photorealistic-portrait-african-rastafarian-woman-with-dreads (2)

My Virginity Was for Sale, And My Mum Encouraged It

by: Chinaza Okonkwo

I used to think I would lose my virginity on my wedding night, wearing white lace, with candles burning and Asa’s music playing softly in the background.

But my reality?

My virginity became a topic of negotiation, like land at Ibeju Lekki.

And the lead marketer?

My mother.

Let me tell you how it all started.

I grew up in Aba, in a two-bedroom flat with seven people. My mum was a teacher, and my dad? Well, he was one of those men that believed he was doing the family a favour just by breathing.

He left when I was 10, and from that moment, my mum became both mother and father. I watched her struggle, hustle, borrow, pay, and pray. We sold everything from okrika bras to second-hand electric kettles.

Despite the chaos, one thing my mother always emphasized was my virginity.

“Chinaza, your virginity is your pride. Don’t allow any man to touch you o. That’s your future. That’s your gold!”

And I believed her.

Until I turned 22.

My Fine Self and the Soft Life Temptation 😍🚗

I was in my final year at UNN, and let’s just say, I knew I was fine. My mirror knew it. The boys on campus knew it. Even my class rep that couldn’t pronounce my name properly knew it.

But I wasn’t just fine, I was focused. I didn’t party much. I was a library babe. But I also started realizing that beauty can open doors.

That’s when I met Uncle Dili.

He was my mum’s old classmate, and he came from London with that his fake accent and potbelly. He said I reminded him of his daughter. That should have been my red flag.

He started giving me money.

It began with 5k for “data.” Then 20k for “textbooks.” Before I knew it, he paid my rent and bought me an iPhone.

My friends called him my sponsor, but I insisted it was innocent. I mean, I was still a virgin. 😇

The Family Meeting ☕️❓

Then one Sunday, I went home to visit my mum. After dinner, she called me into her room like she had gist.

“Naza, come and sit down. You know you’re not a child again.”

I nodded, waiting for the usual marriage talk.

But then she smiled and said, “This your virginity… let us use it wisely.”

I froze.

“Mummy??”

She leaned in. “Do you know some men will pay millions just to be the first? Hmm? You’re still fresh. That’s a hot cake in this market.”

I laughed, hard. I thought she was joking. Like those times she’d say I looked like Genevieve.

But she wasn’t joking.

She already had a buyer in mind.

Guess who?

Uncle Dili.


The Negotiation Table 📎💵

The following week, my mum called me again and put her phone on speaker.

“Hello Dili, yes, she’s here beside me. Yes o, still fresh. Never touched.”

I wanted the ground to open and swallow me.

Dili asked to speak with me. He said, and I quote:

“Naza baby, if you give me this gift, I’ll give you a car, pay your master’s abroad, and open boutique for your mama.”

Na so my virginity turn empowerment program.

I hung up the call and stared at my mum.

“Mummy, are you okay?! You’re selling me?!”

She hissed.

“Selling you ke? Am I not your mother? I’m securing your future! What’s the point of keeping it if it won’t bring blessing to this family? We’ve suffered enough!”

I Made a Decision 🤬😔

I went back to school confused, angry, and deeply sad. For days I didn’t pick her calls. But I also couldn’t stop thinking…

Was she right?

I mean, the money could change our lives. But at what cost?

I cried every night for a week.

One night, I dreamt that I was in a wedding gown, walking down the aisle. But instead of a groom, I met Dili standing with a cheque.

That was it. I broke down.

The next morning, I blocked Uncle Dili. Then I sent my mum a voice note that said:

“Mummy, I love you. But my body is not a fundraising tool. If we will eat garri, let’s eat it with peace.”

She didn’t reply.

Rebuilding Me ✅📚

It’s been two years now.

I graduated with first class. Got a scholarship for my master’s in Canada. Not from Dili. From hard work.

I forgave my mum eventually. She apologized, saying she didn’t realize how far she had fallen into desperation.

We don’t talk about it often, but she now brags about how “my daughter is pure both in book and body.” 🤣

But that season taught me some hard truths.

Final Note from Chinaza 💛

  • Poverty can pressure people to normalize what’s not normal.
  • Virginity is not a currency, it’s a personal choice.
  • Parents are human too. They break under pressure.
  • And lastly, don’t let anyone, family or not, put a price on your dignity.

Whether you choose to wait, or not, it should be your decision, not a negotiation.

💔 Because once you lose yourself to the pressure, it’s more than just a body, you lose your peace too.

Thanks for reading. If this touched you, share with someone who needs to hear it.

portrait-person-suffering-from-hangover

My Mum Found Out I Was Pregnant on WhatsApp

I should have known that nothing hidden under Lagos skies stays hidden for long. Especially not from a Nigerian mother with a PhD in suspicion and a Masters in emotional blackmail.

I was 24 when it happened. Fresh out of NYSC, working at a Telecommunication company in Ikeja, trying to balance adulthood and vibes. Life was just beginning to make sense—or so I thought.

I had a boyfriend, Tope. Fine boy, good vibes, but honestly, no future. We were together for over a year, mostly out of comfort. He was the kind of man that would forget your birthday but remember Arsenal’s match lineup.

One rainy evening, I noticed something was off. My body felt like it was fighting me. I was always sleepy, hungry, and oddly emotional. I cried watching a Glo advert. That’s when I knew something wasn’t right.

I took a test.

Two lines.

Clear. Bold. Life-changing.

Pregnant.

The Panic Mode Begins

I screamed in my tiny self-con room in Ogba. My roommate, Chika, ran in thinking I had seen a rat.

“Na rat abi spirit?” she asked.

“Spirit with two lines,” I muttered.

After I told her, we both sat on the floor in silence like we were mourning something.

Tope was shocked. Not the “Oh my God, I’m going to be a father” kind. More like “You sure it’s mine?”

I swear, I wanted to throw a blender at him.

Eventually, he came around. We both decided to keep it hush-hush. I wasn’t ready to tell my parents. My mum is the prayer warrior of our family WhatsApp group. She once cast out demons from a Bollywood movie I was watching.

How the WhatsApp Devil Struck

Three months into the pregnancy, I was still hiding it well. Flowing gowns. Strategic bag placements. But one Saturday, my cousin Ify came to visit and insisted we take cute pictures.

I didn’t think much of it—just fun, harmless selfies in my flowy ankara gown.

Ify, in her youthful foolishness, posted the picture on WhatsApp status with the caption:

“My glowing preggo cousin 🥰😘”

I didn’t see it immediately. I was sleeping. But my mother did.

At exactly 5:13 p.m., I woke up to 37 missed calls. First from my mum. Then my dad. Then my aunties. Then my church women leader. Even Sister Roseline from our old compound in Onitsha.

The first message I saw from my mum said:

“ADAORA CHIDINMA OBI!!! IS IT TRUE?”

My soul left my body.

The Confrontation

I called her back. Big mistake.

“Mummy, I can explain—”

She didn’t let me land.

“Explain what? That your womb is now public property? You are glowing in sin and smiling like Mary Magdalene on her wedding day? You have disgraced me. You have killed me, Adaora. Just carry shovel and bury me!”

I sat on the floor. My heart pounded so fast I thought the baby would hear the trauma.

“I trained you. I prayed for you. I sowed seed upon seed for your future husband. Is this how you repay me? With belle outside wedlock?!”

At this point, I was sobbing.

She continued.

“Does Tope even have job? What does he do again? Something-something photography? So this is how my daughter will become Mama Photographer?”

Eventually, she ended the call with one final blow:

“Pack your things and come to Aba. I want to see your eyes when you tell your father this nonsense.”

My Trip to the Lion’s Den 😬

The next day, I boarded a Peace Mass Transit bus to Aba. Seven hours of heat, traffic, and anxiety.

When I arrived, my dad was silent. That kind of silence that enters your soul. He just looked at me, shook his head, and walked into the house.

Mummy on the other hand? Oh, she didn’t rest.

From morning till night, it was:

  • “What will people say?”
  • “You couldn’t even marry first?”
  • “See Nkechi, her own child is doing masters in Canada. Yours is doing masters in fornication.”

Every word felt like a hot slap.

Even my younger brother started acting like I was a bad influence. He stopped watching TV around me. Said he didn’t want to be “corrupted.”

I was broken.

The Turning Point

Then one night, my dad came into my room. I was crying quietly. My feet were swollen. My back hurt. Everything felt like a punishment.

He sat beside me and just said:

“Are you happy?”

I shook my head. “No, Daddy.”

He held my hand.

“You made a mistake. But this baby is not a mistake. Don’t let shame destroy you. Stand up and face it.”

I cried like a baby. For the first time, someone wasn’t judging me. He didn’t offer a solution. Just love.

After that, things slowly improved. My mum still gave me side eye for months, but she eventually came around.

Tope and I didn’t work out. Shocker, right? He disappeared by month five. I haven’t heard from him since. But honestly, that was a blessing.

The Baby That Changed My Life 🍼

I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Zara. She had my dimples and my dad’s eyes. She became my light.

I went back to Lagos after a year. Got a better job in a PR firm. Started a small support blog for single mums. I even went back to church—on my own terms.

Now, when people see me, they see strength. They see survival. They see grace.

Even my mum now posts Zara every weekend with captions like:

“My sunshine ☀️ God turned my tears into testimony 🙏”

She never includes Tope. Lol.

Final Note

If you’re reading this and you feel like the world is judging you, I want you to know this:

  • You are not your mistake.
  • You are not anyone’s disappointment.
  • You are not worthless.

You are a woman. A warrior. A survivor.

And sometimes, the worst moments of your life give birth to the most beautiful things.

So, chin up, sis. No matter what WhatsApp says. 😊

high-angle-smiley-woman-breastfeeding

Omugwo Without Backup: How My Husband and I Survived Postpartum Alone!

Xplorers, una gats hear this gist! My name is Chioma Adeyemi.

So…I never imagined that my postpartum story would start with the words: “It was just hubby and me… and a tiny screaming human we created.” But here we are.

After 13 hours of soul-snatching labour pain 😩, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl 👶🏽 in August. The moment I saw her tiny face, it was like all the pain disappeared. Poof! That’s when reality hit, it was time for omugwo! 🍼

Our plan was simple: my mom would come two weeks after delivery to help out for another two weeks. I wanted those first days to be just hubby and I bonding with our new miracle before the parade of aunties, uncles, neighbours, and well-wishers took over the house 😂.

But life had other plans. I delivered at 42 weeks (yes, baby girl overstayed her welcome like NEPA bills), and by then, my mom had to go in for a minor but serious surgery. She still insisted on coming to help, but how? I couldn’t risk her health. 😢

So I called up my MIL (mother-in-law) and gave her an open invitation to come help during my postpartum period. She declined for reasons best known to her 🙃. So it became clear, this was going to be a two-man squad operation: Hubby and I versus this new world of nappies, sleepless nights, and breast pumps. 💪🏽🍼

Now, I’m one of four girls, and I’ve been the official babysitter of my family since forever. From nieces to cousins, I’d done the rounds. So I wasn’t panicking, yet. The moment I found out my mom couldn’t come, I did the Nigerian mother thing: I cooked like I was opening a buka. 😆 Jollof, egusi, okro, soup for Africa! Everything was portioned and stacked neatly in the freezer like gold in a vault.

Then the real MVP showed up, my husband . After I gave birth, that man turned into my personal butler, chef, and home assistant. He served me hot meals , mopped floors , changed diapers like a pro, and even made sure my water bottle stayed full, super important for a breastfeeding mama! 💦🍼

I didn’t lift a finger for the first few days. As tired as I was, I still managed to bathe our baby from day one, and that was the scariest part! 😱

Imagine bathing a tiny, slippery, squirming baby that looked like a porcelain doll. Every time I carried her, my heart skipped like Nigerian network. I added a bit of olive oil and milk to her water because someone said it was good, BIG MISTAKE. That water turned to ice rink! I nearly lost grip of her once and screamed “JESUS!” like I was in a deliverance service. 🤯😅

But we survived.

My friends couldn’t believe it. “You mean you’re doing all this without help?” They were shocked. I was shocked too 😆. I would’ve loved my mom there for emotional support, but we pulled through.

The hard part came when hubby had to return to work less than a week after delivery. 😞 That silence in the house? E choke. It was just me, baby girl, and all the hormonal waves.

But God did. 🙌🏽

By the time both my mom and MIL (mother-in-law) came to visit, when baby was 3 months old, I was already a seasoned mama. Bath time? No longer a horror movie. Breastfeeding? I could do it with my eyes closed (and often did). Midnight cries? I had a playlist and routine. I was ready to write a manual 😂.

Sure, I had all the fears new moms have: “Am I doing it right?” “Is she okay?” “Did I clean her nose too hard?” But I trusted God, leaned on YouTube, and called my sisters more than MTN customer care 😂📞.

Motherhood is wild. One minute you’re crying because the baby pooped after you just cleaned her, and the next you’re kissing her tiny feet like she’s royalty 👣.

But honestly? It’s the best job I’ve ever had.

To everyone waiting for their miracle, I see you. I feel you. And I’m praying your joy comes soon. 💛✨

explore-naija-wedding-night-couple

I Planned 15 Styles, We Ended Up Snoring!

Ladies and gentlemen… gather round. It’s finally time for me to spill my wedding night lashing story, aka how my most anticipated night turned into a glorified sleepover 😭.

You see, for me, the wedding night was a BIG deal, one of those fantasies I’d been cooking since university days. My girls and I would sit in hostel rooms gossiping about it like it was our final year project. I had plans, my people. Serious plans. Headstands, reverse cowgirl, snake-in-the-monkey-shadow, ALL the styles in the book. Sleep? For what? That night was supposed to be my debut in the Married Women Association of Wild Things.

Fast-forward to D-day, the traditional rites, prayers, welcome party, leg washing, and even a “you’re now a wife” mini sermon from the aunties. My excitement was peaking. After everything, I took a nice hot shower, rubbed small shea butter on my thighs (you know now 😅), wore that short silky red nightwear I ordered from Instagram, and waited for my new oga.

Then… boom, Baba hit me with a long praise and worship session. I thought it was a short thanksgiving. My people, he entered real fire prayer mode. I was nodding off by the time he started praying for “our generations unborn.” 😩

After what felt like a crossover night, we both laid on the bed. My eyes lit up, thinking, “Finally, it’s showtime!” We started whispering sweet nothings, throwing around promises and subtle hints. I was giving green light o. That’s how my husband said, “You know we can’t do anything tonight, right?”

Wait, what??

Sir, excuse me? Come again?

He was serious. “We’re too tired,” he added. “Let’s just cuddle and kiss.”

At this point, my spirit had left the room. But I said, okay, let’s at least lock lips, let something happen so I don’t cry in my sleep. We started kissing, slow, soft… sleepy kisses.

Next thing I know, I wake up.

MORNING.

Same position.

We legit slept off while kissing. 😭💀

That was my almighty wedding night. No sex. No gbenshing. Just a glorified cuddle session and wasted lingerie.

To make matters worse, we didn’t even do the do until five days later. Yes, you heard right. FIVE! That thing pain me ehn. I almost sent him back to his village.

And it didn’t even end there…

Let me take you back a bit.

When we picked the wedding date, I checked my period tracking app, and lo and behold, my red visitor was scheduled to arrive on my wedding day.

My chest. 😭

I panicked. Begged hubby-to-be to help me “pour something inside” so I could take contraceptives and scatter the cycle. Oga refused, claiming we must stay holy till the altar. I respected his holiness, but deep down, I knew Mr. Red would disgrace me.

He did.

Woke up on the wedding day by 4:30 AM. Took my bath, drank one full pure water on an empty stomach — my friend swore it would help me not feel pressed all day. Bad idea. An hour later, while the makeup artist was still blending my brows, cramps came like a thief in the night. Hot, fiery, thunderbolt cramps.

Ran to the toilet like someone chasing destiny, and there it was, Mr. Red.

He didn’t even knock. Just entered.

I was devastated.

As the whole glam squad tried to keep me looking pretty, I was there fighting to not curl into fetal position from the pain. Every 10 minutes I whispered to my chief bridesmaid:
“Babe, check my gown. Am I stained?”
She’d whisper back: “You’re good. Smile!”
Smile ko, smile ni.

After the wedding, we had to travel 4 hours to my husband’s base. 4 hours of bumpy roads, cramps, and pad changing in uncomfortable restrooms. Romantic, innit?

So imagine reaching the house that night — exhausted, drained, with cramps still dancing zanku in my womb, only for husband to pull out a Bible and start worship 🙃

Ladies and gentlemen, that was my wedding night.

Not what I planned, but it was ours — raw, real, imperfectly perfect.

And when we finally did the do five days later?
Let’s just say… it was worth the wait. 😏

Now, whenever people ask me, “How was your wedding night?”
I smile and say, “We slept. Together. Literally.”


Moral of the story?
If you think wedding night will be like Nollywood, with roses, scented candles, and acrobatics — just know real life has plot twists.

But love… love finds a way. Even if it delays by five days. 😅

ztech_solutions_a_black_woman_in_action_screaming_while_giving_bir_4d153154-35b1-4d5c-b476-98e3590c27f7

Labour Pains and Garri Cravings – My Wild Birth Story

Hello Chief and my amazing Explorers!

I’m Nne, and today, I’m finally stepping out of silent reader mode to share my labour room madness. It’s one for the books — If you’re pregnant or planning to be, please grab a cold drink. You’ll need it.

So, I got married in October 2020, and my husband and I had this romantic idea of enjoying each other for two years before bringing in a baby. LOL. You’d think it was our decision. My mother and in-laws said “over their dead body.” My mother, especially, said “You need to hold one child first before you start that rubbish you’re saying.”

As usual, I lost. I got pregnant by the end of November 2020.

By January 2021, I was convinced the pregnancy was out for blood. I mean, who knew pregnancy could gift someone with ulcer? I was gasping for air in the middle of the night and had to be rushed to the hospital. Between the vomiting, endless spitting, and food aversions, I started looking like a shadow of myself.

My diet? Cabin biscuits soaked in milk — breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yet somehow, my glucose level was high, and my legs swelled like I was carrying twins. I barely recognized myself. Pregnancy used me to see shege.

When Hormones Enter Driver’s Seat

It wasn’t until 6th month six that I started feeling human again — the so-called honeymoon phase. And that’s when I became a whole different woman. My hormones said jump, and I asked, “how high?”

Let me just say it straight: my husband saw pepper.

I craved everything and demanded it immediately. He became husband of the house and chef of the kitchen. If you’re reading this, dear hubby, thank you for not running away.

At 39 weeks and 3 days, with my hospital bag packed and baby expected anytime, something crazy happened. On the night of August 25th at exactly 8:42 p.m., I suddenly wanted one thing: intense cowgirl style. Yes, you read that right.

My husband blinked twice, unsure if I was serious. But I mounted like a warrior queen, belly and all. The climax? 10/10.

Afterwards, I opened my garri with cold water and added plenty milk. Hubby was like, “But babe, there’s milk in the fridge!” The death stare I gave him? Silence. That was the wise choice.

August 26th: Let the Games Begin

By midnight, I noticed the show — pinkish mucus. Contractions started, spaced about 10 minutes apart. They weren’t strong yet, but I knew what was happening (thanks to my mom, a retired midwife, who had made me read all her medical books. I was armed with plenty knowledge).

By morning, I went to the hospital. Let me pause to ask: Why do nurses have no fear of God?!

One nurse shoved her hand into my precious kpekus like she was searching for buried treasure. I screamed, and she calmly said, “You’re just 2cm. Come back later.”

I went home, but by 5 PM, I couldn’t stand straight. Thank God I had eaten Afang soup o, because what came next was war.

Back at the hospital, I was 6cm and admitted. I didn’t go with my hospital bag, so I called hubby to bring it. He came around 6:30 PM, only to be chased away by my mother.

Yes, my mother. She told him not to say sorry to me. “Nobody died!” she said. I wanted to throw her slipper, but contractions no gree.

Contractions That Opened the Gates of Heaven

By 7 cm, my progress stalled. The midwife gave me one hot drip and whispered “Just relax, this will help.”

LIE! That drip unlocked contractions that took me straight to the gates of heaven. I saw white light. I met Jesus. But he told me gently, “My daughter, it’s not your time. Go back.”

I screamed “JESUS HELP ME!” over and over. When I mistakenly screamed “Mommy!”, that same woman said, “Don’t call me, call Jesus!” I swear, my mom is liquid metal in human form.

They moved me to the labour ward — and for the record, those beds are iron rods with one wrapper. Is that not abuse?

Now time to push. Doctor said, “Push when contractions come.” But my body said no. I couldn’t push. I started crying like a baby begging, “Please help me!”

The midwives threatened to leave me, and my mother shouted at them: “Don’t guilt-trip her! There’s something called assisted labour!” At some point one of them said “Let madam deliver her child then!”

Ha! I screamed, “You people want to kill me ooo!”

10:25 PM – The Miracle Moment

Then it happened — at 10:25 PM on the dot, my precious baby girl made her grand entrance into the world. The moment I heard her cry, all the pain evaporated. The room felt like heaven opened.

Tears streamed down my face. For that one moment alone, I would do it all again.

But wait — the doctor cut me somehow. My mother said if I had seen the cut, I’d have disowned my own kpekus. They stitched me like I was torn jeans. But hey, I survived.

Everyone praised me. First-time mum, no insults, no swearing at my husband, no shouting down the hospital. Just calm, strength, and heavenly screaming.

Hospital Bill Wahala

Next morning, we were discharged. Bill: ₦86,000.

For what, please? No pain relief, no fan, no AC, no massage, and you want 86k?

I told my husband, “You better go and bargain. I have born now, nobody’s chasing me.” They eventually collected ₦70,000.

Omugwo & Beyond

We got home to start omugwo. Honestly, it wasn’t sweet like the movies. We were managing financially, so there was no jollof joy, just survival and gratitude.

Now my baby girl is a year plus, and my mother is giving me side-eye again like, “Shey time never reach for number two?”

But this time, my NO is strong like Mount Kilimanjaro. No means no.


Romance is sweet, marriage is beautiful, but that labour room? Na battleground. If you’re reading this and your time is near, fear not. Women are powerful beyond words. You’ve got this.

explore_naija_lady

Romance in Room 305 – The Hotel That Changed My Marriage

The Unexpected Turn in Our Love Story

Romance often begins with grand gestures and butterflies. But as years pass, the daily grind can dim that initial spark. For my husband and me, the routine of work, parenting, and responsibilities had quietly eroded the intimacy we once cherished.

It wasn’t a dramatic event that shifted our course, but a simple, spontaneous decision to spend a night away from home. That night, in Room 305 of a quaint local hotel, we rediscovered the connection we’d been missing.

The Subtle Drift Apart

Over time, our conversations had become transactional—centered around schedules, bills, and chores. Physical affection was rare, and our shared laughter had faded. We were coexisting, not truly connecting.mywellnesshub.in+1self.com+1roubicekandthacker.com

This gradual drift is common in long-term relationships. According to the Gottman Institute, couples often fall into patterns that, if unaddressed, can lead to emotional distance. gottman.com

The Decision to Get Away

One evening, after another silent dinner, I suggested we take a break from our routine. No elaborate vacation—just a night away to focus on us.castletonfarms.com+1creativehomekeeper.com+1

We booked a room at a nearby hotel, packed overnight bags, and left our daily lives behind, if only for 24 hours.

The Magic of Room 305

From the moment we entered Room 305, something shifted. The neutral space, free from reminders of our responsibilities, allowed us to see each other anew.

We talked—really talked—sharing dreams, fears, and memories. We laughed over room service and reminisced about our early days. The physical intimacy that had been lacking reignited naturally, without pressure.

Research supports the power of such getaways. A study published in ScienceDirect found that couples who engage in novel experiences together report higher levels of relationship satisfaction and intimacy. sciencedirect.com

The Lasting Impact

Returning home, we carried the warmth of Room 305 with us. Our renewed connection influenced our daily interactions—we were more patient, affectionate, and communicative.fleurdille.com

We began scheduling regular mini-getaways, understanding that investing in our relationship was essential. These intentional breaks became our way of maintaining the romance amidst life’s chaos.

Embracing the Power of Intentional Time Together

Our experience taught us that rekindling romance doesn’t require grand vacations or expensive gifts. Sometimes, all it takes is a change of scenery and undivided attention.

If you find your relationship in a rut, consider a simple overnight stay. Choose a place free from distractions, where you can focus solely on each other. It might just be the reset your relationship needs.

Ready to reignite the spark in your relationship? Plan a spontaneous getaway, even if it’s just a night at a local hotel. Share your experiences in the comments below—we’d love to hear how you keep the romance alive.