's wearing, will haunt his dreams every night for as long as he lives.

***

And just like she had always wanted, he will never, ever forget her.

Today is my wedding day, and I am just so excited! The fan above my bed spins in lazy circles, and it is completely opposite to the electric joy I can feel flowing through my veins.

After months of planning, and crying, and preparing, the day is finally here. To my surprise, I wake up without a tightness in my chest.

This morning must be the first time in weeks that waking up doesn't feel dreadful.

Everything in me is finally settled, like the way a river stills after a bad storm. I feel no nausea or heaviness in my limbs; I just feel… ready.

The long-awaited day is finally here, and I'm at peace to receive it.

They say a woman never forgets the day she gets married, and that even the smallest moments of the day have a way of embedding themselves forever into her soul.

It's still many long hours before I'm permanently joined to my husband, but as I lie here on this bed, I firmly believe that today will be a very memorable day.

If not for me, then for my husband and for everyone else who attends the ceremony.

With a small smile on my face, I drag myself out of bed to prepare for my big day. I spend the longest time in the shower, scrubbing and then scrubbing again.

I am in no hurry; after all, no wedding ceremony can begin without the presence of the bride.

Once again, I can't help but giggle with excitement at the thought of being someone's 'bride.' And not just anyone's but Korede's, the absolute love of my life.

My thoughts are about to drift away in reminiscence, but I forcefully pull them back to focus on the task at hand, which is getting myself ready for the church service and the reception after.

I brush my wig, touch up my makeup, and generously apply my perfume in all the right places.

It's a Jasmine oud scent that I bought after a lot of… research, and it has a thick scent that lingers for a very long time.

I spray it behind my ears, along the wrists, and beneath the thighs, ensuring that I cover every single inch of my body. I'll spray it again in a few hours when I have put on my white dress.

It's all a bit overkill, but I don't want to be remembered only for my words or actions today. I want everybody present to take a piece of me with them when they leave.

When I open my wardrobe, I see my wedding dress again, and I can't help the smile that takes over my face.

It has been hanging here for weeks now, and I must have tried it on a million times, staring at the mirror as I imagine myself walking down the aisle in it.

I'm not ashamed to say that I still tried it on last night to be sure that it still fits.

You might laugh at me for being so eager, but today is the only day of my life that I'll get to wear it, and so I intend to enjoy every single second.

Plus, it's a very beautiful dress, even though it was expensive and I had to pay for it all by myself.

I have had to do most of my wedding preparation alone, but I know it will all be worth it when I see the look on Korede's face as I walk toward him with my white roses in hand and a smile on my face.

Despite all my effort, my mind eventually drifts back down memory lane, way back to the first time I met my husband.

We were both still undergraduates at the time, and we were having a faculty debate or conference or something like that; I can't quite remember.

There was nothing cinematic about the way we met; in fact, it was very ordinary.

An ordinary moment that was made extraordinary by the simple way he carried his presence around the room that afternoon, greeting his friends and looking around the room until his eyes met and rested on mine.

His gaze was unwavering and intriguing, and when he came over to ask for my name, he was so calm and soft-spoken. Everything about him was unhurried, like he had no fears and all the time in the world.

Korede was unlike the other guys I had been with before, and that was what made everything about him so appealing. Some people rush into your life like storms, and they are so loud and exciting and persistent that you can't help but notice them.

But him… He was slow and steady, and he filled all the holes in my heart that I didn't even know were there.

I fell for him heavy, hard, and fast.

He was warm in all the right ways, and even though I had been in love before, his love made me feel like I had just been tolerating the rest.

He didn’t try to woo me with gifts or sweep me off my feet with excessive amounts of charm, and he did not even need to.

I was already head over heels for him after the first date.

Of course, people had their opinions, as they always do. Many of them said we were a wrong match and that we would not last forever.

They said he was too soft and too thoughtful, and that everything I was reflected the opposite of that.

In all honesty, they weren’t lying.

I knew that we were not similar at all in both traits and personality, but I was a firm believer in the 'opposites complement' narrative, and I determined that it would also apply to us, Damola and Korede.

Truthfully, doing that wasn't easy at all, and we had to endure even more storms than the people around us knew. Our school years were filled with late-night arguments and early-morning disagreements, and both of them happened way too often.

We had fights that threatened to tear us apart, and although we separated a few times, we always found our way back to each other.

Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? Never giving up. Never running away just because the road has gotten hard.

You might not realise this because we're getting married today, but our road has been very hard, and the hardest time for us was after we graduated from school.

So many things had changed by then, even the smallest, subtlest things.

Korede, for one, suddenly got so much busier; it was now like the world needed more from him, and he had less to offer me than he once did.

We tried to keep it floating, to fight till the end, but nothing was working in our favour. Eventually, Korede tried to end the relationship. I was deeply hurt, but I refused to agree.

I told him that all we needed was some time apart, a break, or space. But whatever it was, it would be temporary, and we would get back together again.

He agreed for a short while, but after that he just refused to sacrifice or compromise anymore, and so he left.

It wasn't even up to three months later when I heard that he was now with someone else. Someone told me her name, but I never paid much attention to it; I didn't see her as anything serious.

To me, she’s always just been an imposter, a shadow that's passing through his life. She could have never been my replacement.

My friends called me delusional, but I did not care. Everybody kept telling me to 'move on,' but even back then, I already knew. I knew we would end up doing life together in the end, so it was easier for me to endure.

Korede always told me that death was the only thing that could keep us from each other, and I never stopped believing him.

Even when the weeks turned to months and then to years, I held on to hope. Even when he posted pictures with her on the Internet and took her on vacations around the world. Even when their relationship became public and he proposed to her in view of the whole world to see, I still knew.

I knew our love would eventually find its way back home. And now, today, everything has come back full circle.

To everyone, it's just a wedding, but for us, we will be joined deeper in a way no one else will understand as a testament to what happens when love chooses to persevere.

After today, I will be a part of him forever, and he will never forget me again.

Pardon my melodramatic emotions, but when you've fought hard for love as much as I have, you tend to appreciate it a little more than others.

People like to romanticise the kind of love that's 'easy,' but anything that's worth keeping is always worth suffering for.

I did my own bit of suffering, and today I'll claim my prize in front of everyone for them to see.

Very soon, it will just be Korede and me forever, till death do us part. Just like he promised.

Throughout the church service, there's this strange tightness in my chest that refuses to ease. I smile when I am supposed to smile, I stand when I'm supposed to stand, and I clap when the moment demands it.

However, underneath everything, something stirs inside of me like a soft, persistent throb. I think it's fear, but I don't know what exactly I am afraid of.

Is this how it always is for people on this day?

I try to ignore it, but the feeling keeps brushing up against me relentlessly. I try to remind myself that today is my day and that I should be joyful.

I mean, I'm being united with the man I love forever, so I should have no reason to fear. Yet, I can't shake off this feeling that something is about to go wrong and ruin all my plans for the day.

Korede looks beautiful today, almost angelic. He's in a crisp, black tailored suit, and he looks as carefree as ever, like today is the happiest day of his life. I wonder if he's feeling as nervous on the inside as I am.

A part of me can’t help but feel jealous at the way he smiles so freely at everybody: his colleagues, his family, and even the photographers. The same smile that he used to reserve only for me is now being shared so generously.

It bothers me, but I let it go. Just like I have let many other things go in the past. I choose to be endlessly patient, because after today, he won't belong to anybody but me again.

Fortunately for me, the church ceremony ends without any incident, and it is now time for the wedding reception.

In hindsight I feel a bit stupid because what exactly did I think would go wrong?

The hall that Korede chose for the party is in the same compound as the church, so people just move in droves towards the building after the pastor ends the service. There are way too many faces I do not recognise here, and it makes me uncomfortable.

It’s strange to me, being a stranger on a day that's all about me, but I am not perturbed. I remind myself again that soon, all the eyes will be on me and me alone.

I also remind myself that I have to quickly get Korede's gift before the reception starts.

Nobody sees me when I quietly slip away from the crowd into the guest bathroom and lock the door behind me. I hear music coming from inside the main hall, and the nervousness I thought I'd wake up with this morning fills my whole body.

My hands move with practiced grace as I take off my plain clothes and sunglasses, and I slip the silky white dress over my skin.

It fits perfectly, snagging on my body like it was made only for me. I just really hope that my husband likes it.

I spray the jasmine perfume on my neck again, then on my wrists, and with a twitchy smile, I put on the veil. After I pull out the white roses from my bag, I exit the bathroom.

When I step out into the hall, it's almost like everything pauses.

Heads begin to turn, one after the other, and they are accompanied by gasps and murmurs. I ignore the stares, the glares, and the whispers, and I just keep walking.

Through the thin veil, I can see his figure at the front of the hall, and it brings a smile to my face. My nerves are burning, and I feel my legs quiver a bit, but I do not stop.

My moment has finally come, and I must bask in it.

My heels echo louder with each step, clicking against the marble as the crowd scattered around parts slowly in front of me.

I see people rise from their chairs, while some remain frozen, staring at me as if unsure of what they are seeing.

By the time I get to the middle of the room, the volume of the music has dropped and all eyes are now on me.

Korede is on the platform where the newlyweds sit, and his hand is resting lightly on the thigh of the woman beside him as they laugh heartily about something.

She’s wearing my dress, with the same neckline, the same shimmering patterns, and the same veil that's packed behind her head.

I knew the day I followed her to the bridal store that this was the dress she would pick. It was so obvious in the way she kept 'oohing' and 'ahhing' at the dress and pointing Korede's attention to it every second.

I struggled to get a proper view of his facial features back in the chapel when I was sitting in the congregation, but he’s in full view now.

He looks much older than he did the last time we spoke, which is understandable, I guess, because that was three years ago. His cheeks are fuller too, and there's a small scar on his left cheek that I don't remember being there before.

He looks different, but he's still the same Korede. My Korede. The same one who promised me we'd grow old and grey together.

He's still the same man.

The woman beside him, the imposter who thinks she can be my replacement, turns slowly and points Korede's attention to me.

When he sees me, he stands up immediately, and he slowly descends from the platform, confusion clouding his face.

"I'm sorry, who are you? What is happening?"

I hold the flowers in my left hand, and with my right hand, I slowly lift the veil off my face.

When our eyes meet, I see recognition flicker in his eyes immediately. At first, he doesn't say anything, and he doesn’t move either.

No scream, no shout, no excitement. He doesn’t even smile. It's like... It's like he's not even happy to see me again after all these years.

My smile drops in disappointment, and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes sharply.

"Damola?" he asks, his voice laced with disbelief as he stares at me in shock. "What—what are you doing here? What are you wearing?"

"It's our wedding today, Korede," I say softly, with a smile. "Congratulations to us."

The murmurs in the hall rise significantly, but I don't turn to acknowledge the crowd. I look only at him.

Only at my Korede.

"Damola? What—are you insane? What kind of rubbish is this?" His voice is sharper now, and all the shock has vanished from his face. "How dare you crash my wedding in this manner? Have you lost your damn mind?"

He’s angry. Genuinely angry. I can tell because Korede never used to raise his voice at me. Even when we fought and I was at fault, he would say, 'Let’s talk about it calmly, Damola.' But today…

Today, he’s yelling, and it frightens me.

"Kore… Korede," I stammer. I try to project firmness, but my voice fails me. "You're—you are really going to get married without me?"

My throat tightens.

"You—you promised me, Korede! You said I was the only one. You said it was just me! How could you do this to us?"

His jaw tenses as he rubs his hand over his forehead, muttering what I'm sure are curses under his breath.

When he finally replies, his voice is flat.

"Damola, we ended a long time ago. My God! I have not seen you in years. What are you even talking about?"

"She's not better than me!" I scream, my head spinning. "Look at me, Korede! She's not better than me. She can't replace what we had; she can't!"

He stares at me with disgust or disappointment; I can't quite tell which. He looks around at the crowd like he's embarrassed, and it makes me want to groan in agony.

Why can't he just focus on me? Why can't he see that I am doing all this for him? For us.

I waited for him. I endured for him. I even bought and sprayed the expensive jasmine perfume that his new imposter loves to wear, just for him.

And yet, he still refuses to see me.

"We’re over, Damola." His voice is calm but it still pierces sharply through me. "I'm so disappointed in you for pulling a ridiculous stunt like this. Please get out of here before I get security to drag you out."

His words crack like a whip across my face, and I reel inwardly, suddenly unable to breathe.

I feel a familiar venom returning to my veins, a mixture of both spite and pain. The same pain that crept up my throat every time I saw her in those Instagram photos, basking in my place and living the life I was meant to have with him.

For years, I watched him give away my life to a stranger, a replacement, and now that I'm here, he still has the guts to reject me to my face.

"Security!" he shouts. "Please get this woman out of here."

This woman?

I turn to the crowd, and they are all staring with gaping mouths and annoyed frowns. Some of them stare at me with pity, and others with disgust. A few are even filming me on their phones.

They all judge me with their eyes, and I feel something raw and uncontainable rise slowly in my chest.

I turn back to look at Korede, and even with that frown on his face, he still looks so beautiful. He's the best man I could’ve ever had, and it breaks my heart that things have to be this way.

My eyes dart to look at the woman behind him. The imposter. She's the reason for all this, the reason he left me.

Rage explodes through me, and I reach into the slit beneath my thigh to pull out a black gun. My hand trembles slightly as I hold the heavy metal in my hand, and I point it toward her.

The gasps that erupt from the hall are immediate and deafening, and the shock is immediately followed by commotion.

Shouts of fear and panic ricochet off the walls as people jump and scatter in different directions, and I hear the sound of tables falling over and glasses breaking.

The security men also pull out their guns and point them at me, but I do not flinch.

Korede stares at me, petrified, and all his anger is gone now.

"I loved you, Korede!" My voice breaks. "I gave everything to you. And you replaced me with a stranger. With her!"

I wave the gun in her direction again, and she cowers behind him to hide.

"You told me I was your forever. You lied! You lied to me, Korede!"

Tears stream down my face, hot and relentless. From the corner of my eye, I see the guards inching closer, circling around me.

But still, I do not back down; I already know what I came here to do.

Korede takes a step forward, his hands raised.

"Damola, listen to me… Damola, I’m sorry. Please. Just put the gun down, okay?"

His voice is softer now, panicked. The same calm tone he once used to calm me down.

"You…" I continue, my vision blurry as I furiously try to blink the tears away. "You left me, Korede. You left me, and I waited for you. I waited for years."

"Please, Damola. I'm sorry. Please don’t hurt us. Put the gun down."

I almost laugh and scream at the same time.

"Hurt you!?" I repeat, incredulous. "I would never hurt you, Korede! Not then and not even now. I love you. And when I said it, I meant it. Unlike you, I never lied."

I hear a sudden shuffle to my left side, and I turn to see one of the bodyguards aiming his gun squarely at me.

"Don’t shoot her!" Korede screams at him. "Put your gun away, leave her alone! Hey, Damola, look at me, please."

I turn back to him. My arms are trembling now, and the tears fall uncontrollably.

"I wasn’t lying to you, Damola," he says, there’s a deep anguish in his eyes. "No, I meant every word I said. But that was a long time ago, okay? It’s time for you to move on."

"Move on?" I whisper, trying to make sense of the words.

Does he mean I should just pretend like we never had anything? Like we were nothing? How am I supposed to do that?

"Please, Damola… Just… Forget me, and carry on with your life."

I close my eyes for a moment, and I take in a deep breath.

"I know you have moved on, Korede, and that's what hurts me the most," I start, my voice is colder now, and I know the moment has come.

I cock the gun and raise it higher.

"We had something real, Korede, you know we did. You left me all alone, and now you want to start a new life without me in it. I'm sorry, but…"

I press the gun to the side of my head.

"I can’t let you forget me…"

"Damola, no!"

He screams, but it's too late; I have already pulled the trigger.

Before the bullet ruptures my skull and tears through my brain, the world slows down into incredibly minuscule seconds, and I have a tiny moment to reflect on the past eight hours and the last three years.

When I woke up this morning, I already knew the day would end this way. It has been my plan since the first time I saw the wedding announcement.

Tragic? Yes.

Sad? I don't think so.

You see, I love Korede; I really do.

And that's why I choose to give him this gift; this gift of carrying me with him forever.

Now he won’t be able to act like I never existed because I will be a part of him that he can’t shake away.

His new imposter will never forget me either. She will have to carry the shame of having the best day of her life ruined this way.

It’s the price she pays for usurping my place in Korede’s heart.

But regardless, Korede and I will now truly be together till death do us part.

Korede kneels down to close Damola's eyelids, and he sees the pain still written clearly in the vacant look of her eyes.

As stares at her dead body, he can't hold back the tears that pour bitterly down his face. Once upon a time, he had loved this woman once; he truly had.

Now she's dead right in front of him, smelling exactly like his new wife does, and deep in his heart he knows that Damola will get her wish.

He will never, ever forget her again.

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FYI, this story was originally meant to be one of the stories in my debut novel, but I decided to share it on here instead.

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Judges 13-16.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here in this cold and damp cell.

I can no longer see any form of light, so it's impossible for me to tell the passing of the days.

Anytime I try to count the hours, weariness and exhaustion quickly overwhelm me, and I lose track of the numbers in my head.

All I know is that every few hours, I slump to the ground and fall into an uncomfortable sleep, and then I wake up when they kick the door open.

I like to think it's the start of a new day anytime I hear heavy sacks being lifted into the room.

I only eat once a day when they toss the bowl of food from up the stairs; sometimes cold, sometimes rotten.

Waking and eating are the only two activities that define my life now.

Apart from them, I just stay alone in the silence, pushing and pushing, grinding their grain like a beast.

Every day, they put me to work like an animal.

For hours and hours, I turn this heavy millstone around in circles, slaving away for my enemies and the enemies of my people.

My arms that once lifted the heavy gates of cities with ease now burn terribly with fatigue, with each exerted effort being more painful than the last.

I’m tightly shackled at both my ankles and my wrists, and every part of me aches; sore, bleeding, and raw.

Some days my back locks up and I can barely keep my balance; some other days I'm forced to walk like I’ve never stood straight before in my life.

It's hard for me to imagine that just a short time ago, I was the strongest man in the world, and now I'm lying down in this cell, bruised, battered, and utterly beaten.

Nobody that sees me today will believe that I am the Samson.

The same man whose name was once spoken with fear and reverence and who ruled with strength.

My fellow Israelites used to chant my name when I walked down the streets.

Children shrieked in excitement when they saw me, begging me to lift them into the air with only my fingers. The leaders and commoners alike loved and adored me.

And of course, the Philistines, the primary purpose for which I was given this strength, also did not escape my judgement.

I once found the jawbone of a donkey on the ground and killed a thousand of them with it. Their bones are still out there somewhere, scattered in the dust.

That was my story for the past twenty years.

I judged Israel and gave them dominion over our enemies, the Philistines. They hated us and oppressed us for years until the Lord God chose me when I was born to help His people.

From birth, I was set apart, consecrated as a Nazirite.

My parents raised me under that vow, and it meant that no razor touched my head, I drank no strong drink, and I touched nothing that was unclean.

As a result of obeying this vow, God gave me the kind of physical strength that no man before me had ever had.

From a very young age, I was already used to getting a lot of attention and fame.

Everybody admired me greatly, and nobody ever refused to grant whatever request I made, including my parents.

They always indulged me, whether it was out of fear or out of love.

I suppose all this eventually got to my head, and that is the reason why I currently sit here in this cell, a victim of my own downfall.

I got too used to getting every single thing I wanted, and that included women. I never cared who they were or where they were from.

It didn’t matter to me as long as I desired her.

If I wanted her, then I took her. My feelings for them never lasted for long, but I did not care.

Until Delilah.

Delilah.

Merely remembering her name brings a deep pain into my heart that greatly outweighs the cuts and gashes on my body.

Delilah was not like any of the other women before her. She wasn’t loud as they were, and she never threw herself at me.

She recognised my supernatural strength, but she didn't treat me like I was a god or idol.

She saw me for me – Samson – a regular man, and she treated me as such. It felt good to have that for the first time in my life.

Delilah would sit with me in silence for hours, brushing my long hair with her fingers till she fell asleep on my chest. When I was with her, I felt… settled. Peaceful.

She was a Philistine, and everybody who knew about us disapproved greatly, but I did not care about their opinions. It wasn't like anybody could do anything to stop me.

I genuinely loved her, and I thought she loved me too.

I really did.

So when she started asking me questions about the source of my strength, I didn’t think much of it.

At first, I would ignore them, and then later I started to play them off with jokes.

However, her questions continued to come more often, with each time being more insistent than the last.

"Why won’t you trust me, Samson?" She'd cry into my ears. "If you really loved me, then you’d tell me! We should keep no secrets from one another."

Many times I even lied to her, but when I did, she would test me and realise that I had lied. Then she'd start begging and crying again.

She was gradually wearing me down.

Eventually, Delilah started to pull away and become distant, and I'll be honest, this made me very scared. I didn’t want to imagine my life without her in it.

And so because I wanted her to be happy, I told her the truth.

The whole truth.

I thought that if I just gave her what she wanted, then she wouldn't leave me.

That night, lying in her sweet, soft hands, intoxicated by the thick scent of her fragrance and the hot blood running to the veins beneath my legs, I told Delilah my secret.

"No razor has ever touched my head," I admitted. "I have been set apart from birth. If my hair is cut, I lose my strength, and I become like any other man."

She held me tight after that, and I could tell that I had made her very happy.

Delilah ran her hands through my hair, hugged me, kissed me, and didn’t say a single word. She just smiled and dragged me into her bed.

That night, I fell asleep in her arms like I had done so many times before.

Looking back, I realise that I did not tell Delilah my secret because I trusted her; I did it because I was proud.

Somewhere deep inside me, I had stopped thinking that my actions had any consequences. And since I had gotten away with so much already, I thought, Why not this one too?

That same night, I woke up to the sound of swords and shields, and I instantly knew that I was not the same man anymore.

I tried to jump up and defend myself, but I couldn’t. I tried to feel that familiar feeling of surging strength in my muscles, but there was nothing.

No surge. No fire. No will.

Just a heaviness in my chest and a piercing pain on my scalp.

I knew right then that the Lord had left me; I didn't even need to see the thick strands of my hair that were scattered across the floor.

So there I stood, naked, stunned, and weak, as they came at me from every side.

Out of habit, I tried to fight the men. I threw punches and pushed bodies, but it was all useless. My limbs were hollow and loose, and they overpowered me fast.

One of them struck me behind the knee, and another hit me across the face with a shield.

I dropped flat to the ground, dizzy, bleeding, and disoriented.

Then I looked up and saw her. Delilah. She was standing at the edge of the room, not crying or screaming; she just… watched, with an almost victorious look on her face.

I saw one of the soldiers walk over to her and drop a heavy bag of coins into her hand, the rattling sound filling the room.

She looked at the bag, looked at me, and then she smiled as she walked out of the room.

That smile broke something in me, and the full reality of the situation struck me. She had betrayed me to my enemies.

Delilah had betrayed me.

This woman. This beautiful, strange foreigner whom I loved with all my heart and with whom I shared my body, my soul, and the deepest secret of my existence had betrayed me.

I will never forget Delilah's cruel smile because it's the last image I ever saw. I didn’t have too long to think before the knives came out.

Two soldiers forcefully held me down to the ground, and a third quickly leaned in and gouged out my eyes with a knife, slow and steady.

That is the most pain I've ever felt, and it's nothing that can be described with words.

I had screamed out in agony, my groans drowning out their heavy laughter and jeers.

I think I almost fell out of consciousness, but they did not let me pass out, immediately waking me up with the tip of their hot spears. They wanted me to feel every moment of it.

The next morning, they chained my hands and dragged me through the streets of Gaza. The very same streets that I once walked through triumphantly.

Men spat. Women jeered. Children threw stones.

I didn’t fight. I couldn’t fight.

All I could do was stagger through the rocky roads, barefoot, as they dragged me forward, lost in the darkness of the loss of my eyes. The crowds screamed and shouted louder, cheering for joy at the capture of their enemy.

Every Philistine knew who I was, and they realised that my reign over them was now over. I would never again be a threat to them.

Then they brought me here to this prison, clamped metal cuffs on my ankles and wrists, and shoved me onto this grinding wheel.

I've been here since then, with no idea of how long has passed; it could be weeks or months.

A part of me even feels like it's been decades.

Every day, I wake up. Every day, I push the stone. Every day, my hands bleed, my knees ache, and my body gets weaker than it’s ever been.

I desperately wish they would just kill me and move on with their lives, but I know they won't.

The Philistines are cruel people, and they will keep me alive for sport as long as they can.

This is the rest of my life now.

In this darkness, despite all the physical pain and emotional torture I've endured, what weighs me down the most is utter shame.

Shame because I know that I have failed. I have failed my God, and I have failed my people, the Israelites.

My entire life purpose was to protect them from the Philistines.

I was the one that God raised as their judge, and now I have been defeated, inevitably sentencing my people back into oppression at the hands of those godless pagans.

If I still had eyes, tears would be flowing down them right now. There's no longer any hope for me; I know it, but still I pray.

I pray for mercy for my people.

I pray to the Lord that He sends them another rescuer to save them from their enemies so they don't have to suffer for my actions.

I pray He sends a rescuer that will not make the same mistakes that I did.

I silently pray to the Lord my God in this cell, and I know that He's listening.

I do.

Right now, I don’t feel the same power that I once did, but I feel something else. His presence. I know He's here, and that is enough.

I am now a prisoner. A slave. I will keep waiting for the day they decide that they’re finished with me and kill me.

But until then, I will trust in the Lord’s peace.

The same peace I ignored when I was strong and thought I needed nothing else.

I will rely on that peace even now as I push this millstone.

Even as my hands bruise and my feet tear. Even as the chains dig deeper into my skin. Even as I feel a slight wind slowly blow the growing hairs on my scalp.

It’s very loud today, way too loud.

I hear the sounds of music, celebration, cheers, and voices chanting in the streets. I know the sound of drunken men when I hear it, and today there are thousands of them coming from all around.

From what I remember, this Philistine cell is below the temple of their god, Dagon, so I often hear their shouts and celebrations when they come in for their sacrifices.

However, today's noise is much louder, which means that something has happened or something is about to happen.

Dread fills my heart as I imagine the possibilities.

Did they capture the Ark of the Lord from Israel? Did they raid and capture goods from the Israelites again? Is today the day they kill me?

I'm about to dismiss the last thought completely when the door of my cell yanks open and I hear the sound of men coming down the steps.

I brace myself into a sitting position as they get closer, and I immediately feel rough hands lift me to my feet. They laugh at me and taunt me in their native tongue, and one of them spits in my face twice.

I feel disgust rise in me, but I don't resist or try to fight back. I don't have the will or ability to.

A time ago, I would have killed them both with my bare palms, but I am no longer that man. My arms slump in defeat, and I keep my head bowed to the ground as they drag me up the stairs and out of my cell.

As we move along, the noise gets louder and louder, and it's like we're headed towards the source.

After a few minutes, the guards shove me down, and I fall roughly to the ground. I hear their laughter as they walk away.

For the first time in however long, I feel the sunlight on my face, and a warmth rises from deep in me.

All I can see is darkness, but the rays of the sun scorch my skin, causing me to break into a sweat. Another pang tears through my heart as I realise that I will never, ever see the sun again.

I'm still on the ground when I feel two tender hands grab my own. They're the hands of a small boy. He helps me to my feet, and he continues to lead me by hand towards the noise.

We climb over a few steps, and when I realise where I am, everything finally makes sense.

I am at the entrance of the temple courtyard, which means that they've brought me here to make a show.

Samson, the man who once tore down their gates and killed thousands of them, has now been captured. They want to parade their defeated enemy in front of a crowd.

All around me, people are screaming my name, not in fear like they once did, but as a mockery. I hear people shouting from the roof of the temple too.

As we walk deeper into the courtyard, I hear metal brasses, heavy drums, and the sounds of thousands of voices. I hear laughter and curses, and I smell the aroma of different foods.

They've thrown a feast to celebrate my defeat.

Everything makes me want to laugh out loud bitterly.

The more I move through the crowd, the more my head is pelted with stones and different types of foods. Some people even come closer to give me slaps and to spit on my face.

Every one of them is eager to have a piece of the man they would have never dared to come near before.

I honestly don't blame them, for it was my very own actions that brought me here.

I just ignore the anger that keeps rising in me, and I keep my head low, dragging one heavy foot after the other.

The boy leads me to climb some steps, and after what seems like an eternity of raising my burning limbs, we finally reach the top. He gently releases me, and I plant my hands on the ground to stop myself from falling face-flat onto it.

Below me, all around me – everywhere – the Philistines are still screaming and shouting, and the thick smell of alcohol fills the air.

I'm exhausted, and the noise makes my head pound heavily.

Lying here, weak, impotent, and the subject of mockery by my enemies, I feel so much shame.

I'm half-naked, and I have been insulted, bruised and beaten by the very same people I defeated for years.

The enemies of my people whom I was meant to utterly destroy.

Once again, I remember my failures, and that familiar grief pierces my heart. I curse the Philistines and pray for the ground to swallow me whole.

I'd much rather die than face this level of torturous shame.

Suddenly, the entire temple crowd are chanting the same phrase in the Common Tongue. This causes me to pay attention because the Philistines rarely ever use the Common Tongue.

I don't recognise the chant at first because of the pounding in my head, but I strain my ears to focus on the words. Their voices slur, and their intonation gives the phrases a weird sound, but they continue to chant in unison.

After a few seconds, I hear it, loud and clear.

"Israel's God is no god; Dagon is god! Israel's God is no god; Dagon is god! Israel's God is no god; Dagon is god!"

They are mocking YAWEH!

These godless people are mocking the God of our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And they are proclaiming their false god over him.

All because of me.

They mock YAHWEH, all because of me.

Suddenly, I'm burning with anger again. Spite and disgust fill my heart, and I clench both my fists together.

I try to pull myself to my feet, and I immediately feel the hands of the small boy wrap around me. I pull him closer so I can whisper in his ear.

"Pillars… put me… pillars," I mutter, hoping he understands.

He must understand me because he's leading me again, this time backwards and slowly. I feel my feet graze a tiny platform, and then my left and right hands are planted on the cold marble.

I place both hands on the stone columns to feel their texture. They are stiff, sturdy, and wide.

"Run," I whisper to the boy.

As soon as I hear his footsteps retreat away from me, I bow my head and pray under my breath.

"Oh Lord my God, please, remember me. Strengthen me just this once, O God, that I may with one blow take vengeance on the Philistines for my two eyes."

I plant my feet firmly on the ground, draw in a deep breath, and with all the strength I can muster, I start to push with all my might.

It's strenuous at first, the stiff concrete remaining firm in its place, but I keep going. I stifle a groan, and I focus all my might on the two pillars around me.

The crowd is oblivious to my actions.

None of them must notice me because they all continue to laugh and scream, completely lost in their revelry as they mock me with each passing second.

Chanting Dagon’s praises and cursing the living God.

I breathe in sharply, and I push again. This time, my hands tremble, and my muscles begin to lock. That familiar burn creeps into my arms, my chest, and my back.

The crowd is still yelling, but it’s dull now. All I hear is my own body straining as I push harder and harder.

Suddenly, I start to feel that familiar flow, that tingle of energy swimming in my veins. It's slow at first, but it gets stronger and stronger until I'm completely overwhelmed by it.

The power of the Lord is surging through me again, and this time it's greater than I have ever felt it been before now.

Immediately, I feel the stone begin to give way, and the two pillars start to tremble beneath my hands.

I push harder. I feel the sweat drip down my temple. My legs shake. I dig my heels into the stone floor. I can’t see anything, but I know. I can feel now that something’s happening.

The right pillar starts to shift under my palm. At first it's a vibration, and then it's a movement. The same thing happens to the left pillar too.

I hear the cracking begin, small and sharp, like twigs snapping. I feel the floor beneath me start to tremble, and I hear the timbers on the roof start to groan.

Suddenly screams start to cut through the laughter, and the music gives way to panicked noise. I hear footsteps running in all different directions and the clutching sounds of people trampling over each other.

The Philistines have realised what's happening, but it's too late.

There's a very loud crack, and something above me splits. I feel dust and sand fall into my hair, and I hear more people shout from the roof.

The pillars are now crumbling.

A massive beam crashes down somewhere into the crowd. Stone rains from the ceiling, some pelting my face and bruising my body, but I keep going.

I keep pushing until I feel the snap of the structure give way completely. The roof starts to collapse, and I hear it rumbling as it breaks. It's like a loud tearing sound in the sky.

All around me, I hear the crumble of walls and the snapping of wood.

The whole building is coming down.

I feel it and I hear it all: the panic and screams and confused chaos. I can't stop the smile that creeps on my face as I picture the faces of the philistines as they hopelessly run around on the bodies of their fellow countrymen that have been crushed by stone.

They came here to party and cheer, and now they will be crushed to death by the very rocks they used to build the temple of their false god.

There’s nowhere for them to run.

Everybody here is going to die, including me.

I might have failed while I was alive, but with this, my final act, I will defeat the enemies of the Lord and once again bring glory to his name.

If this is the last thing I do, I will make sure I see it through till the end.

"Lord, let me die with the Philistines!" I scream my final prayer.

I feel a heavy rock land on my back, and I fall to the ground, dizzy with pain. The noise swallows everything.

More and more rocks fall all around me.

One falls beside my head, and another crushes my right ankle into the ground, causing me to cry out.

Slowly, I feel the darkness start to get darker, and the silence start to overpower the noise, and the strength slowly leaving my limbs. More stones pound on my body, but I’m getting number by the second.

As the abyss swallows me whole and I spiral into the nothingness, a final thought comforts me.

"The Lord is good; His mercies endure forever."

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As always, read your Bible for the original gist.

This is just how I imagine it went down.

I don’t know when it’ll come, but you decide the next one-

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In the latter months of the year 1678, the townships bordering the River Elvyn, most notably Millcroft, Brethren Hollow, and Eastmor, reported a growing number of civil disturbances within their communities.

At first, these incidents were dismissed as mere rural mischief and the whims of idle children, but as the months passed, more and more cases with similar undertones continued to be reported.

And with winter drawing nearer and the days growing colder and shorter, the unrest could no longer be ignored.

Children, particularly girls between the ages of eight and twelve, were reported to have begun speaking in riddles, asking unusual questions, and refusing to heed the direct instructions given to them by their male tutors or clergy.

Many mothers also disturbingly whispered of the sudden unwillingness of their daughters to assist them with the household chores, instead preferring to stay awake late into the night to read old newspapers and skip through the pages of old books found in their fathers' libraries.

At church assemblies, children were said to have adopted the unseemly habit of disrupting prayers and sermons with questions that were generally agreed to be improper and rebellious.

Some of the attendees of these services reported that some of such questions included: “Why must the girls be silent during gatherings?” “Why can't we visit the library?” “Why do the adults never listen to what we say?”

At first, these public incidents were isolated, and they occurred only in a few separate places to warrant any form of greater concern. However, then came the drawings; crudely etched and yet disturbingly coherent.

Little girls started to draw strange symbols with circles and eyes, interlocking branches, and diagrams unfamiliar to even their mothers, and they drew them everywhere, on every surface.

Even more alarming to the parents and guardians were the full manuscripts that were found hidden in the young girls’ satchels and in their rooms: texts on anatomy, nature, arithmetic, and language.

These texts were not given to them by their elementary schools, and the topics scribbled in their notes were ones they were never taught in their classes.

According to the strict ruling of the leading council, girls in schools are only taught basic English language and Behavioural/Conduct lessons, and yet, many of these children could solve difficult sums and discuss rather complex topics for their ages.

Nobody understood what was happening.

At the request of the Unified Council of Order and Grace, a quiet investigation was launched by the Clerical Watch, and what they found was no coincidence.

A cluster of women, numbering about eighteen at the time of the Watch's report, had been gathering weekly at what had once been a midwife’s cabin on the edge of Brethren Hollow.

Though they innocently claimed to be teaching "healing" and "lettering", their influence on their students had begun to stretch beyond the confines of their permitted educational boundaries.

The young girls who returned from these gatherings were said to be growing more inquisitive and less obedient, with many of them becoming more independent and less fearful of the constituted authorities placed over them.

Fearing the spread of sedition and heresy and the continued influence of these young girls into further rebellion, the Council called upon the Order of Saint Halwyn to take over the inquiry.

The women who hosted and taught at these gatherings were summoned to the Council Chambers, but many of them were said to have ignored the request, refusing to make an appearance before the court.

The few women who did appear before the council were said to have been completely silent, unrepentant and unyielding, deliberately choosing to utter no words.

One woman, who was described by eyewitnesses as "possessed of terrifying calm and an unflinching gaze", ignored all the questions asked her by the court and only said a single line before she was led away: "You can't silence her forever."

It was in that period that the term "Crimson Women" was first recorded.

A name given to these women in respect of the red thread they wore tied around their wrists.

Many villagers claimed it was a sign of a secret covenant of silence; many others claimed it was a representation of their allegiance to the occult.

The continued refusal of these women to testify, their knowledge of sacred and restricted texts, and the continued disobedience among the young girls who had heard them teach and speak were taken by the council as confirmation of their corruption and disturbing influence.

The next week, it was publicly announced by town criers across the district that these women were responsible for polluting the minds of the little children of the neighbouring towns, and if left unchecked, they could potentially and permanently erode the complete humanity of the little kids, turning them into rebellious monsters.

This led to great fear in the hearts of the parents and all the townspeople.

At first, imprisonment was the prescribed punishment by the council for these women, and a few of them were rounded up and thrown into jail.

However, a group of the Crimson Women who were imprisoned at the time were reported by unknown individuals to have spoken to the children who crouched at their prison window not with words, but with song.

Anonymous eyewitness accounts claimed their haunting voices caused the "lanterns to flicker", "guards to collapse in sleep", and "children to laugh while weeping".

These rumoured reports spread rapidly among the towns, despite nobody knowing their originating source, and these led to further unrest in the district.

The townspeople cried out that the devils had come to live with them, and they stormed the city council to demand a solution be made.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a manifestation of their unclean powers, the uprising of the townspeople led the council to immediately decide that it was no longer safe to contain these strange, rebellious women by conventional means.

Thus came the First Fire.

On the 9th of December, under the binding decree of Archbishop Renald Stephens, a woman named Thea Marwick was bound and burnt to death before the congregation at Hollow Square.

She was a healer, and she had, according to the official record, refused to denounce her teachings and agree to stop spreading her heresies.

She had also refused to deny the allegations of the association of her group with the occult and refused to comment on whether or not she indeed possessed supernatural powers.

So she was bound, hand and foot, and tied to the stake that had been prepared in the town square the dusk before.

Almost everyone in town had gathered to watch the "spectacle", and right before the fire was lit under her, Thea was said to have proclaimed loudly to the night sky, "I will gladly burn to death for her freedom!"

Once the fire was lit, all she did was scream and scream and burn and burn.

That singular action sparked the largest series of riots and protests the area had ever seen.

These demonstrations were spearheaded by other members of the Crimson Women, those who had not been imprisoned and the ones that had been in hiding.

To the surprise of everyone, even the little boys and girls disobeyed stern grounding instructions from their parents and joined in the disgraceful acts of public disturbance, leading more and more townspeople to cry out for help, claiming their children had been "possessed".

This sudden escalation of events prompted the ruling council to take even more drastic measures to reduce the influence and number of these "witches", as they were now popularly called by the villagers.

More and more of these women were rounded up and given what was being called the "cleansing punishment". By the end of that month, twenty-seven more women had been tried privately and burnt publicly in the town square under the Fire Cleansing Act.

The final group of these women captured were three unnamed teenagers who were caught as they attempted to escape the town through the Elvyn crossing.

They were immediately burnt on the spot and were said to have knelt and kissed the earth before the flames consumed them, burying their screams and faces in the muddy ground as their bodies twisted in agony.

What followed after the death of the last of the Crimson Women was not chaos, but calm.

The girls in Brethren Hollow ceased their midnight readings, and they no longer asked unseemly questions.

No new symbols were found written anywhere, and they returned to assisting their mothers with the domestic chores.

It seemed, at last, that the rebellion had been stamped out and whatever negative influence that was brewing on the little girls had been permanently aborted.

By the first snowfall of January, peace had returned to the townships.

Children resumed their elementary lessons, the mothers complained less, and the churches were filled once again with obedient prayer.

The Council officially declared the closing of the Great Northern Uprising in the spring of 1679, thanking the Clerical Order and the loyal townsfolk for their courage and vigilance.

They also sternly reminded the townspeople that every form of rebellion and witchcraft was a great sacrilege against God, and all cases of such reports will be dealt with decisively.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," the Archbishop had quoted loudly to the villagers in the town square.

No further incidents have been recorded since then.

Tomorrow, I will burn.

I've heard it three times now.

First in the council room, where the Archbishop stood with the fervour of a man who believed every match he struck was done for the sake of salvation.

Then in the cell, whispered to me by the guard who had more pity in his eyes than I expected.

And again, just now, as the bell tolled in the tower, thirteen slow, resonating chimes to mark the midnight of my final day on this Earth.

Today, I will burn.

I suppose this might be the reason my hands now shake.

I don't think my fingers tremble from fear, though I do not pretend that dread has not crept and settled beneath my skin.

However, what sends ugly shivers down my spine is the mere thought that our sacrifice will not be enough.

The thought and reality of knowing that there are still many more things I must say and teach before my voice is smothered forever in smoke and ash.

That is the thought that brings me great fear.

Today, I will burn.

I don't know why I'm writing this.

I don't know if anybody will ever read these words.

I don't know why the guard obliged my request for a quill and paper.

Perhaps he felt the Good Lord would not forgive him for denying a condemned woman her final request.

Or perhaps this is all some part of a cruel plan by the council to trick me into writing what they would later deem a "confession".

Either way, I do not care.

They stripped us of everything. They took our dignity and our pride, and they even took our names.

They berated us, hit us, and mocked us before the eyes of everyone who cared enough to watch.

They jailed us, stripped us naked, and spat on us in front of the very girls we once sang sweet melodies to.

They did all this in a bid to break us.

My voice – our voices – are the one thing they could never take from us, so tonight, I will write.

On behalf of my sisters: the ones burnt, the ones to be burnt and the ones still in hiding. I will write.

They called us witches.

We were not witches.

They called us witches because they could not call us equals.

They hated us because we refused to accept our "status" as unequals.

We were teachers. Writers. Healers. Mathematicians. Poets. Singers. Scientists.

We were the women who refused to slave in kitchens and gossip in market corners.

We were the women who refused to be forced by society into such limiting boxes.

We were the women who held questions like fragile birds in our hands, nurturing them, coaxing them into flight, and sharing them with the world.

We did not "cast spells" on the children or cry for the disruption of the social order like the council accused us of to our very faces.

We did not do the evil things the townspeople shouted at us in the courts and on the streets.

We did none of those things.

What we did was gather in small rooms and open fields, under candlelight or moonlight, and share ideas that we were told were not fit for women to discuss.

We did this alone and together for many years, growing in wisdom and unity.

Then we realised that we could not keep this wisdom alone to ourselves forever for fear of dying with it.

So we started to teach the little town girls, and that was our first sin.

That was our only sin.

We taught them how to read advanced books.

We taught them how to think for themselves and how to embrace the curiosity in their nature.

We taught them how to be different from their mothers.

We feared that they would have no choice but to conform to the only nature that they've ever been shown – a nature of servitude and subservience – and so we dared to show them a better way.

That was our only sin, and every day, they burn us for it.

Everybody in the towns hated us for what we did. The rulers, the parents, the townspeople – everybody.

They hated us because even with the little time we spent with them, the girls who learnt from us started to change.

Not into "devil spawns" or "creatures of blasphemy" like many of the council eyewitnesses falsely claimed.

No, they changed in the ways that frightened the leaders of our towns.

Our girls spoke with clarity.

They questioned instructions. They dreamed beyond dusty kitchens and marriage beds. They wondered at the world in awe and out loud.

Our dream was to show them that they could be more, and that was what we did. They loved us for it, and we became their heroes.

The ruling men that sat on the council seats could not understand why these girls loved us and held on to our every word, so they accused us of bewitching them.

They declared to the villagers that we were members of the occult and that we possessed "demonic" powers, and so they began to gather us, one after the other.

I remember the night when they came for Thea.

She was a brilliant woman with hands that healed faster than any physician’s poultice.

It was a Friday night, and as they dragged her to the stake, they burnt her home.

Her little home where she had once saved lives and tended to delicate wounds. They burnt it and reduced it to ashes. She was the oldest among us and the first of us to burn.

People claimed the fire caught quickly, a sign that God himself was in support of their "act of cleansing".

After Thea's death, we stopped being silent. We protested. We demanded justice. We cried out for help.

And then came the trials.

There were no judges. No tangible evidence was brought forward. No due legal processes.

The "council" that was meant to fairly decide our fate consisted solely of men who hated and despised us for who we were and what we represented.

We were women; women who refused to bow their heads.

Many of my sisters expected this. From the moment the council began to summon us one after the other, we knew we were doomed.

We knew we would find no justice in these guerrilla hearings and that these ruling men just couldn’t wait to rid the world of us.

However, what we weren't expecting, and perhaps what broke our hearts the most, was the actions and reactions of our fellow townspeople.

Many of them knew us. They could've stood up for us, but they didn't. They knew that the stories being spread about us were lies, and yet, they chose to believe them.

They stepped forward in the courts as "eyewitnesses", claiming things they did not see and testifying to things they could not prove.

Some of them even pushed their little children forward as witnesses, forcing our own little girls with trembling words to say that they had seen us do and say certain "diabolical" and "occultic" things.

Everybody in the towns turned against us, and we were left all alone.

Every night, I think of my sisters.

I hear their screams in my dreams, and right before I was arrested, I could see the palpable fear in their eyes as we did in an abandoned basement right beneath the town market.

Many of my sisters have been cruelly killed in this persecution.

Just last night, another one of us was burnt just outside in the courtyard. I could hear her agonising cries as I lay crumpled in this cell floor, shedding bitter tears of my own.

Her name was Nara, and she was barely twenty.

She taught music to girls who had never known their own voices could make beauty outside the hymns they sang in services.

Tonight, I sit in this cell, knowing I too will meet the same fate once the sun rises.

Apart from me, I don’t know who else is left.

I was arrested with some of my other sisters a few days ago as we tried to steal food from the youngest among us, and I have not seen them since.

They keep us separate from one another, claiming that we speak spells to each other through the stone.

Another lie.

The only language we've spoken in the past few weeks is grief.

My heart is heavy with a weight I can’t quite explain.

I'll admit, I don't want to die.

I miss my books.

I miss the laughter of the girls when they discovered something new about themselves.

I miss the arguments over tea, the messy scribbles of ink on parchment, the joy of creation, and of imagining a perfect world where we would not be seen as threats.

But alas, there is nothing perfect about this cruel world.

And so today, I will burn.

Tears fall down my eyes as I write these words, and I am wholly exhausted.

Maybe death won't be so bad, after all.

Maybe I will finally rest.

Maybe the Good Lord would look down on us with kindness and welcome me and the rest of my sisters into His Eternal Peace.

I hear footsteps approaching, so I must stop writing now.

I don't know why I write these words.

I don't know if anybody will ever read these words.

I plan to bury this paper in the very deep hole that I dug in this prison cell.

Maybe someday, the right person will find it.

It might all be for naught, but I choose to hold on to hope.

Hope that one day, our stories will be told with truth.

Hope that history will be kinder to us when they recollect the events of the past few weeks.

Hope that those little girls won't forget us or the future we showed them, and that they choose to live and fight even better than we did.

Hope that the whole world will know this truth about the "Crimson Women", as they called us:

We taught the girl how to dream, and the world rewarded us with fire.

And so, today, I too will burn, and they will call it peace.

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My first not-so fictional fiction story.

Looking forward to writing more.

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“Jesus said unto him, ‘Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice.’ Peter said unto him, ‘Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee.’”

- Matthew 26:34–35.

The moon is full tonight, and the air is heavy with dread and silence as we walk through Gethsemane.

I glance at the other disciples, and their faces mirror mine with the same worry and fear.

Something has been up with Jesus recently, and we all know it, although we’re all too scared to admit it out loud.

Tonight’s Passover dinner was strange.

There was a sort of… finality in the air as we ate the bread and drank the wine.

Jesus’ words were even stranger.

We’re all used to the Master communicating to us through cryptic messages and parables, but tonight He spoke of something even stranger.

Betrayal.

He told us that one of us would betray Him to His enemies that night.

The other disciples and I were all shocked to hear this, and when each of us asked to know if it would be us, He did not answer.

There was also a strange moment that happened with Judas as we ate. Jesus told him to “do what you need to do, quickly”, and immediately, Judas left the house.

Nobody understood the exchange, but we all agreed that Jesus probably sent him to get the things that we needed for the festival.

Judas is in charge of our treasury, so the Master often sends him on such errands.

“Tonight”, He had said after we finished dinner. “After I’m betrayed and arrested, you will all abandon me.”

“Not me, Master!” I had replied to Him vehemently. “I would never leave you, even if everyone else does.”

The other disciples also echoed my sentiment.

That was when Jesus turned to face me. He looked me in the eye, and He said “Before the cock crows twice tonight, Peter, you will deny me twice.”

I shook my head, and I reaffirmed my commitment to follow Him, even to prison and to death, but I don't think I convinced Him that I was truly ready to follow him to the end.

“Beware, Simon,” was all that He said in response.

It made me so sad.

I have left my family, my boats, and my entire livelihood to follow Him and yet He still doesn’t have total confidence in me.

We have suffered with Him through public humiliations, hunger, and near-death attempts, and He still believes we're not ready to suffer even more.

I might not know the hearts of everybody else, but I know mine.

Even if the rest of His disciples deny Him, I would never ever do so.

After walking for a while, we reach a grove of olive trees, and Jesus stops us.

He gestures for me and the two sons of Zebedee, James and John, to follow Him deeper into the woods, and we do so.

We all walk in heavy silence until we reach an open space where the moonlight shines brightly from the clouds and through the trees.

When we stop again, Jesus turns to us, and the expression on His face is that of utter distress.

“Stay awake and pray,” He says, His voice grave. “Please, pray with me.”

There’s a deep sadness in His voice that makes my heart heavy with an aching discomfort.

What could the Master be so afraid of?

He leaves us alone and goes to kneel down at a rock. We can't see Him through the trees, but we hear Him groaning as He prays fervently.

It's a sound of utter agony as He wails and mumbles words that we do not understand.

Tears sting the back of my eyes, and I can't bear to listen to Him cries of sorrow.

Jesus is always calm and confident, even during troubled times, like that night we almost perished at sea, but tonight is… Tonight feels completely different.

It’s almost like something is about to happen to Him. Something that He has no control over. Something that scares Him.

It’s difficult to imagine what can make the Man who raises the dead be full of such anguish.

I try to join Jesus in prayer as He instructed, but I’m so exhausted.

Between setting up for the Passover and walking down here to Gethsemane, I’ve had a very long day. I fight to keep my eyelids open, to mutter a few words, but before I know it, I drift off into sleep.

I don’t know how long I’m asleep for, but I jolt awake to the Master tapping me with His foot.

“Why are you sleeping? Couldn’t you stay awake and pray with me for an hour?”

He’s sweating profusely, and I think I see something similar to drops of blood across His forehead.

He looks exhausted, and His facial expression is still sorrowful. Guilt creeps up my skin, so I avoid His gaze and look at James and John, who also look as ashamed as I am. I guess they must have fallen asleep too.

“If you don’t pray, you will fall into temptation,” Jesus says to us, His voice resigned. “But come now, the hour of my betrayal is here.”

We go back to join the other disciples, and The Master is still speaking to us when they arrive.

It's a group of about a hundred people, and they are holding torches and lanterns.

I recognise some of the people in the mob from the temple, and they are accompanied by soldiers who are armed with swords and knives.

The sight overwhelms the other disciples and me with fear gripping me, and we stand behind Jesus.

The earlier sorrow on His face is now gone, replaced by something I will describe as determination.

However, something catches His eye, and suddenly the Master looks hurt.

I trace his line of sight, and that's when I see him.

Judas Iscariot.

He’s leading the mob with that usual mischievous expression on his face, and he quickly walks over to Jesus and kisses Him on the cheek.

“Hail, Master,” Judas says with a wry smile.

“You betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” Jesus asks him, His voice calm.

Judas only smiles in response, and then he returns to stand in front of the mob.

“Who do you seek?” Jesus asks, His eyes searching around the crowd of people.

“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!” the crowd yells, almost in unison.

“I am He,” Jesus replies, stepping forward and stretching His hands forward.

Some soldiers grab Him immediately, and they drag Him along with them.

Jesus stumbles to the floor due to their aggressive heckling, and they only yank Him back up to His feet.

The other disciples and I watch the scene unfold before us in shock, each of us confused by what’s happening and not knowing what to do.

I look at the Master as He’s being led away. He doesn’t resist, and He doesn’t utter a word. He just bows His head down and lets them drag Him along.

Why won’t He fight them!? I scream to myself. He’s the Son of God!!

Suddenly, I'm filled with a burst of vengeful energy, and I pull out my knife and lunge for a man in the crowd.

I grab his head forcefully, and I slice off his right ear. He screams out in pain, clutching the right side of his head as he falls on his knees to the ground.

Some of the other disciples pull me back from the mob as some soldiers attempt to hold me.

“Enough! Put your knife away.” Jesus says firmly, looking at me with total disapproval. “Simon Peter, he who lives by the sword, will surely die by the sword.”

I look at Him, confused and hurt by His rebuke, but I obey His instruction, and I sheath my knife.

The young man I attacked is still on the floor, groaning in pain, but Jesus bends down to pick up his ear.

We all watch as He places it on the right side of the man’s head, and immediately the ear is healed and joined back to his head.

I hear a lot of audible gasps and murmurs come from the crowd.

“Why have you come at me with knives and swords like I’m some sort of criminal?” Jesus asks them. “Every day I was with you in the temples. Every day I was teaching, and yet you did not lay a finger on me. However, this is the time of darkness, and the scriptures must be fulfilled.”

He gestures to be led away, and He is once again dragged forcefully by the chains that have now been used to bind His hands.

The soldiers and the rest of the mob retreat out of the garden, their torches vanishing into the darkness and the sounds of their metal weapons fading into the distance.

I look at the rest of the disciples, and we are all in shock.

We all panic as we incoherently mumble and ask questions, but nobody makes any sense or provides any answers.

It’s total confusion, and in the midst of this, we all disperse into darkness.

One by one, we all run in different directions.

For me, I turn on my feet and run toward the direction of the mob.

I follow them at a close distance, and I watch as they lead Jesus to the house of Caiaphas, the High Priest.

I find my way into the courtyard of the house, and I stand by a fire to warm myself.

From where I stand, I can see into the house, and I can see the Master.

It looks like He’s being placed on some sort of jungle trial.

Many people enter the room, and they shout many things at Him, and although His back is turned against me, I can tell that He does not say a single word in response to these accusations.

The High Priest walks over to Him and begins to talk and shout, but the Master doesn't make any remark in response.

After a while, Jesus finally replies to him, and I don’t hear what He says, but I see Caiaphas shout in despair and tear his clothes.

Some others with him also tear their clothes, shouting and screaming.

I watch in horror as some of them slap Jesus and others spit on His face while mocking Him.

The sight is too much for me to bear, so I look away and move closer to the fire.

I notice that a servant girl is looking at me suspiciously, so I bend my head down low, hoping that she looks away, but she continues to stare at me with intent.

“Hey, I know you!” She says after a few minutes, pointing at me. “You were with the Nazarene. You were with Jesus.”

My heart starts to race as the people standing by the fire turn to look at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say to her firmly. “And I don’t think you do either.”

I leave them immediately, and I walk briskly to a corridor just beside the house.

Some people are standing there to watch Jesus’ trial, so I join them. We all stand in silence until the servant girl returns again, still staring at me determinedly.

She calls the attention of some people standing beside her, and she points at me.

“Look at him!” she says. “Surely, he's one of them. One of the Nazarene’s followers.”

More people start to look at me, and trepidation immediately fills my heart. I feel it start to race within me.

A small crowd is gathering, and they all talk in whispers as they stare at me.

“I do not know the man!” I say louder. “I am not one of his followers.”

I’m suddenly anxious.

There’s an unease in my heart, and my brain claws at a memory.

I desperately try to remember something, something important, but I can’t.

My focus is on the crowd before me, and they are looking at me with menacing looks in their eyes.

“You’re a Galilean! Your speech betrays you,” a man in the crowd shouts at me. “Surely, you must be one of them! You're His disciple!”

Many people in the crowd murmur in agreement, and their harsh tones get louder, and they keep their gazes fixed firmly on me.

“I do not know the man!” I yell in desperation. “I swear it! I don’t know the man! I’ve never seen him before! I’m not one of his followers! I do not know him! I don't know Jesus!”

Immediately I say this, a rooster crows loudly somewhere.

Then I remember.

I remember what He said.

“Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.”

My head darts quickly towards the house, and I look inside through the window.

Jesus turns to look at me, and He shakes His head slightly.

There’s sadness in His eyes.

I feel the weight of His disappointment as He turns back and looks away from me.

A piercing pain immediately tears through my heart.

“No”, I whisper silently. “No!”

I run out of the courtyard, holding my head in my hands and tears pouring heavily from my eyes.

He warned me.

He told me it would happen.

He warned me, but I did not listen.

I should have asked for strength, but instead, I got offended.

Jesus loves me.

He calls me Peter, the Rock.

He said He would build His church upon me.

And I betrayed Him.

I am a coward, a traitor!

I love you, Lord. I’m so sorry.

But the Master isn’t here, and I already denied even knowing Him.

I fall to my knees in the middle of the street, and I weep bitterly into my palms.

My shoulders shake violently as the anguish washes over me.

I feel so sad and empty. So hollow.

My faith has failed, and now I have nothing else.

I betrayed the only comforter I’ve ever had, and now I am all alone.

“Forgive me, Jesus!” I scream into the night sky, tears flowing down my face. “I’m so sorry, Lord!”

But there’s no response.

Only silence, and the sound of the roosters’ continued crows in the distance, mocking me.

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Easy to judge Peter… but we might want to check ourselves and the way we live first…

You don’t always have to say “I don’t know Him” before you deny Him…

Happy Good Friday. ✝️❤️

A very good day indeed.

In case you’re not familiar with how the story ends, Jesus forgave Peter and then gave him a great assignment to fulfil.

Peter received mercy and strength to carry out his mission, and he did it with all boldness till he died.

Easter is all about God giving man a second chance and what a great privilege that is for you and I. 🧎

Oh, and I started a third publication btw:

Ebun’s Notes on Jesus

Sharing my notes on the little things I learn about Jesus and His Word.

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The silence is so thick, and it clings dearly to me, making me wonder if I’m still alive, if the world is still turning, or if I’ve just been abandoned by time itself.

I take in a deep breath, slowly letting the air inflate my lungs, and then exhaling it all out immediately.

I'm still breathing, which means I’m still here.

I'm still alive, even though it's just barely.

I lie here in my cell, staring at the cracked ceiling. The walls seem to press in on me, this tiny space making it difficult for me to breathe, even as my thoughts and emotions threaten to suffocate me.

I wait for something, a sign, a siren, an alarm, or any sound, to pull me out of this endless numbness, but nothing comes.

The space remains still, silent, and lonely.

My eyes are heavy, my body feels alien, and even though I've not made an attempt to, I feel like I can’t move an inch.

How much time has passed since that night?

Has it been hours? Days? Weeks? Has it been a much longer time than I can even bear to imagine?

I do not know.

In this place, time has no meaning.

The minutes drag on, stretching into an eternity that I cannot measure, and I just wait.

I wait and hope for something, anything, to change, but nothing ever does.

Every passing second it's me and the singular notion that never stops ringing in my head.

I should’ve been the one that died.

The thought is a constant, gnawing presence.

It haunts my sleep and steals my breath, and I cannot shake it.

Every moment that I spend alive in this prison cell is weighted by the knowledge that she’s gone because of me.

Every time I close my eyes, the memory washes over me like the headlights I never saw coming.

When I sleep, I still hear the screeching of the tyres and the terrible, jarring noise of metal colliding.

I still feel the strange vertigo swirling in the pit of my stomach as I remember the spinning motion of the vehicle that seemed to last forever.

I still feel the shattering impact spreading across my skin.

It's a torturous cycle that repeats itself over and over again, whether I'm asleep or I'm awake.

Yet nothing lingers the most in my mind like her voice.

Her sweet, soft voice, trembling and pleading as it cut through the chaos, begging me to "Please, slow down."

Oh, how I wish I had listened.

I had been drinking again, drinking way too much.

I was wasted and in no shape to drive.

And I don't know if it was my ego or the alcohol in my system, but I somehow managed to delude myself into thinking that I was invincible.

I got behind the wheel, I drove with no fear, and I thrived in the thrill of the speed.

By the time I hit the brakes, it was already too late.

I remember screams, the shattering sensation of the car spinning, the world turning into a blur of darkness.

And then, nothing.

When I woke up, I was battered, bandaged, bruised, and I was all alone, handcuffed to my hospital bed.

Yet, I was alive.

But her… She wasn’t there.

They say that the initial impact of my car with the truck didn’t gave her a chance, and she died immediately.

Every now and then, her voice echoes loudly through my mind, a relentless reminder that I am the reason she never made it back home.

Every minute, every hour, the guilt follows me like a shadow.

It's hard to breathe, and I can’t feel anything but the crushing weight of my actions that night.

The weight of the fact that I killed her.

I killed her.

Me. I did.

Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in the reckless, careless manner of a stupid, drunk, selfish fool who believed he could outrun consequences.

Who believed he was invincible.

I should’ve been the one to die, not her.

But I didn’t, and I’m still here, forced every day to live as a punishment for what I’ve done.

I can't escape the gnawing guilt that claws at my heart every passing moment.

I try to keep myself busy in the limited ways I can.

Lifting weights, reading books, taking long, cold showers– anything to try to numb the ache, but nothing helps.

I don’t speak to any of the other inmates here. I can’t meet any of their gazes. I drift through each day like a dead man, feeling as broken on the outside as I do on the inside.

We had a plan. We had promised each other forever. We had dreamed of a future together, one that was built on love, but I broke that promise. I broke everything, and I ruined it all.

She never deserved me, not even a little bit.

I never told her how much I loved her, not really, not in the way she deserved.

She always tried to pull me out of my shell, to show me that there was more to life.

But I never listened.

I never listened to her, and now she’s gone.

She's gone! I'll never see her again, and it's all my fault.

Every time I close my eyes to try to sleep, I see her face.

I see her big, hazel eyes, full of love, in the moments she would smile at me.

I also see them wide with shock and horror as she pleaded with me again that one last time.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I think I can still feel her presence around me.

I want to scream, to tear the silence apart and let the world hear the fury and pain that churn inside me, but my throat remains tight and the words are choked in my throat by my guilt and shame.

All that’s left is this piercing, endless ache and the nagging voice in my head that constantly reminds me that I do not deserve to be breathing.

I do not fight it.

I know that I will have to live with it for the remainder of my days in this prison cell and even the remainder of my life.

I remember the day my verdict was passed in court.

The judge gave it, the jury agreed, and yet I know that no sentence will ever be enough for me to pay for what I did.

I could serve a hundred life sentences consecutively, and it still won't pacify the condemnation that's in my soul or fill the hollow space where she used to be.

She doesn't deserve to be six feet under, but I do.

I deserve to rot here. Forever.

I won't ever forget the hatred in her parents’ eyes in the courtroom that day. Their anger, amplified by their cold, unyielding grief.

I was happy that they didn't bother to hide it, and I wanted so desperately to tell them that they could never hate me as much as I hated myself.

I deserved every bit of their resentment.

I didn’t just kill their daughter; I killed the future she was meant to have.

The worst part is that they never liked me in the first place. They always warned her to stay away from me, but she?

She always said she saw the "good" in me, and she tried to convince her parents to do the same.

If only she had listened to them.

I wish you had listened to them.

I wonder how you're doing.

Did you forgive me in the final moments before you died? Or did you die hating me? I wouldn't blame you if you did.

I don't deserve your forgiveness.

I don't deserve any form of redemption.

I wish I was the one who died in your place.

I swear to you that if I had known that you would not be here when I woke up, I would not have survived that night.

I will never forgive myself.

You are gone. Dead.

Permanently.

And there’s nothing left of us, nothing left of you, nothing left to save.

It is not fair that I’m still breathing while you've been silenced forever.

Every breath I take feels like another betrayal of the life we were meant to share.

A life that we would never get to experience.

What do I even do without you?

You always kept me grounded. You saw my demons, my pride and my arrogance, and yet, you loved me still.

You were the only good thing in my life. The only good thing that had ever happened to me.

And I ruined it.

I ruined it, and there's no taking it back.

How do I unbreak what I have broken?

How do I unsay my reckless, spoken words?

How do I unburn the ashes of what we had?

How do I unchain the reactions of my terrible actions?

How do I find any glimmer of hope in this hopelessness?

What even is the point of hoping if every possible future from here on out does not have you in it?

There is none.

I am sorry.

I am so, so sorry.

There is no hope for me anymore, and I must live with it.

I made my choices, and now I have to live with them, the same way you have died because of them.

I accept that.

But please, please, I want you to know this–

I want you to know that I love you and that I will forever love you.

And know that if the day ever comes and there's a chance, a one in a million chance, that I could go back to that night and take back what I did, then I would take the odds with no hesitation.

I would jump at the chance, and I would die in your place.

However, until then, I will remain here, lying alone in this still and lonely silence.

Reliving this train wreck for the rest of my life.

This story was inspired by this beautiful song:

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Trigger Warning - This fictional story contains mentions of and references to the sexual abuse and assault of a minor.

DO NOT read this piece if you’re sensitive to these themes/topics.

BIG BOYS DON'T CRY

"Stop crying. Don’t you know you’re a big boy? Big boys don’t cry."

I watch as the little boy suddenly stops, sniffling and rubbing at his teary eyes.

He pauses for a moment, and he looks like he's about to continue crying, but instead he nods his head and stretches out his hand.

His mother exhales, visibly satisfied as she kneels down to wipe his face.

Then she strokes his hair, plants a kiss on his forehead as a sort of reward, and then she takes his hand and leads him down the road.

A weight forms at the bottom of my chest, and I quickly look away.

It's dull and uncomfortable, and it is triggered by the unmistakable feeling of déjà vu I just felt from watching that scene play out before me.

I’ve heard those familiar words before, all too many times in my life.

At school, when I tripped over and bruised my knee. At home, when our landlord deflated my ball and I felt the sting of grief for the very first time. In the hospital, when the needle was about to prick my skin. At my cousin’s birthday party, when Tayo, an older boy, shoved me off the swing and all the other boys laughed and made fun of me.

"Be a big boy naw, David."

"Wipe your tears; are you a cry-cry girl?"

"You'll be a man one day; men are not weak."

These rebukes weren't always harsh; sometimes they were gentle.

They were meant to be a reassurance.

Meant to prepare me for something bigger than myself. The underlying message was meant to help me.

You’re a man. Be strong.

As the years passed, the same message was constantly reinforced in my ears, many different ways and at many different times.

I don't think I ever understood it, but I learnt, all the same.

I learnt to be a "big boy".

To be strong and hold it in. To bite my lip when the tears stung the back of my eyes. To never show any form of weakness to anybody.

So by the time it started to happen, when hands that shouldn’t have touched me started to touch me in places they should never have been, I already knew.

I already knew how to be quiet, how to hide my discomfort and bury it deep enough that no one would ever have to know.

After all, big boys do not cry.

I still remember the way Aunty Kike smelt of shea butter and lavender.

I remember that she had the softest and gentlest hands and that she was always happy to see me.

She'd cup my cheeks and tickle me till I laughed hysterically, then she'd stare at me in amazement and remark on how I was "getting too big."

Some days she'd press sweets secretly into my palm and whisper to me not to tell anybody.

I was five the first time she took me indoors and locked the door behind us.

She pressed her finger to her lips that afternoon, and she smiled.

I don't know what exactly happened next, but I know that her hands spent a long time in the middle of my legs.

After that, she made a little game out of it.

She'd pick me up from school and take me home, where it'd just be us for some hours. I'd watch Ben 10 on TV while she'd cook dinner in the kitchen.

Something didn't feel right everytime we were alone together, but I was too young to fully grasp what it was.

Mummy didn't let me watch TV on weekdays, but Aunty Kike did.

That was all that mattered.

When she was done in the kitchen, she'd come and hold my hand and lead me to her room.

The door would lock shut, my trousers would come down, and everything else after would happen in a haze.

We played this game for years.

At five, I thought it was fun to have a secret.

At six, I knew something was terribly wrong.

At seven, I started to feel shame.

There were times I wanted to talk. To cry. To say something.

But I didn’t know what to say.

Or even how to say it.

I remember the family Christmas party that happened when I was ten.

The whole family had gathered together at my grandma's house, including Aunty Kike, who flew back into the country after she had left some years earlier.

When she saw me, she gave me this mischievous, knowing look, and she stretched out her arms for a hug.

I froze, right there in the middle of the compound, unable to move or speak.

Images that I had long buried in my brain threatened to resurface; my body started to tremble, and I wanted more than anything for the ground to swallow me whole.

Later that night on our way back home when my mother asked why I didn't want to hug my aunt, I thought, for a second, about telling her.

I opened my mouth and I could feel all the years of neglect, distrust, and humiliation threatening to pour out my lips, but then my father interrupted me.

He laughed and said, "He’s ten. It's part of this 'big boy pride'. He's not a child that will just be hugging everybody."

My mother laughed in agreement, unbothered that I didn't get to answer her question.

Just like that, the conversation was over and they just moved on to another topic.

I desperately wanted to say something, but my mouth was dry and the words refused to form.

So I just bit my lip in silence.

That drive back home was the longest of my life.

I was ashamed, I felt alone, and I was so angry and resentful at everything and everybody.

I wanted to scream and shout and explode.

But I said nothing.

Alone on my bed that night, I considered taking my own life for the first time.

At some point, I started to believe that every woman who looked at me immediately knew.

I was so sure that there was something written on my skin, something they could read in my eyes, and it was why so many of them felt they could do what they did to me, at any time they wanted.

For some months after Aunty Kike travelled and stopped living with us, I had peace.

I thought that the nightmarish phase of my life was over, but I was wrong.

Many others came after her.

Some of them were gentle; some of them were cruel.

Some told me that I was special and made me feel like they were doing me a favour.

Some made it hurt and told me with threats to keep my mouth shut.

Some kissed my forehead afterward, like an apology.

Our neighbour was one of the latter ones.

She was my mother’s friend, always stopping by to gossip or to borrow something to drop off food.

It was like she suddenly took notice of me as soon as Aunty Kike moved out because she started coming around more often and staying with us for longer hours.

She would smile at me as she talked, reaching out to touch my cheeks and calling me a "fine boy".

Her hands would linger for too long on my face as she caressed it with my fingers, and my mother, sitting there with us, would smile and laugh with her.

Either she was always oblivious to the look of pure terror on my face, or she made little meaning of it.

One evening, while my mother stepped out to run an errand, this neighbour asked me to help her carry a bag inside her house.

I initially refused, panic seizing my heart, but she had insisted, telling me that she would report to my mother if I disobeyed her.

And because I feared a painful rebuke from my mother, I did as she asked me to.

I remember how the air changed as soon as we were alone in the house.

The moment the door closed behind us, I knew that it was about to happen again.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek, but I wiped it away quickly.

This woman's fingers were casual as she took off my shirt, repeating compliments about how I was a handsome young man.

I was eight years old, and she was older than my mother.

Of all my abusers, she was the first to make me feel like I was complicit.

She didn’t pin me down or threaten me.

She just smiled, trailing her fingers along my arm, letting them roam for a long time and then slipping lower.

I froze.

We were both surprised to see that I was fully erect.

But while I was scared and confused, she, on the other hand, looked wholly pleased.

You like it, don’t you? she murmured, delight in her eyes. Of course you do; you want this too.

She laughed, patted my head, and told me not to tell my mother.

I didn’t.

This time it wasn't just because I didn’t know how to, but because I was ashamed of myself.

That episode drained me and left me confused for weeks.

Her words kept ringing in my ears: "You want this too."

But did I really? I don't think I did.

It made me feel disgusting, and it hurt, and I didn’t like it at all.

So why did my body react that way when she touched me? Why did my body like what she was doing?

After that day I started to think that it was all my fault.

I was the reason these women kept doing these things to me.

I was stupid and responsible for all the pain I was feeling.

Stupid David…

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

My parents once had to travel for a weekend when I was twelve, so they hired a girl from church to "babysit" me while they were away.

She was a university student, and she seemed to be a decent person to me. She barely paid me any mind, always pressing her phone, and I liked it that way.

But that first night I walked in on her buried under some bedsheets, making strange sounds.

I didn't know what she was doing, so I just stood by the door, watching in confusion.

When she saw me, she smiled and asked me if I wanted to join her.

I don't know why I said yes.

She made me sit beside her on the bed, and she showed me the videos she was watching.

That night, we watched them together for hours.

I didn't understand why men and women were doing such things to each other, and even worse, I hated that I enjoyed watching it.

After we finished, she asked if I wanted us to try the things we watched.

I don't know why I said yes.

She took my virginity that night and with it, the last fragments of my childhood innocence.

After that day, all I felt was emptiness.

The events of that night led to me developing an insatiable pornographic addiction that lasted for many many months.

I couldn’t control myself, and I couldn't do or think of anything else.

I would watch for seconds, touch myself for minutes, and hate my existence for hours.

Then almost a year after this, something happened.

I was alone in my bathroom that night when I stumbled upon a video with a boy in it who looked just like me.

He looked like he was my age, or even younger, and he was naked in the middle of many women who were much, much older than he was.

They were laughing and joking and taking off their clothes, and he just lay there, looking terrified as hell.

Immediately, I saw myself in him.

I felt all of his fear and all of his pain and all of his shame like they were my own.

In a way, I guess they were.

I saw him in me, and I just couldn't bring myself to continue watching.

Hot tears fell out of my eyes as I turned off my phone, fell to my knees, and broke down flat on my bathroom floor.

For the first time since Aunty Kike had started abusing me seven years earlier, I cried.

I cried and cried and cried.

With my face bare on the floor, tears pouring from my eyes, and heart consumed by grief and shame, I considered suicide again.

For many years, I felt invisible.

It felt like nobody cared.

It felt like nobody saw me.

It felt like nobody cared enough to see me.

To see my pain or to see the grief of my existence that weighed down on me daily.

I grew up to be a very angry child.

I was always moody, getting into fights and starting all kinds of trouble everywhere I went.

Those were the only times I felt seen.

I was beaten in school, beaten at home, and beaten by kids my age, but I didn’t change.

Nobody ever understood why I acted up, why I hated being touched by anybody, and why I caused an obscene amount of trouble for all my female teachers.

My headmistress said I was being influenced negatively from home.

My parents said I was being negatively influenced from school.

My classmates and the kids in my neighbourhood said they hated me.

Nobody saw that I was just a kid that was crying for help.

A boy that was crying to be saved.

The first time someone tried to save me, I thought, Thank God, this is it.

This was many years after Aunty Kike and many years before the university girl.

I think I was ten.

I don't remember exactly what happened, but I was playing outside in our compound when the repairman who was called to fix a broken portion of the fence called me over.

When I ran over to meet him, he pressed his hand firmly against my back, and he started to lead me toward the back of the house.

All my senses tingled with danger, and I tried to run away from him, but his grip was steady and rough.

I was about to scream for help when Madam Ifeoma’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

"Oga, where you dey carry the boy go biko?"

The man stammered and fumbled over his explanation, but she did not even wait for an answer.

She reached for me, her fingers curling tight around my wrist, and yanked me behind her.

Her voice rose, sharp and furious, and almost immediately, all the people in the compound gathered. My parents were called.

Everybody looked at me with concern in their eyes, and I remember thinking to myself, "This time, someone will listen. This will be the end."

But it wasn't.

The man was let go. People dispersed. And nobody thought much of the incident again after that day.

That night, my father sat me down. He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and asked, "What were you doing there in the first place, David? Don't you know you have to be careful?"

That was the moment I understood that nobody was coming to save me.

From that day, I never tried to explain myself or talk to anybody about what was happening to me again.

I never spoke aloud about the disgusting things that those evil women did and were still doing to me.

Since then, I've learnt that sometimes, even when people see you drowning, they won’t pull you out of the water.

Some will watch. Some will look away. Some will tell you it’s your fault for not knowing how to swim.

And that's just life.

Nothing was ever done to the repairman; he even returned a few times after to do some fixes around the compound.

He never paid any attention to me.

I was just grateful that Madam Ifeoma rescued me when she did.

I don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened that day if she hadn’t been there.

As I got older, the weight became heavier for me to carry, but it also became easier for me to hide it.

By the time I got into the university, I was no longer acting out or stirring up trouble out of a desperate need for attention.

I had become calmer and more reserved, and I focused all my attention on taking care of myself, mentally and physically.

By that point I had read hundreds of articles on child molestation and watched hundreds of videos on the effects of sexual abuse on young boys.

I saw the terrible things some of these men grew up to do and be, and I was determined to not be like them.

Yes, there was rage in me. Yes, there was fear in me. Yes, I felt shame every time I looked in the mirror.

But I would not let it define me.

No, I would be better.

My plan was not to seek therapy or confide in family or do any of the other things those articles and videos mentioned.

I was going to do it all on my own because I knew deep down that nobody was coming to save me.

Plus, by then I was way too proud and way too ashamed to let anybody know what had been done to me.

My ego was all that I had left.

I wasn't naïve.

It was clear how society treated men who spoke up about being sexually harassed or violently abused.

They were either subjected to stigma, pity, or mockery.

Nobody ever took them seriously; some didn't even believe that women could rape or harass or abuse men.

And this wasn't some far-fetched narrative.

No, it was real, and I even felt it closely.

Sometimes, when I would sit around with some guys from the gym or some from school, they'd all laugh and make jokes about men in the news who were beaten by their partners or raped as kids or teenagers.

They would shake their heads, joking about how it "could never be me", even as they flexed their muscles, laughing and basking in their ignorance.

Some of the bigger idiots would even cruelly add how they would have "enjoyed it" if it were them.

I never laughed along; I just watched in silence, often wondering if I would also be laughing with them if I didn't know the things I knew and if I hadn't faced the things that I had faced.

But then, you see, darkness has a way of recognising darkness.

Underneath the confident smirks, and the designer clothes, and the perfectly fit bodies of the different men I've met in my life, I can sometimes also see it.

That darkness.

It was obvious that many of us had swallowed things too big for our throats as children.

That we had buried wounds in us, wounds that were too deep to name.

I watched some of these men hurt the women who loved them, verbally and physically.

Watched them lash out in pride to people, desperate to "reclaim" the power and the voice that had been stolen from them in their innocent years.

The darkness was clear in the way they turned their pain into the only other emotion they could truly feel and understand: anger.

If you look around, you'll probably see one or two of such men around you.

Victims who have in turn become monsters.

Hurt people who now hurt more people.

Being like one of these guys terrified me, causing anybody pain terrified me.

So I avoided intimacy like a plague.

As I got older, I never had any female friends or acquaintances.

Even my relationship with my mother, and father too, grew more and more strained until it became entirely non-existent.

I never spoke to any girls or made any effort to be seen by them.

The few of them who tried to get close to me, platonically and otherwise, received a reaction so harsh that they never came around ever again.

To me, it was a necessary evil.

And it was like this for a very long time in my life.

The rare times that I did feel drawn to a woman, my demons would always resurface with their ugly heads, snarling and gnawing at me.

If she was older than I was, they would whisper to me that I was just craving the pleasures of my childhood abuse again.

If she was younger than I was, they would tell me I just wanted to repeat the cycle. To infuse the darkness in me into another pure, innocent soul.

Either way, I was tainted.

So I stayed away from the opposite gender.

I avoided them. I loathed them. I was scared of them.

The demons of my past ruled over me, and I let them.

I have never been good at sadness.

Even today, as a fully grown man, I still don’t know what to do with it.

I can laugh. I can get angry. I can make a joke out of something that is not funny.

But sadness?

I don’t know how to hold it.

I don’t know how to sit with it.

I don’t know how to cry.

I have only ever known how to disappear when that old, familiar feeling comes. To go quiet. To retreat into myself and to wait for it to pass.

I also know how to get angry.

For a long time, it was all I knew.

In recent months, however, I have started to get better.

I handle my emotions as best as I can, and although my demons still own most of my thoughts and dreams and fears, I've mastered the art of shutting them out.

Oh, and I also have a few female friends now.

They all say that I’m often distant. Cold. Unreachable.

I let them think what they want.

It’s easier to do that than to explain how sometimes, when they touch me, I still feel ghosts on my skin.

It’s easier than admitting that I have never known how to let someone hold me without feeling trapped.

It's easier than telling them that a deep, deep part of me resented them for a crime they played no part in committing.

Staying silent is much easier.

In all honesty, I haven't been completely honest with you.

I left so many things out of my story.

I didn’t tell you about another one of our neighbours who used to "help" me "clean up" in the shower when my parents weren’t home and how she would soap my body in ways that didn’t feel right.

I didn’t tell you about the one girl I "dated" at the university, the one everyone thought I was lucky to have.

The one who laughed at me when I froze beneath her touch.

The one who, even after I shook my head in disapproval, still pinned my hands down, told me to relax, and whispered, "Stop pretending, all men want this," as she did things to me that my body loved but the rest of my entire being hated.

I definitely won’t tell you about what happened when I was fourteen.

That’s still too hard for me, and part of me still doesn't believe that it was real.

But by now, I think you fully understand me.

You understand my story, and you understand why big boys don’t cry, no matter what happens to them in life.

When I snap out of my daze, I see that the little boy is still in my line of sight.

He’s stopped sniffling now, and his mother is still holding his hand, leading him forward as they walk down the street.

There's this deep ache, a deep longing in my heart, and I want so badly to reach out to him.

I want to tell him that he shouldn't listen to his mother or anybody else.

I want to tell him that it's okay.

That even as as a boy or a man, it's okay to let the tears flow.

It's okay to scream and to be angry and to be sad.

It’s okay to feel.

But that’s the thing about life.

It’s one endless cycle happening to all of us at different times.

So I know that one day he’ll understand that big boys do cry.

He’ll understand why big boys should cry.

I just hope that by then, it’s not too late for him.

Real life. Real issues. Happening all around us, unfortunately.

If you’re a victim, my heart goes out to you.

I hope you find some peace of mind, in this lifetime. ❤️

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Mẹ́jì Mẹ́jì embodies the duality of existence; life and death, love and loss, creation and destruction.

It speaks to the ọkàn-ọkàn (soulmate) bond, where two hearts are so entwined that the loss of one leaves the other incomplete, yearning for reunion at any cost.

The villagers whispered her name with a fear that left hearts uneasy.

They didn't speak about her often, but when they did, it was with hushed tones and in small groups.

Abeni.

"Abeni, the cursed one."

The one who lost it all.

Once upon a time, she was the woman other women envied, her face bright as the first rays of the sun in the morning, her voice refreshing like cool water in the heat of midday, her presence as calm as the evening breeze.

But what is beauty in the face of grief?

That was the saying repeated by some elders as they watched her pass, her frame shrunken, her gaze downcast, and her once robust cheeks hollowed by sorrow.

She had been Adísà’s wife. And that meant something.

A man like Adísà did not belong to one woman alone.

At least, according to the riverside gossip peddled by the jealous maidens and the dissatisfied housewives of the village.

No, he belonged to the world.

His laughter was a thing that men leaned into and his company was light, the kind that softened even the harshest spirits.

Many said he was like the kolanut, strong and bitter at first, but with time, his sweetness would eventually coat your tongue.

A man of depth and wisdom.

And he had been hers. Hers and hers alone.

But when death took him, it did not do so kindly.

He fell the way the ancient iroko tree fell— without warning, without permission, and with a force that left absolute silence in its wake.

One moment, he was standing, head thrown back in jest as he chewed bitter leaf in his compound with his friends.

The next, he was crumpled on the earth, eyes open, mouth slightly parted as if he had one final message that he left unspoken.

There was no sickness, no sign, no warning.

He had risen that morning with the sun, and had departed with the moon as she took her place in the night sky.

Abeni had been preparing dinner when it happened.

The sky was pitch black, but the night was alive with the soft croak of frogs, the hoot of the owls, and the thick with the scent of wet earth.

She was removing the insides of the fish she had bought that morning, silently cursing the fisherman for given her "three at the price of four", when a loud shout had torn through the quiet.

A wail. A shattering lament.

A cry from the oldest of her sons.

"Baba mi!"

She had run but by the time she reached him, he was already cold.

The elders came. The medicine men came. Three respected chiefs came.

Each of them pressing their wrinkled hands to his skin and whispering prayers under their breath.

They searched for signs, any signs, of what might have stolen such a strong man away.

A mark, a swelling, or a disclouration of his tongue.

"Maybe the gods left a clue."

But there was nothing.

No sickness. No wound. No reason.

Only stillness. Only silence. Only death.

They buried him at the edge of the village, as was the way for those who died without reason.

It was an undeserved burial.

A terrible resting place for a man who had lived a righteous and fulfilling life.

But such was their custom, and as much as they wanted to, the way of the elders could not be changed.

The villagers grieved Adísà for a few days.

Some were still left in disbelief at the loss of a titan, some pondered the cruel nature of the gods to remove a man in their likeness from the face of the Earth.

Many say that for the first three nights after his death, the great forest was silent. Even Àyẹ̀kádà, the evil owl that terrorised the night, did not let out a single hoot from the forest.

Then the whispers began.

Low at first, muttered beneath hushed breaths. Then louder, curling through the air like smoke.

"The gods punished her pride. Remember how she walked, like she was the goddess Osun herself?"

"She is an àjẹ́. She feasted on him at night in his dreams and now it's manifested in reality."

"I will love to make her my third wife. Such full breasts can't be left to grieve forever."

Abeni did not argue.

She did not scream or curse the ones who let their tongues run wild.

She did not fight off the men, old and young, who accosted her in corners and crooked pathways.

She let them speak. She let them make their advances. She let them fill the air with their foolishness.

What did it matter?

Adísà was gone.

Her anchor in the turbulent waves of life was gone.

Her strong root in the dangerous jungle of the living was gone.

Her sweet salt in all the bitter and tasteless moments that she had ever lived was gone.

He had simply stopped existing, and the weight of his absence was a wound that refused to heal.

How could she worry about ignorant words and selfish proposals?

She didn't feel any anger or resentment toward them.

All Abeni was… was empty.

At night, she lay in their bed, staring at the ceiling with her heart heavy and eye ducts dry.

In some unconscious moments, her hand would stretch across to the left, reaching for a warmth that was no longer there.

A solace that could no longer be provided.

Then the crushing realisation that he was indeed gone would weigh down on her again and she would turn her face to the wall so no one, especially her sons sleeping on the mat beneath her, would hear her weep.

But the walls have ears, and their mouths hold no secrets, so the villagers heard anyway.

They had gone through all the stages of grief and had stopped at anger.

Anger at Abeni for robbing them of their heart and soul.

They would offer her dirty looks as she passed and tell their children to "have nothing to do with that witch", loud enough for her to hear.

Some of them stopped at resigned acceptance. They didn’t blame her for the death, but they did not absolve her of blame either.

Abeni's biggest fear, that Adísà's death would leave her alone in the world, had well and truly come to pass.

Nobody comforted her.

Nobody brought her fresh goods on market days or sat by her side, as they did for the other widows.

They only watched.

Watched as she moved through the village like a ghost, cumbered by the entire load of the world.

Watched as she stopped going to the market and stopped teaching the young girls the art of basket weaving.

Watched as she stopped joining the women beneath the southern palm trees to tell stories and trade gossip.

Worst of all, they abandoned her sons too.

They just watched as her three boys, old enough to feel it but still too young to understand the cruelty of the world, held her hands and looked up at her with their earnest eyes.

Searching for the mother they once knew.

They understood that Baba had gone to be with his ancestors.

But Mama was still here, so why did she stay silent all mornings and sob tearfully all night?

Abeni was now merely shadow of the woman that had showered them with love and affection and the juiciest part of the goatmeat flesh on special dinner evenings.

She did not speak to them the way she used to.

She did not hold them or kiss their bald heads every morning.

She could barely even look at them.

She tried. Oh, how she tried.

But every time she looked at their faces, she saw him.

She saw Adísà.

And the wound in her soul would bleed anew.

The night the river called her name, Abeni followed.

She walked through the village with slow, careful steps, past the sleeping huts, past the baobab tree the children loved to climb, past the market square where she had once laughed with Adísà as he struggled to drag a stubborn goat that refused to be sold.

The air smelled of rain and damp earth.

The night sky carried an omen of what was to come.

She stopped at the edge of the water and stared at it, her reflection broken and wavering in the moonlight.

For the first time that night, she hesitated.

Her conscience grieved her.

She considered returning home and begging the gods to forgive her for harbouring such a thought almost to the point of execution.

But when she remembered the empty bed, and her nights of endless tears, and his scent that still lingered in all her wrappers, the thought of going back home was too much for her to bear.

So she knelt by the river, her heart heavy with dread and despair, then she silently whispered the words.

"Iya Oṣà."

The river priestess did not belong to the village.

She was neither born nor wedded into it.

She had simply been there, longer than anybody could remember.

They said she was always watching.

Some said she was older than the trees. Other said she was older than the gods themselves.

Nobody agreed on the root of her origins, but everyone, far and near, knew what she could do.

Her little hut was nestled where the land sloped into the river, and when she slowly stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, Abeni did not startle.

"My child, you are seeking what should not be sought," the priestess murmured, her voice heavy with the weight of knowing.

Abeni bowed her head lower, tears falling down from her eyes on to the muddy ground. "I just want him back, Wise One. Please."

Silence.

The old woman sighed.

It was a request she was too familiar with.

One she had heard many times before.

A request that was proof of the effrontery of man to mess with matters far beyond his understanding.

Once upon a time, the priestess would try to dissuade those who wanted to make any form of contact with the dead.

She would warn them of the far reaching consequences and sometimes plead with them to bear their loss and return home.

"The river that washes your dirty hands can also drown your living baby," she would say.

But they never listened.

Man in his arrogant pride and foolish wisdom always thought he knew best.

As she stared at Abeni that night, she saw that same pride and foolishness, amplified by the weight of her grief.

There's no changing the mind of this one, she thought as she shook her head.

"You know the cost."

Abeni’s breath caught in her throat, her heart racing and fear seeping into her bones.

"I do."

The priestess went silent again, as if giving Abeni a final chance to ponder her decision and the complete gravity of it.

She waited for the widow to come to her senses and run back into the village.

She didn't.

"The river will take your firstborn son."

Abeni squeezed her eyes shut and held back the tears as her stomach twisted into knots.

Not Ọlákúnlé.

Not her first boy that laughed like his father and ran with arms spread wide as though he could command the wind itself.

Not him.

But she had known.

Of course, she had.

She had known even before she stepped into the night.

She had known as she walked through the bushes and toward the river.

And yet she had come.

Iya Oṣà tilted her head, reading the spaces between Abeni’s silence.

"Go home, my child. It is not too late."

"I will do it," Abeni whispered, her lips trembling as tears flowed down both sides of her cheek.

The ritual took place in the dead of night.

She knelt on the riverbank, her knees pressed into the damp, muddy earth, as she held the small wooden statue given to her by the priestess.

The old woman danced around her, singing chants and murmuring strange words.

Abeni's hands trembled as the air thickened around her.

"When you're ready, throw the statue into the river," Iya Oṣà said, her voice still as the river. "You will have your wish, and the river will take what its asked for."

The widow remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity, then she did exactly as she had been commanded.

Nothing happened at first, then suddenly the river seemed to swell, its surface pulsing as if alive, as if breathing.

An outline slowly emerged from the river, head first, then shoulders, then arms, then-

"Abeni."

Her breath hitched.

He was standing right before her.

Adísà.

His form flickered between shadow and moonlight, but his face was just as she always knew it to be— sharp, striking, and full of quiet confidence.

She choked back a sob. "Adísà…"

He took a step forward, frowning. "Why have you done this?"

Tears burned her throat. "I- I had no choice. I could not live. I cannot breathe without you, Adísà. Why did you leave me like this?"

"Abeni, what you have done is dangerous."

"I don't care!" She screamed into the night. "Adísà, I don't care! Do you see what I've gone through these past few weeks? Do you understand? Of course, you don't! You're in heaven, laughing and drinking wine with your forefathers."

The tears continued to flow down her face.

A silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.

Finally, he asked, his voice low, "What did you give?"

"It doesn't matter," she whispered, burying the image of her son's face from rising up in her head. "It doesn't matter now."

Adísà's gaze darkened for a moment, and then he sat beside her at the riverbank.

That night, all he did was listen.

For hours, she talked and cried and she held him, watching his face remain passive the entire time.

She told him everything.

The mockery. The jeers. The pity.

She told him about her new suitors, and the lies they fed to her every day.

Her heart was full as she laughed and they went over old memories, each one different from the last.

She was happy again, the grief and pain of the previous days wiped completely from her mind.

Oh, she wanted it to last. She desperately wished it would last.

But alas, the cock crowed once, then twice, signaling the arrival of dawn.

"Adísà, please don't go!" she cried, the teeming life of the new day slamming her back into reality.

She held him tightly, wishing and pleading for him to stay, or for her to go with him.

Adísà didn't respond.

He just reached for her skin, his fingers brushing the warm slightly, as his touch faded from heavy to light.

And as the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, he was pulled back into the abyss.

Abeni screamed his name, over and over again, her body shaking with gut-wrenching tears, but nothing happened.

The wind only carried her pleas away.

Adísà was gone and she was alone again.

Ọlákúnlé was already dead when Abeni returned home that morning.

They said he had choked to death as he drank water from his father's old calabash.

This time there would be no screaming, no wailing, no tearing of hair.

Abeni only sat beside his small, still body, with her hands folded in her lap, and her face blank.

Her neighbors stood in the doorway, whispering behind their palms, waiting for her to break.

But she did not break.

She was already broken.

The villagers came and went, offering condolences. Offering food. Offering company.

To lose a husband, fingers could be pointed, they thought. But to lose a son, no mother deserves that pain.

Abeni just sat.

She had known.

Before she stepped into the river that night, before she had spoken his name, before she had begged for him— she had known.

The river does not give without taking.

And when it takes, it's gift becomes insignificant.

Was it worth it? She asked herself. The life of her son just to see and touch Adísà again for a few hours?

Ọlákúnlé had been her firstborn, her light, the one who had made her a mother.

He was a soul. With his own destiny and his own dreams and his own life to live.

His arms had been the first to wrap around her waist after Adísà left, his small voice promising, "I will take care of you, Ìyá."

And now, he was gone.

She had killed him.

Not with her hands.

But with her selfishness.

Her body swayed.

The walls of the hut seemed to press in. The air was thick and threatened to suffocate her.

Abeni swallowed hard.

Slowly, she reached for him.

His skin was already cooling.

His spirit long departed from the land of the living.

Then suddenly a sound escaped her lips.

A low, shrill sound. A sound no human throat should ever make.

Then again.

And again.

Until the sound became a wail, until the wail became a storm, until the storm rattled the walls of her house and the consolers outside shuddered in sorrow and muttered prayers to the gods.

Abeni rocked her son’s body back and forth, back and forth, whispering his name like a prayer.

Ọlákúnlé. Ọlákúnlé. Ọlákúnlé.

But the gods had never listened to her prayers before.

And they did not listen now.

When the river called her again, she answered.

She did not hesitate. She did not waver.

She walked barefoot through the village again that night, her wrapper clinging to her damp skin, the weight of her grief pressing her shoulders down like an unseen hand.

Iya Oṣà was surprised to see her again, so soon, but she did not let it show.

She only shook her head vehemently for Abeni to see, and prepared the ritual for her to perform.

Crying again at the riverbank, the air thick with the scent of wet earth, Abeni knelt.

"Adísà."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but the river heard.

And he came.

This time, he did not arrive in silence.

"Abeni," he growled, his form crackling with fury and with sorrow.

The winds picked up. The trees shook. The river churned.

Abeni flinched. "Adísà—"

"Abeni, this is madness!" His voice lashed through the night like a whip, sharper than a blade.

Tears blurred her vision.

"I cannot do it, Adísà! I cannot live. I refuse to continue on my own. I don't want to be here anymore!"

He turned from her, hands clenched into fists. "Abeni, the living has nothing to do with the dead."

She didn't respond.

She only looked down in shame.

"I know this must be hard for you. But what of our sons? Do you not love them?"

Her breath hitched.

The question struck her like a blow.

She crumpled to the ground, the soil damp beneath her knees, the weight of her guilt crushing her ribs, pressing into her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

"I love them," she gasped. "I do—I do, but—"

"But what?"

His voice cracked, and for the first time, he did not sound like a ghost that was void of emotion.

He sounded like a man. A husband. A father.

She could not answer.

Because what words would explain the ache? This void where her heart used to be?

The feeling of loss tore her soul, first by the death of her husband, and then her son.

Yes, she was a mother.

But she had been a wife first. And she had loved him first. She had sworn her life to him first.

Adísà looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in his gaze softened.

"I am gone, Abeni," he whispered. "I am gone, and you must live."

"I do not know how to," she replied, her lips trembling. "What good is a body without its head?"

"Abeni-"

"Just stay tonight," she interrupted. "Just for tonight."

Adísà stared at his widow, and although he felt no emotion toward her, he still remembered what they had shared.

So he sat down beside her at the riverbank.

The wind calmed. The trees stilled. The river sighed.

That night wasn't like the first.

There was no laughter or reminiscing or warm embrace.

Just silence.

Two souls separated by a rift too great to put into words.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

Eventually, dawn crept forward again, and the morning star began to make its presence felt.

"You must learn to live without me, Abeni," Adísà said. "Goodbye."

And with that, his presence faded.

Abeni sat there in the mud long after he was gone, rocking back and forth, whispering his name, over and over, like a woman trying to summon a dream.

Three days later, her second son drowned in the river.

Olúmidé died in the afternoon.

The sun was high, and the village pulsed with life as always, filled with the pounding of pestles, the boastful banter of men, the endless noise of animals.

Till that moment, it was just an ordinary day.

But then, the children came running.

Barefoot. Breathless. Bewildered.

Their words tumbled out in panicked bursts.

"Olúmidé—"

"He went too far—"

"The river took him—"

Abeni had been sitting on a stool in her compound, sifting rice from chaff, her hands moving with an absentminded rhythm as her mind was a distant world away.

She did not stand. She did not speak. She hesitated.

For a long moment, she only stared at them, their wide, terrified eyes, their bodies slick with river water, their small hands trembling.

The river never gives without taking.

When she finally moved, she rose slowly, her feet unsteady beneath her.

She walked past the children, past the murmuring villagers who had begun to gather.

She walked to the river.

The gods must have a cruel sense of humour, because as she approached the riverbank, his small body floated toward her, dead and lifeless.

Abeni staggered forward, her hands reaching, grasping, pulling him into her arms.

His skin was cold.

His lips tinged blue.

His eyes were open, staring up at her with something she could not name.

As if he had not wanted to go.

The weight of him, heavy in her arms, knocked the breath from her chest.

She had lost another son.

A sound tore from her throat, raw and broken.

She rocked him.

Shook him.

Begged him to wake.

"My son, my son, my son."

But there was no answer.

The villagers did not touch her.

They did not try to pull her away.

They only watched.

Because this was no longer misfortune.

This was an act of the gods.

A vengeance for something they did not know.

And when Abeni finally rose, her son in her arms, her body swaying like a woman drunk, they did not whisper.

They only made way.

She walked back through the village, past the familiar faces and laid her son beside his brother.

That night, she sat by their graves, silent.

She did not eat.

She did not sleep.

She did not pray.

There was nothing left to ask for.

The days after Olúmidé’s death passed in silence.

Abeni no longer cried. Neither did she speak.

She only moved, mechanical and hollow, as she drifted through the motions of a life that she was no longer bothered to live.

She swept the floor of her hut, though there was no one left to scatter the dust.

She cooked, though her hands no longer remembered how to measure or how to season or how to care.

The food burned. She did not eat.

Every day, she sat by the graves of her two sons, her hands tracing the earth, pressing down as if to confirm they were actually there, as if to convince herself this was all real.

Inevitably, the village whispers that quietened after the death of her firsts son, started up again.

"She does not cry. A grieving mother who does not cry, what kind of woman is that?"

"She is an àjẹ́—a witch who is feeding on the lives of her family members."

"The gods forbid I marry her, with her ugly face and her fallen breasts."

She heard them speak.

But there was nothing she could say in return.

Would she say that she had made a mistake? Or that she had not known what the river would take in return? Would she say that some part of her, deep down, had no regrets?

She did not sleep.

When she closed her eyes, she saw them.

Ọlákúnlé, eyes filled with light, laughing.

Olúmidé, his small hands tugging at the hem of her wrapper, calling with that sweet, soft voice of his.

Now, they were silent.

She desperately wanted to feel something.

She wanted to the sorrow to split her open, and the earth to swallow her whole.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

Oh, the river called unto her.

Every moment of every day.

But she did not return. Not yet.

Not until the weight of the loss and the silence and the knowing, became too much to bear.

Not until she realised that the whispers would never stop, that the villagers would always look at her with their eyes filled with something between fear and hatred and pity.

Not until she accepted that grief was now her middle name, and she would never escape it.

Not until she understood, finally, that she had nothing left to lose.

Then, and only then—

Did Abeni return to the river.

This time, Iya Oṣà could not bear to come out to meet her.

Once was an abomination, one people never recovered from.

Twice was an impossibility, nobody ever came back the second time.

But thrice? Thrice was unheard of.

Especially at the cost that this woman was paying.

The old priestess herself cursed death, and cursed grief for driving Abeni mad.

As the widow reached the river, the wind howled violently through the trees, as if trying to push her back.

The river churned, restless, uneasy.

The spirits knew and even they did not agree.

But Abeni did not hesitate.

Her lips parted, she raised the statue, and a whisper carried his name into the night.

"Adísà."

The air cracked.

The ground beneath her trembled.

And when he appeared, the sky wept.

This time, he did not come as mist or shadow, nor as the flickering, uncertain shape she had summoned before.

This time, he burned.

The air around him shimmered with fury and his presence was thick as a storm cloud.

The river swelled, waves lashing against the banks as though mirroring his rage.

His face—oh, his face.

Once, she had only known it with love.

Once, she could not look at him without reaching for him, without feeling the pull of him in her very bones.

Now his face carved from sorrow and wrath.

"Abeni!" His voice thundered.

She lifted her eyes, but she could not behold him.

"Not again! You made me a promise," he growled, each word sharp as a blade. "Abeni, why do you disturb my rest?"

Her breath hitched, her body wracked with sobs. "There is something I must tell you, Adísà."

His jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides.

He turned from her, as though the sight of her burned him.

"I don't want to hear it! Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do this to me? You have a life to live! Our children have lives to live!"

She flinched.

How was he capable of being angry, yet he could feel no love? What cruel design did the gods appoint to the spirits?

"Don’t you think you should at least try? At least, for their sakes?"

Her face crumpled, her body folding into itself. "I do… Adísà… I…"

"What do you have to say for yourself, Abeni!? What!?"

The rage in his voice made her tremble, and she fell down to the ground, with tears in her eyes.

She could not answer.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

The wind was still rushing through the trees, and the river roared even louder, the earth itself seemed to ache with the weight of what was unspoken between them.

That was when something shifted in the air between them.

Adísà turned back to her, his anger shifting into something colder, something darker.

His eyes bore into hers, staring into the depths of her soul, unbarring the essence of her existence.

"Abeni…" he said, voice low. "Tell me… How are my sons?"

The world stilled.

The wind quieted.

The river calmed into stillness, as if also waiting for her response.

She did not speak.

She did not need to.

His breath hitched.

The fury drained from him.

The weight of realisation settled over him.

His lips parted, but no words came. His eyes only looked ahead.

Still and broken.

The dead man felt no emotion.

But he understood.

She had given up a son to see him again.

Three summons.

Three answers.

Three sons.

The truth was sharp and cruel.

"Spirits don’t cry," the old often ones say. "The dead have no more tears to shed."

But that night, Adísà did.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, vanishing before it could fall.

And then, without another word and with a look of brokenness in his eyes that Abeni will never forget, he was gone.

The last fragment of his connection to the human world severed forever.

The boy’s name was Kọ́láde.

He was her youngest, and every time she looked at him, she saw Adísà.

Kọ́láde had always been the quiet one, the watcher, the one who listened before he spoke.

Even as a child, he had an old soul. His eyes always seemed to say something unspoken.

The village women did not let Abeni see him. Or touch him. They just carried him away.

The widow did not resist.

She just bared herself naked as she rolled on the ground, invoking the gods to kill her too.

The villagers turned away.

It was too much, too terrible to witness.

They thought she was grieving. A woman maltreated badly by forces beyond the world.

But she only cried because she understood.

She had called for Adísà.

And the river had answered.

This was the price.

And she had paid it in full.

That final night did not stir.

No wind. No rustling leaves. No sounds from the night animals.

The world itself held its breath, as if waiting. Waiting to see.

Abeni walked past the fields where her sons had played and the huts where her husband had drunk himself to a stupor with the other village men.

She walked past the trees where Adísà had once stolen kisses, where he had pressed his forehead against hers and whispered secrets only the night could keep.

She walked past the graves of her children, mounds of earth that held destinies that would never come to fruition.

Abeni did not stop to weep. There were no more tears left to give.

She walked, because there was nowhere else to go.

The river was waiting.

It stretched before her, endless and dark, the moon casting silver ripples across its surface.

She unwrapped her cloth and let the night air kiss her bare skin.

The water lapped at her feet, cool and knowing.

Abeni stepped forward.

One foot.

Then another.

The river pulled her in, gentle at first, like a lover’s embrace.

It curled around her legs, wrapped itself around her waist, pressed against her ribs.

She let it take her.

No one saw her go.

No one called out her name.

No one knows where she went.

But the village remembered.

In years to come, they would tell her story in hushed tones, around flickering fires and beneath the glow of the moon.

They would whisper of Abeni, the cursed one.

The woman who had lost beyond measure.

The woman whom the gods had dealt with so cruelly.

The woman who suffered for no apparent reason.

Some say that on still nights, when the river is quiet and the wind refuses to blow, you can hear her name carried in the silence—

Abeni.

A cry. A warning. A plea.

This story was inspired by this beautiful song.

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In case you missed it…

PART #1 - My Shola, My Love

PART #2 - Always & Forever

Doesn’t really matter, but I definitely recommend reading the stories in their order of arrangement.

LOLA’S POV

"Maybe you’ll tell me the name of the girl that’s always keeping you busy," I say, my voice thick with annoyance. "Because you said you’ll call by 7pm., this is 7:17, Shola."

I hear him laugh over the phone.

He can't see me, but I roll my eyes anyway.

"Her name is NYSC, Lola mi," he says, clearly amused by his joke. "And she has all my attention, at least for the remaining five days. You’ll have to manage whatever she shares with you."

"I've been managing for the past two weeks; I'm tired. We've barely texted. You don't spend long on the phone when we call. Your absence has made me realise that I don't even have any serious close friends. It's just me and countless episodes of Love Island. Omo, just be coming back."

"Eeyah. Nothing for you o, aunty." He laughs again, and it's the most beautiful sound in the world. "If it's any consolation, I miss you too. Thankfully, I'm always swamped with activities that I don't even remember that I'm missing you."

"That's how easy it is to forget me, abi? Just like that."

"How can I forget you when you're all I'm always thinking about?"

The smile is instinctive, and it spreads across my lips before I can stop it.

I try my best to frown again, but I can't.

I'm happy he can't see me right now because I really want to be upset with him.

"Nobody asked you to go for camp so far away. Your mates that are serving in Lagos don't have two heads."

I hear him hiss, which is very out of habit, but I don't say anything.

"Lagos this, Lagos that, every time Lagos. Don't you guys get tired? Nigeria is too big not to see the other parts of it, you know?"

I scoff. "Pele o, Shola the explorer. You're the only one that knows what you're looking for up and down."

"Adventure, my love," he says, and a tingle of electricity flows down my spine. "Adventure."

"How's your adventure going? Hope it's beating you during the day and biting you at night?"

He laughs again, and I want to punch him through the phone.

"It's going well, to be fair. The drills and marching are not so bad once you get used to it. Same thing for the sun. Plus, there's good food and fine girls everywhere, so what else could a man want?"

I don't reply.

"Lola? Omolola?" His laugh lasts longer this time. "I'm joking o. It's just a joke."

I remain silent.

"I just know you're about to end this call. If you do, it's till tomorrow sha. So better behave."

More laughter.

"You always think you know me so well," I say with a scoff as I remove my finger from over the 'end call' button. "I wasn't going to end the call. I'm not petty like you."

"Oya naw, I've sha told you."

"I'm telling you how much I miss you, and you're telling me about some random girls."

"Some random, beautiful girls."

I sigh.

I've always known Shola to be extra positive.

He always finds something amusing in every situation, and although it's one of his traits that I love so much, sometimes I just wish he'd turn it off.

After I don’t say anything again, he also sighs loudly.

"I'm sorry. I’m sorry. Making jokes is the only copium I have here. If I don't laugh, I'll lose my mind over how little sleep my brain is getting and how terrible the longing in my heart is to see you again. So just bear with me for now, my love."

I smile and turn around in my bed, placing the phone on my chest and staring at the ceiling.

Part of me is still wowed by how he somehow always knows what's on my mind.

"Sometimes, I think I love you too much," I admit. "We've just been apart for some days, and it's already like I'm going crazy."

"I feel the same way, honestly. Maybe one day you'll tell me exactly what you did that made me fall for you like this."

It's my turn to laugh.

"Never ever. It's a secret," I say in a singsong voice. "It's the only advantage I have over those Warri girls that refuse to leave you alone."

He chuckles.

"You don’t need any advantage, jare. If anybody wants my heart, they should go and collect it from you."

I smile again in the dimly lit neon light of my room.

"Unfortunately, I don't like sharing my things," I reply.

"Thank God. I'm counting on that."

Silence passes between us.

I hear some ruffling over the phone, followed by some loud pumping music in the background.

It only lasts for a few seconds, and then the silence returns.

"Sorry," Shola says. "I had to get a quieter space."

"Social night, abi?"

"Every damn night." He sighs. "I'm tired, Omolola. This whole scene is not for me. Yes, I'm enjoying the experience. It's different, and it's challenging, but omo. I just can't wait to be back home."

For the first time tonight, I can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

"I know, baby; I can't even imagine. It's like I'll even skip the whole thing. Serving your country shouldn't be so tiring."

"No, no, it's fun; you'll love… it."

His voice has started to drawl.

The same way it does whenever he's dozing off.

I feel a pang of sadness, and my heart melts for him.

I wish I could hold him in my arms and stroke his head till he falls asleep.

I miss him so much it hurts.

He's still muttering, so I put the phone beside my ear, and I bite my smile.

Shola always talks in his sleep, so I like to pick out the things he says so I can tease him with them later.

"Omolola…" he says.

"Oluwanishola," I say, stifling a laugh. "Do you want to tell me something?"

"I… miss you."

"I know, I know," I reply, my heart swelling with emotion. "I miss you too."

"Hmm…" He’s half grumbling and half muttering.

"Yes, hmm." I laugh slightly. "I'm going to end the call now. I think you better find somewhere to sleep for a bit before they find you."

"No, no… wait."

I open my mouth to speak, but noise from the background interrupts me.

Over the phone, I hear sounds, like he's having a conversation with someone.

About a minute later, I hear his voice again, awake and energetic.

"Did I sleep off? Omo. I'm so sorry, babe."

"No, it's fine. You're tired; I get it."

"It's not. We were meant to talk and see me sleeping off. Chai."

"Don't beat yourself up; we'll have lots of time to catch up when you come back."

"You're too good for me," he says with a sigh.

"Of course, I am."

"So… I have to go now, Lola," he says, and sadness immediately wells up in me. "They are summoning everybody to the parade ground. I don't know why."

A lump forms in my throat.

"Oh, okay," I say, tears stinging the back of my eyes.

Omolola, my God, get a grip!

"I'm sorry, my love. I'll make it up to you on Sunday."

"Yeah, it's okay. Enjoy the rest of your night."

He laughs.

"No promises, but okay."

"Yeah."

"I love you, Lola."

The tears slowly start to drop from my eyes.

"I love you too, Shola."

"Five more days, okay?"

I take in a deep breath to calm my nerves.

"Five more days."

"Five more days, Lola mi," he says again, voice low and tone firm. "Five more days, and then I'm coming back to you."

I try to force some energy into my voice. "I can't wait."

"Me too."

"Goodnight, Shola."

"Goodnight, my love."

He hangs up, and the line disconnects.

I stay still for a few seconds, listening to the emptiness that follows his voice and the silence of my room.

Relax. I say to myself. You're okay.

Shola is okay.

He will be back soon.

Just five more days, and you won’t have to worry about him ever leaving you again.

Just five days.

Then he’s coming back to you.

SHOLA’S POV

The bus rumbles beneath me, the soft hum of the tires against the road filling the air with a gentle vibration.

Outside the window, the world passes in a blur of dark shapes and scattered lights.

I really hate travelling at night, but I have no choice today.

The driver had to stop the vehicle for "minor repairs," and we ended up spending close to three hours in the mechanic's shop.

Other passengers cursed and complained and threatened, but my mind was really elsewhere.

Lagos. Home. Lola.

And now as I see the familiar buildings and signboards, I know I'm closer than ever.

I never thought I'd ever miss this city, but here I am. It's almost like I was trapped in a hole for the past three weeks, and now I've been released into the real world again.

Where there's no confined spaces or constant military supervision or an endless barrage of people wearing white.

I feel at peace as I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I let my thoughts wander away.

Camp was a crazy experience, but I'm so glad it's over.

There were upsides and downsides.

I met some pretty cool people, and I connected with a man who I really think can help me achieve one of my biggest dreams.

Obviously, there was also the terrible toilet facilities and the hours spent roasting in the sun.

But those mattered less in the grand scheme of things.

The biggest downside was being away from her.

My Lola.

I've missed her so much.

Seeing her, hearing her, holding her.

Three weeks isn’t so much, but it felt like an eternity, and I don't think I ever want to go that long without being close to her again.

Maybe one day we'll have to get used to spending more time apart from each other, but for now, I'd rather have her with me at all times.

I’m obsessed, I know.

I glance around the bus, the other passengers half-asleep, some curled up against the windows, others nodding off with their chins resting on their chests.

The air is thick with exhaustion, but I think I’m too excited to sleep.

My heart is literally swelling with anticipation as the seconds pass by.

I reach into my smallest travel bag, and I fish it out.

It's a small bracelet with her name engraved on it. It belonged to her mother, who was also named Omolola, and Lola never goes anywhere without wearing it.

It's the only piece of her parents that she has left.

So, when she gave it to me to take along to camp, I vehemently refused.

I know how much it means to her, and I didn’t want to separate her from it, but she just wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Just hold it whenever you're missing me and imagine I'm there with you," she had said.

Reluctantly, I had agreed, but in camp, I never once took it out of my bag.

I couldn't imagine it getting lost or even stolen.

That would break her heart so badly, and I'll never forgive myself for losing something that holds so much value to her.

I rub the bracelet and I feel comfort.

It feels safe.

Before I know it, I'm dozing off, my excitement finally giving way to fatigue.

Some minutes later, I jerk back awake when the bus finally stops at the park.

I alight and retrieve my two other bags from the boot of the vehicle.

I had tried to order an Uber to take me home from the park, but I had no luck getting one, so I'll just have to take a Maruwa from here.

It's risky this time of night, but it'll have to suffice. I'm not so far from home again.

Not so far from her.

I pull out my phone and type a quick message.

On my way. Can’t wait to see you again, Lola mi.

The message delivers instantly, and I picture her smiling as she reads it. Squealing on her bed with excitement.

The image doesn't leave my head, and I can't stop smiling.

After a lot of pleading and even offering to pay double of the normal fare, I finally convince a Maruwa driver to take me as close as he could to my estate.

I will still have to walk a small distance, but I surmise that it's better than nothing.

I'm so tired and sleepy, but I honestly can't care less about anything at this point.

I just want to get home to my woman.

My destination is still about twenty minutes away as I drag my bags across the road.

I curse and mutter as the heavy luggage keeps twisting and turning on the uneven gravel road.

Thankfully, there are streetlights everywhere so I can see where I'm headed.

I've lived here for a while, so this entire surrounding is very familiar to me.

This neighbourhood is also generally safe, so I'm not worried about any trouble.

I just want to make it home before I pass out.

Fatigue clings to my bones as I take one laboured step after the other.

This NYSC jungle boot I’m wearing doesn't even make walking easier. It just cramps my feet with every movement I make.

I can see my estate gate in the distance. Not so long now.

That’s when I notice something strange.

It's a roadblock.

Four sets of tires are on either side of the road with a large stick resting on top of them to prevent any vehicle from passing through.

It's a bit weird to me at first, because despite this area not being so "high class," it's also not filled with touts or people that might want to extort drivers for money.

There's probably not much to it, so I shrug and keep moving.

Maybe it's a new security measure by the neighbourhood vigilante group.

When I get closer, I notice some men sitting around the roadblock, but they had already seen me coming.

They wave me over, and I’m about to be afraid when I notice their black uniforms.

All the tension in my body dissipates.

"Good evening, officers," I say, giving them a slight salute.

There are three of them around the tires on the left side of the road.

Two of them are standing at the checkpoint, and another one of them sits further back on a chair, smoking a cigarette.

There’s a police van some meters behind them, parked slightly off the road.

The three policemen all hold guns, and they regard me with wary suspicion in their eyes.

I wonder how I look to them: a random guy in complete NYSC uniform, dragging boxes on the streets at 11pm while panting and sweating.

"Ehnhen? Who are you, and where are you coming from?" One of them barks, his voice sharp and impatient.

I'm a bit taken aback by his outburst, but I'm too exhausted to be offended.

"Warri, sir," I say, gesturing to my uniform. "I just came back from camp."

"Warri? At this time?" He asks, the sharpness still present in his voice.

"The bus had issues on the road, so we were delayed for a long time," I reply. "Sir."

He glances at me from head to toe, and there's something very menacing about his stare.

His eyes are bloodshot, and I think I even perceive the small of an alcoholic mix coming off his breath.

Goosebumps rise across my skin.

I'm nervous, but I remind myself that this is all normal.

It's past curfew, and I'm wandering the streets.

They're just doing their jobs.

"Oga!" The officer calls back to the man sitting on the chair. The one smoking a cigarette. "Oga, e say e be corper o. E say e just dey come from Warri."

"At this time?"

"Na wetin me sef dey tell am."

The sitting officer takes his time to reply, and I assume that he's the one in charge of this little "checkpoint”.

He takes long drags from his cigarette and puffs them out toward the night sky.

After a few minutes, he throws the blunt away and starts to walk toward us.

He eyes me carefully as he gets closer, sizing me from head to toe.

He's looks even more menacing than the first officer as he takes careful steps toward us, his gun slung casually across his shoulder.

"Mr man, I thought corpers were instructed not to take night buses," he says to me.

Oddly, I find some solace in the calmness of his voice and easy way the words roll off his tongue.

"Yes sir," I say. "We left early, but the bus had some mechanical issues."

He observes me in silence.

"Or you're lying to me and you're one of the criminals that's been disturbing this area since last week?"

I let out a short laugh, confused. "No sir, I'm just on my way from Delta state. See, this is my ID card."

I try to fish it out from my pocket but the other two officer draw their guns at me immediately.

That's when the panic I've been trying so hard to suppress starts to rise.

I can feel the bile forming in my throat.

I look around the street, empty.

Silent.

It's just four of us out here.

"Oga, be like this one wan shoot us o!" The first officer says, his gun pointed squarely at me.

"No, no, sir," I say loudly. "I am just trying to show you my ID."

My voice is careful and controlled.

My heart, on the other hand, is racing like a drumbeat in my ears.

The superior officer waves his hand dismissively.

"Relax, he's not that type of criminal," he says. "Search his bag sha, let's see if he's saying the truth."

The first officer steps forward, grabs my travel bag roughly off my shoulder, and unzips it.

He turns it over and shakes it, spilling everything to the ground.

He inspects the items on the floor—my wallet, some empty wrappers of snacks, and some documents.

"Find anything there?" the superior asks.

"No, oga. Na just nylon and paper dey here."

When he bends over to inspect the items closer, I hold my breath and hope to God that he doesn't see it.

But he does because when he stands up, he holding something shiny.

Lola's bracelet.

My stomach knots.

The officer picks it up, smiles mischievously, and holds it in my face. "What is this one?"

"A bracelet," I say carefully, my voice laced with caution.

"For who?"

"My mother," I lie, hoping it'll convince him to give it back to him.

They all laugh at me.

The officer hands the bracelet over to his superior, and I feel the trepidation in my bones worsen.

The officer turns the bracelet over in his hand.

"Omolola," he reads casually. Too casually. Then he shoves it into his own pocket. "It's a beautiful one. You can go; I'll hold onto it for you."

I freeze.

My body reacts before I can think.

"No sir," I say, stepping forward. "Please, you can’t take that. Please, sir."

They all stop laughing.

The first officer grips his gun tighter. "O boy, you say wetin?"

I swallow, forcing myself to stay composed. "Sir, with all due respect, that’s my property. You’ve all searched me and you’ve searched my bags, you’ve seen that I have nothing on me. Please, sir, give it back; I just want to go home."

"Shuu, o boy, you get mind o. You dey argue with police? You no dey fear?" The third officer finally speaks.

His voice is raspy, and his words are barely audible.

The superior officer stares at me for a minute. He looks impressed and surprised at the same time.

I don't know where this courage is coming from.

Call it madness. Call it adrenaline. Call it desperation.

I don't know.

But I can't leave here without Lola's bracelet. It's all she has left of her family; if these men take it, she will be devastated

Monetary-wise, I know it's probably worth a lot, but that's not the important thing.

It will crush her and she’ll probably never forgive me.

No, I can't leave it behind.

I must try at least.

"I've already said you can go, Mr. Man. I'll keep the bracelet as a sign of goodwill. Since you say you're not a criminal and we’re letting you go. So, bye bye."

"Sir, please," I plead again, clasping my hands together. "That bracelet has a lot of sentimental value to my family. Please just give it back to me."

I inject as much firmness into my voice as possible.

"I'll pay you whatever you want, please, just return it."

The superior officer stares at me in shock.

Then, before I can react, his fist connects with my stomach.

I double over in pain, wheezing and clutching my guts.

"You dey mad?" he growls. "I beg you for money? I resemble beggar for your eye? Because I dey follow you speak English, you dey reason me anyhow?"

I try to straighten up, but another blow meets my ribs.

"I say comot here. I say I dey keep the gold, you still dey follow me argue. You dey very stupid."

Another blow connects.

Then another.

I stumble back and fall to my knees, my vision blurring.

Every instinct in me is screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something.

"Please," I manage to spit out, the salty taste of blood pouring from my lips.

I know it's pointless.

I know I shouldn't even be talking again, but I'm so delirious with pain.

I’m so dizzy too, like I'm about to pass out.

"Na wah o," I hear the third officer say. "This one think say e be superstar."

The first officer scoffs in response.

"Na very stupid boy. All these young criminal boys, stupid with no respect."

The superior steps towards me again.

There's still anger in his eyes, and all the calmness from earlier has long vanished.

He looks at me squarely and I look back at him, dead in the eye.

"Carry am go the van for me,” he says.

My whole body goes cold immediately.

The two officers hesitate and look at each other slowly.

"Una dey deaf!? I say carry this boy go the van for me. Make I beat am up. Make I teach am lesson."

I suck in a sharp breath and my pounding heart threatens to burst through my ribcage.

"Oga abeg," I hear the first officer say. I glance up from the ground, and through my teary eyes, I see that he looks uncomfortable for the first time this night. "E don learn already. Make we just free am go."

His superior ignores him.

The third officer finally moves to where I am and grabs my shirt. He drags me forward, toward the back of the van, and he lifts me inside.

The space is dark and smells of damp rags and stale alcohol.

He's still holding me as his superior comes again and pulls my chin up so I can look at him.

"For your next life, ehn. You go show some respect."

He punches me square in the gut and I cough some blood.

I groan loudly.

He tries to hit me again, but this time I throw my head forward at him and catch his nose.

He's taken aback, and he stumbles back, crying and holding his face in pain.

He falls to the ground of the van.

I try to wrest my grip from the officer holding me, but he's more agile than I am, and I can't muster enough strength to push him away.

The officer clambers up from the ground and lunges toward me, enraged.

He grabs me by the collar of my shirt and immediately, something sharp pierces my stomach.

The pain doesn’t register at first.

I just feel a strange, burning sensation spreading through my torso.

Then I look down, and I see it.

A knife, buried deep inside me.

"God."

A gasp claws its way out of my throat. My legs buckle.

My hands instinctively clutch my side as warm blood spills through my fingers.

He pulls out the knife and releases me from his grip, so I fall to the hard metal floor.

The world tilts.

I try to scream, but I'm choked by my own sobs.

The pain is unbearable.

It spreads through me like fire, searing my insides, making every breath a battle.

I cry out in agony.

It’s a pain unlike any I’ve ever felt.

I press my palm to the wound, desperate to hold myself together, but the blood keeps spilling, hot and thick, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

The cold ground presses against my cheek, the rough texture scratching my skin, but I barely feel it.

A shudder wracks through me, and I cough, the sharp motion sending another bolt of pain through my ribs.

My body trembles, my limbs heavy. I’m growing weaker by the second.

This can’t be it.

I look up and see two figures standing over me.

Looking. Watching. Laughing?

I mutter for help, but they don’t respond.

I try to stretch my hand, but I can't.

I'm too weak. I'm too slow. I can't move.

There's a thought in my head, but I can't grasp it.

My brain hurts.

My mind is desperately torn between processing my pain and grasping that fleeting memory.

I can't remember what I want to remember.

I think I'm dying.

God, I'm dying.

God, please, I don't want to die.

Tears flow freely from my eyes.

I want to go home.

I want to live.

I want to see her.

Her.

Lola.

The thought returns loud to my head, clear and frantic.

My chest tightens, but it's not from the pain.

"Omolola," I cry out.

I writhe on the ground and try to move again, to try to stand up.

I can’t.

Omolola.

She's the thought I was desperately trying to remember.

I see her in my mind. She's smiling. She's laughing.

I hear her voice come back to me, teasing, soft—Shola, I miss you.

I can’t die.

I told her I’d come back.

I told her she had nothing to worry about.

I promised.

A heavy weight crushes me as I feel myself getting weaker and weaker.

The blood is everywhere now, I think I might drown in it.

The truth fully dawns on me and wraps itself around me like a blanket.

I feel reality suffocate me.

I’m not going to make it home.

I stop moving and let the tears pour.

She’s waiting for me, and I won't make it back.

"I'm sorry," I mutter to the ground.

I’ll never see her smile again.

I'll never hear her voice again.

I’ll never hold her again.

A choked sound escapes my throat again, half a sob, half a broken breath.

"I'm sorry."

I don’t want to die.

Not like this.

The tears escape through my lips.

I promised her.

I promised.

The world starts to darken at the edges.

They say right before you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes.

It's true.

I try to hold on, just for a second longer.

I try.

But I just can't.

The pain starts to fade and it's replaced by a strange weightlessness.

I smile slightly.

There's no pain again.

The darkness is inviting me, and it’s warm and comforting.

I don't resist it again.

I embrace its embrace.

It's endless and quiet, and it swallows me.

Slowly.

Slowly.

I fe-

UNKNOWN POV

I hold a rag to my nose.

The bleeding has stopped, but it's still stinging.

There’s no doubt that my nose is broken, or at least sprained.

Very stupid boy.

"Adams, come and drive this van," I say, jumping down from the back as I pull out a cigarette.

"Take him to St. Raphael’s. Doctor Mike is on duty. You know what to tell him, and he knows what to do.”

Adams nods.

“Tell him I said I expect the autopsy report first thing in the morning. No mentions of the bruises. And he should not waste time like he did the other day."

The two officers nod and move immediately without question.

They grab the body, and it flops limply as they carry it deeper into the back of the van and throw it down.

The door slams shut with a dull clang.

I look around the streets, empty.

Thank God we chose this location tonight.

"Bring that his phone," I say.

First things first.

With a sigh, I collect it and dismiss them with a wave.

The screen is cracked and smeared with a lot of blood, but it still works.

I make a note to remind myself to drop it into evidence and stop those greedy lieutenants at the headquarters from stealing it.

Not this time. We need this one to help our story.

I press the power button, and there's no passcode.

That's a bit surprising because most of these criminal boys that we bring to justice like to lock their phones.

I shrug.

No worries, it makes my job easier.

I scroll through the contacts till I find her.

Omolola.

It's the name he kept muttering as he died. The same name that's on the bracelet in my pocket.

Maybe she’s a family member or girlfriend.

That’s too bad.

I wonder why she'll be dating a violent criminal like that boy.

It's late, but I hit dial and lift the phone to my ear.

I have to inform her now so it seems like an emergency.

Morning will be too late.

It rings twice before she picks up.

"Shola!" She almost screams. "Oh my God! Where are you!?"

There's a mix of anticipation and eagerness in her voice.

I draw the phone away from my ear and take a deep puff from my cigarette.

It’s really too bad.

"Hello, is this Omolola?" I ask.

A pause. "Yes… who is this?"

"This is Officer Sunday from the Raymond Estate Police Division. I’m calling regarding…" I stare at the ID card. "Shola Ayodele."

Silence.

"Oh my God..." Her voice sharpens. "Please, what happened? Did something happen?"

I stare at the van as it pulls onto the road, the taillights glowing in the distance, further and further.

I rub my temple and exhale smoke through my nose. The pain from my nose is making my head throb a lot.

If she starts crying, I will have an headache.

"I'm sorry to inform you that he was attacked tonight. He was stabbed by some hoodlums after he got off his bus," I say.

She takes a sharp inhale.

I don’t wait for her to speak before I continue.

"We think that it's a case of mistaken identity, but it’s still early to say for sure. He was rushed to the hospital at Baci Close, and I'm sorry, but… he didn’t make it. He's dead."

Silence.

Then a loud cry. "No, no, no...”

She starts to sob really loudly, and I blow out more smoke, trying my best not to be irritated.

So much for not getting an headache.

"He was calling your name, so we called you. Are you family? If yes, we need you to come down to the station," I say.

"No! No, no, no. That’s not— no, I just talked to him! He was coming home! He just texted me!" A sharp, ragged breath. "This has to be a mistake!"

She’s wailing now, breathing heavily and muttering in disbelief.

"Please," she whispers. "Please tell me this is a mistake. Tell me it’s not him. Tell me—"

Her voice breaks completely.

I shift my weight and press my lips together.

This has gone on for too long.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Ma. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. We'll be expecting your visit at our station. Have a good night."

I hang up.

Sighing, I toss the cigarette onto the pavement, grind it out with my boot, and head back to sit on my chair.

And that brings us to the end…

Ask Ebun anything 1.0 is going to be my 50th post on this Newsletter.

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From where we're sitting, we can see the main campus field in the distance, stretched out in all directions.

Tents are being set up, trucks loaded with chairs and tables keep coming and going, and students are moving around everywhere.

They walk in ones and twos and threes, having animated conversations with one another, some groups louder than the rest.

The weather tonight is very cool, and the cold breeze that blows through the trees is a welcome sensation to our skin.

I really like it here, and I'm going to miss it a lot.

There's something about the communal energy of people in a confined space that warms my heart.

I'm stuck between fully embracing the contagious excitement in the atmosphere and being sober in reflection of the deeper implications of tonight.

This beautiful woman beside me, however, does not seem to share either of my conflicting emotions.

She just stares ahead into the darkness, her lips pursed and a frown permanently etched on her face.

"Omolola."

"Yes?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

I allow the moment to pass for a minute, the oddly rhythmic sounds of the trucks blaring in the distance and the wind rustling through the trees filling the space between us.

"Omolola," I try again, nudging her with my elbow. "What is it?"

"Shola. I said there's nothing."

She doesn't meet my eye when she says this, so I know she's lying.

"Don't tell me it's nothing jare."

"I'm fine. I don't know what else you want me to tell you."

"Tell me what's up, because this is not how you act when you're really fine."

She turns her head toward me and deepens her frown. The sight is so cute that I have to resist the urge to smile.

"What does that even mean?"

"Well, you've been silent since we sat here, and it's odd because, well…" I trail off.

"Because I’m a talkative abi?"

I stop resisting the smile.

"No o, that's not what I said," I say, raising my hands in mock defence. "Who am I to make such a conclusion?"

She hisses and tries to increase the space between us on the bench, but I laugh and slowly grab her arm so she can’t move.

That's when I notice the tears in her eyes.

"Haba Omolola, it's just a joke naw. Oya, you’re not a talkative. You just enjoy speaking a lot of words from your mouth all the time; there's no crime in it."

“Just shut up,” she says, trying to inject some menace into her voice, but it falls flat.

"Lola mi," I say softly, stroking her arm. "What is bothering you?"

She takes in a deep breath and releases it loudly.

It's a hollow, constricted sound, almost like she's about to start crying. My chest tightens, and I instinctively move closer to pull her into my arms.

"We're graduating tomorrow, Shola." She finally says as her voice falters.

"Yes, that's true. And…" I reply, encouraging her to continue.

"And? What do you mean, 'and?'"

"We've finished our four years, Lola," I say, trying not to laugh because she genuinely looks confused. "Graduation is usually what comes after."

She rolls her eyes and tries to pull out of my arms, but I hold her in place and immediately intertwine my right hand with hers.

"Oya, no more jokes. I'm listening."

"Shola, just forget it. I-"

"I'm listening to you, Omolola,” I say firmly and my voice comes out harsher than I intended it to. “I'm sorry, take your time."

I stroke her hand that's interlocked with mine.

She sighs deeply and starts to reciprocate the stroking motion on my own hand.

The gesture warms my heart slightly.

"Here, we have structure. Or at least, for the past four years, we had one," she starts, gesturing round at the vast landscape around us. "We go to class, then back to the hall, or attend extra-curricular activities, if any.

We did this day by day and week by week for years. It was routine, and it was safe. It just feels like when we leave and all that structure vanishes, my whole life will be thrown into chaos."

She takes a long pause, and I wait patiently for her to continue.

"I'm so much different from who I was when I first arrived here, and it feels like this place is all I've ever known. I've grown so much here. I found my will to live again here. I've cried, and I've laughed here. I met you here, Shola. I fell in love with you here.

And yes, I know it's 'just school' and the 'phase is over,' and now it's time to face 'real life,' but I don't think I'm ready for it. I thought I would be when the time came, but now that it’s here, I'm not ready at all.

It's like I'm about to leave my safe space behind and step into this big, giant, scary unknown. What if something happens? What if I hate my job? What if..."

The look on her face is conflicted, and I can tell that she's struggling with the thought.

"What if we don't survive real life? Shola, it's easy for us here, in this confined space, to always have time to spend with each other and all that. Out there, it's different. What if… gosh, just forget it…"

When she finishes, I let out a soft laugh.

I love this woman so much.

"I don't know why you’re in such a good mood today," she murmurs and folds her arms in annoyance.

The silence passes as another moment between us.

"I'm scared too," I finally say, my tone solemn. "You're right, it is overwhelming to think of life after uni. And even though the school organised all these workshops and seminars to try to prepare us for how life will be on the outside, I don't think any amount of preparation will ever be enough."

She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder.

"But then, we don't need to have it all figured out, you know? I doubt there's even anybody who has, or that there’s even an exact way to live life. The best we can do is to trust in God and focus on passing each stage as it comes. NYSC next, then finding a good job, like that, like that. We don’t have to worry; we will just figure it out as we go."

"I guess you're right.”

I can still hear the hesitation in her voice.

"We figure it together, as we go," I add, then I turn her head so I can look into her eyes. "'Us' is the last thing you need to worry about, Lola mi. We've already been through a lot together in just a few years. Whatever comes, we’ll face it too and overcome it. Just remember that I'm here for you, and even when you doubt and overthink everything else, never forget that."

She blinks a few times, her eyes glossy, then she looks away and laughs.

"Sometimes I hate the fact that you always know the right things to say."

“It’s part of my job description,” I reply with a shrug.

“I also hate how you make everything sound so simple.”

“Maybe everything is so simple. Maybe we’re the ones overcomplicating everything."

"Yeah, thank you, Professor Ayodele," she says, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Her shoulders finally relax, and I see her loosen up as the tension leaves her body, so I pull her in for a hug, and we stay there for a while.

"I wish our parents could be around tomorrow."

Her words are abrupt, unexpected, and I feel that sting again.

That old, yet very familiar ache that occasionally reminds me that it's still very present in my heart.

That ache that’s bearable on some days and outrightly devastating on some others.

People are right when they say that grief never leaves.

"Me too," I reply, my tone low.

"Ugh, Shola, I hate to always be an overthinking mess of drama and tears and emotions, but it’s just… Every time I hit a milestone like this, I'm painfully reminded that my parents really died in that plane crash. It wasn't a dream."

She's fully crying into my arms now.

I don’t say anything; what is there to say?

I understand how she’s feeling, and I know better than anyone that nothing can be said to make the pain stop or go away.

So I pull her even closer, massaging her neck into my shoulders as she breaks down completely. Her body trembles slightly against mine, and I feel the warmth of her tears soaking through my shirt.

The mood has completely shifted, and now the weight of our shared grief sits between us, heavy and familiar.

Omolola finally breaks the silence with a bitter laugh, shaking her head against my body.

"I can’t even remember what my mum's voice sounds like anymore, Shola. I hate that. I hate that we have to keep moving and they just…” Her voice falters. "They just stay gone. Dead. Just like that."

“I hate it too, my love. I really do.”

After a while, her sobs start to slow down, but she doesn’t pull away.

She stays in my arms, her breathing shaky and her fingers curled into my shirt like she’s too afraid to let go.

I don’t want her to ever let go.

After a long stretch of silence, I rest my chin on top of her head and whisper, "They'd be so proud of you, Omolola. You know that, right?"

I feel her nod slightly.

"Yeah, I know," she breathes. "I do."

I pull her forward slightly, just enough to look at her, to wipe away the tear streaks on her face with my thumb.

"I’m proud of you too.”

She gives me a small, tired smile and rolls her eyes at me. "You always say that, no matter what I do."

"That’s because it’s true. I’m so proud of you and the woman you’re becoming, Omolola. You’re my superwoman, and you’re much more stronger than you think."

She holds my face in her hands for a moment, then she falls back into my arms.

“So you’re saying we’ll be fine, right?" I hear her ask.

I pause for a moment.

I’ll be honest.

I’m not God.

I don’t know if we’ll be fine.

But what I do know, right now, in this moment, is that I love this woman here with all of my heart, and I will do absolutely anything to always be there for her.

To always make sure she’s happy.

"We'll be fine.”

She exhales slowly, as if releasing all the weight she’s been holding in.

Then she leans in, wraps her arms around my waist and presses the side of her face into my chest.

"I love you, Shola," she whispers. "Please, never, ever leave me."

"Lola mi, I’m not going anywhere" I reply, stroking her hair and meaning each word with every ounce of conviction. "I love you and I’m here for you, always and forever."

Chai, God when?

P.S - Yesterday’s story was also fictional, by the way. In case you were wondering.

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Not really because I do, but because it's much easier to say "yes" than to explain to anybody why I'm no longer enthralled by the whole concept of meeting someone, “falling” for them, and then possibly spending the rest of your life with them.

Recently, some people have started to follow up that initial question with, "But this one that you’re not married yet," accompanied by a dry, humourless laugh.

A futile attempt to ease the inevitable awkwardness caused by them making such an intrusive and otherwise inconsiderate statement.

Fortunately for them, I don't ever take offence.

I just shrug, fold my palms together, and say, "If it's meant to happen, then it will happen."

Then if they attempt to press the issue any further, I immediately change the topic.

To be fair, I know that most of the people who try to have this conversation with me are doing so out of concern.

They probably think I'm a man who doesn't have his "priorities" set right or that there's something inherently wrong with me.

I mean, they see a 38-year-old man who is healthy, successful, moderately rich, and has built a thriving business, attends church regularly, and is known by his community for his philanthropic activities.

They see a model family man and wonder why that man has no family of his own.

I’m single; I live alone in my big house all by myself, and I have no potential “prospects” that would suggest my imminent settling down.

This is a great concern to everyone around me, especially my mother.

"You this boy! You are my firstborn son; do you want to kill me? Don't you ever want me to raise my own grandchildren? Ehn, answer me o!?"

I don't know how she always conveniently forgets that she has already "raised" four grandchildren.

Two each from my younger brother and younger sister.

On the days when her constant barrage of questions and accusations manages to trigger my irritation, I just kindly point out to her that there's more to life than marriage or having children.

“Mama, I’m satisfied with my life as it is. I’m busy with work, and that’s enough for me. If a family will happen, then it will happen.”

The first time I told her this, she stared at me in bewildered shock for a long time, but she didn't say anything.

I thought that was the last I would hear of the topic, till she returned to my house the week after with two elders from our hometown, the three of them pleading with me to "seek deliverance if you need it."

My mother, like the rest of them, doesn't understand that I'm not against the idea of falling in love; I've just tried and failed so many times that I no longer believe it’s a realistic possibility for me.

I have loved, and I have loved hard, and neither has served me well to date.

I’ve accepted fate that it will probably never happen, and I’ve made my peace with it.

If you think I’m exaggerating, then hear me out.

I had my first girlfriend at 17. I was in SS2, and her name was Tina.

She was a very brilliant girl, and everyone, teachers and students included, agreed that she had a bright future ahead of her.

Tina liked me because I was taller than her, and I liked her because she didn’t trim her uniform skirt like the other senior girls in our class.

It also helped that she did most of my assignments for me.

We dated for about a year, and we were making plans to go to the university together.

Then immediately after our WAEC results were released, she broke up with me.

I had gotten a D7 in Mathematics.

She probably got the sudden realisation that our children could possibly inherit my brain instead of hers, so she decided to run away as fast as she could.

I don't even blame her.

Tina ended up going to one of the best private universities in the country, and I had to defer my admission for a year to get my grades up.

At 19, there was Tolani.

She was a coursemate in the university and my first taste of real, undeniable attraction.

The kind that made us text and call for long hours into the night, talking about every mundane and trivial thing possible.

She was stunning and confident, and her soft voice made my heart flutter, even when she was being sarcastic or rude.

I was head over heels for her.

Two months into our relationship, I mustered up all my courage to finally tell her, "I love you."

She smiled and replied, "Aww, that’s nice. You’re so cute."

That was one of the signs, but I was too infatuated and naive to notice.

I told Tolani those words thirteen other times in the duration of our relationship, and she never once said it back.

Eventually, it started to bother me, but I just told myself that she’s probably just not used to saying it.

I mean, we spent all the free time we had together; she couldn’t say she didn’t love me too, right?

We dated for about six months, and then one day I saw a post on her Instagram where she posed for pictures in the snow.

Ahnhan. Snow? In Lagos? Since when?

That was when I found out that she had travelled out of the country during the winter break.

Just like that.

She hadn’t told me anything.

No heads-up. No warning. She just left.

I won’t deny that I cried like a baby that night. It felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest because I genuinely believed that she cared for me as much as I did for her.

Looking back some months after, I finally realised and admitted to myself that she never did.

She just enjoyed the attention that she was getting.

It was a very tough pill to swallow.

I also met Funmi in school, and I immediately knew that I’d never meet somebody like her again.

Funmi was very different from the other women I knew then and the ones I had known until that point.

Might sound cliché, but she really was.

She was grounded and driven and so focused on school. She was also a devout Christian too, always organising outreaches on campus and inviting me for fellowship meetings.

I’ll admit that I wasn’t too interested in attending those religious activities, but I went because of her.

She was a stark contrast to the man I was at the time, and I still have no idea why she even paid me any attention.

Funmi also loved adventure, and she was a meticulous planner.

She planned everything down to the detail, from the things she did per day to the exact amount of money she spent per month.

One time, she was telling me about her five-year timetable for her life, and she subtly suggested to me that I was a part of it.

I was smitten.

That was when I knew that I had to start taking my life more seriously.

I stopped skipping classes, took on some extracurricular activities, and actually started to listen to what was being said in our fellowship meetings.

The whole of me was determined to be the right man for her.

Then one day she abruptly and directly asked me, "Do you ever see us getting married?"

I panicked.

Marriage ke?

I was a broke undergraduate who had just started to figure his life out, and here she was, talking about something as overwhelming as marriage and settling down.

Funmi had put me on the spot, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled and held her hands.

I thought I was being sweet when I referenced the Bible and said, "We don’t need to worry about tomorrow, Funmi. The future will sort itself, okay? Let's just enjoy the moment."

The moment ended exactly one week after that when she broke up with me after a communion service.

She spoke for a long time about there not being "time to waste" and how she had "too big a future planned to entertain any uncertainty."

I tried to explain myself, to tell her that we could figure it out together and that I was willing to move on the same wavelength with her.

But her mind was made up.

To this day, I regret not having myself a little more put together at that moment.

Funmi was probably my soulmate, now that I think about it, and it was so disappointing to have to let her go.

However, she was the one who drew me closer to having a sense of peace with God, so I'll forever be grateful to her for that.

Aisha came along a few months before my graduation.

I was about to turn 23, and I literally ran into her while sorting out some departmental issues.

She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

Aisha was tall and friendly to everyone she met. She carried herself with so much grace and humility, covered in her hijab and always smiling.

Our chemistry was great, and funny enough, she was studying Biochemistry so it became our little inside joke.

Unlike the ones I had with Tolani, my conversations with Aisha were always deep and intellectual.

Our outlook toward life was as similar as our taste in music.

We had everything that pointed to us having a great future together.

What we did not have, however, was her family’s approval.

"You are not Hausa, my son,” her father said to me plainly the day we met. Hard and honest. "This union will not be possible."

I tried to laugh it off, thinking it was just a jovial quip, but his face didn't shift one bit from its cold, rigid stare.

“You seem like a good man, but we’ve already found a suitable husband for her,” he added, his voice softer but his gaze still firm.

I opened my mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t come out.

I turned to Aisha for some form of solace or assurance, but she immediately lowered her eyes to the ground to avoid mine.

As soon as she squeezed my hand, I knew it was over.

I’d thought planning for marriage early would help me avoid losing Aisha like I did Funmi, but I was wrong.

We’re on good terms now, and she still calls me every now and then, just to check in.

I was still heartbroken over Aisha when I met Christa on Instagram.

I was searching for a perfume vendor to buy a new fragrance from when I stumbled across her profile.

She had some cute vlogs on her page, so I ordered more perfumes than I needed or could even afford, and then I stylishly started a conversation with her.

We hit it off immediately.

There were no awkward introductions or dragged-out monologues. We just started talking like we’d known each other forever.

She had a very good sense of humour, and she was always so supportive of everything I did.

The attraction was deep and mutual. We texted every day for a few months, having calls whenever the time difference would permit us.

I’d always been wary of “online relationships,” but this time I let all my guard down. It became clear to us from the start that mere “friendship” was not going to cut it.

Eventually, the reality of our very different circumstances became impossible to ignore.

For one, she lived far away in Europe, and I was in Nigeria, too jobless and too penniless to even dream of the possibility of leaving the country anytime soon.

And for another, she was five years older than I was. She was 29, and I was 24.

Even if we were to consider a long-distance relationship, the difference in our life timelines was enough to give us both pause and make us reconsider.

I think we both genuinely wanted to make it work, but life and its messed-up circumstances, eh?

Honestly, I was ready to pretend like everything was fine and just keep on going as we were, but Christa did not share this perspective with me.

As she rightly told me in one of our last late-night calls, “I have so much more to lose than you do if we do this for any longer and it doesn’t work out.”

One day, I woke up and realised that she had blocked me everywhere.

Just like that.

She did leave a final text, though, explaining that she was tired of pretending that we were going somewhere when we weren’t. She also said that it really hurt her to do this and that she’d miss me, but she knows that it’s for the best if we go our separate ways.

I was beyond devastated.

I had hoped that we would somehow opt to remain friends and keep the core of our friendship, but she chose to opt for a clean break.

I’d thought I couldn’t feel any worse pain after Aisha, but this hurt much more.

My heart still grieves for what could have been with Christa, and I think about her almost every other day.

I think she’s the only one I’ve not fully gotten over.

I’m also very disappointed that I never got to beat her in Scrabble.

Three months into working my first full-time job, I met Adaora.

Well, my mother made me meet her. She ambushed me after service in church one day and made me take Ada out.

I’d sworn to stay away from women after back-to-back crushing heartbreaks, but I could tell it would make Mama happy, so I reluctantly did it.

There was no special connection between us, no instant bond or anything like that. To be frank, I wasn’t even interested in her.

Or anybody else for that matter.

But my mother loved Ada so much. So much more than I did. She felt Ada was the one, and she was so sad when I told her that we were no longer together.

Sometimes she still asks me about her.

Why did we end? Well, she claimed to have found a man with a “better vision” than my own.

Apparently, being a young hustling guy with big dreams was not enough for her. I also needed to have my own house and a Toyota Corolla.

I'll never forget the last thing Adaora said to me.

"I love you, but I need stability. You're too 'mouth-to-hand' to take care of me the way I want. No offence."

I nodded and told her that I understood and that no offence was taken.

I cried again that night.

The next month I quit my job and started my own business.

At this point I was seriously starting to wonder if the whole love thing was even for me.

Was I falling in love too fast? Was I attracting the wrong type of women? Would I forever be a 'mouth-to-hand' guy?

So many questions.

It was a concern that always nagged at me, but I always redirected all my attention to my work.

My business was all I had, so I poured my heart and soul into it, with Ada's words ringing in my head anytime I got frustrated or wanted to quit.

When I met Chiamaka at 27, I realised that the problem wasn’t entirely me.

She was broke, jobless, and yet, she always had a request to make.

It started small and tolerable; she’d ask for things like airtime, lunch from Glovo, money to make her hair, and things like that.

Then all of a sudden she elevated levels to asking me to pay her rent, order wigs from overseas, and buy her a new phone almost every other month.

One time, she even had the nerve to ask for a ‘small’ contribution to her car payment.

I tried to satisfy her as much as I could because, outside the constant demands, she was a very decent person.

I initially felt like I was investing in a potential future partner, but as time went on, I realised that nothing I did was ever enough to satisfy her.

The day you can say my eyes “cleared” was the day I suggested that she join me in running my business.

That way she’d have something to do, keep herself busy, and also learn the ropes of my work, since we were most likely going to get married.

Do you know what that idiot girl said?

She looked me dead in the eye and told me, "Are you okay? Me? I should come and work in that small business of yours that's not going anywhere? Don't downgrade me like that, please."

I made sure she left my house that same day.

I also collected the phone and the other expensive things I’d bought from her, and I sold all of them.

I can’t deny that it felt so good.

I gladly invested the money back into my "small business” and that year I made 10 times my annual profits.

That was the big break that changed everything for me.

It was at 32 that I started to feel the pressure from every corner to get married and start my own family.

It was coming from everywhere.

Family. Friends. Church. Strangers. Business partners.

All my agemates were settling down, and I was busy scaling my business, working hard to establish new branches in the neighbouring countries.

I was already doing very well by that time; my company was raking in millions, I’d started my own charity company, and I’d just built a house for my mother.

“I love you, my son,” she had said, her voice solemn. “But all this money you’re making, is it not your family that you should be spending it on?”

I wanted to explain to Mama that she was my family, the only family I needed, but even I could admit that something was missing.

Naturally, a lot of women had started to flock around me, but I yearned for something real and deep.

Something that wasn’t rooted in the fact that I now had a lot of money. And yes, I was also tired of losing at love.

I finally succumbed to the pressure to “try again” when I agreed to go on a blind date with one of my younger sister’s friends.

Apparently, the girl was one of her bridesmaids, and she had taken a liking to me at the wedding reception.

Her name was Anita, and our first date went really well.

She had cute dimples, and her side frame made her look a lot like Rihanna. She also laughed at all my jokes, and she wrote the best stories I’d ever read.

Was this finally it? I wondered.

My answer didn’t take long to arrive.

Literally five days after our first date, while we were on a video call, she was complaining to me about how her hairdresser had postponed her appointment again for the second time.

I, ever supportive and encouraging, innocently told her that the all-back hairstyle she was currently wearing looked good on her and that she should “rock it” more often.

Anita failed miserably at hiding the disgusted expression on her face.

She ended the call with a flimsy excuse, and I've not heard from her since then.

My sister later told me that Anita felt like I was one of those men who only wanted women to remain in their “natural state” and not express themselves in their appearances however they wanted.

I laughed it off because it was far from the truth. I had genuinely meant the all-back thing as a compliment.

It’s just another thing about women I'll never understand.

My last relationship was four years ago, and it was with Belinda.

I'll be honest, I was never in love with her.

At that point, I was just happy to be with a woman who made me happy and gave me peace of mind. It was nice to have someone to look forward to seeing every now and then.

Being with her also protected me from that constant external pressure.

Belinda reminded me a lot of Funmi.

She always sent me morning devotionals, made me eat healthier, and even helped me plan my finances.

A year into our relationship, I made her the head of all the West African branches of my company. We were like a “power couple.”.

She handled the day-to-day activities, and I handled the bigger management stuff.

The thought of proposing to her was still playing around in my mind when she came to my office one day, sat me down, and said, "I feel like you're about to propose to me, but I don’t think we will be a good fit as husband and wife.”

My heart skipped.

So, after two years, she suddenly just realised that?

I jokingly asked her if she also felt like returning the two years of my life that she had taken back to me.

She didn’t laugh.

But she was right. We loved each other, but we were not in love, so we broke it off.

Belinda still manages the operations of all my foreign companies today, and I consider her to be my best friend.

I flew back to Nigeria to attend her wedding last year.

I sat in that ceremony, watching the couple in love and watching other men around me dance with their wives, and then a thought occurred to me.

“You’ll never ever have this, no matter how hard you try.”

It wasn’t a malicious thought. Or even a devil that I needed to bind.

It was just me, innately accepting what I’d feared all along.

So you now see why it’s easier for me to say “yes” when I’m asked if I believe in love.

I’d take it over retelling this story every single time.

Time does not permit me to tell you about Bella or Yejide or Kevwe or the many other countless failed talking stages and minor relationships I’ve had over the years.

But I know you get my point.

It’s definitely not been a lack of my trying.

I have tried and tried my best to love and make love last; it just hasn't worked out for me yet.

I don’t think it ever will.

And while you can say that I’ve learnt a lot from these women over the years, that’s not even consolation.

I’m tired of learning when it comes to love. I just want to love.

My friends even mock me and say that I’m the first man to date a woman from every tribe and religion and still fail to make any of them my wife.

Harsh? Maybe, but they’re not wrong.

I’ve never had a “spec” or any groundbreaking criteria when it came to picking the woman I want to be with.

I have tried to be as liberal and open as possible, simply because I didn’t want to limit myself to missing out on the things that could be.

I wonder if that’s the problem

Mama doesn’t visit me as regularly as she used to.

She’s getting older now, weaker too, so I make it a point to see her every time I can.

I know she’s not happy with me, but she tries her best to hide it.

Many times, I’ve considered just hiring a surrogate to get a child with so that she will have her greatest heart desire before she dies.

But I can’t.

As much as I want my mother’s happiness, this is my own life that we’re talking about here.

And that’s not what I want.

The best she can do is to keep praying that it happens for me and that it happens soon. That’s all.

Anyways, I have to go now.

I have a date with Theresa in a few hours, and I have no idea what I’ll wear.

Wish me luck.

Maybe it will be this time.

Editing this the day after uploading just to say - This story is entirely fictional.

Inspired by some real-life scenarios? Yes.

Is it about me and my life? No.

Thank you for reading. 😂😂

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