PREVIOUSLY ON TIE THE KNOT, UNTIE THE MESS

Scene 2

Location: WWP Office, Lekki, Lagos

Date & Time: Monday, 2:45 PM

(Alero walks into her moderate, chic, nicely furnished office. She settles into her cushioned chair and drops her bag on the shiny executive desk. The air conditioner is working overtime, a sweet escape from the harsh Lagos sun she just stepped out of. She leans back into her seat, finally catching her breath. Being the CEO and founder of WWP , A Whole Wedding Package —A phone rings out loudly, cutting off the narrator. Narrator 1: Seriously? Who is interrupting my narration now?)

Alero: (Picks up her phone) Hello Mummy. Ekaaro ma.

Mrs. Bidemi: Alero! Bawo ni? We are missing you here o. Please tell me you’re coming home for Great-Grandma’s 18th-year remembrance.

Alero: Mummy, we both know I haven’t been back for that since I left Osogbo eleven years ago.

Mrs. Bidemi: I know, I know, but everyone is asking for you! In fact, your Auntie Nora said she wants you to come and carry her granddaughter before the poor child turns one.

Alero: (Rolls her eyes) Mummy, I’m not coming. I am very busy in Lagos. How are you and Daddy doing?

Mrs. Bidemi: (Dramatic fake wail) Oh, Alero mi, please come home nau. I just want to see your beautiful face. I miss you!

Alero: (Suppressing a laugh) I was home just two months ago for my birthday. What is the real reason you want me back in Osogbo?

Mrs. Bidemi: Well... you remember Mummy John? We were executives in the Christian Women’s group back then. She’s coming with someone we would both like you to meet.

Alero: Ehnnn? Mummy? Meet who?

Mrs. Bidemi: Uhmm… (stuttering) We just finished watching that popular movie, Odogwu Please, with your sister Dara.

Alero: You mean Love in Every Word on Omoni Oboli’s TV?

Mrs. Bidemi: Yes! Exactly! That’s it! We really enjoyed it. Mummy John was even saying that the person we want you to meet…his character is just like the Odogwu in that film. (Laughing) She’s already saying both of you will make great friends! And gbòmí…Mummy John said he is a titled man o! Ah, abi? (Snapping her fingers) Eh-heh! Chieftaincy, chieftaincy title or something.

Alero: (Staring at her phone in total shock) Mummy abeg, abeg, are you serious right now?

(Just then, Alero’s assistant, Mo, walks in, signaling that her 3:00 PM appointment has arrived. Alero nods and gives a quick thumbs-up. The assistant leaves.)

Alero: Look, Mummy, I am not coming to Osogbo to meet any titled man or anybody, please. I have to go; I have a meeting. (She hangs up before her mum can protest.)

(She gathers her notepad and leaves her private office for the meeting room. It’s a smaller, functional space with a water dispenser and a coffee machine in the corner. The clients walk in: a young man and his fiancée. The man’s head is so bald and so shiny that Alero can only think about how much oil he must use to achieve that level of reflection. Narrator 2: I just had to add that. It was blinding.)

Scene 3

Location: D’Podium International Event Centre, Adeniyi Jones, Ikeja.

Date & Time : Wednesday, 12:00pm

(The hall is packed and buzzing. The smell of expensive catering mixes with the low noise of networking, making it hard for Alero to focus. She’s one of the keynote speakers at the Women Entrepreneurs conference, hosted by The Seal Law Firm, where Yagazie works. Alero looks stunning in a white dress with floral detailing at the hem, her braids pulled into a sophisticated updo. Three minutes into her opening speech, and she’s already fighting to keep her composure)

Alero: ...and honestly, I have to say it was Grace. After studying Clothing and Textiles at UNILAG, I was lucky enough to land a job at Yolanda Gabriel’s School of Event Planning. Six months later, I became her PA, and well, the rest is history.

(She laughs nervously)

When Yolanda passed away suddenly five years ago, her daughter trusted me to head the wedding planning team. It was a mountain to climb, but I did it. Three years ago, I bought the company and rebranded it as A Whole Wedding Package, WWP. Today, we’ve handled weddings worth millions of Naira.

(The crowd erupts into cheers.)

Alero: It’s a dream come true, but it didn’t happen overnight. I’m currently ranked just outside the top 50 wedding planners in the whole of Nigeria, but in my mind? I’m already number one. I stay on top by following my Triple T principle: Teamwork, Transparency, and Target. Now, let’s talk about Teamwork...

(Thirty minutes later, Alero is finally off-stage. She’s at the refreshment table, loading a plate with small chops and extra puff-puff. The MC has moved on to the next segment. Yagazie walks up to her, trailing a tall, imposing gentleman.)

Yagazie: Babes! You killed it! (She hugs Alero tightly) I want you to meet someone. Chief, meet Alero, one of my best friends

Alero: (Puts her plate down to shake his hand) Nice to meet you. Wait... Chief? What kind of name is that?

Yagazie: (Laughs) No, that’s not his real name! It’s just what everyone calls him. His real name is—

Chief: (Cutting her off) Only my friends are allowed to know my real name.

(He gives Alero a slow, intense up-and-down stare that makes Alero feel like she’s being audited.)

Alero: (Thinking: Wow, okay. Rude.)

(She picks her plate back up, deliberately turning her attention away from him. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a catering knife. Yagazie shifts awkwardly between them.)

Yagazie: Anyway! Chief is one of the top visual geniuses in Nigeria. He takes the best pictures and makes the best wedding videos. I figured you two should connect for your high-end weddings.

Alero: (Snapping her fingers as it clicks) Wait! Chief? Visuals? Chief Visuals? Oh my God. A client of mine begged for you last year. We booked a slot, and then your people cancelled at the very last minute.

Yagazie: Yes, that’s him. Banker by day, visuals guy by night. I’ll leave you two to talk. (She slips away.)

Chief: (barely looking at her) We’ve been fully booked since last year.

Alero: Okay... well, that isn’t exactly an apology for the last-minute flake. You almost ruined my schedule.

Chief: (tilting his head slightly) Then you’re clearly not professional enough. What kind of planner doesn’t have a solid backup plan?

Alero: (Thinking: Who does this guy think he is?!) You know what? It was nice meeting you.

(She storms off to the back of the hall, where Yagazie is busy talking with the MC.)

Yagazie: Wait, are you guys done already? Did you even exchange numbers?

(The MC returns to the stage as the last speaker wraps up.)

Alero: No! (She says, voice dripping with annoyance)

Yagazie: Alero, for goodness’ sake, why?! Chief can get you into circles with clients you haven’t even dreamed of. I hope you weren’t rude to him.

Alero: He was the rude one! I just matched his energy. I don’t care who his clients are, the guy is weird. And how is he a “banker by day and visual guy by night” anyway? Does he not sleep?

Yagazie: Wait... you really haven’t heard anything about Chief ? Alero, he doesn’t just work at a bank. He owns the bank! The same one WWP uses!

Alero: What?! Apex Crest Microfinance Bank? (Her jaw drops) No wonder he’s so arrogant. Wait, he’s a billionaire

(She looks toward Chief, who is standing with a group of people, then eyes him from head to toe.)

Well, I don’t care, character over wealth, I’m moving my company account tomorrow.

Yagazie: (Rolls her eyes) Yeah, right. Anyway, Sacha just texted. She’s almost here.

Alero: You invited the whole gang?

Yagazie: Of course! What, are you still beefing with Oyinda?

Alero: I’d rather not talk about her or the engagement nonsense.

Yagazie: Alero! it’s been two weeks since the vacation. Just call her and apologise. You said some really hurtful things.

Alero: She said plenty to me too!

Yagazie: You started it!

(Alero folds her arms, her face tight with anger.)

Don’t let a wedding ruin an eleven-year friendship. The group chat is dead because you won’t reply to anything about the wedding. Please, fix it, especially before Efe drops her baby.

(Yagazie gives Alero a quick peck on the cheek and heads back to the stage as the MC calls her name.)

Scene 4

Location: D’Podium International Event Centre, Adeniyi Jones, Ikeja.

Date & Time: Wednesday, 3:00pm — later that same day

(Alero has just finished her final session, a panel Q&A where she held her own against some tough questions. She spends fifteen minutes networking, but her social battery is officially at 0%. She spots Yagazie at the back of the hall, standing in a small circle with Chief and a few other speakers. She heads over to say her goodbyes.)

Alero: (Nods a general greeting to the group, pointedly ignoring Chief) Yagz, I’m heading out.

Yagazie: Oh, Sacha and Ekaette just left too. They actually slipped out while you were speaking. It’s a shame the rest of the girls couldn’t make it.

Alero: Yeah, well... (She shrugs, clearly uninterested) I’ll catch you later. Thanks again for having me. (She leans in to hug Yagazie)

(Before they pull apart, a man approaches and taps Alero on the shoulder. Both Alero and Yagazie turn around, and their jaws hit the floor simultaneously.)

Yagazie & Alero: (In unison) Adekunle!

Adekunle: In the flesh. (He does a playful little spin) How have you been, babe? (He pulls Alero into a very familiar, affectionate hug)

(Alero blushes. Narrator 2: Wait, what? Why’s Alero blushing… Narrator 1: shhhh, can you please not interrupt the narration?)

(The other speakers talking to Yagazie politely shift to form another cluster to continue their conversation, except Chief, who stands firmly by Yagazie’s side. Alero, still too shocked to speak, just stands there admiring him)

(Narrator 2: Admiring Adekunle???)

Yagazie: Adekunle, what on earth are you doing here?

Adekunle: (Reaches out and takes Alero’s hand) I came with a colleague; she was actually in one of your panel sessions. (He turns his full attention to Alero) Babe, you look incredible. I’ve missed you so much.

(Alero’s heart does a backflip and her mind flashes past memories of their time together. A sudden, sharp clearing of throat snaps her back to the present. She realises Chief is still standing right there, watching the whole thing.)

Alero: Adekunle... it’s been two years. I’m... I’m actually shocked to see you.

Adekunle: (Finally noticing the Chief) You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?

Yagazie: (sighing awkwardly ) Sorry, where are my manners? Adekunle, meet Chief. He’s a friend and... well, a top videographer. Chief, this is Adekunle, Alero’s... former friend.

(The two men shake hands, but the grip looks a little too firm to be friendly.)

Adekunle: (Winking at Alero) We all know I was a lot more than just a former friend to this Beauty Queen.

Chief: (Releasing Adekunle’s hand) So... an ex, I presume.

(Alero feels her temper rising. Who gave Chief the right to be so intrusive? But when she looks him in the eye, she sees a flicker of something she can’t quite identify. Is that... annoyance?)

Adekunle: Barely an ex. More like lovers whom life drifted apart, but fate just brought back together. (He winks at Alero again) Babe, I need your new number. Let’s catch up, maybe dinner on Saturday? Gosh, I’ve really missed you.

(Adekunle leans in and gives Alero another hug, holding her longer this time and giving her a tight squeeze. He pulls out his phone and hands it to her. As she types her number, Yagazie makes a face of pure disapproval, whispers a quick excuse, and walks away. Chief doesn’t say a word. He just follows right behind Yagazie, leaving Alero standing alone.

Playwright’s Note: I know you guys can’t wait for the next scene (s) 🤣 And Mrs. Bidemi though... 😭 what was that setup?!

Thank you so much for reading today — it really means a lot to me. I’m lowkey hoping for 100 likes 🥹 If you enjoyed it, please share and tell me your favourite part. I’d be reading every comment.

See you next Monday 🫶🏼

“Was he sleeping up there?”

Commotion breaks out immediately. Workers rush in every direction, trying to help the fallen man and salvage what they can. The damage is worse than anyone expected. Not only has the chiffon backdrop torn apart, but the impact of the fall has shaken the ceiling décor loose. Petals drop from above, the main sockets holding the floral lights burst, and the stage lights flicker out one by one.

Everyone is freaking out. In the middle of this chaos stands Alero, the wedding planner. She isn’t just staring horrified because of the technical disaster, though. No, the real problem is that the bride has apparently run away and Alero is saddled with the responsibility of finding her before 8:00 AM the next day, which is when the wedding is scheduled to take place. Welcome to Alero’s world: the top wedding planner in Lagos.

Narrator 2: Top ke? She’s not even part of the top 20. Narrator 1: Okay, fine. A little below the top tier wedding planners in Lagos. We are her narrators and you’ll find us inside these brackets on your screen)

Act 1, Scene 1

Location: Ama Bay Resort, Borokiri, Port Harcourt.

Time: 3:00 PM

(Alero is on vacation. It’s annual girls’ trip, and she’s the first to arrive. She’s sitting by the poolside, sipping a cold drink and waiting for the rest of the squad. Yagazie, her closest friend, is the first to show up. They hug, exchange pleasantries, and Yagazie settles into the seat opposite Alero.)

Alero: (Sipping her drink) Girl! You are a lifesaver. You don’t know how much I needed this trip.

Yagazie: (Laughing) So why did you wait for me to bring it up if you needed it so badly?

Alero: (Shrugging) Honestly, I didn’t realise I was drowning until I saw your message in the group chat. Thank God I’m done with my major weddings for now. It’s just client meetings left.

Yagazie: (Chuckles) Look at you, the busiest woman among us! Mummy Wedding Planner!

(Alero rolls her eyes.)

Yagazie: (Looking around and laughing ) How come the others aren’t here yet? (She glances at her watch) Efe told me she was already in PH before I even landed.

Alero: You know how we are. We’re always late.

Yagazie: Correction: they are always late; we are always early. Let me order a drink.

(She calls a waiter and places an order. Moments later, an errand boy from the resort approaches the table with a reminder note for a massage Alero booked. Yagazie snatches the note from Alero’s hand.)

Yagazie: (Reading out loud) “Deep tissue massage, intense body therapy...” (Yagazie bursts into laughter) Babe! Are you really this stressed? What’s actually going on with you?

Alero: You have no idea. My last wedding almost ended in a literal disaster. I thought I’d seen everything in this industry, Yagz, but you won’t believe what happened.

Yagazie: ( giggling) What is it this time?

Alero: I had to deal with a runaway bride.

Yagazie: (Stops laughing, looking amused) You’re joking!

Alero: I wish. Two hours to the wedding, I sent my assistant to the groom’s hotel to tell him we couldn’t find her. You won’t believe where she was.

Yagazie: Where?

Alero: She was with the groom the whole time!

Yagazie: No way! (She starts laughing again)

Alero: I was so furious and relieved at the same time. I almost fainted.

Yagazie: But why? Why run away to see him when she was about to marry him in a few hours?

Alero: They said something about the “no seeing each other before the wedding” rule being too hard.

Yagazie: (Taking a sip of her drink, eyes widening) Ouuu, so they were... you know?

Alero: No, not even. They’re grounded, but just total love-struck puppies.

(She’s barely finished speaking when Sacha appears, arms open. Hugs all around before she slides into the empty seat at the table.)

Sacha: Sorry guys, I’m so late! I fell asleep and missed my first flight.

(She forges on, ignoring their reaction)

Sacha: I was dreaming that Michael and I were still in Paris, eating delicious French delicacies and walking hand-in-hand to the Eiffel Tower.

(Yagazie and Alero roll their eyes in unison.)

Yagazie: Babe, your husband took you to Paris six months ago. Move on already!

Alero: So you almost missed the girls’ trip because of a dream? Mtchew. (She sips her drink)

(Ekaette enters with Efe, who is visibly pregnant. The girls erupt in laughter and embrace, then sit.)

Efe: (Rubbing her belly) We really should do this more often. I’ve missed us just having us time without the work, husband and children responsibility.

Alero: I agree.

(All the girls nod, except Ekaette, who is distracted, frantically texting on her phone.)

Yagazie: I think we should have the next one in Calabar

Sacha: Abeg, when will our girls’ trip go international?

Efe: I’m telling you. I’m tired of these Nigerian locat—

Ekaette: (Cutting in) You guys! Oyinda is on her way, and she has big news! I wish I could tell you, but it’s not my place... you guys are going to be—

(Just then, the girls catch sight of Oyinda half-running toward the table. She doesn’t bother with hello. Her left hand is already in the air, a massive diamond ring flashing like she’s daring them not to notice.)

Oyinda: Frederick proposed!

(The girls erupt. They leap up, dancing and singing Radiance by Dave and Tems.)

Girls: I said lean with it, rock with it

Your finger I can put a rock on it! (They point at the diamond on Oyinda’s finger) Fin-finger I can put a rock on it!

(The girls keep dancing. Efe attempts to twerk with her bump while loudly murdering the lyrics.)

Girls: I said shimmy-shimmy, yay, shimmy, shimmy-shimmy, yah...

Efe: Fine girl brown eyes with the fine eyes!

(The girls cut themselves off to laugh at Efe’s butchered lyrics. Alero stays seated, thumb scrolling through her phone, oblivious to the chaos around her,and they don’t notice her.)

Girls: Me and you, never let me go

Me and you, I’ll tell you two times

(I love you, I love you, I love you...)

(They gather for a group hug.)

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Oyinda: Guys, I’m actually going to cry! (She pulls out of the hug, beaming.)

(They all return to their seats.)

Efe: (Screaming as she sits next to Alero) We have a wedding to plan!

Alero: (Drops her phone abruptly) Wait, Oyin. Let me get this straight. You want to marry the same Frederick who you said—

Oyinda: (Cutting her off with a stern look) Yes. The same Frederick.

Alero: But you don’t love him.

The Girls: (In unison) Uhhh, Alero!

Alero: What? Why are you guys acting like it’s okay for her to marry someone she doesn’t love?

Efe: (Elbowing her) Stop it!

Sacha: (rolling her eyes) Alero, please don’t start.

Oyinda: All that matters is that we’re comfortable with each other and happy together. Love can always come later, I believe.

(She admires her ring)

Oyinda: Gosh, if Frederick keeps this up, it might come faster.

Alero: (Rolling her eyes) Fake love.

Yagazie: (Glaring at Alero) Can you just stop?

Ekaette: Alero, everything isn’t about “love,” abeg

Oyinda: Thank you! Tell her, please.

Alero: Okay. (She stands up) Good luck finding a wedding planner then. (She walks away)

Yagazie: (Calling out) Where are you going?!

Alero: For my massage!

Playwright’s note: This is what happens when the girls’ trip finally leaves the group chat. There’s laughter, gist, and a little drama.

Note: The main narrator is Narrator 1.

So what do you think? Do you agree with Ekaette? Is everything truly not about love? 😭 Because me, I think everything is about love, oh.

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See you next Monday ❤️

My own little media round.

Because I’ll be dropping a teaser, and cover reveal (because why not? 😂), for my upcoming project, a story I’ll be launching on Substack very soon. But before I get into all that, let me properly introduce myself and explain why I write what I write. Since my Substack is called Fiction: Plays and Poems, I think it’s only fair I explain the play part.

So, hi, I’m Faith. Nice to meet you. I’m a writer, I’m sure you already know that, but what you may not know is that writing has always been a huge part of me. I grew up watching my mum write, and I guess that shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Fun fact: the very first fictional thing I ever wrote was a play. I remember it so clearly. I wasn’t even up to 10, and I was already writing like a mad person, morning, afternoon, night, inside those 60-leaves notebooks. The craziest thing is that I still remember the title: The Secret Life of Ann 😂😂

It hurts me so much that I lost it. But I remember I filled like three full notebooks with that story, writing and drawing things I honestly didn’t know about. From the title, you can tell what phase I was in, my Disney obsession era. The story was set in America (of course 😭), about a teenage girl growing into a woman… I’m pretty sure she even had kids at some point.

Honestly, I was just doing the most.

So, I guess that’s where my love for writing plays truly began.

One day, I was thinking to myself, why is it that when I want to write, the first thing I start with is drama? I thought about it deeply, and I realised something: I identify with plays (drama texts). Yes, I know it sounds funny, but I do. Especially in Nigeria, drama as a genre doesn’t get as much attention as prose or poetry.

And if we’re being honest, there’s an unspoken hierarchy, and drama is usually last. People don’t naturally reach for it. If they want something emotional, they go for poetry. If they want a full story, they go for prose. It’s not because drama isn’t powerful. It’s because people just don’t think to reach for it.

And if we’re being even more honest, when people walk into bookstores, the first place they go isn’t the drama section. In fact, half the time, I’m not even sure there is a clearly defined drama section.

I think that needs to change. Because drama texts belong on your shelves too. Drama shouldn’t be overlooked

And that’s exactly why I connect with it.

I’d share a little bit more. Growing up, I struggled a lot with low self-esteem. Like, a lot. I was anxious, quiet, insecure about my body, my face, especially my skin. I had really bad acne as a child. I remember in JSS1, I overheard a boy I liked say he could never like me because of my pimples. That hurt me so much. (Funny enough, I later found out he actually liked me but said that because of his friends… Very foolish boy. And then he went on to like my best friend too 🙄)

But that wasn’t even the worst part or the point. The thing was that anytime I tried to step out of my shell, I was shut down. One time in literature class, I volunteered to read aloud. And if you knew me then, you’d understand how big that was for me. I could barely speak directly to someone, talk less of reading for and to the whole class, but I volunteered anyway. And my teacher said:

“Faith, stop reading. I don’t like your voice. Mariam, read.”

I just shrank back into myself immediately.

There were other moments too. Comments from classmates. People defining me before they even knew me. At some point, I realised something: I had started living based on what people said about me.

And that’s why I said I identify with Drama

Before people actually engage with a drama text, they’ve already labelled it.

They assume it’s all about performance. They assume it can’t satisfy a reading experience the way prose does. And because of that, they don’t even give it a chance. That mindset limits how drama is seen and appreciated.

People forget, or maybe they don’t even know, that drama texts can be powerful reads on their own. They offer a different kind of storytelling, a different kind of emotional depth.

But they’re overlooked before they’re even opened.

That made me wonder about drama’s stance in the literary space (not theatrical space).

A while ago, Obari Gomba, a recipient of the Nigerian Prize for Literature (Drama), talked about actively promoting drama in the Nigerian literary space, and that stayed with me. I said to myself, why not join the train?

So, I am here to show that drama belongs on your reading list.

There are many great Nigerian playwrights who haven’t been given enough of the spotlight. These writers possess a masterclass in storytelling; some of them include: Ahmed Yerima (one of my favourites), Ola Rotimi, Femi Osofisan, and the pioneering female dramatist, Zulu Sofola. Along with Obari Gomba, Tess Onwueme, and many others, their works belong on your shelves too! So go ahead, don’t wait, add them up! Treat plays like you’d treat poetry and prose; don’t be biased!

Can I shock you for a second, though? Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie started with a play! (Well, a poetry collection called Decisions came first in 1997, but still, you get my point!)

Now, enough of my blabbing! Here is the reason for this post: a little teaser for what’s coming. For this project, I decided to experiment with meta-fiction and Brechtian drama. In simple terms, this means having the narrator talk directly to the readers. While I don’t think I completely nailed the experiment yet, I know I’ll keep trying until I get it right.

Without giving too much away, my story explores love and life in all its forms. It doesn’t just look at romantic love, but friendships, family and quiet, unexpected connections. It looks at the messy, complicated reality behind what seems like a perfect life.

Well, before I say goodbye, here’s the cover

Tie the knot, untie the mess launches on Substack soon. Come for the story, stay for the mess we’ll untie together 😉

God bless you, have a great day!

We could do a little Q & A in the comments section, I wouldn’t mind 🙈

There are books you expect to enjoy, and then there are books that completely surprise you.

China Rich Girlfriend by Kevin Kwan? Definitely the second.

I enjoyed this far more than I thought I would. Reading it felt like sitting with friends while they spill the most outrageous, unfiltered family tea, except it’s not just one messy family, it’s multiple billionaire families across Asia. The drama? E Choke.

From the very beginning, when Eddie Cheng runs into Eleanor Young in London, you can already tell something is about to unfold. And it does.

Let’s talk about that for a moment 😭

Their encounter leads to Eleanor’s discovery that Carlton Bao is actually Rachel Chu’s half-brother, meaning Bao Gaoliang is Rachel’s biological father. I literally paused. That reveal was wild.

And of course, Eleanor being Eleanor, she doesn’t waste that information. She uses it carefully, strategically, to ease her way back into Nick’s life after previously rejecting his relationship with Rachel.

(For clarity’s sake, Eddie manages the Baos’ financial account. He introduced his aunt-in-law, Eleanor, to the Baos when they met in London.)

~

Then there’s Kitty Pong’s storyline? Pure chaos.

She’s living life in Hong Kong, going everywhere and doing everything in order to dine with the high, mighty, and crazily wealthy, while rumours about her husband, Bernard Tai, and their daughter being ill spread across all Asia. Everyone thinks she’s spending all her husband’s money, only for us to later find out she’s being funded by Jack Bing through an affair? 😭😭

The layers of scandal in this novel are honestly unreal. Every time you think it can’t get worse, it somehow does.

~

Then there’s Astrid.

The tension between her, her husband Michael Teo, and her ex Charlie Wu was one of the most emotionally intense parts of the story. Michael’s insecurity, especially about not being as wealthy as Astrid, slowly eats away at their marriage.

You can literally watch it fall apart.

And honestly? I was relieved when she finally left. That situation had been hanging by a thread for too long.

(Note: In the movie they separated, but in the trilogy, their marriage crumbles in the second part)

~

I’d not lie, at some point, I became totally confused by the title. I kept wondering “so who’s the China Rich Girlfriend”?

At first, I assumed the title was about Rachel, especially after discovering her connection to Bao Gaoliang, a wealthy man.

But no.

The real China rich girlfriend is Colette Bing, Carlton’s love interest.

Her father, Jack Bing (Kitty Pong’s sugar daddy 😭) , is one of the richest men in China, and she lives like it. The spending, the privilege, the entitlement, she embodies it fully.

But the moment she defies her father over marriage to one of her suitors, because of Carlton, her accounts get frozen, everything starts to crumble, almost, for her.

Then Colette’s assistant goes ahead to poison Rachel because of one thing, one thing that pertains to Carlton’s inheritance 😭

Colette’s desperation to fix her image only makes things worse. She asks for Rachel’s help to beg Carlton for forgiveness because, of course, he thought she had a hand in poisoning Rachel. Rachel refuses to help her, Colette lashes out publicly, and that’s really the beginning of her downfall.

~

So what really stood out to me is beyond the drama, Kevin Kwan portrays classism.

He was practically saying to me that wealth is not wealth oh. Even among billionaires, there are levels.

Old money vs new money. Mainland Chinese vs Singaporean vs Thai. Circles within circles. If your wealth isn’t “old” enough, you don’t belong. And even when it is, there’s still another tier above you.

It almost felt like tribalism, but dressed in couture 🥴

It made me realise something: even in so-called “first-world” societies, division doesn’t disappear. Status never ends. The competition never ends. Humans are still Humans!

And honestly, some of the things they were stressed about felt so far removed from the realities of places like Nigeria. Different worlds entirely.

But I must say though, China Rich Girlfriend is dramatic, messy, scandalous, and ridiculously addictive.

I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much, but I really did.

And yes, I’m definitely reading the next one.

Thank you for reading ❤️

(Note: This Article is part of my reading and documenting series I started some months ago on Substack)

Reviewer’s Note:

China Rich Girlfriend is the second novel in the Crazy Rich Asians trilogy by Kevin Kwan. If you’re unfamiliar with the characters, you may want to start with Crazy Rich Asians or watch the Crazy Rich Asians movie adaptation for better context.

Isn’t it crazy that the first quarter of the year is already over?

It feels like time is moving fast and slow at the same time. Like… how are we already in April? And yet, it somehow feels like we’ve been in this year for a decade.

A lot has happened in my life in just three months. But one question has been tugging at my heart lately: “What have I taken away from the first quarter of the year?”

And the funny thing is, I’m not really a reflective person. I don’t usually sit down and think deeply about things like this. So this question felt strange… almost uncomfortable.

But I had no choice. I actually had to pause, sit with myself, and think.

After thinking about it, I decided why not share? Here are a few of my takeaways from Q1 2026.

Regulate Your Emotions & Practice Discipline

At the beginning of the year, I attended a mentorship program, and one thing that stood out to me during one of a speaker’s session was the concept of regulating emotions. Simply put, it means not letting your feelings control your actions.

Because the truth is, we can’t always act how we feel. If we did, the world would be in even more chaos than it already is. These days, a lot of people hide under “I’m just expressing myself,” but honestly, sometimes it’s just a lack of discipline.

The speaker used examples like Epstein and Diddy, and then compared them to Joseph in the Bible.

Those men didn’t become who they are overnight. It started small, little desires, little compromises. But because they didn’t check themselves, didn’t regulate those emotions, it grew into something destructive.

Then there’s Joseph. He had the perfect opportunity to do wrong, no one was there, everything was set. But he chose discipline. He said no. And even though it landed him in prison, we all know how his story ended.

The truth is, I already knew this somehow, but hearing it in this light kinda changed my perspective on certain things and made me more conscious of certain feelings.

Because I’ve had habits I knew weren’t good for me. Things I struggled to stop. But this reminded me that it’s not enough to just know something is wrong, you have to actively deal with it.

We’re human, yes. We’ll have thoughts, urges, imperfections. But what’s not okay is letting them grow unchecked.

Love Is more than Excitement

This one? Whew. It humbled me. When it first settled in me, I was like, “What do you mean love is more than excitement?”

Again, this is something I already knew, but being a huge lover of love, I subconsciously settled for only the excitement part, like, in my head, that was the only definition of love: excitement.

But in this first quarter, I got to see, know, and experience that the idea I had in my head isn’t exactly true. Love is more than excitement.

You can meet someone amazing, kind, sweet, everything, and feel this rush of excitement. And it feels real. It feels deep.

But that isn’t the only marker of love.

There comes a point where that excitement fades. And that’s when the rubber meets the road. That’s when you see what’s actually there.

Some people have never truly been in love. They’ve just been in prolonged excitement.

Love is deeper than butterflies. Deeper than feelings.

Love is a choice. It’s consistently choosing that person (when the excitement has gone) over and over and over and over and over again! And the greatest example of that is Jesus.

He didn’t go to the cross because it felt good. He chose it. He chose people who didn’t even love Him back.

That really settled something in me this quarter.

The Devil Is a Liar

This one sounds so simple, but I realised I didn’t fully understand it before. We say it all the time: “The devil is a liar.” But do we actually believe it?

In the Bible (John 8:44), Jesus calls Satan the father of lies. That means everything he says is a lie. Not some things, not most things.

Everything!!!!! Every single thing!

So why do I (we) sometimes believe the thoughts he plants?

“You’re not good enough.”

“You’re behind in life.”

“You’re not beautiful.”

“You’ll never figure it out.”

They are all lies!!!

Because if he is a liar, then nothing he says can be true, no matter how real it feels. No matter how long the problem or challenge or feeling has stayed, it’s still a lie.

And I’ve realised that most of his lies come in subtle, negative thoughts. Especially the ones that go against God’s word.

That’s why knowing God’s word is so important, because it helps you recognise the lies and deal with it before you accept it as your truth.

This understanding has genuinely brought me peace.

So… those are a few of my takeaways from just three months. It wasn’t easy to sit and reflect like this, but I’m glad I did.

Now I’m curious, what are your takeaways?

Dear future husband,

I’ve written this letter many times, and I’ve deleted it just as often. I never quite know how to start. Should I begin by saying I just want to find you? Because most days, I feel overwhelmed. Maybe that’s not the right word, perhaps there isn’t a word strong enough to describe the weight I carry, but today, my heart is heavy for our country. My bad, you may not be Nigerian, but she would still be your country by marriage.

I am fed up. I am exhausted by the headlines. Just a few days ago, news of the Ozoro festival in Delta flooded the internet, and it broke something in me. What kind of country still clings to such things in the 21st century? What kind of men find pride in such animalistic behaviour? It is horrific!!!These are men who should be using their minds to pull Nigeria out of this pit, to move us forward from being a “fourth-world” nation. Instead, they choose foolishness, as if we don’t already have enough problems to solve.

Dear future husband, we will raise our sons differently, we’d raise them right! We’ll teach them to be polite, to keep their spirits bright, and how to behave quite nice. We will teach them to cook, to clean, and to serve, to respect women and never see them as inferior, but as equals, as human beings with the same spark of divinity as themselves. We’ll teach them to say “I’m sorry” and “thank you,” not as empty etiquette, but because they truly mean it. We will raise them in the way of the Lord, and from a young age, they will know what it means to serve Jesus.

Oh, our sons will shake the world! Yes! in a good way, they’d make headlines too. They will be a joy to a thousand generations, creating things never thought to be created. They will protect, nurture and inspire. They will be everything they are meant to be. We will show them that true strength isn’t found in cruelty, but in the courage to be kind when the world is not. We will build a home that is a sanctuary, a soft place to land amidst the chaos outside, where character always weighs more than ego. And we’d teach our daughters too, that they are powerful, and they can do all things.

I can’t wait for the day you hold me in your arms while we speak life and purpose into our unborn children.

Wherever you are, I am whispering to you softly: I want to find you, and I want to be found by you.

Your forever,

❤️

My 9th read of the year!

Our Sister Killjoy by Ama Ata Aidoo is a masterpiece, in my opinion. Firstly, the title caught me. I also love how the book is written as a mixture of prose, poetry, and stream of consciousness. It doesn’t follow a conventional structure, and let’s just pretend like I understood everything I read, okay?

The major themes I picked out include colonialism, racism, and migration, especially migration as an aftermath of colonialism and failed independence.

Sissie, the main character, travels around Europe. While in Germany, she meets a young married woman named Marija. Marija develops a strange affection for Sissie and eventually kisses her. Sissie understands that this affection is born out of loneliness rather than romance. Marija’s husband, whom she calls “Big Adolf,” is hardly ever around, and her son, “Young Adolf,” is her only steady companion. Their household feels emotionally empty despite being materially comfortable.

Eventually, Sissie leaves.

To me, the episode with Marija highlights something deeper about Europe , not just its racism, but its emotional isolation. The loneliness in Marija’s life seems to mirror a larger loneliness Sissie observes in European society. Beneath the order and comfort, there is distance.

Throughout the book, Sissie struggles to understand why many Africans choose to remain abroad after travelling for education or opportunity. In the final section titled “Love Letters,” she writes to her unnamed lover while on a plane back to Ghana. In the letter, she questions his refusal to return home. The narrative then moves back to an African student meeting in the UK, where Africans defend their decision to stay in Europe. They mention bad governance, broken systems, corruption, and instability in Africa. Their arguments are not false. But what troubles Sissie is something deeper.

She senses a psychological shift, a kind of internalised belief that Europe is superior and Africa is beyond saving. This is where the novel becomes more than just a story about migration. It becomes a critique of mental colonisation. Sissie is not simply asking “Why are you staying?” She is asking, “Why have you accepted this hierarchy in your mind?”

To me, the heart of the novel lies in this question: if everyone who has education and exposure chooses not to return, who remains? Who rebuilds? Who corrects the wrongs? If Africans abroad refuse to come back, does that not silently encourage those at home to leave as well?

At the same time, the novel does not romanticise Europe. Sissie repeatedly points out what disturbs her: racism, alienation, and the reminder that she does not truly belong. One striking moment is when a woman at a train station refers to her as “black girl.” That moment forces her to confront the reality of racial difference in a way that cannot be ignored. No matter how long Africans stay, they may never truly be seen as European.

She also struggles with the food, the climate, and the emotional distance she observes. These experiences leave her perplexed. Why remain in a place that constantly reminds you that you are the “other”? Why not return and build the home you desire?

Sissie’s returns to Ghana and this does not feel naïve. She is aware of Africa’s problems. Her decision feels intentional, almost moral. It is less about denying Africa’s flaws and more about refusing to abandon it.

In the end, Our Sister Killjoy asks difficult questions about home, and whether leaving is freedom, or another form of captivity.

Ada’s POV

The day I had high fever, it wasn’t after that heavy Lagos rain when Emma, Amy, and I went to the beach. Even though I had a cold then, that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t when Ifekandu showed up on the sand and sat beside me. It wasn’t even when he pulled me back as I tried to leave, and instead of my skin crawling with irritation, it burned with something people would call desire. No, that wasn’t the fever.

The day I had high fever wasn’t when I scolded Amy for wanting to stay in Lagos while I headed back to Aba. It wasn’t when she confessed she and Emma might have a court wedding if the strike didn’t end. Even the discomfort of knowing Ifekandu was in the same city as me, that wasn’t the fever either.

It wasn’t when the bus from Lagos to Aba almost collided with a truck, making everyone scream “Blood of Jesus!” It wasn’t even when I got home to find more “gifts” from Mazi waiting for me.

The day I had high fever wasn’t when I noticed the mosquito bites blooming on my fair skin because I was too restless to stay indoors. It wasn’t even when I met that old secondary school mate on the street, the one who told me everyone was talking about my “big wedding.”

“Ha, Ada Bekee,” she said, her breath smelling of something sour. “No one thought you’d marry before finishing school. Especially not to a wealthy old man.”

Her words made me throw up in the bush, but even then, I didn’t have a fever.

It wasn’t when Mazi came unannounced and told my mother he wanted me to go to Abuja with him. It wasn’t when I refused, only for my mother to tell me Mazi had bought her new medication because her kidneys were failing. I felt trapped that night, staring at the ceiling, but my skin was still cool.

The day I had high fever wasn’t when Ifunanya’s friend told me my sister had dropped out of the polytechnic she pretended to attend every morning. It wasn’t when she whispered, “Ify na-aga Mazi’s house... she goes to visit Mazi every morning.”

That was when I felt it, the heat starting in my belly. My stomach began to churn, my hands shook, and my head felt like it was being pressed by a hot iron.

But the high fever, the real one, didn’t fully break me until a week later. It was watching Ify walk out the door every morning.

“Ke b’i na-aga? Where are you going?” I’d ask.

“School,” she’d say, looking me straight in the eye, challenging me to dare her.

I only told Amy. The network in Umuozala was terrible, but when I finally reached her, she told me to confront Mazi directly. Amy is the irrational one. She doesn’t understand the weight of things.

“Hian, confront Mazi straight?” I shouted into the phone. “Amy, mba nụ, I can’t.”

“Maka gịnị? Why?” Amy asked. “This man is using Ify, Ada. It’s obvious.”

My heart sank. “But what if her friend was lying?” I whispered, checking the empty house.

“Be realistic, Ada.”

But how could I be realistic? How do you confront the man who pays your fees? The man who is the only reason your mother is still breathing?

Three days after that call, the world started to tilt. I walked through the house like I was stepping on glass, sure I was going to fall. I didn’t tell my mother. I didn’t tell anyone. I just watched them watch me lose my appetite and turn a little pale. I told them I was fine.

I wasn’t fine.

Now, I’m in the back of one of Mazi’s expensive cars. I can hear my mother and sisters crying in the distance, their voices fading as the driver speeds toward the hospital. All because I finally let go and fainted under the tree in our compound.

The fever didn’t come from the rain or the mosquitoes.

Author’s note:

Ify and Mazi ke??? 😭

I’m so sorry I’ve been inconsistent with posting this story. Life has pulled me into a few other things lately. But I promise I’ll see it through to the end.

And honestly… the end might come very soon. Of course, it might feel a bit rushed, but I’d rather finish the story than leave it hanging.

Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me. ❤️ Please also like, comment and share.

If you’re just joining or you want to catch up, please read the previous episodes of my story “When Life Happens”using the link below 👇

Two pieces

One is broken;
Two is its result.
Torn from between,
An arrow struck two out of one.

You’re the other half.
There’s a piece of me I can’t feel without you:
The piece that sees through the steam of the wildest fire,
The piece that walks through troubled waters,
The piece that braves the deepest valley,
The piece that can live, laugh, and hold no regrets.

But now, you see the result alone: Two.Not one. Just two.

Just two pieces
That can never co-exist.

Remembering to forget

How do I remember to forget
The colour of his smile,
His shiny teeth, and
The one day he said you’re mine?

I’m learning to forget
In dark,
His hands holding mine,
His voice heavy on my ear saying don’t cry.

His breath on my skin,
The way he took all air in
Like he never struggled to breathe

It was his faint smile that stayed.
The way he twisted and turned.
The way he held me up when I felt small.
The way he offered his shoulders
So I would not fall.

Can you tell I’m trying to forget?

My favourite part of him,
The loud sound of his teeth when he laughed.
He was fair,
But not the fairest of them all.
Still,
How do I remember to forget.

The Space Between

The bed is too wide now,
A desert of cotton and quiet.
I reached for a hand that wasn’t there
And grabbed my own instead.
It was cold, then warm, then
Finally, mine.
I am learning to stand
In the echo of the "we"
Until it sounds like "me."

Much More

Her little feet thought they couldn’t walk,
Her brown eyes wouldn't see her standing tall.
Her heart beat fast whenever people talked
To the small girl who thought she was "nothing much."

You’re much more.

Much more than you think,
Much more than they see,
Much more than the feeling
Of being half complete
On the days you feel unseen

Let’s have a random conversation about my 7th read of the year, shall we?

I’m honestly speechless. So many things are running through my mind.

The Road to the Country is such a powerful story. I wept.

This novel answers so many questions about why soldiers returned from the war broken, some even committing suicide. It breaks my heart to realise that this is not just fiction; it mirrors the horrific realities of the Nigerian–Biafran War. Real people lived through this. Real people carried this trauma long after the gunshots stopped.

I genuinely believe this novel deserves to be regarded as one of the most important fictional documentations of the war , not just because of its subject matter, but because of how it is executed.

The language is vivid and immersive. You don’t just read about the war, you see it, hear it, and feel the chaos. The imagery brings readers closer to the battlefield. And then there’s the perspective. While many Nigerian Civil War novels center civilians and the devastating aftermath, this one places us directly at the war front. We witness the conflict through the eyes of exhausted, under-equipped soldiers. That deepens our understanding of trauma and helps explain why some soldiers returned unable to reintegrate into society, why some became violent, and why for some, survival did not mean healing.

We have often heard the women’s perspective, the families, the children, the starvation, the blockade , and those stories are devastating. But hearing directly from the soldiers’ point of view? It hits differently. It hits deeper, honestly.

War is so cruel and evil

Innocent lives wasted just like that.

Now It’s clearer why Ginika’s brother in Roses and Bullets by Akachi Ezeigbo killed himself. The war was over, he should have been relieved, right? Yet, he shot himself. The Road to the Country explains why. It shows how trauma does not end when the war ends. For some soldiers, death felt easier than living with what they had seen.

The novel explores war and its lingering psychological damage in the deepest way. Almost every soldier had a horrific story. In fact, almost every Biafran had one.

But the story that stayed with me the most was Agnes’.

Agnes, Kunle’s love interest, lived in Makurdi. When the pogrom broke out, she returned from making her hair to find her husband’s lifeless body alongside her two sons. That image shattered me. She vowed to join the Biafran army. She fought, even while pregnant with Kunle’s child. After delivering her baby, she returned to the battlefield and died fighting.

A true hero. (If you’re phone screen is wet, it’s not my tears, I promise 😭)

I also really love what Chigozie Obioma did with the Ifa priest and the vision of the future. The way everything read about Kunle unfolds as something already foreseen, yet still painfully happening in real time, it’s a mind twister, and I love it.

He narrates the past and present almost simultaneously, creating tension that kept me emotionally unsettled.

(This man’s writing style needs to be studied because what?! 😭)

Obioma has such a unique style. He blends the natural and the supernatural seamlessly. It is seen here with Ifa and prophecy and in his other novels, An Orchestra of Minorities, where the chi narrates and pleads before Chukwu for Nonso. It is also seen in The Fishermen, where a madman’s prophecy shaped the fate of the brothers.

He’s honestly not a professor of creative writing for nothing!!!

Let me ask you something….

Have you ever read a novel you couldn’t finish because of the emotional weight? One where you had to stop because your heart simply couldn’t carry what was happening?

That was me with An Orchestra of Minorities. I cried so much I had to stop reading. I couldn’t even skip to the ending. Till today, I don’t know how it ends. That’s powerful storytelling.

It also happened to me with A Spell of Good Things by Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀. I told myself I wasn’t going to be a crybaby, and yet I cried ehn. When Eniola’s body couldn’t be identified in the mortuary, and her brother was still posting flyers that she was missing while she lay there… that broke me.

That’s storytelling that leaves scars. Nigeria has great storytellers and I’m honestly so proud.

If any novel has ever made you feel this way, please, let me know in the comments. Let’s actually have this random conversation, if not, I’d keep talking to myself.

Tunde’s eyes were bloodshot.

In the dark room, his phone sat silently on the centre table. His gaze stayed fixed on it, waiting for a call, a message, anything to wake him from this nightmare.

“A breakup on Valentine’s Day? Who does that?”

His heart pounded violently against his chest. Every beat dragged him back to earlier that night.

Tunde had made reservations weeks before. He had called the restaurant countless times to confirm they were still intact. He knew how crowded the Les Beaux Hotel in Lekki would be on the 14th of February.

He bought her a beautiful silk red dress and the red-bottom heels she had always admired when they went window shopping, just to call forth, in faith, the future they both desired.

“A breakup on Valentine’s Day? Who does that?”he whispered again.

“Am I not good enough for her?”

He paced the room, almost knocking over the centre table.

His mind betrayed him, replaying how gorgeous she looked in the red dress. He had struggled to breathe when he pulled up at her gate and saw her standing elegantly under the dimming sun.

He sighed

A faint streetlight slipped in through the curtains, casting shadows across the room. He was tempted to turn on the light so he wouldn’t stumble in the dark, but he knew better. Light would remind him of the restaurant, the soft amber glow that made her skin shimmer.

Oh, that glow.

He dropped back into his seat, letting his mind roam over her features. Her eyes. The false lashes that rested perfectly on her lids. The red lipstick that made her lips look fuller, softer.

Outside his window, laughter rang from his neighbours’ apartment.

“Remember when you said something and she laughed?” his mind mocked.

Tears threatened.

How did she say it again? He thought, trying so hard to make the memory blurry

It was after the meal. He was just about to ask if she wanted them to sit by the pool until evening.

“There’s a pretty view,” he had said, visibly gushing over her beauty.

“We need to talk,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

Before he could ask what she meant, she continued.

“I’m tired of this relationship.”

Even now, the memory made his pulse spike. The hair on his arms stood. How could those words still have so much power hours later?

“It’s meaningless. We’re not going anywhere. I never really saw myself settling down with you,” she added, shrugging, as though she wasn’t spitting fireballs into his chest.

She said it like she was declining chicken in her salad. Like she preferred a red bag to a brown one.

Another round of laughter filtered into his room.

Then it struck him.

For the first time since he got home, he realised he was alone.

A single man, after giving three years of his life to the woman he thought he would marry.

His heart thudded unevenly as he walked toward the light switch.

With one firm flick, like he was forcing open a new chapter of his life, singleness, the room flooded with light.

And there it was.

In the mirror.

His reflection.

His bloodshot eyes.

The red in Valentine

Author’s Note:

I hope you had a beautiful Valentine’s Day, with or without a partner.

If you didn’t, because you didn’t have a partner or you felt alone, let’s start planning for next year. Let’s plan to celebrate ourselves extravagantly. Let’s book that spa appointment and let them massage us until we’re soft like pap. Let’s buy that outfit we’ve been eyeing. Let’s take ourselves out. Let’s write letters to ourselves and open them on Valentine’s Day.

Because we don’t need a romantic partner to validate a day of love.

All we truly need is ourselves.

And more than that, we need the love that sustains us from within. The kind that does not break up on Valentine’s Day. The kind that does not withdraw.

The truest love is not external, it is internal. And for me, that love is Jesus.

Have a blessed Monday 🤍

Let’s settle this fight

Okay, maybe it’s not a fight, but it is an argument. And it’s one I’ve heard so many times that I think it deserves to be settled properly.

“Igbo people like money too much.”

Every time I hear this, I respond the same way:

“Who doesn’t?”

Because honestly, who doesn’t like money? Who doesn’t want it? Who is out here rejecting money with two hands? Especially in Nigeria?

Everybody likes money. When people say someone likes money too much, what they usually mean is that money is their priority, that it comes before other things. And I don’t think that’s the case here. I think “too much” has slowly come to mean not wanting to be poor, not wanting to live a beggarly life, wanting to live in wealth. And what exactly is wrong with that?

Right now, I honestly doubt you’d find a Nigerian who wouldn’t collect money if it was offered to them. Even the ones that aren’t offered sef, some people are still collecting it (I’m not calling anyone a thief, please).

Some time ago, I heard about the First Bank glitch story, the one about a man whose account was accidentally credited with billions and he used the money. Yes, he shouldn’t have used it, but what kind of mistake is that from the bank? They really need to be investigated because how?

Anyway, I’m digressing.

What I’m trying to settle is this liking-money-too-much thing. It has become a stereotype. It has become something Igbo people are known for, and I don’t get it.

I believe that liking money too much, or love of money, is not a tribe thing. It’s an individual thing. More than that, it’s a human thing.

Nobody wants to be poor.

Yet somehow, this has been turned into an ethnic label, especially for Igbo people.

I can’t count how many times I’ve heard things like:

“Oh, Igbo people and money.”

“Ah! Igbo people like money oh.”

“Oh, you’re an Igbo girl? I should run away from you, na you people like money pass.”

It’s such a wild generalisation, and honestly, I object to it.

One day, I was watching a wedding channel. It was an Igbo traditional wedding. As usual, the ceremony involved the bride being given a cup of palm wine and asked to look for her husband. We all know they already know where the groom is sitting, but let’s pretend.

When she finds him, he drinks from the cup and puts money inside it.

That’s it.

That’s the only money dropping involved during the ceremony, aside from spraying.

But I’ve heard that in some Yoruba traditional weddings, there’s a lot of money dropping. There’s even a tradition where the groom, his friends, and family keep dropping money until the bride smiles, and if she doesn’t smile, they don’t stop.

I’ll admit, I didn’t do deep research before making this point, and I’m open to correction. But what I find interesting is this: nobody uses that to say Yoruba people, or any other tribe, like money too much.

So why is it different with Igbo people?

From what I know, Igbo people are simply people who work very hard to make money because they don’t want to be poor. And again, who wants to be poor?

There’s a difference between loving money in a greedy way and valuing money because you want stability, dignity, and independence. Somehow, that difference is always ignored.

From where I’m standing, this love-of-money thing isn’t, and shouldn’t be, a tribe thing. It’s an individual thing. It’s a human thing.

I have more to say about this, but maybe later.

Have a great evening, guys 🤍

I don’t know how it happened, but the air smelled different in Lagos.

Different in a way I couldn’t explain. Like freedom. Like breathing without anything pressing on my chest. No family expectations hovering over me. No school. No drama. Just air. Hot, heavy, sometimes smelly air, but air all the same.

As Emmanuel drove into his compound in Ikeja, my legs began to tingle. The journey from Aba had been worse than I expected. My bones felt trapped and swollen from sitting for too long. I felt completely numb.

The moment the car stopped, I jumped out of the back seat and began twisting my body, bending this way and that, waiting for the familiar relief of my bones cracking.

Amy and Emma, as we all called Emmanuel, Amy’s boyfriend, started carrying our bags inside. The house would be Amy’s and mine until the strike was over. That much had already been decided.

“Isn’t it strange,” Amy said as they came back out for the remaining bags, “that the protest started immediately after we left school?”

My chest tightened. We had talked about this too many times already throughout the drive into Lagos.

“That Ifekandu is a witch, I swear,” she added casually.

Emma laughed as he struggled with one of Amy’s oversized bags. She had packed like someone who didn’t plan on returning to ABSU anytime soon.

“Why did you even pack this much?” I asked, stepping closer to help.

Amy ignored me. “Because who predicts a strike, then a protest? Ada, you read that last student newsletter, o kwa ya? You saw his piece.”

I looked at her sharply. She knew how I felt. Ifekandu had been mentioned too many times already.

Emma noticed the shift in the air and told us to go inside.

“Make yourselves feel at home, eh.”

I liked the house, maybe because it didn’t carry anything I was trying to forget or run away from in it. It was small but comfortable. One room, a parlour, a kitchen, and two toilets. It was enough.

I wondered where Emma would sleep.

After we settled in, Emma said he would take us on a short drive around. Surprisingly, none of us felt tired.

Once we were back on the road, Lagos opened itself fully.

The heat came first. Unashamed heat that clung to my skin and almost made it scream. Then the noise. Everything seemed louder, the horns blaring like there was an unknown competition over who would be the loudest. Conductors shouted destinations into the air.

“Yaba! Maryland! Ojuelegba!”

Their voices sounded rough, almost aggressive, like they were in a fighting ring.

Everyone seemed to be talking, shouting, and moving at the same time.

And the traffic was intense. Emma’s car stood still for almost ten minutes. I wondered how people survived this every day. A long fuel queue formed around the road, cars packed bumper to bumper.

“Fuel scarcity again,” Emma muttered. “Thank God for my brother. If not, I’d be suffering like this.”

“What does he do?” I asked.

“He works in an oil company,” Amy said before Emma could answer.

“He always sorts me out,” Emma added.

As we passed a petrol station, a smell followed us, dust, sweat, and something burnt I couldn’t name. It stayed with us longer than I expected.

Not long after, the car began to make strange sounds. Like it was tired. Like it had finally felt the weight of the journey from Lagos to Aba and back again. We pulled over.

“I think we should just go back,” Amy said. “I’m tired now.”

Emma said nothing. He was already bent over the car, focused.

I wandered a little distance away, distracted by a dress hanging outside a shop. That was when an old man walked up to me. He moved slowly. His legs were thin and unsteady. He studied my face carefully.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He smiled. “You can sing, abi?”

Then, after a short pause, he added, “I fit marry you.”

I stood there, frozen. That word, marriage…

Before I could gather myself, he had moved on, asking another passerby the same questions, as if there was nothing strange about what he had said.

Emma called me back. We got into the car and drove off.

A young boy suddenly appeared beside us, barefoot. Singing Yori Yori loudly, dancing as he followed the car, tapping lightly on the window. At first, it seemed like he was following us, but when the car sped up, he began to chase us. He was really fast, and I was shocked to see a stick in his hand as he continued chasing us. I kept turning back, watching the boy, scared.

Amy seemed unaware of it, playing with Emma’s car radio.

“Emma, why is that boy chasing us?” I asked, worried.

With his eyes completely focused on the road, he said, “Leave all these Lagos boys. He’s doing it for fun.”

Amy laughed. Emma eventually waved him away without looking.

I watched until the boy disappeared between buses and cars. I couldn’t stop asking myself what exactly was happening in this place.

Emma mentioned stopping at a supermarket. He needed a few things. We pulled into a mall.

As we stepped out, a keke rider slowed beside me.

“You dey go inside?” he asked, leaning closer, as if trying to reach for my face while winking awkwardly.

Emma shouted, “Oga, move.”

The keke sped off immediately, like someone who had been caught doing something wrong.

Inside the mall, the crowd was too much. I had never seen a crowd like that anywhere other than the market. We left without buying anything.

As we drove back, nearing Emma’s junction, agbero boys surrounded the car, smiling, greeting, and demanding money. Emma handed something over easily, laughing like it was part of daily life.

By the time we were almost home, Amy leaned back in her seat.

“I love Lagos,” she said.

I looked at her from the back seat, unsure which Lagos she was seeing.

Emma laughed softly. “Lagos is a crazy place. You guys haven’t seen anything yet.”

Back in the house, I picked up my phone from the table where I had left it before we went out.

Less than a minute later, it began to ring.

The name on the screen made my hands shake.

Amy and Emma were in the kitchen, laughing over suya they had bought on the street, unaware.

I watched the phone vibrate until it stopped. A message followed almost immediately.

Your mum said your school is on strike, Ada. Where are you?

Mazi

Author’s note:

Based on popular demand, I’m continuing my prose series.

I shared extracts from a novel I abandoned a while ago, and the feedback I got encouraged me to keep going. So here we are.

I’ve titled this series When Life Happens.

To read the previous post, check out the links below.

Please leave a comment or two, share, like and recommend. Let me know your honest thoughts cause I put my heart and spirit into this 😭 writing prose isn’t my strongest skill but I love the challenge and I definitely plan to continue with it. So your feedback would mean the world to me.

Thank you 🤍

Part 1

Part 2

SCENE 4

(The Vice-Chancellor’s Office)

(The office is immaculate, untouched by the riot. Everything gleams as though nothing ever happened. The VC sits behind his large desk. Across from him sits FOLA, the Student President. He is visibly nervous.)

VC: I need you to repeat yourself, Fola. Slowly this time. How did a student riot happen again, after I explicitly warned you?

Fola: (Trembling) Sir… the students are….

VC: (Exploding) Shut up, Fola! Shut. Up!

(Fola freezes.)

I did not make you Student President.

I did not grant you privileges.

I did not seat you across my table

for you to insult me with excuses.

Fola: (Voice shaking) I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.

VC: It better not. This is the third riot. Third!

They destroy my buildings.

My offices.

My school.

Do you know how much it costs to fix broken windows, burned buses, vandalised halls?

(He points a warning finger.)

This must end here.

Fola: Yes, sir. I’m deeply sorry for the destruction.

They broke the doors, the windows—

VC: (Cutting in, furious) Not only that! They wrecked the visitors’ lecture halls.

Smashed my car windows. Painted school buses like criminals. Looted the cafeteria! These children have gone mad.

Wild.

Dangerous. You will find whoever is behind this. That person must be dealt with. Jailed. Or worse.

Fola: (Whispers) Ah

VC: Oh yes. Because whoever it is, is clearly after my life.

Fola: Sir, from what I gathered, students from Fountain, Rugby, Eagleton, and even Golden Hostel were involved.

VC: Golden? Why Golden?

Fola: Sir… students complained of no light, no water, overcrowding, lack of lecturers. They said the fees are too high for the conditions.

(Softly)

Some even mentioned lecturers harassing students.

VC: (Scoffs) Nonsense. You listen to rubbish like this and report it to me? Fola, you’re a buffoon.

I didn’t put you there to listen to students.

I put you there to control them.

Manipulate them.

Pacify them.

Lie to them if you must.

Not to be their voice.

(Pauses, studies him.)

I should’ve chosen that girl… the albino one.

She had fire. You? You’re weak. Remember this, you exist to serve me.

Do you understand?

Fola: (Almost inaudible) Yes, sir.

VC: One more thing, why Golden Hostel?

Fola: (Stammering) Sir… many students there abuse substances. There’s even a rumour someone has a firearm. Our lives may be in danger.

VC: (Cold laugh) If anyone’s life is in danger here, it’s mine. Leave my office.

Go and control your people.

(Fola rushes out. The VC pauses, then presses a button.)

VC: Set up a meeting with the Senate, Board of Directors, and all executives. They’re forgetting who holds power here. And send Porter B to inspect Golden Hostel.

SCENE 5

(A Large Lecture Hall)

(The lecture hall is spacious, clean, and well-lit. A projector hangs unused. Students sit scattered, some tired, some restless. A YOUNG LECTURER stands at the front, flipping through his notes without urgency.)

Lecturer: So… profit. Profit is what remains after cost. In business, profit is everything.

(He pauses. Silence.)

You buy low.

You sell high.

That difference… is your gain.

(Some students exchange looks.)

Student 1: Sir… please, can you explain gross profit and net profit?

Lecturer: (Smiles thinly) That’s advanced. This is undergraduate level.

Student 2: But sir, we did it last semester.

Lecturer: (rolls eyes) Different lecturer. Different approach.

(He flips a page, uninterested.)

Now, moving on.

(A student raises his hand.)

Student 3: Sir, my mum did her Master’s in Business and she said—

Lecturer:(Cuts in angrily) Your mum is not here! I am!

(Students stiffen.)

This generation likes to question authority.

(He checks his wristwatch.)

Alright. That’s enough for today.

Student 4: Sir, we still have one hour, forty five minutes left.

Student 5: And, this is our first class in three weeks.

Student 6: Our Exams also begins in three weeks.

(Murmurs grow louder.)

Lecturer: (Voice firm) I said that’s enough for today. Class dismissed.

(Students hesitate, then begin to pack slowly, annoyed. A few mutter under their breath. A GIRL walks up to meet the lecturer.)

Girl: Excuse me, sir.

Lecturer: (Without looking up) Yes?

Girl: Sir, about the handout we bought at the beginning of the session—

Lecturer: What about it?

Girl: It doesn’t align with the course outline. I’ve read it twice.

(He finally looks at her.)

Lecturer: And?

Girl: Sir, it reads more like, a personal story. Your business journey.

This course is Business and Finance.

(A pause.)

Lecturer: (Lowers his voice) Do you want to pass this course?

Girl: (Confused) Yes, sir.

Lecturer: Then stop asking questions.

(He picks up his bag.)

Come with me to my office. Carry my books.

(He walks out. The girl hesitates, then follows.)

SCENE 6

(Outside a noisy Cafeteria)

(A group of BOYS stand in clusters, speaking in low tones. They glance around nervously. MIKE, a confident-looking student, walks in and joins PHILIP and EBUBE. The moment they see him, their faces change. The three drift away from the crowd.)

Mike: Why una face be like this? What’s going on?

Philip:(Lowers his voice) Guy… I hope say e no be who I’m thinking.

Mike: What are you talking about?

Ebube: They’re saying something happened….Between Unfortunate and..

Mike: (Sharp) Who?

(Philip hesitates.)

Philip: They said…She’s dark-skinned, average height, slim, cat eyes.

(Mike stiffens.)

Mike: Abeg, no. That’s not specific.

Ebube: They also said she’s in Business Administration.

(Silence.)

Mike: (Shakes his head quickly) Can’t be her. It can’t.

Philip: Do you think he knows?

Ebube: They said it happened yesterday.

Mike: (Voice drops) Jesus Christ.

(He rubs his face.)

Philip: Maybe it’s just talk. You know how rumours move in this school.

Ebube: Rumours don’t make people cry like that.

Mike: (Quietly) She wouldn’t lie about something like this. That girl is… She’s an angel.

(A pause.)

Philip: We need to be careful.

Mike: Careful how?

Philip: Let’s see Fola. If anyone can help us confirm what really happ–

Ebube: (Snorts) Confirm? Which lecturer will confirm that kind thing?

Even if the man did it, he’ll deny am.

Philip: (Thinking) They have CCTV in the offices.

Ebube: You still believe in this school?

Mike: (Angry now) So what are you saying? That we just keep quiet?

Ebube: I’m saying Fola is compromised. Can’t you see how he’s been moving lately?

Philip:(Softly) But we can’t do nothing.

Mike: (Determined) We have to tell Jay, our guy.

Before he hears it from somewhere else.

(Silence)

Ebube: This university… This university is rotten.

(They stand there, as lights fade.)

SCENE 7

(The Vice Chancellor’s Office)

(The VC sits behind his desk, counting bundles of money while eating from a takeaway pack. The SECRETARY enters.)

Secretary: Sir, the student who booked an appointment two weeks ago is here.

(The VC frowns, annoyed.)

VC: Two weeks? Hmm.

(He hurriedly sweeps the money into a drawer, wipes his mouth, straightens his agbada. He opens a file filled with blank papers and pretends to read.)

VC: Send him in.

(JAY enters. He stands rigid, eyes red but focused.)

VC: (Without looking up) Sit down, young man.

Jay: No, sir. I have been trying to see you for the past two weeks.

(The VC finally looks at him.)

VC: (Smiles thinly) Ah. You must understand, Vice Chancellors are very busy people. Especially the Vice Chancellor of the most prestigious university in the country.

Now, what can I do for you?

Jay: I’m here to make a complaint.

(The VC nods, fake concern.)

VC: Go on.

Jay: You must have heard about the rape allegation between a student and a lecturer.

(The VC stiffens, then relaxes, feigning surprise.)

VC: Rape? That’s a very strong word.

Jay: The student involved is my younger sister.

(A beat.)

Jay: (Angrily) And I want to know why the animal who raped her stood in front of a classroom this morning and taught like nothing happened!!

(Silence.)

VC: (Leans back. Tensed) Young man, do you realise the gravity of what you are saying?

Do you have proof?

Have you spoken to your Student President?

There is no lecturer in this university capable of such an act.

Jay: (Cold, controlled) My sister is a good girl. She would not lie.

If you doubt her, you can check the CCTV footage from Mr. Unfortune’s office. I can give you the exact date. The exact time.

(His voice breaks.)

She is broken.

She cannot speak.

(Tears fall.)

That man must pay.

VC: (Softly, but still tensed) Calm down. Calm down.

(He presses a button.)

Secretary, please check the CCTV footage from Mr. Unfortune’s office. Any… unpleasant activity.

Anything involving a female student.

(Lights dim slightly.)

(After a while, the SECRETARY returns. Her eyes are swollen. She avoids Jay’s gaze.)

VC: (glaring at her) Did you find anything?

Secretary: (Tight voice) No, sir. Nothing at all.

(She exits quickly.)

VC: (Sighs) You see, son?

(He scribbles on a piece of paper and slides it across the desk.)

Take this to Student Affairs.

You and your sister are hereby expelled from this prestigious institution for defaming one of our finest lecturers.

Jay: (Laughs suddenly through tears)

(He picks up the paper, tears it slowly.)

Prepare for war, sir.

(He walks out.)

(The VC’s smile fades.)

BLACKOUT.

SCENE 8

THE STRIKE

(DAY 1)

(The campus is unnaturally quiet.)

No shuttle drivers shouting destinations.

No porters chatting

No laughter.

No arguments.

Just silence.

(Lecture halls are locked. Offices are empty. Hostels are full.)

(DAY 10)

(A conference room. The VC sits with members of the Senate, Board of Directors, and Executives. They speak in hushed tones, panic barely contained.)

(The VC’s face is tight. No resolution.)

(DAY 30)

(The campus looks abandoned.)

Grass grows wild. Everywhere is filled with dust

Acres University looks like a desert, quiet.

(Outside the school gates. NEWS REPORTERS crowd the entrance.)

Reporter 1: This is unprecedented.

Students of the world’s most prestigious university are on strike.

Reporter 2: They’ve locked themselves inside their hostels and released open statements detailing years of abuse, neglect, and corruption.

Reporter 3: Today makes it Day 50.

Amazingly, the students are still holding out.

Food supplies have been rationed. Organisation is tight. Some are calling it a republic within a university.

Reporter 4: Earlier today, a letter was released by a student leader, Jay. The title reads The Final Strike.

Its contents remain unclear, but the tone is… unsettling.

(The reporters speak over one another.)

(FADE OUT.)

THE FINAL STRIKE

(DAY 60)

(The air is thick. Heavy. Angry.)

(Hostel doors open.)

Students emerge slowly.

Silently.

Some hold cutlasses.

Some hold petrol cans.

Some hold nothing but rage.

(They begin to chant, loudly)

Students:

Justice for us!

Justice for us!

Justice in our hands,

We take am, judge!

(Cars are shattered. Offices smashed. Buildings set ablaze.)

(Flames rise.)

(JAY steps forward)

Jay: Yes, we have taken justice into our hands.

We know our rights.
We know the power of our minds.

My sister was defiled on this ground.
I sought justice.
I was ignored.

So today, these walls must fall.
These buildings must break.
The guilty must pay.

We will no longer be prey.

We demand compensation,
for stolen years,
unsafe classrooms,
broken systems,
and basic necessities our fees were meant to provide.

Today, we declare war.

THIS 
IS
OUR
FINAL STRIKE 

(The students roar.)

(Authorities drag out the VC, the guilty lecturer, and others involved.)

(The flames consume Acres University.)

BLACKOUT.

THE END

I remember having a conversation with one of my lecturers a few years ago. I was complaining about something that was going on, something that felt so unbearable for me, something that almost made me burn with anger. Then he said one thing: instead of complaining, why not protest about it?

Protest ke? Lol.

Anyways, after that I slept, and when I woke up, the anger was gone, but a story had formed in my heart. I didn’t write it immediately though, and thank God it didn’t leave me.

Thanks for reading ❤️

My new subscribers, I greet you oh.

My old ones, the day ones or almost day ones, I greet you too oh.

To read the first part of the play, click here. My click here might not work 😭

but see the link below

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if students decided to go on a strike?

And I don’t mean a half-hearted one, I mean a full blown strike. No classes. No school activities. Nothing. Until students are treated right.

A strike where students say, “I won’t go to class, I won’t participate, until the school provides the basics, keeps its promises, and stops making things unnecessarily hard.”

Because at the end of the day, our fees fund the school, abi? At least we deserve to be treated like humans.

Recently, I saw students celebrate their convocation with the phrase, “If you think it’s easy to go to first choice and come out, do am.”

And honestly, I believe them. Some schools put students through things that can only be described as endurance tests.

This play was born from those thoughts. From the frustration. From the silence. From the power students don’t realise they have.

A student strike might not be wise in real life, but in imagination, it bangs. It bangs like madd.

So if you’ve ever wondered what it might look like, read the play.

When you’re done, you can go back to wondering.

Note: This play is in two parts. Part Two will be shared later.

Thank you for reading, and enjoy 🤍

Scene 1

(A grand stage, lavishly decorated with bright lights and heavy curtains. At the centre is a podium with a microphone. A well dressed, middle aged woman steps forward confidently. She clears her throat loudly to command attention.)

Lady: (with a wide, artificial smile)

Welcome! To Acres University, the world’s best!

Our influence spreads to the roots. We are the foundation upon which virtue, grace, and strength are built. We (dramatic pause) are Acres.

(Thunderous applause erupts, mostly exaggerated and clearly boosted by the DJ’s applause machine. Some students clap half-heartedly; others murmur among themselves. The Lady exits gracefully. A man steps forward, holding a sheet of paper. His face is stern, unsmiling.)

Man: Okay, okay. New students, listen up.

Yeah, yeah, welcome to Acres University. I’ll be reading some very important rules that must be strictly adhered to. Failure to adhere will result in immediate explo—

(The Lady beside him quickly nudges him.)

I mean, expulsion. (He coughs awkwardly.)

Now, the rules…

(His voice fades as the lights dim.)

Scene 2

(The Vice Chancellor’s office. Large, expensive furniture fills the room. The VC sits behind his desk, counting bundles of cash while eating greedily. His table looks more like a banquet than an office desk. Fuji music plays softly in the background as he nods along, clearly enjoying himself. His female secretary enters quietly. He doesn’t notice her at first, so she clears her throat.)

VC: (irritated) Ah! This girl, did you knock?

Secretary: Sorry, sir. It’s urgent. We just received another bag… and it’s quite big.

VC: (suddenly interested) How much?

Secretary: The parents didn’t say, sir. They only asked me to inform you that there’s more where that came from, as long as you admit and keep their two children in school.

VC:(grins widely) What are the charges?

Secretary: Uh… the first son is a drug dealer and addict. The second is a violent thug.

VC: (laughs loudly) Easy. Piece of cake!

Give them admission letters and put them in Golden Hostel, under Porter B.

Secretary: Sir… don’t you think we should slow down on admitting unruly students? Yes, they deserve another chance, but not in this environment. It’s already bad enough that unqualified lecturers are being employed. Now drugs, thuggery, this is too much—

VC: (cuts her off, stands abruptly) Now listen to me very well. If you ever speak to me in that manner again, you will be dealt with.

How much do I pay you, eh?! You have no right to question what we’re doing here.

(He moves closer, threatening.)

If you wanted to act innocent, you should have started when I hired you, the most “qualified” among them. Now bring the bags into my office, and not another word on this matter.

(The Secretary bows slightly and exits. Almost immediately, a Security Guard rushes in, panicked.)

Security Guard: Sir! Sir! We have to get you out of here, quickly! The students are rioting again!

VC: Again?!

(He hurriedly tries to pack his bundles of cash and food.)

Security Guard: Sir, leave am! Time no dey!

(The Secretary rushes back in.)

Secretary: Sir! These students are mad. They’re shouting, “Burn the VC’s office!” Please, let’s go now!

(They rush out in haste, leaving everything behind. As they exit, the VC turns back sharply.)

VC: Call that useless Student President for me. Now!

(They exit.)

Scene 3

(Eagleton Hostel, a female hostel. A small, cramped room with six beds. Clothes are scattered around. Two girls are present. Queen is asleep on her bed; the other, Bisi, is arranging clothes nervously. Bisi walks to the sleeping girl and shakes her.)

Bisi: (shaking her lightly, then more urgently) Queen. Queen! Wake up, please!

Queen: (turns on the bed, groggy) Ah… what? What is it? Didn’t I tell you I’m not going for class today?

Bisi: I know, I know. That’s not it. I’m just… worried.

(Queen sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes.)

Queen: (yawning) Worried about what?

The memo yesterday said only students involved in the riot will be punished.

Bisi: Exactly. That’s the problem.

Tega was involved. But her name isn’t on the list.

Queen: So?

Bisi: The school said they identified everyone from the CCTV. Everyone.

How could they miss Tega? She told us herself that she slapped the VC’s security guard when they tried to enter his office.

Queen: (shrugs, yawns again) Bisi, do you know your problem? You worry too much. So her name isn’t on the list. So she slapped a security guard.

What is our business? Wetin concern us?

Bisi: It’s just… strange. If her name isn’t there, then it means some people who don’t deserve to be punished might be on that list instead.

Queen: (irritated) Ah, Bisi, you’re giving me headache. Drink water. Sleep. Do something else.

It doesn’t mean anything.

(She lies back.)

I’ve been in this school for three years. You’ve been here for two.

Don’t give yourself unnecessary pressure.

Bisi: (quietly) Okay… if you say so.

(Bisi returns to arranging her clothes, folding with tension. Queen watches her.)

Queen: Why are you packing your clothes?

Bisi: (without looking up)Tega texted me this morning. She said I should take her bed space.

Queen: Why?

(Bisi pauses, then looks up.)

Bisi: She’s been moved to Golden Hostel.

(Silence)

Can we talk?

Can we talk about the loud silence that follows after graduation, or is it just me?

I’m talking about the silence that comes with withdrawal. The people you sat with in classrooms for four years or more are no longer reachable the same way. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still there, but somehow, they feel distant.

Nobody reaches out anymore, because, really, what’s the point?

There’s no need to pretend we care so deeply when we’re no longer waking up to meet in class, in the cafeteria, or in chapel.

There’s no need to ask “How are you?” once in a while, because no one needs help with an assignment anymore, or someone to sign attendance for them.

So we stay silent….

Watching each other through status posts, Snapchat and Instagram stories, maybe Substack notes. Seeing who’s making it, who’s having a good time after school. We notice one who posts memes constantly, and the one who’s gone offline, maybe because they’re trying to navigate this after-school phase that nobody really talks about.

How drowning it can feel.

How exhausted we become.

How badly we just want it to stop, or to skip straight to the good part.

Sigh.

There are no longer conversations on the group chats. We don’t collectively wish each other happy birthday anymore. I wonder what will happen to those group chats. Will they ever come alive again?

Did the four years not matter?

Why isn’t anyone saying anything?

I know, after all, we lowkey wished we’d finish fast so we wouldn’t have to deal with each other anymore. But now that we’re here, the silence is getting louder, and I can’t believe it.

I feel like one day it will disappear completely, and we’ll all become people who never existed in each other’s lives. We’ll nod along when others say, “Oh, that phase where you lose contact with your mates? It’s normal. It’s just life.”

And we’ll be told to move on.

Sitting in the same room with him didn’t feel like how I thought it would.

Ifekandu looked different since the last time we saw each other at the bookshop. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the whole country on his back. His beard was overgrown and rough, patchy, even, some strands curling longer than the rest. His hair looked like it hadn’t touched a comb in days. His brown skin, once smooth and glowing, looked dry like harmattan dust had settled there. His shirt hung loosely on him, like it didn’t belong to him. And his eyes, those eyes that used to hold light, were dull now. No spark, no laughter. Just a quiet heaviness.

I tried not to look at him too much. The longer I stared, the more memories tried to push through.

“Ada, it’s been seven months since we last saw each other. I texted you. It’s been a year and a half since… since we fell… Biko, Ada, forgive me.”

His voice cracked at the end, but I didn’t rush to feel pity. I shifted uncomfortably on my bed. He sat on the only reading chair in the room, facing me. Amy continued packing silently, acting like she wasn’t listening. But I knew she was.

The room was small. Tight, even. There were two single beds, one for me, one for Amy. A small door led to our bathroom, with a thick curtain we used to shield our bucket from view when guests came. In the corner near the window was our makeshift kitchen: a tiny stove balanced on a short stool, surrounded by a big black bucket that held our pots, frying pan, spoons, and one bent spatula.

“I have forgiven you.”

I said flatly, and he stared at me like he didn’t believe it.

That stare. I knew it well. It used to break me back then, but not anymore.

“Okay, so why did you block me?”

I looked down at my nails. I had just painted them baby pink. The colour looked so soft, so gentle. I loved how it made my fingers look like they were resting.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t,” I lied.

“Okay. So about what I said… Can you…Can you….” He stuttered “Ada…. Please…. Can you…Will you have me back?”

His eyes seemed moist

Amy spoke up. Her voice cut through the tensed air.

“Ifekandu, I think you should leave.”

I glanced at her quickly and sent her a silent thank you with my eyes. Amy understood. We’d mastered this silent language between us. I once told Ifekandu about it, back when things were sweet. He laughed and called us weird. Later, when things started changing, he said it disgusted him. That we were “doing too much.”

I thought it was love when he corrected me. When he told me to “stop acting like a child,” or “stop letting Amy influence you.” I thought it was love. Now I know better.

“Amy is right. You should leave.”

He stood up slowly, like his body was carrying something heavy. Without making eye contact, he turned towards the door.

Just as I was about to shut it behind him, he turned around.

“Ada, be careful. A protest is about to start.”

And then, he left.

The door clicked shut, but my chest was still open.

If you remember my previous post, Umuozala Junction, I’m happy to share that this piece is an extract from the same story.
Should I continue the series?

Btw, my new beautiful subscribers, I welcome you all 🥹🤍

To every student who feels stressed and overwhelmed by academic work, your feelings are valid.

Do not let any overzealous student or lecturer convince you otherwise.

You are not lazy; the system is often unrealistic.

Still, remember: you can do all things.

You can do it. 🤍

CAST LIST

Salma – a tired 300-level English student

Itohan – her course mate and group member

Feranmi – Salma & Itohan’s course mate

300-level English Students

Course Rep

Mr Dele – Lecturer

Mrs Michael – Lecturer

Mrs Ojo – Lecturer (offstage)

Mrs Ifeoma – Lecturer

Invigilator

SCENE ONE

(Tuesday morning. The air is calm, but the sun is blazing hot. Students dressed smartly with ID cards hanging from their necks, walk about campus. Most of their faces are decorated with heavy eye bags. In the school park, Salma and Itohan sit side by side, under a tree. Salma aggressively flips through an Introduction to Semantics textbook, back and forth, while Itohan scrolls through his phone, giggling.)

Itohan (giggles).

Salma (stares at him irritably):Are you okay? It better be the answers to our group work question that’s making you laugh and nothing else.

Itohan (laughs louder, still texting): Abeg, Salma, relax. The group assignment isn’t even due till next week.

Salma (mimics him): The group assignment isn’t even due till next week. (She turns fully to face him.) Can you even hear yourself? It’s like you’re forgetting that next week we don’t just have this group assignment to submit and present, we also have English novel presentation and test, Studies in Criticism assignment, Elizabethan poetry, African novel, Women and Literature, Theatre Arts, GIT practical, and Studies in Leadership test.

Itohan (drops his phone, troubled): Ye! I haven’t even started anything. How will I cover like this? How can one person have all these assignments?

Salma (turns back to her book): Just help me Google theories of meaning, abeg, Itohan.

Itohan (picks up his phone, then drops it again): But wait, oh, why are we even doing so many courses? Why can’t the Nigerian curriculum imitate other curriculums like the USA and UK?

Salma: Are you asking me? Just Google what I asked you. It’s not even in this textbook. (She flips the pages angrily.)

Itohan: Do you even know that in those countries, they do like five or six courses per semester? And most of them are practical, creative writing workshops and all that.

Salma (sighs deeply): Itohan, please. Google what I asked you to, abeg. The sun is too much on my back, and — (she checks her watch) we have a class soon.

Itohan: Salma, did you even hear what I said about the curriculums?

Salma: I didn’t. I can’t listen to anything that isn’t the answer to our group work question. I’m tired. I haven’t slept in three days. I just want to finish this one so I can move on to my Studies in Criticism assignment.

Itohan: Ah! Wahala o. Why haven’t you slept for three days?

Salma (yawns): Because of all these assignments, nau. How else do you expect me to cover? (She rests her head on the table and yawns loudly.) If I could change anything in this school, for real, it would be the number of courses we do in such a short period.

It is too much for us.

(She falls asleep.)

Itohan (softly, almost to himself): Mine will be the number of assignments we get in a week.

SCENE TWO

(Feranmi, a course mate of Salma and Itohan, walks through the park on her way to the school eatery. She notices Salma asleep under the park tree. She approaches and taps her, not gently.)

Feranmi: Salma! Salma! Wake up!

Salma (yawns loudly, looking around before fixing her eyes on Feranmi): I can’t believe I slept off here. What’s the time, please? We have Dr Kola’s class by one, abi?

Feranmi (sits beside her): We had Dr Kola’s class by one. This is 3:30.

Salma: Ye! So I missed it? I hope he didn’t give an impromptu test.

Feranmi: No test, but he grouped us. Group work is due next week. You’re in my group.

Salma: Next week? How? Ahan—how does he want us to—What’s the question? (She hurriedly pulls out a pen and paper.)

Feranmi: It’s an ethnography of speaking analysis on something he sent to the group chat. Where is your phone, sef? People were calling you.

Salma: I gave it to the phone repairer this morning. It went blank while I was charging it.

Feranmi: Ahan. Blank just like that?

Salma: Yes, nau. You know how the electricity fluctuates in the hostel. I forgot to unplug it and slept off. My charger even blew.

Feranmi: Nawa. Sorry, but you’ve been falling asleep everywhere these days. I hope nothing is wrong.

Salma: Nothing. I just don’t sleep at night. I’m trying to cover.

Feranmi (laughs): Eh, Salma, you’re funny. So it’s school work that’s making you deprive yourself of sleep?

Salma (irritated): What’s funny? How else am I supposed to complete assignments and prepare for tests?

Feranmi: You don’t use AI or what? Use AI to do most of these things and rest, abeg.

Salma: Hmm. You know lecturers can detect AI now. I don’t want—

Feranmi (cuts her off): It’s okay. If you like, kill yourself. See how you’re embarrassing yourself, sleeping under the school park tree. Imagine your man passed by with his friends, how would he feel?

Salma (hisses): Which man? As if there’s time for a relationship with this amount of school work.

Feranmi (laughs, standing up): Scholar 1.0. Oya, let’s go and buy food. I’m hungry.

(Salma gets up. They start to leave the school park, but pause when they spot Itohan lying on a chair, asleep and almost falling to the ground. They quickly rush to wake him before he falls.)

Salma: Itohan! Wake up, jor! Are you mad? Why would you sleep here when we had a class?

Itohan (rubbing his eyes, stretching): I was too tired. After I finished the Semantics group work, it was ten minutes to class. I just decided to rest my head small.

The class hasn’t started?

Feranmi (laughs).

Salma: The class is over.

Itohan (jumps up): Jesus! Jesus! Ah, I’ve missed two classes already. Salma, why didn’t you wake me up, nau?

Salma: Are you okay? Was I not the one who slept before you?

Feranmi (still laughing): You two fit each other, sha. Oya, let’s go and buy food. I’m hungry.

(The three of them leave.)

SCENE THREE

(Days pass. Students move endlessly from class to class, submitting assignments, making presentations. The library is overcrowded. In the hostels, students revise late into the night. Most sleep for barely three hours. One afternoon, the 300-level English students are seated in a classroom.)

Mr Dele (pacing dramatically around the room) :You there!

(He points at Feranmi, whose eyes are heavy with sleep.)

Tell me the two global phenomena I discussed last week.

Feranmi: (startled, looking around): Sir, uhm… you spoke about the… (She hesitates.)

Mr Dele: Speak up! Speak up!

Feranmi: The Global North and the Global South, sir.

Mr Dele: (scoffs) : Ori e ti daru. Your head is not correct.

Go to the back. Go to the back!

(Feranmi walks to the back. Mr Dele turns and notices Itohan, dozing.)

Mr Dele: You! Stand up!

(Itohan jumps up.)

Define globalisation in World Literature.

Itohan (rubbing his face): Sir… i’d be honest, I know you explained it last class, but I can’t remember.

Mr Dele: Exactly. You can’t remember because all you do is sleep.

(He faces the entire class.)

This is the problem with this generation, you Gen Zs think life is a joke. In our time, we worked and schooled. Some of us had jobs and still read our books. But you people have parents paying your fees, giving you pocket money, and yet you refuse to do the one thing you’re here for—READ. STUDY.

(He shakes his head slowly.)

Salma (raises her hand, calm but firm): Sir, with all due respect, we do read. But the workload is overwhelming. It’s assignments, tests, and presentations, back to back. Most of us barely sle —

Mr Dele (cuts her off sharply): Enough. Your generation is very good at excuses.

(He turns to the board and writes.)

As punishment for your lack of seriousness, take this assignment. Using The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, Ajidewe by Ahmed Yerima, and Murder in the Cathedral by T. S. Eliot, discuss the impact of globalisation in World Literature.

(The class murmurs.)

Students:

Which kind question be this?

God abeg…

I wan drop out, walahi.

If assignment be like this, wetin exam go be?

Uwa m o…

Mr Dele: It must be on my table before Monday morning. Not less than four pages. Good day.

(He exits.)

(Later that day. The 300 level English students are in Caribbean Literature class. It is almost 6 p.m.)

Mrs Michael: Identity crisis is a major theme in Caribbean literature. Take Derek Walcott, for instance. In “A Far Cry from Africa”, he reflects on the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya, the violent clash between African resistance and British colonial rule. What troubles him is that he feels tied to both sides—

Course Rep: Ma, please, class is over. We have an 8 a.m. class tomorrow and three tests.

Mrs Michael (checks her watch): Oh, wow. I took almost thirty minutes extra. I apologise. Alright, before you go, take down this assignment.

(The class groans.)

Students:

Ma, please…

We already have too much.

Mrs Michael (laughs lightly): You students complain too much. You’re submitting it next week.

(Class disperses.)

SCENE FOUR

(A new week. The air is fresh, and the sun is hot. In Lecture Room 24, the 300-level English students are seated, bags at their feet, books open but unread. Some scroll through their phones. Others rest their heads on desks.)

Course mate 1: Is this woman not coming again? Course rep, please call her. It’s already 9.

Course Rep: Okay. (She steps out of the class.)

Course mate 2: You guys should not forget the literary texts Mr Emeka asked us to get, o. He said it’s compulsory for the exam.

(The class erupts immediately.)

Course mate 3: We’ve told him we can’t find the text. How does he expect us to buy something that’s not available?

Course mate 4: Exactly! If he has a plug for the book, he should just say it.

Feranmi: You people don’t even know that I went to beg him. He said if we don’t get the text, we’ll fail his course.

(The entire class screams in unison.)

Students: Ahhh!

Course mate 2: That’s a lie, jor. Mr Emeka is not that wicked.

Course mate 1: Abi! Feranmi must be joking. How can he say that because of one ordinary text? We even have the soft copy.

Course mate 4: You people should calm down. My cousin’s roommate last year carried over his course because she couldn’t buy the text.

(The noise rises again, voices overlap, frustration changes the air. The Course Rep walks back in.)

Course Rep: Please, everybody calm down.

(The class quietens slightly.)

Course Rep: Mrs Ojo said she won’t be able to make it to class today. She wants to sleep well.

(Silence. Then outrage.)

Course mate 5: Can you imagine?

Course mate 2: It doesn’t even make sense.

Course mate 1: Ahan! Is it fair? Why didn’t she say it earlier? See the time, 9:30!

Course mate 3: So we don’t want to sleep well too on a Monday morning?

(Students begin to pack their bags and file out. The Course Rep bangs the table once. No response. She bangs it again. Then a third time. Silence.)

Course Rep: Please, listen. Before you go, she gave us an assignment. It should be submitted tomorrow, latest by 12pm.

(The class shouts.)

Students: Ahan!

Course Rep: We’re to watch five videos of Akeem Lasisi’s poetic performances and discuss how they reflect society. Nothing less than five pages.

(Loud groans. Students shake their heads, mutter, and angrily leave the classroom.)

SCENE FIVE

(Lecture Room 1, another hot afternoon. Some students sit upright out of habit; others slump over their desks. Mrs Ifeoma stands at the front of the class, adjusting her glasses.)

Mrs Ifeoma: Okay, class, tear out a sheet of paper. We’re going to have a short test.

( Some students groan, others shout)

Course mate 1: Ma, please. Can we write it next week?

Course mate 2: Yes, ma. We’re tired.

Salma: Please, ma, we’re not prepared.

Mrs Ifeoma (frowns): You students are too lazy for my liking. What do you think you’re in school for? To sleep and relax? When they give you assignments, you complain. Tests, you complain. Ehn! What exactly is wrong with you people?

Course mate 1: Ma, we’re not lazy.

Course mate 2: It’s not like we go back to the hostel to sleep or rest.

Salma: Exactly, ma. It’s one assignment after another. We’re always working.

Mrs Ifeoma: Is that not why you came to school? To learn?

Itohan: Ma, to me o, we’re not really learning. I don’t know about others, but for me, I don’t have time to process what we’re taught. We just rush from one task to another.

Mrs Ifeoma: You don’t have time because you’re not making time. Look at me, I’m a mother, a wife, and a senior lecturer. I also run a business. I’m always moving from place to place.

Salma: Ma, isn’t it too much sometimes? If someone should ask you if you’re happy with your workload, would you honestly say yes?

(Mrs Ifeoma pauses. The class goes silent.)

Mrs Ifeoma: If everyone had their way, nobody would work. Life requires effort. Sometimes it becomes overwhelming, yes, but there are ways to manage it.

(The class speaks in unison.)

Students: How?

Mrs Ifeoma: Time management. Plan your day. Allocate time to different activities. If you’re disciplined with your time, things become easier.

Salma: Ma, it’s easier said than done. Our workload is sometimes unreasonable.

Itohan: Yes, ma.

Feranmi: It’s just too much for us.

(Silence. Mrs Ifeoma looks at the class, tired faces, red eyes, slumped shoulders. She hesitates.)

Mrs Ifeoma: …Let’s postpone the test till next week. But you must all do better.

(Lights Fade)

SCENE SIX

(An exam hall. 300-level English students sit quietly, some clutching pens, others staring blankly ahead. An Invigilator moves up and down, eyeing students before handing them their question papers and answer booklets)

Invigilator: You may begin.

(A few seconds of silence. Then the students begin to murmur.)

Students:

Ah… what kind of question is this?

Where did this question come from?

This is not what we learnt this semester.

I’m so confused.

Invigilator: Quiet! Quiet! If I hear anybody talking again, be ready to rewrite this course next year.

(Feranmi raises her hand.)

Feranmi: Sir, I think we were given the wrong question paper. We only treated two topics out of the five questions here.

Students:

Yes, o!

This has to be the wrong question paper

Mr. Dele wan whine us

Two ke? It’s only one, jor!

Sir, please call the lecturer!

Invigilator: Quiet! Quiet! (He collects a question paper and scans it briefly.) Let me call your lecturer.

(He steps aside to make a phone call. The students whisper anxiously amongst themselves. Salma stands up, a little unsteady, and makes her way to the front of the hall where she dropped her water bottle. She takes a sip, then walks back to her seat, passing by Feranmi.)

Salma: Feranmi… these questions are making my head turn.

Feranmi (worried) : Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the school clinic?

(Salma shakes her head slowly and returns to her seat. The invigilator walks back in.)

Invigilator: Your lecturer said the questions are correct for your level. You students are just lazy. Must everything be taught to you in class? Better start writing. Your time has already started counting.

(Some students sigh, some stare at their papers. Salma grips her pen, blinks rapidly…..)

(Salma collapses)

THE END