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My NYSC PPA Was Hell, But I Fell in Love with My LG Chairman

by with 3 Comments NYSC

By: Amina

I didn’t know whether to cry or dance azonto when I saw my NYSC posting letter: “Local Government Secretariat, Obokun LGA, Osun State.”

Obokun? As in the place wey Google Maps dey confuse? The one wey network dey fear to reach? I blinked twice, hoping it would change to something like Shell or UNILAG. But no. Obokun.

The only thing louder than my heartbeat was the generator noise in the cybercafe.

I come from Kano, born and bred. Daughter of a strict northern father and a prayer warrior mother. My father nearly fainted when I told him I was going to the Southwest for service. My mum just held my hand and said, “God is watching you, Aminatu.”

Na so my wahala start.

PPA OR PUNISHMENT?

From the first day I resumed at the secretariat, I knew peace had left the building. The secretary, Mama Remi, looked at me like I owed her husband money.

So you be corper? You go type, arrange file, fetch water, and buy bread for me. Abi you think say this place na computer village?

My smile disappeared. “I studied Mass Communication, ma.

She hissed. “You go communicate with dust, my dear.

I worked like a donkey. They turned me to PA, errand girl, typist, and sometimes, God forgive them, secretary to the cleaner. One day, I almost cried when they sent me to go and bring eba for the office driver.

But I endured.

Because every 19th of the month, that 33k Federal Government alowee used to land like answered prayer.

ENTER THE CHAIRMAN

One day, while carrying files to the records room, I ran into someone. Like literally, my head hit his chest.

Tall. Dark. Beard that looked anointed. Smelt like money and menthol.

I’m so sorry,” I said, picking up scattered files.

He smiled. “It’s okay. You must be the new corper. Amina, right?

My heart paused.

“Yes, sir.”

He stretched his hand. “I’m Honourable Dayo Alade, the Local Government Chairman.”

My head was screaming: Jesus! Na fine man be this?!

PART THREE: THE UNUSUAL FRIENDSHIP

From that day, Chairman started noticing me. Small greetings became longer conversations. Sometimes he’d call me to his office to help draft speeches or edit official letters.

“You’re smart, Amina,” he’d say.

I’d smile and try not to faint.

Then one Friday, he said, “Do you want to join me at the commissioning of the new borehole project? We can use the drive to talk.”

Talk? In your Prado? With AC and full tank?

God, I’m available.

FROM BOREHOLE TO BUTTERFLIES

That outing was different. He asked me about my dreams, my struggles, and how I was coping in Obokun. I told him everything. He listened.

That night, he sent me a text:

“You’re not like the others. You’re real. Can we talk more?”

I slept smiling like goat wey enter corn.

From then on, we became… close. People began to notice. Mama Remi started giving me side eyes. One woman in Admin even whispered, “Corper Amina don catch Chairman o.”

But nothing physical happened.

Until the NYSC cultural day.

PART FIVE: THE KISS

I wore full northern attire, flowing gown, scarf, henna, everything. When I walked in, Dayo couldn’t stop staring.

You’re stunning,” he said. “Are you sure you’re even real?

Later that evening, when I went to thank him for his help with a community project I pitched, he pulled me aside.

Amina, I don’t know what this is, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

Before I could process it, he leaned in and kissed me.

My knees almost betrayed me.

I ran home, heart pounding.

HEAD OR HEART?

I prayed. I cried. I talked to my bunkmate, Chinwe, who screamed, “Na wa o! You carry northern innocence enter Yoruba romance.”

But it was more than romance.

Dayo respected me. He didn’t push. He didn’t manipulate. He gave me space but made it clear he had feelings for me.

I was confused. I was falling. Hard. But how would I ever explain to my parents?

A northern girl, barely 23, dating a 35-year-old Yoruba politician?

That one fit scatter family WhatsApp group.

THE ENDING I DIDN’T EXPECT

NYSC ended. He came for my POP. He stood with me, took pictures, and whispered, “So what next?”

I wanted to stay. I wanted to say, “Let’s try.” But reality held my mouth shut.

We said goodbye. No promises. Just silent understanding.

Now, it’s been 2 years.

We still talk sometimes. He got married last year, to a senator’s daughter. I saw it on BellaNaija. I smiled. And cried. At the same time.

But I’ll always be grateful. Because in that hellish PPA, I met a man who reminded me that love can be gentle. Even if it doesn’t last.

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He’s the Perfect Boyfriend, Except He’s Married

by with 3 Comments Relationships

Narrated by: Tari Braide

I always told myself I’d never be that girl.
The one whose name hides in silence.
The one who waits for weekend texts.
The one who loves borrowed things.

But life has a funny way of humbling you.
And love? Love can disguise itself in the smoothest lies.

The Man Who Found Me

It started on a rainy Tuesday in Port Harcourt.

I was late to a branding pitch. My makeup was half-smeared, the okada man nearly drove into a muddy gutter, and I was holding my laptop like it was the Ark of Covenant.

Then he pulled up. Lexus. Clean.

He rolled down and said,

You look like you’re about to save the world, but rain is already winning.

I gave a small smile.

Need a ride?” he asked.

In my mind, I knew the answer should be no.
But everything, the rain, the tension, the desperation, said yes.

Enter Mr. ‘Almost Too Good to Be True’

His name was Tamuno.

From Buguma. Calm voice. Bright smile. A laugh that tickled like guitar strings.

He spoke like someone who read books. Quoted Wole Soyinka in conversation. Opened doors. Sent flowers.
Real agbani level romance.

By the third week, I was already asking God,

Is this how it feels to be loved gently?

He never forced anything.
He listened when I talked about my dreams.
He helped me design my business plan.

Every date felt like home. Every kiss like rain on dry earth.

So when he said, “I want to take care of you,”
I didn’t pause to ask what he wasn’t saying.

The Whispered Truth

One night, I forgot my phone at his apartment.
He dropped it at my gate the next morning, with a brown paper bag of pastries and chilled zobo.

It was perfect. Until it wasn’t.

Later that evening, I opened WhatsApp and saw a message from an unsaved number:

Do you know you’re dating a married man?

My heart stopped.

I laughed nervously. Replied:

Sorry, wrong number.

But they sent a photo.

Tamuno. At a family thanksgiving.
With his wife. And two kids.

Breaking, Slowly

I confronted him, heart in throat.

Is it true?

He didn’t lie.

He didn’t even flinch.

He just said,

I didn’t want to lose you before you saw the real me.

Real you?

Married you?
Husband you?
Father you?

I wanted to scream. But I didn’t.
I stood there, tears streaming, asking: Why me?

He said,

Because you’re peace. You’re light. I haven’t known joy in a long time.

Between Right and What Feels Right

I should’ve left.

I knew that.

But I didn’t.

I told myself I’d back away slowly.
That I’d stop answering his calls.
That I’d block him on Instagram.

But then he’d show up.
With warm jollof and sweet words.
And suddenly, I was thirteen again, wanting to be chosen.

And he chose me.
Over and over.

At night.
On lunch breaks.
On weekends when “he had business trips.

It became a routine I hated but couldn’t let go of.

The Side Chick Echo Chamber

When I told my best friend, she sighed and said:

Na this country we dey. Most of these men are taken. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last.

It stung.

She meant well. But what she called “reality,” I still saw as heartbreak.

I started seeing how normal it was:

  • A friend dating her boss who “only stays with his wife for the kids.”
  • An aunty who raised her children alone because her married lover “never left his wife like he promised.”
  • A tailor in GRA who once said: “If side chick no dey, many women go suffer more.”

Our pain had become cultural camouflage.

My Breaking Point

It was his son’s birthday.
I found out through a Facebook post his wife tagged him in.

They wore matching outfits.
Even had a family portrait session.

That night, he called me, casually saying he missed me.

I asked:

Did your wife take those pictures by force?

He paused.

I didn’t wait for an answer.

I hung up. Blocked the number.
This time for good.

Healing in the Mirror

Leaving hurt.

But staying longer would’ve broken me.

I took a break from dating. I focused on work. I started therapy. I began teaching girls in Rumuola about emotional boundaries.

Now, every time I see his car drive by my studio, I don’t flinch.
I don’t ache.
I don’t wish.

I just breathe.

Because loving someone doesn’t mean staying.
And being treated well doesn’t mean it’s right.

💔 Final Words from Tari Braide

  • He was the perfect boyfriend.
  • Except… he was never mine to begin with.
  • And I don’t want to be a secret in someone else’s story.

We live in a country where the side chick narrative is normalized.
Where women are taught to adjust, to manage, to keep secrets.

But love without honesty isn’t love.
Attention without integrity isn’t affection.

If you’re reading this and you’re “the other woman”…
You are more than someone’s escape.
You are not a mistake.
But don’t let someone else’s choices write your worth.

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How Culture Uses Shame to Control Women’s Bodies

by with 3 Comments Sex & Culture

Narrated by: Ebiere Tombra

They say the body is a temple.
But in my village, the body of a woman is a battleground.

My name is Ebiere Tombra. I’m from a small fishing community near Okolobiri in Bayelsa State.
My mother used to say, “If a woman knows shame, she will marry well.”

But the older I got, the more I began to ask:
Whose shame?
Defined by who?
And at what cost to the woman?

When They Started Watching My Body

I must have been about 11 when my uncle first said it.

I was helping in the kitchen after church, tying wrapper over my chest, just trying to pour water from the big keg.

He looked me up and down and said,

This one don dey get body small small. She go soon turn ashawo if una no control am.

I remember standing there, kettle in hand, wondering what I did wrong.
I didn’t ask for this body. I didn’t even know how to use it. Yet, I had already been labeled dangerous.

That night, my mother gave me a lecture:

From now on, stop playing outside with boys.
No more jumping around.
Close your legs when you sit.
Respect yourself.

That was the first time I realized my body wasn’t mine.
It belonged to everyone else, except me.

The Virginity Contract Nobody Talks About

In our community, bride price is a big deal.
Families brag about how much their daughters fetch, especially if the girl is a “virgin.”

One cousin of mine, Mene, was disowned because she got pregnant at 17.
Nobody asked who the boy was.
Nobody blamed the man.
They just said:

She don disgrace family. No man go pay full bride price for her again.

I asked my mum once, “What if she was raped?”
She looked at me sharply and said, “Don’t talk like that. Don’t attract evil things.”

So that’s how we grew up, learning to be silent.
Even if we were hurt.
Even if we were confused.
Even if we didn’t consent.

Because our value was linked to something we barely understood:
Our “purity.”

Dress Like a Wife, Not a Slay Queen

When I got into Niger Delta University, I decided to express myself.
I wore trousers. I wore sleeveless tops. I even posted pictures on Instagram in short gowns.

That was when the messages started coming.

Aunties I hadn’t spoken to in years would send me WhatsApp messages like:

Is this how girls from decent homes behave?
You want to finish school and remain in the village?
Delete that picture before your future husband’s people see it.

I wanted to scream.
Why is my marriage currency dependent on how much skin I show?
Why is modesty only expected from women?
My brother was walking around with chest open like Rambo, and nobody said a thing.

They say “Women must cover up for respect,”
But respect is not fabric.
It’s in how you treat people, not how they dress.

Shame Dressed as Advice

I remember when I got my period in JSS2. I stained my skirt in school. Boys laughed. Teachers whispered. My female class teacher called me aside and said:

Now that you’ve started seeing your period, you must behave well. Don’t talk too much. Don’t go near boys. Keep your legs closed.

Nobody said, Congratulations.
Nobody said, You’re becoming a woman.
Nobody even explained what was happening to my body.

All I got was shame.

From that moment on, I began to hide.

I wore bigger clothes.

I never joined the dance group, even though I loved dancing.

I stopped answering questions in class.

Because every time I spoke or moved too freely, I feared someone would say, “You too dey show yourself.”

When “Modesty” Becomes Control

After university, I got a job in Port Harcourt. I started earning my own money. I bought what I liked.
One day, I visited the village for Christmas in a fitted Ankara dress.

The looks I got…

One elder said,

Ebiere, you’re a beautiful girl, but this your dressing no dey show that you get home training.

I laughed politely, but I was boiling inside.

Because these same men?
They send me Facebook friend requests every December.
They like all my pictures.
They greet me differently in private.

So which one is it?

They want to control women publicly, and consume them privately.

What They Don’t Tell You

They’ll tell you:

  • If you sleep with too many men, your husband’s thing won’t “fit.”
  • If you dress too sexy, you’ll attract “evil spirits.”
  • If you talk about sex, you’ll never marry.
  • If you ask too many questions, you’re “wayward.”
  • If you say no to marriage, you’re “wasting your time.”

But they won’t tell you that many women stay in abusive marriages because shame won’t let them leave.

They won’t tell you that many girls are molested by uncles and told to “keep quiet so you don’t spoil family name.”

They won’t tell you that women cry in silence because culture has told them that speaking out makes them the problem.

Rewriting the Story

Now, I live in Yenagoa. I run a small girls’ support group called “Body and Brave.”

We meet every Sunday.

We talk about:

  • Periods.
  • Sex education.
  • Consent.
  • Boundaries.
  • Self-worth.

And for every girl who says, “I didn’t know I could say no”, I realize how deep the rot is.

But also, how possible healing is.

Because change won’t come from government.

It won’t come from aunties.

It won’t come from culture that never cared.

It will come from us.
From girls and women who refuse to shrink.
Who speak.
Who unlearn.
Who break the shame cycle, one truth at a time.

💬 Final Words

My body is not shameful.
Your body is not a curse.
And no culture should reduce a woman’s worth to a bride price list or how many inches her gown shows.

Let’s stop hiding.
Let’s stop shrinking.
Let’s stop apologizing for being women.

Because this body, scars and all, is powerful.

Not a thing to be policed.
Not a thing to be negotiated.
And certainly not a thing to be owned by society.

Young girl in an abusive home during covid-19 lockdown

Is It Love or Help?

by with 3 Comments Relationships

Narrated by: Adaobi N.

Do you love him?

That’s the question Cynthia asked, her voice careful and soft, like she was stepping on broken glass.

We sat on her bed after midnight, sharing the last of the jollof from Oba Kitchen. I was wearing her t-shirt like a shield, I needed protection that night. My phone screen threw light onto her room filled with university prints and plant pots that never died.

My throat felt tight.

I looked away. Pretended to scratch a mosquito bite.

Then I laughed, an empty laugh. Not my real laugh. She knows the difference.

I said:

“Cynthia… I don’t know if it’s love. But I know I need him.”

That was Month 8 of me and Femi.

When Easy Becomes Everything

I didn’t grow up broke; I grew up careful.

Rice once a week. Beans only if we had visitors. And pressure, lots of pressure, to “make good” before turning 25. As in, degree, job, rent, relationship, strict checklist.

So when I started working and could afford small things, I felt… alive. My own story. My own rhythm. My own glow.

Then came May 2023. Fuel scarcity edition.

I was going to Abuja for a presentation, my first big shot. I left a charging phone and woke up to “No one dey for station.” I waited for over two hours, tears coming down my cheeks in the rising sun.

He found me crying at Berger Roundabout.

He pulled up in a Benz. Asked, “Need a ride abi?”

I said yes. Because yes. My fear outweighed my pride.

Small Gestures That Feel Like Love

He bought me a cold Coke after we dropped me off at the hotel.

He remembered my name.

Showed up for my presentation, bless, he went up on stage and took pictures so I would look “like someone arriving presidential.”

He paid my bill at Hotel De Fantasy.

He asked me to stay back for dinner.

I said yes again, even though romance was fire, but I didn’t want him to know that dinner felt like home.

Blur of Feelings and Needs

We started dating. Or calling it that, anyway.

But I never felt butterflies. Just calm. Lack of anxiety. A low hum in my chest that said ”I’m okay.”

He texted me while I was cooking for my flatmates.

He ordered transport while I was walking home from work.

He called just to say, “Babe, I hope you slept well.”

None of it was wild.

None of it was sexy.

But in this country, when nothing else is working…

Even small kindness is a revolution.

The Comfort Becomes a Cage

One evening, I told him I wanted to go on a writing retreat, to rent a small cottage and write my first book.

He said:

“That’s expensive.”

I replied:

“Yes. But I need it.”

He replied:

“Then I don’t think we’re on the same page. I can’t support that.”

I froze.

He clicked off.

That’s when it hit me, I wasn’t building. I was renting.

He supported a version of me that was convenient. A version that didn’t need expansion. A version that never asked too much.

I told Cynthia that night, and we both cried.

How do you dissolve a relationship when your peace depends on someone’s wifi login?

Pressure of the “Let Me Help” Syndrome

In Naija, help is a weapon.

It can be a blessing;

  • When you need money to write an exam.
  • When your cousin’s Edo girl is pregnant.
  • When your father is too old to search for jobs.

But help can trap.

It begins with small loans. Then bills. Then “I dey here.” Then ownership.

Soon, “I’m helping you” becomes “you owe me.” Always repaying, your effort, your silence, your freedom.

When I finally challenged it, I realized I deserved more than convenient company and financial babysitting.

I deserved partnership, not patronage.

Chapter 6: Breaking the Division Between Love and Convenience

One night, after a fight about rent, him saying he’d pay for “now”, it ended with me saying,

“I don’t want a boyfriend who thinks love is just a monthly transfer. I want someone who loves me, not what I can become with his help.”

He replied:

“I love what you do… when I support you.”

I vomited once I walked out that night.

Not because of the conversation, but because I finally saw the mirror, and I didn’t like what was staring back.

Walking Out Feels Like Starvation

I left him.

He begged.

I said, “I need space to stand on money I’ve earned, not money I borrowed from your pocket.”

I gave back every gift, except a necklace. I kept it because I earned it. I didn’t always know that at the time, but I do now.

Reconstructing Myself, One Naira at a Time

I got a second job, freelance writing, content creation, church tutoring.

It was messy. I borrowed wifi when NEPA stole mine. I wrote by candlelight. I realized for the first time…

I am not less without help.

Not less. Not deceptive. Not thankless.

I started paying for my own fuel.

My own transport.

My own therapy.

And my own heart.

Healing Is Not Lonely

Because healing is messy, sometimes lonely.

But healing is community too. Cynthia became my armor. My writer’s circle became my choir. Every struggle became a story, something that used to weigh on me became something I could stand on.

I began to date again.

But I dated intentionally this time.

I told men,

“I can only be with someone who supports all of me, my ambition, my fear, my peace, and my seasons.”

I won’t require them to tuck me or body my baby. But I won’t accept nonsense either.

Love Should Not Feel Like Debt

If you’re reading this and you feel stuck in a relationship that feels more like rent than real love, remember:

  • You are not ungrateful for wanting more.
  • You are not unlovable for demanding intention.
  • You are not petty for choosing growth over comfort.
  • You are not alone in navigating this Naija maze.

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Men Want Freaks But Marry Saints

by with 3 Comments Relationships

Narrated by: Amaka

Let’s not lie to ourselves. In this Nigeria, a woman can give a man wild, crazy, unforgettable moments in bed, feed his ego, inspire his hustle, and still not be seen as “wife material.” He’ll laugh with her, sin with her, beg her for “one more round,” and then turn around and say, “But I can’t marry someone like you.”

This is not just gist. This is my truth.

The Girl They Call “Too Much”

My name is Amaka. I grew up in Port Harcourt, raised by a single mother who taught me to speak my mind, walk with my shoulders high, and never apologize for being myself. By 22, I had two degrees, a stable job, and enough confidence to own any room I walked into.

But in relationships? I kept losing.

Why?

Because I was too outspoken, too bold, too freaky, too real.

One of my exes once told me, “You’re the type I want to have fun with, but not the kind I can take home to my mum.”

I asked him, “Why? Because I don’t act like I’m dying of shyness? Because I don’t pretend to be naive? Or because I know what I want in bed?”

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Exactly.”

Mr. Bedroom Champion & Holier Than Thou Wife Searcher

His name was Kunle. Fine, smart, well-to-do. We met on Twitter. He loved that I was witty, confident, and “not like those basic babes.”

Our chemistry? 🔥🔥🔥

He wanted it in the car. On the washing machine. In the shower. He would text, “My freaky Amaka, you too sabi.”

But then came the day he told me about a girl his mum wanted him to marry, “She’s calm, from a good home. Doesn’t talk too much. A virgin, even.”

I stared at him like I was watching a Nollywood horror film.

“So what am I?” I asked.

“You’re my vibe. My peace. My experience. But she’s my wife.”

This Saint-and-Sinner Scale Needs to Die

Let’s be honest, Nigerian men are drowning in hypocrisy.

They say:

  • “I want someone I can gist and laugh with”, but not if she laughs too loudly.
  • “I love confident women”, but not if she’s more successful.
  • “I want someone who’s good in bed”, but she must have less than three body count.
  • “I like natural girls”, but still save the curvy IG models in their Explore feed.

They claim they want a Proverbs 31 woman, but their Google search history is full of Kim Kardashian.

So who exactly are you people trying to deceive?

Saint in the Streets, Freak in the Sheets? Or Just Be Real?

At some point, I tried to play the game. I reduced how I dressed. Talked less. Pretended to be shy when he touched me like I hadn’t just sent him wild nudes the night before.

But I was dying inside.

Why should women have to split themselves in half, holy by day, hedonist by night, just to fit into some man-made mold?

You say you want transparency, but judge her the moment she opens up.

You want loyalty, but you yourself are bouncing from babe to babe like MTN signal.

You want a wife, but you treat her like she must come factory-sealed with no past, no spice, and no opinions.

One Day, Una Go Jam the Wrong Girl

Let me tell you about my friend, Bisola.

She was in a three-year relationship with a man who would beg her for sex, then guilt-trip her for not being “holy.” He said, “You should save your body for your husband, not me.”

Meanwhile, he was collecting head like offering.

Guess what?

He married someone else. Told Bisola she was “too exposed.”

A few months later, his so-called saintly wife found his secret Snapchat with escorts in Lekki.

Bisola moved on. He’s now divorced and sending “I miss you” texts in the middle of the night.

You can’t eat your cake, lick the crumbs, and ask for puff puff. Life no be like that.

Final Thoughts💔

Dear Naija men, hear me:

✅ If you want a freak, be man enough to handle the woman behind it.
✅ If you want a saint, stop chasing shadows in the streets.
✅ And if you truly want love, let go of double standards.

Stop confusing a woman’s sexuality with her worth. Stop assuming that submission means silence. And stop thinking that purity is defined by lack of experience.

Women are full. We are wild, soft, spiritual, sexy, broken, healed, powerful, and gentle, all at once.

Don’t marry a shadow of what society told you is “wife material” and spend your whole life longing for the woman you were too insecure to commit to.

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Inside the Japa Connection Market

by with 3 Comments Japa

Narrated by: Kelvin Olorunfemi

When I finally touched down in Toronto, wearing a second-hand winter jacket from Balogun Market and shivering like a goat under harmattan, I thought back to the things I had to do, and the people I had to pay, to make that dream possible.

This is not your average japa story. This is the market where dreams are bought, tears are traded, and who you know can mean everything.

The Struggle No Dey Soft

I graduated from LASU in 2017. Second class upper. Mass Communication. I thought I was the next great journalist. But after three years of applying for jobs and writing copy for one annoying SME boss who paid ₦45,000 and insulted me every Monday, I knew I had to get out.

Everywhere I turned, someone was going: UK, Canada, Germany, even Cyprus. My closest friend, Emma, got his UK student visa in two months because his uncle “knew somebody at the embassy.”

I started feeling like an abandoned iPhone 6 in a room full of 13 Pro Max users.

Japa By Fire By Force 🔥✈️

I told myself, Kelvin, you go japa by force or by fraud.

First, I tried the clean route. IELTS. ₦90k.

Got Band 8.

Applied to schools. Paid agents. Got two offers.

Then came VISA wahala. Canada said No, UK said Try Again Later. My bank statement didn’t balance the way their own dey balance.

I cried that night. Real tears. The kind that taste like regret and soaked indomie.

The Japa Connection Market

That’s when I heard about the “connection people.”

They don’t have websites. No signboards. But once you’re desperate enough, the road will open.

Someone introduced me to Brother Samuel, an “apostle” turned agent.

He said, “Kelvin, if you wan enter Canada, e sure for you. But you need correct document and small oil money. ₦2.5 million.”

I asked, “For what na?”

He smiled, “We go package you as international volunteer. One of our people dey for NGO inside Ottawa. From there, na permanent stay straight.”

I was scared. But I was tired of Nigeria. Tired of NEPA. Tired of using VPN to tweet my pain.

I agreed.

Passport, Paper & Prayer

I sold my iPhone XR, borrowed from my cousin, begged my mum who dipped into her co-op savings. She asked, “Kelvin, you sure say this thing go work?”

I told her, “Mummy, Na who know road dey get visa.”

We submitted the papers. The NGO looked fake, but the documents looked real. I was even trained on how to answer embassy questions.

The day of my interview, I wore my only suit and prayed like Elijah. I told the white woman I was going to Canada to volunteer and “impact vulnerable children with trauma-based journalism.”

I was shaking inside.

Two weeks later, I got the visa.

Touchdown or Breakdown

The joy I felt when I collected my passport with that sticker! I wanted to run naked from Ikeja to Ojuelegba.

I packed one Ghana Must Go. My flight was 3am. I didn’t sleep.

Landing in Toronto was like waking up in a movie. Cold air, quiet roads, and people minding their business.

But my host didn’t show up.

The address on my form didn’t exist.

Brother Samuel’s number didn’t go through.

Omo. I stood at the airport like a lost child. That was when reality hit me: I had been packaged and dumped.

Survival Mode Activated

I called a random church listed online. A Nigerian pastor picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m stranded at Pearson Airport, sir.”

He came and picked me. Gave me food, old clothes, and a mattress to sleep in the church basement. That’s where I stayed for 2 months, doing small errands and volunteering while I figured out how to restart my life.

Eventually, I found a cleaning job through a church member. Then another at a car wash. Then a warehouse. I saved. I cried. I worked. I rebuilt.

My Truth, Your Lesson

Today, I’m better. I have a shared apartment. I go to school part-time. I still send money home. But I haven’t seen Brother Samuel again. And maybe it’s for the best.

Because even though I made it out, I know so many who didn’t. Some got deported. Some lost millions. Some are still waiting. Some are six feet under.

This japa life is sweet in pictures. But behind it? Blood, debt, fake agents, fake friends, broken families, and silent pain.

Final Thoughts from Kelvin Olorunfemi

🛑 Don’t let desperation push you into the wrong hands.
🛑 If you don’t know road, ask, but verify.
🛑 Every connection is not divine.
✅ Build your japa journey with wisdom, not just vibes.
✅ If God opens the door, walk in boldly. If it’s man forcing it open, be careful.

Because in Nigeria, Na who know road dey get visa… but sometimes, that road na expressway to sorrow.

💬 Have you had your own Japa experience or heartbreak?

Share with us anonymously or in the comments. You’re not alone.

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His People Took Me to a Juju Woman for ‘Marriage Blessings’

by with 3 Comments Family Drama

Narrated by: Chioma O.

Let me not lie, I knew I was in for something different when I agreed to marry an Nnewi man.

I’m from Enugu. Born and raised Anglican. Our own version of tradition is church wedding followed by rice and mineral. But this one? This one carried me to places I never expected, including one that smelled like burnt goat hair and candle wax.

Grab your zobo, this gist no be for the faint-hearted.

Love in Onitsha, Madness in Marriage

I met Obinna during my NYSC in Awka. He was one of those neat, well-dressed Igbo boys that had no business being so fine and humble. He ran his own car importation business, and he could speak both Igbo and English like he studied in Oxford and the village square at the same time.

He was intentional. Called me every morning. Sent me food from Kilimanjaro. Bought me a phone when I said my old one had “network issues” (translation: it was hanging like NEPA light). Before long, we were inseparable.

We dated for two years before he proposed. My people were happy. His people? Even happier.

Until the wedding came.

That’s when I realized this marriage wasn’t just between Obinna and I, it involved his ancestors, village women association, and one “Nwanyi Nwoke” (a woman-man they call seer).

After the Asoebi Came the Assignment

We did our traditional marriage in Obinna’s hometown, Uruagu, Nnewi. I tried to blend in. I danced, knelt down to greet, even carried hot cooler of jollof rice without shouting “Ah! It’s burning me oh!”

Everything seemed fine until the night of the wedding.

We had barely finished unzipping our clothes when his elder sister, Aunty Mma, knocked on the door.

“Chioma, sorry to disturb una, but you have to follow us for a quick blessing.”

I wore wrapper and stepped out. My mistake.

They didn’t tell me where we were going. They just said, “E be like prayer. For the union to last.”

The Path to Madness

They put me in the back of a keke. I thought we were going to church. Next thing, we branch one bush path near Umudim. I asked them where we were going. One woman said, “Nne, calm down. This is how all the wives in our lineage get favor.”

I was shaking like soaked garri.

They finally stopped in front of a small shrine. I could hear flutes, smell incense, and see smoke coming out of the thatched roof.

I asked one last time, “Please, is this safe?”

One of the women laughed, “You want to be wife of a strong man and you’re afraid of small spiritual covering?”

I knew I should have turned back. But I didn’t want to offend my in-laws on day one. What if they said I’m not submissive?

So I followed them inside.

The Juju Woman

Inside the hut sat a woman dressed in white. She had white chalk all over her body and her eyes were closed.

They called her “Nwanyi Nwoke”, because she was said to carry the spirit of both genders. 😨

She started chanting.

Then she opened her eyes and said, “Bring the bride.”

They pulled me forward and told me to kneel.

The juju woman looked me up and down and hissed.

“She’s too light. Her spirit is not rooted,” she said.

One of the aunties said, “She’s from Enugu. You know their people.”

I wanted to disappear.

The woman brought out a bowl and told me to wash my hands and feet in it.

I looked inside. My sister… what I saw looked like goat blood and pepper soup that passed through fire.

She then said, “Repeat after me: Any woman that tries to share my husband, may she…”

Ewoooo! 😭

At that point, I burst into tears. “I can’t do this!” I shouted.

Aunty Mma said, “Keep quiet! Do you want spiritual attack on your marriage?”

They tied red cloth around my waist, marked my forehead with white chalk and told me not to sleep with my husband that night until I burnt a special black soap at midnight and prayed to the “spirit of unity.”

Spirit of what?! 😭😭😭

Chapter 5: Running Back to Sanity

I finally got back to the room.

Obinna was lying on the bed, smiling and saying, “Baby girl, I’ve waited so long for this.”

I collapsed into his arms and just started crying.

He panicked, thinking something had happened. When I told him, he turned pale.

“Wait, they took you to Nwanyi Nwoke’s shrine?! That woman hasn’t been normal since she saw snake in her dream and stopped talking for two years!”

I felt cold.

He immediately called his mother. “Mummy, why would you allow this? You told me she would only get prayer blessing from the women group!”

His mother said, “Nna, you don’t know the ways of the land. This is how our marriages have lasted. It’s protection for the home.”

Obinna ended the call.

We packed our things and left the next morning without telling anybody. Drove all the way to Enugu without eating. I was silent the whole trip. Obinna just kept shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Chioma. I didn’t know it was this serious.”

The Recovery

I couldn’t sleep for days. I kept dreaming of chalk and red cloth. I felt like something was following me. Obinna brought a priest from our Anglican church to pray and anoint the house. I cried all through the prayers.

He begged me over and over. “I will never let anyone put you through that again.”

I believed him.

But I never looked at his family the same way again.

Final Thoughts 💔✨

Till today, Obinna and I are still married. Stronger, wiser, and far away from family-induced juju.

But I learned a powerful lesson:

👉🏽 Not everything labeled “tradition” is love.
👉🏽 It’s okay to ask questions.
👉🏽 If you’re marrying into a culture-heavy family, know your boundaries.
👉🏽 Don’t fear being misunderstood when it means protecting your peace.

To any bride out there, whether you’re Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, Tiv, or Idoma, shine your eyes. If the blessing involves bush paths, blood, or beings that talk to snakes, run. Run fast.

I still joke with Obinna about it sometimes. When he asks for pounded yam, I tell him, “Only if I don’t have to wash my leg in goat blood for it.” 😅

We laugh. But deep down, I’m just thankful I made it out, spiritually and mentally.

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We Fought on Our Wedding Night Over Egusi Soup

by with 3 Comments Wedding Night Gist

by Aisha Abdullahi

If anybody had told me that Egusi soup, yes, ordinary soup, would nearly end my marriage before it even began, I would have slapped them with a hot fufu ball. But alas, here I am, telling my own tale.

My name is Aisha Abdullahi, born and raised in Kano, a proud Arewa girl with a stubborn streak and a love for spicy food that could wake the dead. My husband, Farouk, is from Kogi, and while I adore him like the jollof I pretend I know how to cook, I had no idea our biggest cultural clash would happen in bed… with soup. 😩

Let me take you back.

💍 The Wedding Wahala

Our wedding was everything I prayed for. The Kayan Lefe, the colors, the food, the music, everything was perfect. My mother kept saying,

“Aisha, make sure you respect your husband. First night is spiritual o!”

Farouk and I didn’t exactly court traditionally. It was a mix of modern texting, sneaky glances at family functions, and that one time he bought me suya and I knew, this one is husband material.

So, when we finally got married after a slightly dramatic family approval process (my aunt swore he looked like he had secret children), I was relieved.

But nothing prepared me for our first night.

🍲 It Started with Egusi

So, we got to our hotel suite in Abuja. Beautiful place, flowers everywhere, AC colder than Sani Abacha’s handshake. The plan was to rest, eat, and do… you know, the do 😏.

But me, I was hungry. Famished. I hadn’t eaten much at the reception because of makeup, hugs, and being spun around by my cousins like a merry-go-round.

I turned to Farouk and said,

“Baby, where’s the food?”

He smiled like the proud new husband he was and said,

“I ordered your favorite, Egusi soup with pounded yam.”

Pause.

My smile faded. “Egusi?”

“Yes na! You said you liked Egusi when we went to that Bukka joint near Zaria Road.”

I blinked.

“Farouk, that Egusi had bitterleaf inside. Not this bland one.”
“So? Soup na soup, babe. Calm down.”

😤 Enter the Drama

Now, before you judge me, understand something. In my family, first impressions matter, especially when it comes to food. I had packed a special pot of Miyan Kuka with spicy dried fish and tuwo, and my plan was to surprise him. But he beat me to it with Egusi without pepper.

One spoon in, and I lost it.

“Farouk, you call this Egusi? This watery thing? You married me and brought this as bride price?”

He laughed. He LAUGHED.

“So now you’re rating my food choices? You wey no sabi even make tea?”

My eye twitched. I dropped the spoon.

“So you’re calling me useless in the kitchen on our wedding night?”
“I’m just saying, oya sorry na, but you’re overreacting.”

BOOM.

That’s how the shouting started. In a five-star hotel room. On our wedding night. Over soup.

🙄 Things Escalated Fast

He called his mother.

Yes. He called his MOTHER.

“Mama, Aisha is crying because of Egusi soup.”

I heard her ask from the other end,

“Is it that watery one your aunty makes? That thing dey cause problem since 2002!”

That’s how I knew my mother-in-law was a real one.

But still, the embarrassment nearly swallowed me. Me, Aisha. Cried on my wedding night not because of passion, but because of pepperless Egusi.

🛏️ The Aftermath

That night, we both slept on opposite ends of the bed. The silence was louder than a generator in Kano heat. 😤

The next morning, he woke up early, left the hotel, and came back with a steaming bowl of Miyan Taushe, two boiled eggs, and an apology.

“I may not get your taste right all the time,” he said, “but I’ll keep trying, because I want to learn your love language. Even if it’s in soup form.”

I cried again, but this time for a different reason.

😂 Our Inside Joke

Now, three years later, every time we argue, he brings up that Egusi night.

“At least I didn’t serve you bland soup today o!”

Sometimes, he’ll randomly whisper in my ear,

“Egusi dey kitchen, abeg no vex.”

We’ve come a long way. I’ve learned to eat his version of Egusi without vomiting. He now knows the difference between “soup” and “offense.”

💡 Final Lesson

Dear new couples, you see that first night? Don’t let food disgrace you. 😭
Marriage is not just about love. It’s also about patience, understanding, and knowing that sometimes, war can start from soup. 🥣

Also, marry someone who can laugh with you when you fight over nonsense. Because in the end, it’s not the Egusi, it’s the effort.

Would I do it all over again?
Yes. But next time, I’ll carry my own cooler of soup. 😏

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I Was Abused by a Family Member, and They Still Expect Me to Keep Quiet

by with 4 Comments Confessions

by – Oluwatoyin

Some stories no dey easy to tell. This one choke. But if I no talk am, who go speak for the countless girls wey don go through the same thing and still dey live in silence?

I was only 13 when it started. And the worst part? It happened right under the roof of the people wey suppose protect me.

Blood No Be Barrier 💔

Growing up in Ibadan, my parents always emphasized the importance of family. “Blood is blood,” my mum would say. “Family no go harm you.”

But nobody warned me say sometimes, na family dey wound you pass.

His name was Bayo. My mum’s younger cousin. He came to live with us when he got admission into Polytechnic Ibadan. I was excited to have an older cousin around. At first, he was nice. Brought me sweets. Helped me with homework. Until he started coming into my room at night.

At first, it was just “mistakes.” Brushing against me. Holding me too long. Then one night, everything changed. He covered my mouth. Whispered things. I froze. I didn’t even understand what was happening until it was over.

And it kept happening.

The Guilt and the Silence 😞🕯️

I became quiet. Always sad. My grades dropped. I stopped singing in choir.

Mummy asked what was wrong, and I said, “I’m tired.”

I wanted to speak, but every time I opened my mouth, fear would grip me. What if nobody believed me? What if they say I was the one that seduced him?

I’d heard too many stories of girls who got blamed. I didn’t want to be one of them.

So I suffered in silence. Even when Bayo moved out two years later, the trauma stayed behind.

When I Finally Spoke 🗣️🔥

I was 19 when I broke. I was in the university, OAU, studying Psychology.

One lecturer was talking about trauma and repression in class. That night, I wrote everything in my journal. The next week, I told a friend. Then a counselor. And finally, my mum.

She sat there, silent. Then she cried. Then she said something I’ll never forget:

“But Toyin… why didn’t you tell me then?”

I wanted to scream. Because I was a child! Because you wouldn’t have believed me! But I just cried.

The Family’s Reaction 🥶

My mum believed me. But when she told my uncles and aunties, hell broke loose.

“Why would she lie on Bayo like that?” “Maybe she misunderstood.” “This thing happened years ago, what’s the point of digging it up now?”

One aunt even said, “You’re going to destroy this family if you keep talking about this.”

That day, I realized, they didn’t care about me. They cared about saving face.

Healing Without Apology 💔💪🏽

Bayo still walks free. He’s married now. He even sent me a Facebook friend request two years ago. I blocked him.

He never apologized. Never admitted anything. My family never confronted him. They just swept it under the rug and expected me to do the same.

But I chose a different path.

I started therapy. I joined an NGO that helps survivors. I wrote poems. I volunteered to talk to young girls in secondary schools.

The pain never fully leaves. But I’m no longer a prisoner to it.

Final Words from Toyin 💬🧘🏽‍♀️

To anyone reading this: your pain is valid.

Even if the world tries to silence you. Even if your family tries to guilt you. Even if the person who hurt you walks around like nothing happened, you matter.

Don’t carry shame that was never yours to begin with.

Speak. Heal. Live.

And if you’re someone who’s ever doubted a survivor: do better.

Because silence is what protects abusers, not families.

Explore-naija-educated-woman

They Said I’m Too Educated to Be a Good Wife

by with 4 Comments Confessions

by Amarachi

If I had 1k for every time someone told me, “Na book you go marry?” I’d be richer than Dangote’s gate man. 😩

Let me take you through the wild ride of how my education almost made me a bad wife candidate in the eyes of society.

Spoiler alert: I’m still very single, but not stupid.

First Class Wahala 🎓🥇

I was the first daughter of five children born in the sweet dusty city of Awka. My father was a strict man with an unhealthy obsession for academic excellence. You’d think he invented WAEC.

From a young age, it was clear I was the bookworm. While other girls were learning how to tie gele or seduce their crush with rice and stew, I was calculating compound interest and explaining photosynthesis to my younger brother, Chinedu.

By the time I finished secondary school, I had 9 A’s. First class in Economics from UNIZIK. Best graduating student. People clapped like I had just saved Nigeria from economic collapse.

But that’s when the real trouble started.

When the Degrees Start Scaring Men 🏃🏽‍♂️📚

See ehn, when I was struggling to read in school, nobody told me that too much book can affect your bride price.

My aunty, Aunty Blessing, called me one day and said:

“Amara, you are doing too much. Men don’t like women who talk too much book. You’ll intimidate your husband.”

Intimidate who? Am I a lion?

She said I needed to “cool down my CV” before I spoil market for myself. That I should stop saying I want to do master’s and PhD. That I should start learning how to kneel down to serve food and use respect to greet.

You won’t believe this same woman was shouting “Genius!” the day I got my scholarship letter.

Mr. Right Turned Left 🤦🏽‍♀️

That’s how I met Tochukwu, fine boy with sense and swag. He said he liked that I was smart. He said, “You’re different. I can talk to you.”

Lies. 🚩

Everything was sweet until I got accepted into a fully funded MSc program in the UK. When I told him, man looked like NEPA took his destiny.

“So you want to go and leave me here? You’ll change. You’ll come back and be forming oyinbo.”

I said, “No now. It’s just 18 months. I’ll come back.”

Bros ghosted me two weeks later. His WhatsApp DP disappeared. I heard he started dating one girl that fries yam by the junction.

The same guy that used to brag, “My babe is going places.” 🤡

My Mum Joined the Choir of Critics 😭🎤

When I came back from the UK with my second degree, I thought I’d be celebrated. Instead, my mum sat me down and said:

“Amarachi, this your education is now becoming a problem. All your mates have children. You, you are gathering degrees. Are you building school?”

She even called a prophet to pray for me. Prophet said I had a spirit husband that loves smart women. Can you imagine? 😭

That night, I opened my fridge, brought out ice cream, and toasted to my ‘demonic intellect.’

Even my younger cousin, Chinyere, who barely passed JAMB, was now married to a mechanic and expecting her second child. And everyone celebrated her like she cured malaria.

The Office Nonsense 🏢😤

If I thought family was bad, the workplace was worse.

I got a job in a consulting firm in Lagos, and during a staff hangout, one of the married male managers said:

“You’re pretty for a smart girl. But I pity the man that will marry you. You’ll argue everything.”

Sir, I only asked if your analysis was backed by data. You said the economy is growing and I asked, “Based on what?”

Another colleague once told me, “You’re wife material but your material is too expensive. Men just want cotton, not Gucci.”

Omo. 😩

Pressure Cooker 🥵🍲

Now I’m 31. I have two degrees, a good job, a car, and I live in Lekki.

But according to society, I’m incomplete.

Every wedding I attend, someone must corner me and say, “You’re next in Jesus’ name.” One aunt even added, “Just lower your standard small. All these book men no like am.”

So let me get this straight, because I refused to be a baby factory or marry just anybody, I’m suddenly problematic?

One day, I asked my mum, “Would you rather I marry a man who beats me, cheats on me, but I have ring on my finger?”

She kept quiet.

Because deep down, she knows what society wants is not a good marriage. They just want a married woman, even if she’s dying in silence.

Final Note 💬❤️

  • Education doesn’t reduce your value as a woman, it increases your options.
  • The idea that smart women can’t be good wives is an outdated scam.
  • Don’t dim your light to fit into someone else’s shadow.
  • Marry someone who is proud of your growth, not intimidated by it.

I may not be married (yet), but I sleep well at night, no regrets, no fake smiles, no spiritual husband. Just me and my degrees chilling in AC. 🧘🏽‍♀️💅🏽

And to all the “too educated” women out there: you’re not too much. They’re just not enough.