Good morning. Good afternoon. Good evening. In fact, good day!

I’ve come to address something important, so there’s no need for fake, rosy pleasantries; good day! And please take your seats quickly because we do not have time.

Living in Nigeria, I’ve witnessed an alarming amount of nonsense. I’ve interacted with people who make me question why they’re not locked up in cages in Maitama Amusement Park because, honestly, with the brains they possess, their only meaningful contribution to society would be amusing the rest of us from behind iron bars. And if your assumption is that the category of people I’m referring to are the people of Adam’s gender, you are absolutely correct. In fact, one cold zobo for you after this meeting. But it’s not only them; it’s their parents too.

I’m sorry if you’re a man reading this, and I’d like to state clearly that I genuinely do not have a vendetta against your gender. But if your parents belong to that strange group chat where they collectively decide that the girl child must be rigorously trained so she won’t “embarrass the family,” while the boys are left free to actually disgrace, and mortify the entire lineage, only for them to later begin searching for “a calm, decent girl with home training” to settle down with you so she can “bring you back to your senses,” respectfully, your parents should undergo psychiatric evaluation because they are certainly not okay.

Sometime last year, one of my very responsible mutual friends got married to a very young man. I had never seen a 23-year-old man get married—and even more shocking, to a 21-year-old girl. I happened to be in the room while her friends were spilling tea, and that was when I discovered that the guy’s parents had insisted he get married because he had become a chronic drug addict. And who better to nurse him back to sanity than a girl who had been carefully trained to be a good wife, nurturing mother, and creator of order in the home?

I didn’t dwell on it too much; she came from a well-to-do family. If both families knew exactly what was wrong with that boy and still allowed their beloved daughter to end up with him because they wanted a stronger family network, then good luck to them, and I sincerely pray that in her next life, she gets parents who do not hate her.

More recently, from gatherings and everyday interactions, I’ve come to realize that a frightening number of parents genuinely see women as medication. I mean, it has become completely normal to prescribe a decent, God-fearing, responsible, and well-trained girl as treatment for a drug addict, womanizing, drunken, financially irresponsible, abusive, and fundamentally useless boy—so useless that even satan cannot use him.

Whenever a boy becomes a menace to society, the aunties immediately suggest marrying him off to a decent girl, as though girls have suddenly become rehabilitation centres. If the same amount of energy used to train your daughters had been invested into that boy, would this even be a suggestion? Would this conversation even exist?

My aunty recently advised her friend to “better find a young, peaceful girl” to settle down with her very useless son before he lands in jail and soils the family name. Apparently, her friend’s son is a heavy drinker who had graduated from merely babbling nonsense while intoxicated to being picked up from gutters after completely losing himself. And he wasn’t just a drunkard. He was an aggressive, irresponsible man who clearly could not provide for a home because every single penny he earned disappeared into bars and lounges.

While they were busy raising the girls in the house with Proverbs 13:24, they left the boy to “just be a boy.” Now, from “just being a boy,” he has evolved into a full-blown hoodlum and his parents are acting shocked.

Hello ma, why are you surprised that someone you invested little to no effort into training is now dragging your family name through the gutters? Why are you shocked that the same boy whose errors were constantly excused with “that’s how boys are” is now out here doing “boy child” things?

When you warned your daughters to stay away from alcohol, parties, men, and everything society labels immodest, did you include that notorious son of yours in those conversations? And let us assume you did; would you have issued the same punishment you gave your daughter if he failed?

You constantly asked your daughter, “Is this what you’ll do in your husband’s house?” whenever she made even the tiniest mistake. Yet that boy, who not only erred but became the physical embodiment of error itself, was repeatedly excused. Now you’re terrified that he’ll disgrace the family. Excuse me, were you and your husband genuinely expecting him to return home with a medal of excellence? Where exactly was he supposed to get it from?

Now your solution is to push him into marriage so he can “become responsible.” And of course, your settlement options are never women like him because those ones are apparently not “fit.” No, your options are always the God-fearing, kind, loving, peaceful, orderly, caring, responsible girls; the ones society praises as ideal women, because only that type of woman can rescue your family name from the mud your son has dragged it into.

And because some of you already know that no reasonable parent would—well, should—allow their well-trained daughter end up with that rehabilitation-requiring son of yours, you suddenly find your way to the village in search of an Asanwa for your hoodlum prince. You even have the audacity to specifically request that the girl must not only have impeccable character but also be beautiful. Are you mad?

You have the confidence to make such outrageous demands because you know you’re her family’s ticket out of the trenches. Because you’re wealthy and her family is struggling, you arrive carrying yourself like some kind of messiah, as though you are the only hope they have left. Then you proceed to place ridiculous conditions on this naive girl: that she will only have access to money if she stays with your son and takes care of him, that she shouldn’t go out because you don’t want her eyes to “tear” in the city, that she should tolerate that lunatic you call a son and—oh God, my anger is rising again.

But you, your husband, the people who connected you to the girl’s family, the advisers, and your son are all deeply unwell.

You know your son becomes violent when he drinks. You know he throws bottles and assaults people whenever he loses the tiny shred of sanity he has left—yet you still go scouting for a human being as a cure. You still go searching for someone’s gentle daughter as treatment. Weldone ma, Satan has probably submitted his resignation letter so you can comfortably occupy his throne because even the throne of witchcraft has become too small for you.

And to the parents who willingly hand their daughters over into marriages that are obviously going to destroy them. To the ones who pressure their daughters into accepting marriages to societally unfit men so they can finally stop being shareholders of trenches stocks, hell is honestly beyond merciful for you. There are countless routes out of poverty—countless. I’m not denying that they may be difficult, but I am saying with my full chest that alternatives exist. Yet the route you chose was the easiest one: marriage.

You did not care about your daughter’s wellbeing, her happiness, her chances of finding genuine love, or worse still, her life. A wealthy family approached you for your daughter’s hand in marriage and clearly stated their conditions. They openly admitted that what they needed was a caretaker for their fully grown son. From every description and indication, you already knew that boy was completely unfit to be your daughter’s husband, yet you deliberately shut your eyes because your vision was consumed by fantasies of no longer being poverty-stricken. You greedy sir and madam, if you belong to this category, you will ask God for bread and He will hand you Olumo Rock. You do not deserve to have children!

I need to pause… I’m annoyed.

I’ve heard this ridiculous suggestion of “a good wife” for a mentally deranged boy far too many times and it’s genuinely sickening. I have never once heard people suggest finding a peaceful husband for a wayward girl, so why exactly should women serve as cure for a man’s recklessness?

To the financially stable parents who travel to villages searching for wives for their foolish sons, if a man exactly like your son came to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, look me in the eye and lie that you wouldn’t bathe him with boiling tomatoes. Why then do you comfortably dish out what you could never tolerate yourselves? Is it simply because you’re privileged enough not to beg for bread?

You attend your place of worship every week. You preach love and righteousness and present yourselves as saints, yet you expect another person to accept your personal “God forbid” because, in your rotten minds, you believe that’s their only option. You are incredibly wicked and heartless.

And what makes it even more disturbing is how strategic many of you are with your wickedness. You know it’s a smarter move to get a girl with all these admirable qualities from a struggling family because if, by some unfortunate circumstance, your son sends her to an early grave, the case can be more easily buried. After all, what resources does her family realistically have to fight with? Plus, there was already a “deal” between both families. What more can they do beyond living with the guilt? You settle whoever needs settling, sweep everything under the carpet, and continue life as though nothing happened. No sir, that’s witchcraft!

While saying all this—still with intense anger, of course—I am also aware that some parents do not intentionally set out to harm any girl. But let’s be honest, you are primarily trying to save your son, are you not? You don’t truly care about that girl. You may eventually grow fond of her as parents, but that affection is rooted in the fact that she is helping nurse your son back to sanity, and I would still like to let you know that it is wrong. If you would never place your own daughter in that situation, then nobody else’s child should suffer through it because of you. I do not care if your intention is to shower her with money, clothes, comfort, and luxury. The foundation of that arrangement is still the belief that your son is broken and a wife should fix him. It is wrong.

Even if your intentions toward the girl are somewhat genuine, they are still not entirely pure as far as I’m concerned because if one day she realizes she is unhappy, decides she is uncomfortable with that life, and wants something better for herself, chances are high that you will not take that decision lightly.

So honestly, let’s stop this entirely. Train your sons with discipline early enough and stop searching for a human rehabilitation centre to solve their problems. And if you genuinely trained him properly but he still went astray, I’m sorry, but that still does not give you the right to solve his issues with somebody’s daughter. If you cannot do it to your own daughter, then do not do it to another person’s child. That is honestly the barest minimum contribution you can make to society. Thank you.

HELLO PEOPLEEE!!!

I was supposed to publish this newsletter on my birthday as my generous contribution to society. I learned this perspective on the 21st of February, and it felt like something worth sharing on a special day—my birthday, to be precise. Well… clearly, that didn’t happen. So here’s your slightly delayed gift. ❤️

In the month of February, I started studying the book of Mark. As you may already know, the first four books of the New Testament give different accounts of the same events in Jesus’ life (and if you didn’t know before now, you’re welcome).

When I got to Mark chapter 5, I realized I had read the story of “the woman with the issue of blood” months earlier in Luke. I’ll be honest—I wanted to skip the chapter because I was trying to move quickly through my Bible plan, but the Holy Spirit kept me there to teach me something new from a story I thought I already understood.

Let’s get into it.

²¹ When Jesus had again crossed over by boat to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him while he was by the lake. ²² Then one of the synagogue leaders, named Jairus, came, and when he saw Jesus, he fell at his feet. ²³ He pleaded earnestly with him, “My little daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so that she will be healed and live.” ²⁴ So Jesus went with him.

A large crowd followed and pressed around him. ²⁵ And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. ²⁶ She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse. ²⁷ When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, ²⁸ because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” ²⁹ Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering. (Mark 5:21 – 29 NIV)

Now, the usual takeaways from this story are faith and Jesus’ power, and rightly so. But that day, the Holy Spirit showed me something different:

The day you believe it is your turn… becomes your turn.

Let me explain.

Jairus had already secured Jesus’ attention. Jesus was literally on His way to his house. The moment, to everyone watching, belonged to Jairus—even though a crowd full of people, likely with their own problems, were following as well. But one person stood out: the woman with the issue of blood.

She didn’t stand out because of the severity of her issue, and no, I’m not just talking about her faith. She stood out because she decided that moment was her time, despite knowing that Jesus was currently on His way to heal someone else. She seized the moment, acknowledging she was in the presence of the One who could heal her, and she made that moment hers... even though the moment was “about Jairus” to everyone else.

Many times, when we attend meetings or services where God is clearly moving, we disqualify ourselves simply because what is being addressed doesn’t match our specific need.

You’re at a prayer conference, and prayers are going up for marriage—meanwhile, you’re trusting God for a job. So you withdraw.

You’re at a Sunday service, and the gifts of the Spirit are being distributed, but all you want is healing for that persistent pain—so you disengage. You fold your arms and stop participating because you think today’s service is not for you.

Whenever the move of the Spirit seems to be in a direction different from our individual problems, we start to think, “It’s not my turn,” or “This meeting isn’t for me; maybe next time.” We forget that God is all-sufficient and omnipresent. There is no schedule in heaven that says, "Today is for healing; tomorrow is for provision.”

God is not limited to one issue per meeting. NSPPD, Hallelujah Challenge, and Upper Room can all be happening at the same time, and God’s presence will be evident in all locations. Yet, you—who are in the same room where the Holy Spirit is moving—will suddenly decide it is not your turn because you need a job while the minister is announcing fruits of the womb.

The woman with the issue of blood understood that God isn’t limited. She saw that Jesus was headed somewhere else. She knew the attention wasn’t on her, but she also knew that “if He can do it, then He can do it for me—right now”.

We need to understand that as long as God is present, all you need to do is have faith and raise your concerns to Him. There is no “set day” for your issue. Your set day is the day you believe and lay it at His feet. Jesus never told anyone, “Today is not for you; come back tomorrow for your miracle,” so rest assured you won’t be the first.

The woman with the issue of blood clearly saw Jesus was on His way to Jairus’ house, but she knew He could heal her too. She didn’t care that the moment seemed to be for someone else; she knew He could handle her case simultaneously, so why not leverage the opportunity?

Tell God your needs and problems as they arise.

Pray about your rent even when the altar call is about the fruit of the womb.

Tell him about your exams even when the focus is on business breakthroughs.

Ask for a car to commute even when testimonies are about healing.

Your problem does not have to resemble someone else’s before God attends to it. If it worries you, it concerns your Father. And whenever you bring it to Him, He will answer.

So talk to Jesus today. Your set time is not someday; your set time is NOW.

Yet, the moment my fingers hit my keyboard, that same Sunday irritation rose again—fresh, heavy, and fully prepared to express itself.

But do I blame myself? Absolutely not.

How could I possibly take the fall for ‘forgetting’, when four solid hours of boredom and unnecessary movement were involved?

And do I blame my darling Iya, who decided to spend the better part of her Sunday attending every church meeting known to man? Also, no.

I blame that invitation card.

I blame that small treacherous piece of stationery that decided to go missing after the 10:00 am mass two Sundays ago. If it had just stayed in one place, I wouldn’t have been back at the parish by 3:00 pm, and I certainly wouldn’t have run into that confused, overconfident Sunday school teacher who had the gall to look me in the face and say, "Let's go on a det.”

No, that’s not a typo. Your eyes read right, and my fingers are simply reporting the phonetic atrocity my ears heard. He said, “Let’s go on a det”.

Now, how did we get here?

Lately, I’ve been going to church on my own because it’s more convenient. I don’t have the patience to wait for my sister to finish painting her lip combo, or for my mum to finish constructing her gele with architectural precision.

I just get dressed, grab my bag, and off I go. Sharp.

But two Sundays ago, I decided to follow my mother. That was my first mistake.

I should have known it was a bad decision when the first three dresses I tried on refused to cooperate. Eventually, one did, and we left for church. I sat upstairs, while my mom and sister sat downstairs.

After mass, I came down, bag in hand, hoping we would go home after my mom finished greeting half of the congregation. But no. She told me to wait ‘a bit’ because she wanted to attend a meeting.

Meeting?

If there are forty societies in that church, my mother is in at least thirty-one. So when she says “a meeting”, just come with a pillow and a mat. At least five societies will hold their meetings concurrently or back-to-back, and my mother WILL show her face in all of them. No fatigue.

I told her I wanted to go home, having zero intention of spending my entire Sunday in church. She promised it would be brief, handed me an invitation card, and asked me to take it to the car.

I should have known better.

I should have known that the same woman who says she only wants to buy pepper, then proceeds to spend five hours in the market, is incapable of a ‘brief’ meeting. Her haste to hand over the invitation card should have been the sign, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I waited two hours for this “brief” meeting, but my mother was nowhere to be found.

Three hours. Still nothing.

Then, at three hours and forty-two minutes, there she was, strolling to the car like time had not moved. And she still stopped every four steps to greet people whose voices she recognized.

By then, I had meandered through every inch of that church. I bought puff-puff; I bought biscuits; I bought kunu aya. I even bought cake from one kiosk woman who attends mass every day but clearly lacks all the Fruits of the Spirit.

When my mother eventually reached the car, she came with snacks to pacify us. We hit H-Medix for groceries and finally got home around 3:20 pm. The moment I switched into housegirl mode, my mother asked, “Where’s the card.”

“Which card?”

She glared at me.

“That card better not be missing.”

I didn’t remember what card she was talking about...until I did. And I had absolutely no idea where it was.

“It’s in your car,” I hoped. But my hope came out as a statement. I prayed the Holy Spirit would pity me and manifest it there, but when my mom returned from checking the car, there was nothing except keys in her hand.

I’m finished.

“It’s not there!” Her voice had risen. “You better go and find that card! I gave you something to hold for a few minutes, and you can’t find it?”

Apparently, four hours is now a few minutes.

“I’m sure it’s in the car.”

She shoved the car keys at me. “Oya, go and bring it.”

I went. I checked. But there was nothing. When I returned empty-handed, my mother didn’t need a prophet to tell her that I had misplaced the card. Her tongue became sharp like a razor blade.

“You’ll not sit in one place!”

“You’ve misplaced that card, and I don’t even know the content!”

“When they tell you to do something, you won’t do it well!”

“You never remember anything unless it’s your own.”

“It’s you that will tell the woman you misplaced that card. I’m not going to disgrace myself!”

And the final one:

“I don’t know if that’s how you’ll be misplacing things in your husband’s house!”

When she realized shouting will not magically produce the card, she told me to wear my slippers and change out of my housegirl attire; because we were going to retrace my steps.

We started with H-Medix, but there was no sign. Even if the card had fallen there, whoever found it would assume there was money inside and zoom off with an invitation to an event he was not invited to.

Then, we went back to church.

I stepped down from the car before she parked, ready to begin my search. The moment I stepped through the church gate, a loud and familiar voice boomed.

“Are you looking for me?”

“No!” I replied.

“So what are you looking for?”

“A card”

“What kind of card?”

At this point, I already knew the man would not be helpful. He was just draining my time with unnecessary questions.

“It’s an invitation card,” I said, marching ahead.

“Slow down na; we’re searching together.”

Together kwa? Who involved you?

I didn’t slow down. but he matched my pace. This uncle did everything except actually look for that card. Instead, he launched into a conversation that was completely useless to my current crisis.

“So where are you serving now?”

“I’m not serving yet.”

“Ahn ahn. I thought you had graduated.”

“I have. I’m just not serving yet.”

He paused... then asked, with a hint of condescension, “What did you even study?” As if he was expecting Pure Water Education.

“I studied S o f t w a r e E n g i n e e r i n g.” I enunciated every syllable so it could penetrate his skull.

His eyes widened briefly. “That means you can build apps.”

“Yeah. I try.”

He looked unimpressed.

Let me give a quick lore on this man.

Uncle Osaze was my Sunday school teacher years back—and as a child, he annoyed me to my marrow.

I wasn’t the finest of children—unless you were counting from the back. And this man? He had a gift. A very profound gift for spotting only the prettiest girls whenever it was time to distribute Caprisonne and biscuits.

Caprisonne hardly ever reached me when he was the one sharing. If I stretched out my hand, he would claim it was for “six years and below”—when I was seven.

When I turned eight, the criteria suddenly shifted to “seven years and below”.

Very calculated wickedness.

Fast forward to my late teens—I started glowing up. I returned from boarding school with confidence and clear skin, and suddenly, this same man, this agent of Caprisonne deprivation became jovial toward me.

“Ahn Ahn... my friend, I hope school didn’t stress you.”

Who is your friend? Are your eyes failing you?

He made it a personal assignment to call me ‘my friend’ whenever he saw me. Loudly, too, so that witnesses would be present. Then, I entered university; every single time this man saw me in church, it was: “Are you done now?”

Done with what exactly? Did I enroll for a one-year diploma in Singing?” He asked that question during every holiday, every break, every opportunity he had to open his mouth. Until one Sunday, he said his mind:

“This your school don tey o.”

He said it as if I was repeating years. As if I had a mountain of carryovers to clear, and that was the last straw. I was only tolerating him because we attended the same church, but why was he behaving like my father borrowed money from him to pay my school fees?

From that day, I started avoiding him intentionally. If I saw him on the left, I turned right. If he was upstairs, I relocated downstairs. Very tactical movement.

Until last Sunday… when that card disappeared and dragged me back into his orbit.

Back to where I was

“You try,” He said, then continued, “What did you even graduate with?”

That has been my favourite question since last year.

“I graduated with a FIRST CLASS.”

I stressed it. I saw the surprise on his face, and it lingered a little too long. I stood there, waiting, because I knew this man’s superpower was asking foolish questions.

Right on cue: “So are you in a serious relationship.”

I expected foolishness, but not this kind.

“What does that even mean?”

“Yes na. This degree of yours means you’re hot cake. Nobody should play with you. You know these boys in your age group like to play.”

This same man who taught me in Sunday school when I was a child was standing here, spewing rubbish in the house of God.

He continued boldly: “You’ve known me for long and I’m still not married.”

Truly a “you” problem, bruh.

I reminded him that I was still busy looking for my card. I didn’t come out in this Sunday heat just to listen to the delusions of an aging man. But overgrown men are famously dense. This loud uncle, who should be at a PTA meeting for his two children, was still following me around.

Card—you no help me find.

Caprisonne—you no give me that year.

Memory verse—you no gree make I recite.

And now that I’m a baddie 💆🏾‍♀️… you’re telling me that you’re unmarried?

Sir, I will lift you up in prayers. But that situation has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Then he said it:

“I’m very serious about you. You’ve known me since you were young.”

Exactly. And that is precisely why this conversation is disturbing.

“Don’t you want to be my friend?”

“In church, I know you.” I replied.

“Stop that thing! You want to brozone me”

He took it further. “Maybe God kept me unmarried because of you.”

Onwe ihe na-eme gi? I nyuru kai kai?

“I want to take you out. Let’s go on a det.”

“Ehn?”

I heard him. I just needed confirmation that my ears were still functioning correctly.

“I said, I want to take you out on a det. Give me your number, so we can talk about it.”

The way he pronounced ‘date’, I already knew the vision he had in mind—some palm wine and tilapia joint where they play loud highlife and call it ‘ambience’✨. It could never be a proper place. Never. Because that’s the pattern with older men pursuing younger girls. Very predictable.

I gave him my number so he would leave, but he didn’t. He followed me all the way to where my mother was standing with the catechist, acting like a concerned church worker helping a distressed girl. The catechist looked at us and asked who I was, then gave him a look that clearly said, “This is the first time I’m seeing you with this one.”

I didn’t blame him. Even I had seen Uncle Osaze rotating around different women after mass like a mobile network searching for connection. Bold of him to think I would be the one to end his year of marital wandering. He should continue looking for who to deceive.He doesn’t know that this generation has sense.

Anyway, we never found the card. And my mom later discovered that the event took place a few days after the card went missing. I wasted my entire Sunday looking for a scrap of paper and entertaining nonsense for absolutely nothing.

When I got home, he called. But my phone was on DND as always. I saw the number and immediately blocked it. Then the following Sunday, he saw me again, with my mother. Instead of minding his business, he walked up to me and said, “Stop hiding your face.”

Hide my face ke? I dey fear you?

I told him plainly that I wasn’t hiding my face, but I also did not want any interaction with him. He was shocked by my bluntness, and walked away—quietly.

Rubbish!

I’ve been a Christian for the most part of my life—all my life, even. On paper, my spiritual resume was stacked. Christian by birth, by name, by passed catechism exams, and even by the church leadership titles I collected in high school. But if you stripped away the labels, I was hollow. I had no reason for being a Christian beyond the fact that I was born into a Christian home.

I knew God loved us, and I knew Christ’s death was proof of that love, because they were the right answers to Sunday school questions. But I couldn’t explain how or why that love, expressed through His death, was supposed to be the very foundation of my faith.

I knew God loved me because the Bible said so. But it didn’t make sense that His love required Him to become a man and die so that we wouldn’t "perish".

What did “perish” even mean?

I was told it meant eternal damnation—separation from God. But if I did enough good, why would I still be separated from Him? Wouldn’t that count for anything?

I had questions.

I questioned why God had to become a man and die when, in His might, He could simply speak a word and reverse the curse. After all, didn’t He create the world through spoken words?

Why was mankind cursed in the first place? What did people mean when they said, “man fell”? Where exactly did we fall to?

And when I began to understand this idea of "falling", another question came. If God knows everything, then He must have known we would fall. So why didn’t He stop it? Why allow us to fall only to come and save us? Why not prevent it entirely and save Himself and us the stress?

These questions stayed in my heart. I never asked them out loud because it felt almost diabolical to do so. But I asked God in my head, hoping He would answer audibly... even though the answers were already in the scriptures.

In 2022, I changed schools. And looking back now, I believe it was a very intentional move by God for the sake of my salvation.

The first way he revealed himself to me was as a helper, an academic helper to be precise.

I was switching to a course my father wasn’t exactly sold on, but I wanted it with everything in me. I needed to excel in this new path, if only to prove that the switch was worth it. I didn’t have a deep relationship with God back then, but I was aware of His “helper” reputation. My mom, my Sunday school teachers, and basically everyone who believed in something said He helped people. So, I took their word and reached out to him.

I didn’t know how to pray properly. It was always “thank you for this” and “thank you for that” until five minutes passed and I was back to my routine. But I knew how to write, so I started writing letters to Him—listing the exact grades I wanted in each course and imagining those letters being mailed to heaven.

After three consecutive semesters of receiving exactly what I had written for each course, I became certain that God could hear me—and that He was actually receiving my letters. That realization stirred something in me. It was a thirst.

In that school, I met people who referred to Him as their “friend”. They spoke about Him like someone they could converse with, and it sounded so strange to me because I had always known God as a distant almighty figure. One who knew us by name, provided for us, and answered prayers, but not someone who talked.

Some people even said he had a sense of humour, and I would wonder...are these people okay?

What do you mean, the Alpha and Omega, the Lord of Hosts, the I AM, the Beginning and the End... has a good sense of humour?

It didn’t make sense to me, but something had already started growing in me. A yearning. And sometimes that’s all God needs, a simple yearning.

He wants us to want Him. Not just as Lord but also as a friend. He wants to guide you the way your friend would guide you, to talk with you the way you talk with people you love. But that kind of relationship can only happen through salvation.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. (Matthew 7:7 NKJV)

I sought Him, and I found Him.

In the summer of 2024, God finally reached out to me. But here’s the thing, he didn’t start with conversations. God doesn’t begin with "gisting". You cannot fully partake in that level of intimacy unless you are one with Him. And the only way to become one with Him is through salvation—after you’ve heard, accepted, and believed the gospel.

So here is the gospel:

First, God loves us deeply and yes, recklessly. He loves us so much that He bore the inconvenience of becoming a man, leaving His magnificent nature to come and die for our sins—sins that had already condemned us. He did this so we could regain the eternal life we lost through disobedience in the Garden of Eden. Through His death, He redeemed us and made a way for us to be one with Him again.

If you’re hearing this for the first time, or even the tenth, you might still be confused. And honestly, I don’t blame you. I heard it many times and still didn’t understand. I said I believed because I was afraid of going to hell. But how can you truly believe what you do not understand?

That’s why I’m here. To break this down as simply as possible, so you can truly understand the message of salvation and come home to the One who loves you.

Salvation

On a general note, salvation means deliverance or preservation from harm, ruin, or peril. It is synonymous with “redemption”, “rescue”, and “saving”, and stands in contrast to “downfall”, “damnation”, and “destruction”.

So what exactly are we being saved from?

Let’s go back to the beginning.

In the book of Genesis, God created man in His image and likeness—reflecting His nature. He gave man dominion over every living thing and blessed him: “Prosper, reproduce, fill the earth, and take charge” (Genesis 1:26-29 NKJV).

This shows that man was created to be godlike and to lead on earth. The only One above man is God Himself, in whose image we were created. Life, as it was designed, was meant to be perfect. Then came the instruction in Genesis 2:16-17:

Did they die?

Yes.

Did they die the way we expected? No.

Let me explain.

In Genesis 3:4-5, the enemy came as a serpent and told Eve, “You certainly won’t die.” He countered what God had said, implying that He had lied. And then added something more deceptive—that they would become like God.

But here’s the irony; God had already created man in his image and likeness. We were already his reflection. Anything beyond that would mean becoming omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent, and that was never meant for man.

Even though we were made like Him, we are not Him.

And we were already created in the highest authority that we could occupy. Higher than principalities, higher than powers, higher than the devil himself, and every other living thing on earth. Yet, Satan, who we were already above by virtue of our likeness to God, was advertising “godlikeness”.

You see how deceptive he is? If he knew how to be like God, why didn’t he do the abracadabra for himself? Why advertise it to someone else when he himself failed woefully and was cast out of heaven?

Anyway, let’s continue.

Eve ate the fruit and gave it to Adam; then something broke.

God said they would “certainly” die, and when God speaks like that, it is law. It is final.

They died, but not physically. They died spiritually.

They were separated from God. That was the death He spoke about.

In Eden, God made full provision for man. But disobedience brought a curse. It led to their expulsion from Eden’s paradise, and through that one act, all mankind came under the same condition.

We became separated from God.

Did God know that man would fall, and if He did, why did He let it happen?

One of the core descriptions of God is that He is omniscient—all-knowing. This means he knows everything: the past, the present, and the future. God told Jeremiah that he knew him before he was formed in his mother’s womb (Jeremiah 1:5), so how could he not have known that man would disobey Him?

Well, he knew.

1 Peter 1:20 tells us that Jesus’ death was part of God’s plan from the very beginning. It says Jesus was chosen and destined to be the sacrifice before the foundation of the earth was laid. In other words, before Genesis described the earth as formless and empty, before the command “let there be light”, Jesus had already been chosen to be our redeemer when we eventually fall.

This means God already foresaw the disobedience and the separation that would result from it. (See also Acts 2:23).

So if God knew that man would fall, why did He allow it? And why did He punish man so severely for something He could have prevented?

We often describe God as merciful, loving, and kind. That is why this question feels so heavy. I asked it too at some point. How could a loving Father expel His children from paradise and leave them with a curse? Doesn’t that contradict His nature?

But here is what I came to understand from the Word.

Those are not God’s only attributes.

God is also Just.

Throughout both the Old and New Testaments, He is described as a God of justice. Even in our prayers and songs, we call Him a “just” God.

To be just means to be completely righteous, fair, uncompromising, and full of integrity. A just judge in a Nigerian court will deliver judgement according to the law, regardless of whether the person standing before him is a stranger, a friend, or even family.

By human standards, true justice is rare. Emotion often interferes with judgement. Your biological father, if he were a judge, would struggle to sentence you to life imprisonment even if that were the legal penalty for your crime.

But God is not man. He is perfectly just.

And according to His law, the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23). This means no matter who commits the sin, the consequence must follow. If God ignored the penalty, He would be merciful, but He would no longer be Just, and God cannot contradict Himself; He cannot choose mercy at the expense of justice; if His quality of being just is questioned, then His holiness is, too.

His being Just means that if you appear in court for damaging someone’s property, He will make sure you pay the fine to the last kobo. But guess what? He is the same one who provides the money for you to pay it.

Now, back to the fall of man.

God does not choose for us. From the beginning, He gave man free will—the freedom to choose (Deuteronomy 30:19). He presents the options and guides us toward the right one, but ultimately leaves the decision in our hands. In the Garden of Eden, He gave Adam and Eve access to every tree except one. He warned them of the consequences, but didn’t force their hand. When the serpent came and they chose disobedience, the consequence had to follow because God is Just.

Mercy and Justice?

Now remember, God is not only just; He is also merciful. A perfect blend of a loving father and an incorruptible judge.

Mercy means that there must be a second chance; it means forgiveness for the sin that caused our separation. God could not abandon us; so, while justice required that the law of sin be fulfilled, mercy made room for restoration. In fact, I believe the first account of mercy happened in the same garden where the fall took place.

And the Lord God said, “Look, the human beings have become like us, knowing both good and evil. What if they reach out, take fruit from the tree of life, and eat it? Then they will live forever!” (Genesis 3: 22 NLT).

Let me explain how this shows God’s love.

Before the fall, man was free to eat from any tree except one. So why was the Tree of Life suddenly off-limits?

The tree of life is a symbol of immortality, perpetual and eternal life. Eating from it after the fall would have meant living forever in a broken and cursed state. That was never God’s design.

While His plan had always been for us to live eternally, receiving immortality in a fallen state would have been a perpetual nightmare. By sending Adam and Eve out of Eden, God wasn’t just punishing them; He was protecting them. He didn’t let man mess up further by locking himself into a cursed eternity. God already had a plan for our eternal life, but it wasn’t going to be through that route.

Temporary remission

If you read the book of Leviticus, you will see how God instructed Moses on sacrifices for the forgiveness of sin. And if you pay close attention, you will notice something consistent—every sacrifice involved the shedding of blood. You might wonder why. Why not sing like Paul and Silas? If singing could break the prison gates, then it must be powerful. Why not cry before God? Why not pray and fast? Why was it always blood?

Because in the spirit realm, there is a law: without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sins (Hebrews 9:22). While we can pray for help and sing for breakthrough, the specific requirement for sin is blood offering. That is why animals were sacrificed in the Old Testament; but this system was temporary.

The high priest and tabernacle were only placeholders, pointing to something greater that was coming.

Please read Hebrews 9 entirely for deeper understanding. Leveticus too if you can.

The ultimate remission

Think of God as a Judge hearing a case against His own son for property damage. Because the Judge is perfectly Just, He doesn't bend the rules; He sentences His son to the full legal penalty of ₦20 million. Justice is served.

But then, the Father’s love moves. He steps down from the bench and pays the fine on His son's behalf.

Because the money is handed over, the court has no more claims against the boy. He is free. Not because the crime was ignored, but because the Father personally paid the price.

The debt is paid, the law is satisfied, and His son is free.

God’s plan was always for a final, perfect sacrifice. The repeated sacrifices of animals were not sufficient to permanently take away sin. If they were, we would still be offering sacrifices today.

In the Old Testament, only the high priest could enter the Holy of Holies to offer the sacrifices for the people. But when Jesus came, He became both the high priest and the sacrifice. He entered not an earthly tabernacle made by men, but the heavenly one (Hebrews 9:11). And unlike the priests who offered the blood of animals, Jesus offered His own blood. Once. For all.

Christ became the perfect sacrifice and the mediator of a new covenant, giving us the eternal life God had promised from the beginning (Titus 1:2).

So what next?

Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die. Do you believe this, Martha?” (John 11:25-26 NLT).

Now that Jesus has paid the ultimate price on the cross of Calvary, the work for forgiveness is finished. He paid the price so you do not have to ever again. But the question remains: do you believe?

The only thing left for you to do is believe and confess. To believe that he died to restore you to God; to give you back the eternal life you lost through disobedience; and to fix what was broken in Eden.

Do you believe?

The message is very close at hand; it is on your lips and in your heart. If you openly declare that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. (Romans 10:8-10)

Before the call…

I’d like to put this out here.

In 2024, I was listening to a long teaching on salvation. My plan was to listen to the end and make the declaration during the altar call. Because the sermon was hours long, I broke it into parts to listen before bed.

The night I finally planned to finish it, I fell asleep. But shortly after, I woke up sensing a heavy negative presence in my room. I wasn’t spiritually sensitive back then, but I knew something was wrong. I was paralyzed and terrified, especially after hearing a strained, sharp, unnatural voice in the dead of the night.

It eventually left, but I was shaken. It wasn’t the first time I’d faced an “encounter” while trying to get closer to God. The first time it happened, I chickened out because of fear. But this time, I stayed. I went back, finished the message, said the prayer, and got saved.

Here’s the truth: Satan already has his final judgment; he is eternally damned. There is no redemption for him, so he wants as many people as possible to join him. He will prey on whatever he can to keep you away from Christ. In my case, it was fear. He knew that if he made the midnight hour scary enough, I’d stop seeking God. It wasn’t a coincidence; it was a tactic. For you, it might be guilt. The constant reminder of a sin from years ago, whispering that you’re too “filthy” to be washed.

But hear this today: You are not too far gone. Just come. Come afraid. Come unsure. Come filthy. Come with your guilt. Your sin isn’t too big, His blood covers all. Healthy people don’t need a doctor, but the sick run to one. Come home. You’ve been away for too long.

The Gospel

God loves you. He loves you completely and deeply, not withholding an atom of His love. He loved you enough to send His Son to come as a man and pay the ultimate price for your sins, because the repercussion for sin is death, and God did not want to see you, His beloved, die and be separated eternally from Him. He died, and resurrected; and through His resurrection, He gave to us His own life that can never end, so that we can be with Him once again. One spirit—forevermore.

If you believe, please say this prayer:

Dear God, I confess that I am a sinner in need of your mercy and grace. I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, that He died on the cross for me, and rose again on the third day for my victory. I believe in my heart and make confession with my mouth that Jesus is Lord. Thank you for saving me; and I receive this new life in Christ. Amen.

Father, thank you for the grace to share this message of the gospel. Thank you for every life that has come back to You through these words. Let you grace, mercy, and favour rest upon them, guide them, fill them, and let their lives bring glory to You, until we meet again in eternity. Amen.

And that’s it. Your sins are forgiven. Your sins are forgotten.

If you just got saved, or you need guidance, feel free to send a DM. I love you, but not nearly as much as God does. So bask in His love and enjoy the joy of salvation✨.

Welcome to the body of Christ ❤️.

Let me begin by giving a loud and sincere shout-out to a very specific group of parents.

You see, when the book of Isaiah said, “Instead of your former shame, you will receive a double portion,” I am convinced it was written with you in mind. Because with the kind of children you are harbouring in your homes? You deserve every bit of that double portion. Hazard allowance included.

However, some of una no dey try for us.

You will clearly see the evidence of principalities and powers operating freely in your household—in the physical form of a child—and instead of addressing it properly, instead of sending that child to therapy, an asylum or, at best, Apostle Arome’s ministry, you will use your hard-earned millions to ship him off to a university where he can begin terrorizing the rest of us. Haba, Mummy?

You’re probably wondering why I have come with my wahala when the new month just started. Well, since I graduated and officially joined the Association of Unemployed Youths, I’ve been spending an unhealthy amount of time reminiscing about my university days. Last week, I reminisced a little too hard, and a particular irritating memory from my third year resurfaced.

Since then, I’ve been mildly annoyed at myself, fed up with certain parenting decisions, and honestly disgusted by the children they produce.

I spoke to David for the first time in my third year; he was a Software Engineering student, just like me. I had seen him around campus countless times but never interacted with him—largely because I had absolutely no reason to. He was not my kind of person, and our paths never naturally crossed. There was no connection whatsoever—until Ezra.

Ezra, his closest friend, became my friend shortly before the second semester of 300 Level. And David, who had clearly been waiting for an opportunity, saw that friendship as an open window to stride into my life.

Yes, stride.

No introduction. No greeting. No shame.

He took one long, confident step to where Ezra and I were seated and said, “This babe, I like you.”

That was our first interaction.

Normally, I would’ve hissed and relocated. It was a clear sign of foolishness by my standards, but I overlooked it. Ezra had become a good friend, and it seemed harsh to write off his closest friend immediately. I convinced myself that anyone Ezra kept close couldn’t be completely unhinged. Ezra himself had sense and I believed some of it would’ve rubbed off.

I was wrong.

Three weeks after that encounter, Ezra invited my friend Naza and me to his house-warming party. I was skeptical. I am a committed avoider of anything that begins with, “You know we’re all adults here...” But Ezra assured me that it was going to be nothing like that. In fact, he bribed me with my favourite drink—Sosa (I hate it now, by the way). And that was how I succumbed, forgetting to make him promise that I wouldn’t have to indulge unwell people.

A few minutes after I settled in, David walked toward me wearing the most aggressively ripped jeans I had ever seen. The jeans were hanging by strands of thread in different sections. He looked at me, smiled, sat beside me, and like the first time, the next thing that came out of his mouth was, “I like you.”

Only this time, his voice was slower, calmer, more audacious, and—weed? I could perceive weed. That explained the level of audacity and aura farming. No wonder he sat there like a Bollywood star waiting for some slo-mo music after that careless declaration for the second time.

It was the weed.

And do you know where I messed up? I made excuses for him again because he was Ezra’s friend—not because I liked him. In fact, David was not my kind of guy at all. I liked men that looked clean—no fuzzy hair, well put together, smart outfits, and intelligent speech. David was the opposite.

But I rated Ezra too much to accept that his closest friend might simply be a confused alte student. I believed strongly in “birds of a feather flock together," and admitting David was unwell would mean questioning Ezra too. I wasn’t ready for that.

After the party, Ezra, Naza, and I grew closer. And of course, Ezra’s closest friend wasn’t going to disappear. David inserted himself into the group as well—closer to me than Naza. He never missed an opportunity to remind me that he liked me, and each time, I calmly reminded him that we were only ever going to be friends.

With no intention to throw a shade, I like intelligent men. What would I do with a man who was always talking about buying drip and getting his invincible bread up?

I didn’t tell him that part though. He had a very fragile ego. World War III would break out if I dared to open my mouth.

Slowly, David became a pain in my ass without me realizing on time. During lectures, he would sulk and ignore the class entirely whenever I sat with my other male friends—the ones who actually understood what was going on in class.

If I spoke to him afterward, he would respond like a landlord whose tenant had defaulted on rent, as though his father contributed to my tuition, and I was breaching contract by sitting elsewhere.

He even claimed one of my closest friends was using intelligence to bag babes—myself included.

Sir?

I had just gotten a GPA of 5.0 for the third time in a row. Exactly how does one intend to impress me with what I already have in excess? Also, I believe you have a brain too? What stopped you from bagging babes with it?

Then David said something that summarized his entire mindset. He asserted that most intelligent people don’t end up being successful and wealthy in life. He used his father as an example—an average student, but he turned out to be a wealthy man.

“All this book...book...book…you people will end up working for people that don’t even know the book.”

What a poetic way to package the apology of a CGPA that was sitting boldly on his student portal.

Now to the main tea, where the madness really happened.

Many people in my school had wealthy parents. If you wanted to chase a girl, you needed more “doings” than the next man chasing her. You couldn’t just show up with an Afro and jeans that looked like they survived a civil war. You’ll remain single till the second coming of Jesus.

David knew he didn’t have enough "doings", so he relied on one thing.

His father.

According to him, his father was a general in the Nigerian Army, and he made sure to echo it in the ears of anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross paths with him. He announced it so much that if you didn’t have substantial knowledge, you would think his father was the only General in the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

Every argument, every disagreement, every inconvenience, always ended with, “Do you know who my father is?”

Or my personal favourite:

“I almost sent my father’s soldiers to deal with them.”

Egbon, did your father transfer ownership of the barracks into your name?

I had to do some Google research to find out if his father handed over the Nigerian army to him as a birthday present. The audacity was too loud to be mere babbling.

And the worst part? He genuinely believed his father’s office gave him authority. The boy spoke like he had the immunity of the GCFR when he had not one degree to his name.

Mid-semester exams came, and Dr. Aisha wrote two A4 pages worth of instructions on the course group. The most important instruction was highlighted boldly: “BRING ALTERNATIVE INTERNET CONNECTION. THE SCHOOL WIFI MAY BE DOWN.”

Everybody read that line except David, who walked into the hall with baggy jeans, a laptop, and no internet source. The Wi-Fi was down, as she had predicted, and that was where the problem started.

David had to ask around for people’s passwords until Chibuike, my friend, agreed. He connected and started the exam—then, Chibuike submitted and left the hall. David was stranded. He sat there helpless until time ran out and the submission portal closed. He met me outside the hall with smoke practically erupting from his ears and nose.

“I will beat the hell out of this Chibuike boy.”

At least, it was him that would beat the boy, not his father’s soldiers. That was an improvement.

“What happened?”

“The boy knew I was connected to his internet, yet he left the hall early to go outside and talk to a babe. I couldn’t get another source before the deadline, and now, the portal has closed.”

I was with Chibuike shortly after the exam, so I knew that wasn’t true. Chibuike had not rushed out for a babe; he had simply forgotten that David was still connected.

And even if he had—why should your lack of internet be a hindrance to Chibuike’s love life? Chibuike was not David’s friend; he didn’t owe him generosity or loyalty. What was the entitlement for? Why didn’t you bring a router with all the wealth you make noise about?

David hated that I was defending Chibuike, so as usual, he hissed and left. Some days later, he told me he went to the lecturer’s office to beg but she threatened to call security.

Then he said, “Do you know what I told her?”

I asked, “What?”

“I asked her, ‘Do you know who my father is?’”

She still threw him out without caring about his father’s status.

Eventually, when she gave a makeup exam to the few who were unable to submit, he failed—because he had to write in her office with no aid from ChatGPT.

He blamed Chibuike again for ruining his opportunity, and blamed me even more for supporting Chibuike.

Still in the exam season, but on a different day, one of the lecturers gave us an assignment to be completed in less than 24 hours, using an app we had never been taught how to navigate. As expected, David did not even install the app. I didn’t blame him though; more than half of the department also had intentions to modify and submit what their friends had achieved.

But that day, David and I had a misunderstanding and he became rude and uncouth. He only calmed down when he realized he hadn’t submitted the assignment and couldn’t afford to jeopardize his only hope of securing a decent score. So he apologized and asked if I could still send it.

I did.

David had a knack for promising girls meagre fortunes. He would offer to buy you food, offer to clear your Shein cart, offer to take you on a date—mostly because he knew you would say, “No, thank you.”

How do I know this?

The one time I said yes, I noticed his pace became slower. Anxious. When we got to the food stand, the cashier returned his card and said, with a straight face, “Declined.” I paid for my food eventually.

On another day, he said he was hungry and I told him to order food for himself. He said, “My money is not to be spent by me, it is yours. If you want me to eat, you’ll have to buy the food for me.”

No go warm eba chop.

The Port-harcout man thought I was senseless. He wanted me to spend my allowance on his food and that fat delivery fee, while his own card was declining for common loaded fries.

Thief.

On one of my maintenance Fridays, David asked where I was and I told him I had gone to the salon. He said, “This girl, you have money o.” then asked, “How much should I contribute?”

Do I run an ajo business?

Abi I skipped the part where I mentioned that my money is insufficient?

Men that make the kind of noise you make usually say, “How much is the bill?”

And you’re aking me how much you should “contribute”?

Omo. Please just go and sit down.

The day I had exhausted my tolerance for David’s nonsense, I sent him a text ending the friendship. I offered academic help, but I couldn’t afford to be described in close association with him when girls eventually gathered to narrate events. “The baggy jeans boy that is always around Nicole.” That would be a stain on my white.

He asked why, and who badmouthed him. I told him I was just tired, but he pressed until I said, “You’re not adding value to my life.”

The next message I saw was:

“If you can’t say it to my face, don’t chat shit to me, lol.”

Excuse me?

I left the message unattended and stopped speaking to him.

He sent friends to plead, with Ezra claiming the boy was on the verge of suicide. I wasn’t buying it. Suicidal people don’t make noise; They leave a note and drink sniper. E reach David turn, he dey drop press release. Please abeg.

During exams, he cornered me at the only dependable place I could be found—the library. He stood there smiling with a notebook, expecting me to teach him. I ignored for two days until the third. He came with red, teary eyes. He claimed he “didn’t mean” the text the way I interpreted it. I knew there was no alternative interpretation, but for the sake of peace, I accepted his apology.

He offered penance by paying for my dinner. I politely refused. He insisted. When we got to the food court, his card declined. Again. I paid for my food and returned to my hostel, asking God, “biko kedu ka m siri rute ebe a?”

How did I get here lord?

When David realized he was taking too many Ls, he needed redemption. Especially after hyping my birthday for a month, only to ask “Should I buy you a gift?” when the day came.

He noticed he was becoming irritating, and his ultimate plan was to pull up in his father’s AMG.

“Howfar Nicole, where are you?”

“I’m studying Data Communications.”

“Oh, I’m not offering the course. Let’s go to yellow plate.”

But I was offering the course?

David insisted and promised we wouldn’t spend more than thirty minutes. I started wondering if he did yahoo overnight—because the same David whose card declined for N3,500 loaded fries could not possibly be planning to take me to yellow plate.

When I got to the parking lot, I saw the real reason. He didn’t want yellow plate’s milkshake, he wanted me to see the car. No wonder, he kept swinging the key in my face so I would catch the hint that, “THIS IS LUXURY LIVING✨”.

I suggested Jabi Lake mall instead—mainly to protect my own pocket when his card eventually failed. He drove like a typical Abuja boy, making unnecessary gunshot sounds from the V8 engine.

At the mall, he asked if I wanted to empty racks:

“Should we enter Mango?”

“What about Keluxe?”

“Lacoste?”

“Miniso? You want pink frying pan?”

He asked so frequently that I almost thought I had misjudged him; then, we got to KFC.

“Nicole what would you like to eat.”

“Just chicken.”

“You don’t want to spend my money? Okay. How many pieces?”

“Plenty.”

His eyes widened. “Give me three pieces.”

Upon all the noise?

The cashier said,“That will be N9,600.”

“Ahn, remove one piece.”

Brother Daviiiid???

David called them thieves for selling chicken at that price. So the yellow plate he was hyping—did they offer buy now, pay never? I felt secondhand embarrassment, hoping his card would at least work this time. I asked if he wasn’t getting anything, and he said he wasn’t hungry.

Lamba.

He begged for my chicken in the car. He just didn’t want his bill to increase.

On our way back, he resumed his fast and furious audition. I told him repeatedly to slow down because I refused to die over two pieces of chicken.

Then he swerved into a filling station and told the attendant, “N3,000 fuel.”

N3,000 fuel. For a V8 engine?

Let’s not forget that one piece of chicken was around N3,000. The same piece he told them to remove from the order. So I started connecting dots. Was his account balance so precise that the extra chicken would’ve left us trekking?

And for context, this was not during Jonathan’s Nigeria. Not Buhari’s either. This was City boy’s tenure, after fuel subsidy had been lifted and prices were doing a marathon.

If David had actually taken me to yellow plate, who would have paid? Me?

Omo mehn.

When realization finally settled in, my energy shifted. I sat there irritated while he smiled throughout the ride, genuinely thinking he had impressed me with those childish engine sounds.

At a traffic light, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to a picture he had shown me weeks before. His uncle’s G-wagon. He turned the screen toward me and said with full confidence, “This is now your car oo.”

Lame nigga with zero game.

Any microscopic possibility of resurrection for that friendship died that afternoon. I distanced myself completely, but he assumed I was just occupied because of my exams. During the final exam week, there was a public holiday—so, we had no paper that day.

David called to ask where I was, and I told him I was reading in my hostel.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

You’ll be where? did you not hear that I’m reading?

“It won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

I had an exam the next morning, and I hadn’t performed well in my midterms. I could bet my next school fees on the fact that he hadn’t either. But because he had stolen his father’s keys again, he urgently felt the need to come and parade horsepower.

I refused firmly, only to receive a notification:

“I’m at the parking lot.”

What exactly are you doing there?

The boy was hell-bent on impressing me with the car, even after I clearly said I was unavailable. I told him I wasn’t leaving my hostel. Then, he started complaining about the distance he had driven all the way from Asokoro to Idu.

Did I send you?

Less than ten minutes later, he sent a snap of another girl seated in the passenger seat. He thought hiding her face was mysterious enough. It wasn’t.

I knew those white toenails. I knew those unmistakable slippers.

The genius had sent me a snap of my roommate in an attempt to spark jealousy—and in his infinite wisdom, he assumed cropping her upper body would make her unrecognizable.

I didn’t respond. I waited until exams ended and informed my roommate, who was completely oblivious to the role she had unknowingly played in his mediocre movie production. We both removed him on every app, and blocked him where he needed to be blocked.

As expected, he started his sympathy campaign again. He sent his friends to inform me of his suicidal thoughts and weightloss.

You don’t have money to eat. Let’s start there. And you’re dispatching people to tell me that you’re starving because you miss me?

I di oke nzuzu o. You must be very silly.

When his emotional blackmail failed, he reached for his last card—the “refund” speech.

He thanked me for everything and said he felt obligated to return every kobo I had spent on him. The first time he used that line during a disagreement, it unsettled me. Gesture receipts aren’t meant to be kept (at least, by decent people). What exactly was he refunding?

But this time? I was unmoved.

I sent my account number without hesitation. And to this day—4th March 2026, the refund David passionately promised in March 2024 is still in transit.

David finally reached out on imessage where I forgot to block him. He announced that a prophet had seen a vision of him becoming a powerful politician. He added that I might need his help in future, so he didn’t understand why I was gambling with destiny.

I blocked the werey on imessage.

Dear parents, your child does not need to attend coven meetings or start eliminating people before you realize something is spiritually and morally off. Some demons manifest as chronic stupidity and questionable character—and this was clearly one of those cases. If you notice early symptoms, please find your way to Apostle Arome for deliverance. The rest of us did not enroll to be part of the rehabilitation program.

As we speak, David is somewhere promising another girl an iPhone 17 pro max and a cleared Shein cart. I just hope her bank card is strong enough to rescue her when his inevitably declines.

There’s one proven way to cope with havoc in this country, and that is by dragging as many innocent people into it as possible. Most learn this as adults, but my secondary school instilled this survival tactic into my brain before I even knew the English language had more than five vowel sounds.

It was Pentecost Sunday—the one sacred day when Catholic students were allowed a break from silent meditations in exchange for the full Pentecostal package: miracles, dramatic falling, aggressive tongues, and the Holy Ghost fishing out both the called and the possessed. I longed for it just as much as every other girl in the hall pretending not to be interested.

This particular Pentecost was extra special because it fell right after visiting day. That meant more strength to pray because of Saturday’s feast, and more importantly, more provisions to quench the hunger that inevitably followed a three-hour warfare session.

Mrs Agu, the church matron, marched in with three men from the local parish. They looked unfriendly, possessing the kind of faces that would make the devil jump up from a nightmare. I wondered why she had brought such stiff-faced men to an all-girls' school until she grabbed the mic.

“We will be performing an exorcism.”

Exorcism kwa? What is exorcism?

I was trying to process the vocabulary when one of the men snapped me out of my thoughts. “Some people in this room carry spirits from the kingdom of darkness.”

Obviously! I thought. If there weren’t people like that, my N200 wouldn’t have disappeared from my locker on Friday night.

The man seemed to be guessing, and I hated it. I’ve always had low tolerance for vague miracles; if you have power, call names and shake tables. Which one is “some people…"? Please shift!

I rolled my eyes, wondering where Mrs Agu had found these unserious men, until Ene flew.

Not metaphorically.

She flew.

Three rows back.

And landed on a stack of chairs.

Ahn ahn? Ene my guy?

“Leave me alooone!!” she wailed in a deep masculine bass. The Ene I knew sounded more feminine than Ariana Grande on a heartbreak track; this had to be a spiritual voiceover.

“I said leave that body alone!” the man shouted back, marching towards Ene, who was making a break for the exit. He ordered that all the doors be locked firmly. According to him, those with foul spirits would attempt escape, and today was judgement day.

Wonderful.

Ene began to slither on the floor as he blasted in tongues. I didn’t just get goosebumps; I began to cry—especially when the girl beside me whispered, “And she’s Nicole’s friend o!”

Which Nicole? And since when did Ene become her friend?

I denied Ene the same way Peter denied Jesus, and even if a cock crowed ten times, I wasn’t going to feel a shred of remorse.

My tears entered a new stage—the one that comes with rethinking your life choices. Why? Because I had collected cream crackers from her on Saturday night. The same night she ate the rice that started this spiritual drama.

“I will destroy everyone!” Ene roared from the altar as they battled for her soul.

Everyone?

The “everyone” would obviously start with me. I had eaten biscuits from a spiritually compromised person; what more did it take to destroy someone? My tears advanced to the ultimate stage—calculating how to relocate countries.

Thankfully, many girls were crying under the influence of the Holy Spirit, so I blended in seamlessly. Tears were universal; nobody could tell if they were from spiritual brokenness or pure panic.

But then, I had to take action.

I needed to exit that church without anyone suspecting I was part of Ene’s demonic franchise. More importantly, I needed to distribute my own biscuits to the students who had not yet heard the breaking news.

Witchcraft was not uncommon in our school, but there was a code. If the spirit in you cooperated and kept quiet, you’d make it through the term without the “possessed girl” stigma. But if people found out you were compromised? It was social suicide. Nobody would speak to you. Nobody would sit near you. Nobody would borrow from you. Nobody would even tell you answers during exams—which meant submitting a blank script for chemistry. God forbid.

The worst part is the stigma applied to your friends too. In a school where begging was the norm, they’d assume your friends had been initiated through whatever you shared. I had to move fast. If nobody collected biscuits from me, and it turned out Ene had truly initiated me without consent, then I would be in this alone. I was planning to run for deputy head girl the following term, and demonic allegations were not part of my campaign strategy.

I turned to Jenny, the warden assigned to my row. “How far, Jenny? I’m purging from the food I ate yesterday. You know Dami’s mother brought soured awara; I need to use the toilet.”

“I will expose everyone!!!!” Ene roared again.

Why Ene go do me like this, abeg?

“Jenny, please be quick! I need to run to the hostel.”

“Mrs Agu said the doors must remain shut.”

The same girl who begged me to sneak in contraband the night before had suddenly become the patron saint of compliance. Overnight she rediscovered the rulebook and somehow found the audacity to quote Mrs Agu to me.

“Jenny, please,” I whispered desperately.

Then I saw Ene’s face.

It wasn’t green, nor was it physically transformed. But her features had rearranged themselves into something that resembled a goblin from Merlin.

Chai, Ene.

Is this what I will look like?

This girl has ruined my political future.

I needed a new strategy. I needed to be out. Then, inspiration came.

“Jenny, if you don’t let me use the toilet now, I will tell Mrs Agu and the hostel matron that you have a phone. And tha you’re always calling that boy in CKC. His name is Emma, abi?”

Her eyes widened. She looked at me like Jesus must’ve looked at Judas during the Last Supper, but what was my business? One lost friendship was better than being isolated until graduation. I was running for deputy head girl, and I couldn’t afford these kinds of stains.

Eventually, she showed me a hidden exit through the sacristy. She tried multiple keys until one finally turned. The door opened. I was free.

I rushed to the hostel, opened my box, and took out the carton of Pure Bliss. I tore it open with urgency and began to share.

“Ahn ahn, Nicole, is it your birthday?” the girls asked, shocked to see the stingiest girl in the hostel distributing wafers.”

“Yes, happy birthday to me!” I lied. Foolish girls. The last time I had a birthday, I didn’t even give them pure water. Yet, here they were, thinking I was sharing my favourite snacks out of the goodness of my heart. At least, their foolishness was in my favour.

When the Pure Bliss finished, I moved to the cream crackers, then Capri-Sun. I shared everything until the initiation was widespread. I skipped the spiritual girls and pastor’s daughters. Those ones could eat directly from Lucifer’s kitchen and stay holy. I wasn’t wasting my provisions on them.

I realized my hostel wasn’t enough. My political ambition required wide coverage. I used my pocket money at the hostel kiosk to buy more, then toured Pearl House, Ruby, Emerald, and finally Amethyst—Ene’s hostel, where I didn’t have to distribute much because the Queen Mother had likely finished the job there.

By the time I returned, my box contained only bathing soap and toilet paper.

“Ene will ask God for bread, and he’ll give her dog meat.” I muttered in pain, staring at my empty box.

That night, I slept hoping for one of two outcomes: that I didn’t enter another realm or that I entered with 70% of the student population.

Ene was fine in the weeks that followed. The strong men had apparently dealt with that demon, but the stigma stuck to her. She was isolated by everyone, including me, “her guy”.

My anger was deep. My provisions had vanished for nothing. There was no initiation, and I wasn’t a witch. I was just a hungry girl with DHG aspirations. My friendship with Ene had cost me heavily. Even if the stigma wore off, I was not going to forgive that girl.

Hunger eventually called me to wild action, so I gathered Jenny and Dami for a hostel raid. If Ene’s coven wouldn’t kill me, hunger would. It was my only option.

We moved from hostel to hostel, inspecting junior students’ boxes as if the principal had personally commissioned us. I confiscated chocolates from a JSS2 girl who cried that they were from Ireland.

“And so what? Don’t you know that this school is anti-diabetes?” I snapped. “Is your mother the first to go to Ireland, abi you think you’re better than me because I eat parago?”

I punished her for the audacity.

We yielded three “Ghana-must-go” bags of provisions and divided the loot 50:25:25. Obviously, I took the lion’s share because if it weren’t for my brilliant idea, where would Dami and Jenny have seen Irish chocolates in this life?

That night, Jenny and I feasted on seized sardines and foreign chocolates like warriors who had just acquired spoils of war. Everything was perfect—until midnight. Footsteps and screams woke me up.

“Another one don start!” someone shouted.

Another what?

Jenny.

The same Jenny I had dined with six hours ago was manifesting.

She, who weighed less than 50kg, lifted an iron locker into the air and flung it at her roommate.

I stood there, frozen, hoping that whatever was wrong with her did not come from the sardine.

God. I hate this school.

There’s a particular canon event that happens around March every year, and as the season fast approaches, I think it’s in my place as the former champion to say this: Ada, Abdul will not look at all the Fatimas in the world, look away, and then choose you. Not even if you decide to be foolish enough to fast during the coming Ramadan!

Yes, I said it with my full chest.

In my nineteen years on earth, I have encountered many species of mumu. I’ve seen the boy who thinks his failed music career is his ticket out of the trenches, the girl who thinks a “pregnancy trap” will earn her the “Mrs” title, and the politician who dumps stolen funds in his girlfriend’s account—as if she won’t be the first to run with the money.

But never did I imagine that when Nigeria announced entries for the Biggest Mumu Championship, I would train so earnestly, compete with total dedication, and actually carry the belt home.

I met Muhammad at his cousin’s iftar dinner toward the end of my third year. He was the most gorgeous man I had ever sat in a room with—no exaggeration. What made it even better was that this beautiful man appeared to return the interest. I knew this because every time I raised my head from my plate or phone, I caught his eyes waiting for mine from the opposite side of the table.

Muhammad eventually spoke up after enough stolen glances. He said he liked my bubu. I had only bought it for the dinner because I didn’t want to look out of place, but if it was enough to keep the man’s gaze on me, ATB better be ready to monopolize my pocket.

When we eventually started talking, our conversations kept me up longer than any exam scare ever could. I would swing my legs in the air, giddy, while he spoke in that polished Hausa tone. I used to get offended when non-Igbo people butchered the pronunciation of my name, but Muhammad? Whatever he called me was correct. Even when he misspelled my name, I assumed my birth certificate was the erroneous one; it was more convenient that way.

After a month of talking and three slushie dates, Muhammad finally took me to Cilantro, where he popped the big question: “Be my girl!” It felt more like a command, or perhaps the chef who drizzled the question across the plate was just aggressive with the chocolate sauce. I didn’t care. Whether it was a request or a mandate, the answer was yes. We could address the sentence structure later.

With the “Yes” still fresh on my lips, our itinerary took a sudden suspicious turn. Muhammad started taking me to every “indecent” place imaginable. We hit clubs, frat house events, and restaurants where the best-selling item was shisha. I had once told a friend that any man who only takes you to such places does not rate you, and trust her unfiltered mouth to remind me with the kind of honesty that ruins friendships. I blocked her after raining curses. How could she say my Muhammad didn’t rate me? Was she mad?

Unfortunately, she was right. I soon realized the cilantro date was a one-time miracle. Muhammad and I had no business with fine dining as a couple after that.

On one of our visits to 4U supermarket, Muhammad greeted a dozen girls in the slushie queue. He went further to pay for their treats while failing to acknowledge me. On the way out, he walked five paces ahead as if being associated with me was a stain on his reputation.

When I brought it up in the car, he claimed that the girls were his cousins, and if they found out he was with a girl without a head covering, the news would hit the family group chat before we left the parking lot.

Did that stop me? No. Rather, his so-called devotion to family culture deepened my attraction.

The next day, Muhammad didn’t text until evening. Assuming I had offended him at the supermarket, I sent apology paragraphs, a link to Justin Bieber’s Sorry, and a few embarrassing reels. I did this repeatedly until he finally replied, “I was admitted to the hospital.”

Apparently, Muhammad, who had taken me on more slush dates in a month than most couples go on in a year, was diabetic. His blood sugar had spiked, and it was not the first time in history.

Still, his irresponsible attitude did not stop me. In my lifetime, I had only dated medium-ugly guys, and I was not willing to let go of my first Mr Handsome so easily.

I started wearing scarves so he wouldn’t have a reason to treat me like a stranger in public. I bought a Hausa dictionary so I could contribute meaningfully to the family meetings I had already imagined in my head. And the worst part? I fasted during Ramadan, while the person I was doing it for did not care whether I had dates for Iftar.

Shame is what a normal person would feel. But now that I’m back to my senses, ‘mortification’ fits better.

The end came on a hot Tuesday afternoon when Muhammad requested a slushie date. He brought the cups into the car and waited for me to take a sip before saying, “We have to end this.”

The statement triggered an instant chemical reaction in my mouth; the slushie transformed into the taste of an unripe agbalumo. I begged. I cried. I reached a level of low that I’ve been trying to erase from my memory, yet it always brings me back to a specific image:

But his mind was set. He said that his mother needed him to marry a woman who would make him responsible, and I just wasn’t that woman. He even said I was careless enough to drink slushies with him without cautioning him about his condition.

“Haba, Nonye, you’ll make a bad wife.”

Shortly after the breakup, I found out I was never the girlfriend. I was just a seven-month side quest that needed to be wrapped up before his main babe returned to Nigeria. Since then, I’ve wished I had smashed the plate carrying that stupid question the day he asked me out.

It’s been two years of holding the heavyweight belt for foolishness, and my tenure has finally ended. If you’ve read this far and still intend to fast this Ramadan when you have absolutely no business doing so, Nne, please, raise your belt and smile for the camera—while the rest of us honour you with a standing ovation.

My father has always been a man of impromptu emergencies. He has never been one to provide instructions or news with the luxury of time.

“Please edit this document; I need to send it by 9:00 am,” he would say at 8:15.

“Get ready for 8:00am mass; my friend has a child dedication,” he would announce at 7:23.

“I need my breakfast ready by 7:00,” he’d shout while knocking on your door at 5:00am.

So it did not surprise me when he asked us to get ready for a welcome party thirty minutes before the time. It was annoying, but unless I suddenly found the millions to cover my tuition, I had no choice but to keep up.

As usual, we were late. The typical threat of “I will leave whoever is not ready” was flying around the house while the announcer hadn’t even found his shoes.

The atmosphere was a war zone:

“Someone, lace my corset!”

“Where is my wig straightener?”

“Who stole my foundation?!”

“In fact, I am not going again!”

But somehow, through the chaos, we all looked stunning by the time we entered the car.

We arrived at the venue twenty minutes late, which, in Nigerian time, was basically early. Raindrops dotted some of the seats, as there was a downpour earlier, and the canopies did little to shield them. My father led us to the least soaked row, and my mother passed her hand towel around like a relay baton so we could dry our seats.

Shortly after we settled, a couple arrived: a very slim man and a robust woman, both around the age of fifty if I were to take a wild guess. They performed the classic Nigerian greeting routine—hugging some, shaking hands with others, and waving at people they barely knew. When the pleasantries were over, they came under the canopy to find seats, and they noticed the chairs were drenched.

The man and his wife walked straight to our row and greeted my parents. The man took the seat beside my sister, the extra one she had cleaned earlier. Then his wife looked my sister square in the face and told her to stand up and move to the chair beside her husband.

Yes, the wet seat.

“Why?”

I didn’t even realize when the question slipped out. My mother’s eyes went wide as she knew my schooling skills had been activated. Luckily for me, my father was already distracted by a conversation elsewhere, leaving me with a clear shot.

“I’m older than the girl,” the woman snapped. “Am I supposed to sit on a wet chair?”

“Why not?”

The shock was universal. The guests, the husband, and even the waiters stood frozen with their trays. Only my mother remained in a state of silent prayer, the same one that worked when a church warden tried me last Sunday. But this is not church, and the prayer was not going to save madam today.

Somebody’s mother needed a crash course in home training, and who better to deliver than the Number One Distributor of Home Training in West Africa?

“You don’t have respect,” she began to rant. “When I was your age, I never spoke back to my elders. If the ground was wet, I would lie down so my elders could walk without their shoes getting soiled!”

No vex, add am to your CV.

I didn’t say that out loud. I knew my father would eventually hear of it.

Instead, I smiled. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but does that mean you should take revenge on us? Is my sister the one who turned you into a floor mat?”

At this point, cans dropped, and spoons returned to plates. The waiters were watching in 4K, and their salaries weren’t large enough to lure them back to work. I was using weaponized empathy, and I was winning. I could see her skin crawling as her nostrils expanded and deflated.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” The phrase hit her like a physical insult. She was fuming, and I enjoyed it, maybe a bit more than I had expected.

I gave her a full, complimentary schooling. I told her to ask for a tissue or napkin instead of ordering someone to stand “just because she was older”.

I made her understand that my sister’s jeans were not rags, and she wasn’t going to use them to mop any chair. If Madam was too human to sit on a wet seat, then my sister was just as human – even more so in my eyes.

In all this, I still blame the husband. The man did not defend his wife or even apologize for her conduct. He just sat quietly and allowed me to deliver a full curriculum for free.

I’ll probably get in trouble with my dad once we leave, but for now? My sister is still in her dry seat, and I have successfully retired a founding member of NAUPA.

I’m currently on my third plate of food—Okpa, by the way. And honestly, stolen peace of mind tastes better than jollof.

My only concern is the way this woman is eyeing me. If my name enters her coven’s register tonight, just know I died for the cause.

Make free home training no go cost me my life, ejo.

You see those TikTok posts that leave you shouting, “God, when?”

The ones that make you drop comments like, “God, if I’m a tree, send me to the evil forest.”

When you finally taste the life and it spoils, you go cry wetin no good.

Every babe wants to have a rich boyfriend, a rich and generous one. Yes, including me.

We all want to send snaps of the red roses he got us, the Ferrero Rocher, the Coach Tabby 20s, and many other goodies. We want to be the benchmark for people’s “God, when?” moments during the biannual Hallelujah Challenge. But have we stopped to think about what happens to that lifestyle when the relationship ends?

Let me tell you what hits you when you’ve made yourself at home on a man’s card, with no job – or a job too weak to fund the lifestyle you’ve embraced.

Taste pizza once, and the garri you once loved will taste like poison. I wish someone had advised Amaka before she started flying too close to the sun.

Maintenance that she used to manage once in two months, she started doing biweekly.

Restaurants she used to visit twice a year—her birthday and New Year’s Eve—she started visiting three times a week. She liked how “crème brûlée” rolled off her tongue as she read it from the menu to the waiter dressed in a black tuxedo.

Amaka, you that used to buy jollof rice without chicken from Calabar Pot are now paying ₦55,000 for steak and grass served on an oversized plate. You said you were paying for the experience. Experience that will end in the toilet. Oya now.

Amaka, you said I was classless because I hadn’t gone to Rararamen. I told you I couldn’t pay that amount just to cook Indomie for myself when there’s a gas cooker at home. You said it was for the thrill, and that I shouldn’t leave this earth without tasting the good things.

You bought the same blouse in five different colours from Mapletoby. I told you to come with me to Karimo market so you’d stop wasting money. You said you didn’t like the mud that came with the season. Ha! Amaka. They gave birth to you during Benin’s rainy season, and you’re now allergic to mud? Okay.

As if all this was not enough, you openly brought out two ₦1,000 notes from your purse to give me when you saw that I was about to drop ₦50 in the offering basket on Easter Sunday. Amaka, eight people behind us saw the exact amount. Me that squeezed my ₦50 in my fist—do you think I’m stupid? Did your Bible not say your left hand should not know what your right hand is giving? Because everybody knew!

Amaka, your boyfriend told you to cut me off. He said that you needed to roll with babes in your class, “soft life babes”. He said you should be friends with his friends’ girlfriends because they were on your level. And you actually cut me off because of that Pablo.

Now my heart is full of joy, and I don’t care if people call me a witch. Last week, I saw you buying ugwu leaf in Dutse market. The moment I heard you say “ugwu” instead of the spinach you had upgraded to, I knew something was wrong. Hearing you bargain for ₦1,000 worth of ugwu at ₦700 confirmed it.

Ladies and gentlemen, my friend’s odogwu broke up with her.

The silly girl didn’t even bother to look for a job while she was in the relationship—she thought she was a permanent resident. I don’t know what made her think someone with an SS genotype would marry her, an AS babe. The math was never mathing!

Even if Amaka decided to get a job today, which one will sponsor ₦35,000 hybrid lashes twice a month, frequent hair installations, coffin nails, and meals “for the experience”? How was she going to pay her house rent in Jabi after saying Dutse Alhaji wasn’t her standard? How was Amaka going to attend Jaybash’s drift show with her “soft life” friends when she no longer had Odogwu’s card?

Now her vocabulary has reversed. She’s calling spinach ugwu again. See ehn, if you don’t have the kind of money that you want a man to spend on you, it’s better you don’t taste it in the first place. Human beings never want to go back to garri after tasting pizza. Garri will give you depression o.

Please don’t be like my friend Amaka. Post-relationship clarity is not funny. Anyway, she apologized yesterday. We’re going shopping at Karimo this weekend to rebuild our relationship.

A word is enough for the wise.