The Past Remains the Past Always

I cannot afford to fail, it cannot happen again. The semester’s exam was near, it was just one week away and I always have this exam failure because of my past I had failed so many times but I was surprised that I was failing because in primary school I was one of the best down to junior secondary school.

Well, it all started in senior secondary school when I started going out with boys I would date, like 5 boys at a time (thinking I was a boss) not knowing what I was getting myself into. I would spend my night chatting with different boys at a time instead of reading. I also had the ones that I called money banks {maga}. It was not that my parents were poor but obviously they would not give me enough money to satisfy my need. So I did all these things and forgot the type of person I was supposed to be. I mean, the smart and intelligent part of me was being used only on the boys.

This made me so dumb and careless and that marked the beginning of the failing part of my life. My academics dropped woefully. This made me really scared because even when Igained admission into the university, I was not still doing well no matter how badly I wanted to do well. This happened for three good semesters and I already made up my mind that it cannot happen again because my past cannot define me.

I hold on to what awaits me. I hold on to my future which is already here, my past is my past and it remains my past.

-Daisi Flourish

Stood Up

The day was coming to a close it was getting darker and darker and I had not seen my boyfriend Johnson. I was at my close friend house faith, waiting for him. He texted me that he would come over to see me, I had not seen him for days and I already missed him so much despite how angry I was I still missed him badly and I really wanted to see him.

I was scared I would not see him because my dad already called that he was on his way to pick me. I thought my dad was going to send the driver so I would make an excuse that my friend, faith, wanted me to sleep over. But apparently it turned out that he was the one coming, so I planned to use the same excuse on him which I doubted and it turned out the way I thought so I went home angry at the fact that Johnson did not come to see me and he did not bother to text me and the fact my dad shouted on me because I told him I wanted to sleep over.

On our way home I did not say a word to him because I was very angry even when he wanted to stop for ice-cream and pizza I said no so we went home straight, on getting to the house I greeted my mum with a very low tone but she did not hear me so she thought I did not greet her she then asked me why I did not greet her and I answered rudely she got up with an angry face came to where I was and gave me a resounding slap that I would never forget for generations to come.

I went to my room crying that night not only because of the fact that I received a resounding slap from my mum but for the fact that my dad shouted on me that same night and Johnson did not come to see me and he did not text me either.

-Daisi Flourish

WEALTH OR VIOLENCE

It is better to be alone than to be with someone and still feel alone-Ty Howard.

The autumn leaves rattle as they make their way down the sidewalk in front of me and for a while, I stare at them. They had waited till they were dried up before leaving the tree. I stare up at the spot I’ve grown accustomed to recognizing as the forty-sixth floor of the sixty-two story building and sigh. I won’t be an autumn leaf.

My coat is way too light for the weather and the cold bites into my skin. I try swaying and bouncing to generate some heat. It’s to no avail. I wish I had a warmer coat. I wish I could afford one. As I raise my arm to read out the time on my watch, the three-million-dollar wedding ring on my finger catches a ray of sun and glistens, causing me to consider pawning it.

But I can’t. Henry would kill me.

            As you may –or may not- have figured out, I’m a princess. But not the kind that’s rich.

 

I remember being the seventeen-year-old Irish girl who lived in a little village. I used to laugh a lot back then. I was very easy to please and spoke to a lot of the folks there, but for some reasons, I didn’t have any friends apart from my boyfriend. Maybe my lack of friends was the reason why I was in a constant state of delirium when the second son of the queen kept dropping by the store where I worked so that he could talk to me.

Henry was such a charmer. I could never say no to him. Not when he kissed me twenty minutes after I told him I had a boyfriend. Not when he asked me to break up with my boyfriend. Not when he suggested we make out in old Wiley’s barn.  Not when he asked me to lie to my parents about doing extra school lessons so that we could sneak into his room to “have fun.” Not when he left me and told me to get rid of the baby. Not when he came back and begged for forgiveness. Not when he asked me not to listen to all the rumors about him and the other town girls and certainly not when he proposed to me with this very ring.

The ring was an heirloom of the royal family. It was a tradition that the son who got married first acquired it. Sometimes, I’m almost sure that the reason Henry was suddenly in such a haste to get married all those years back was so that he would get it. Once, I asked him why he had proposed to me when he did, and he glared at me and muttered, “Does it matter?”

Even if he denies it, I’m nearly sure that he wanted to become the next king. The crown belongs to the first prince to have a son. We had tried hard for so long; Henry was getting more and more agitated daily as I told him the pregnancy test was negative. However, as soon as his brother, Will, and his wife announced that their baby was a boy, Henry disappeared for almost a week and wouldn’t welcome any conversation on the matter.

It was then that it slowly began to dawn on me how silly a girl I had been. In his absence, I had gone to the hospital, and the doctor had confirmed what I had feared ever since the abortion. I won’t ever be a mother as there was severe damage to my womb. The anger that had been suppressed within me all these years suddenly began to well up, and during the week after his return, he had complained about his dinner and called me useless, “You are unable to even to conceive of a child. How hard could that have been?” and I had gotten enraged and yelled about how it was all his fault. I might have gone a little out of line when I told him not to dare blame me as he had killed his way to the throne all those years back when he made me lose the child I was sure would have been a boy.

It was the first time I had ever spoken back to him, and after staring at me in confusion for a while, he had stricken me across my cheek and told me not to think I could talk to him in that manner.

The very day after, we had moved to London, him claiming that the business he had there needed his attention. There was no business. As irrational as it might seem, I’m quite sure the reason we moved was so that nobody would notice the bruise on my cheek as that would tarnish his name. Or maybe it was so that he would never have to worry about such things as there would be no one I would know or run to whenever he decided to beat me up. This act, he performed a lot of the most concerning trivial things. Sometimes over nothing. He would return drunk, and I would watch him stagger towards the room, and he would suddenly lunge at me, claiming that I was judging him with my stare.

In barely two years, all of his fortunes were lost to drinking and gambling. The saddest thing was that despite his numerous attempts, he only ever won once. That day was the single day throughout our marriage that I allowed myself to think that he might consider me his wife. He had returned with a costly coat for me, and we had gone out for dinner at an expensive restaurant. When we had returned home, he had held my face in his hands and studied my face with a smile that elicited one from me in response. Then I had felt so overwhelmed with hope and joy. Maybe things could get better. When he kissed me, I felt tingles in my toes.

The day after that, he announced that we were going to visit his parents over the weekend and that I should pack my coat. We stayed with his parents for two days and during the dinner on both days; he insisted that I wear my jacket and found creative ways to insert “just that night when we Imperial Foods” into the dinner conversations.

I think he achieved what he wanted to because every one of his brother’s wives had admired my coat and one of his brother’s had mentioned that he had heard only wonderful things about the restaurant.

By the time we got back to London, everything had returned to normal, and he threw himself into the gambling with a renewed vengeance, claiming that he won once already and could foresee many such successes in the future.

Barely seven months after had he told me that part of the winnings of his victorious gamble was an apartment in a high rise building. He had said that the view, the concrete walkway in front if the trees, was terrific. He didn’t know I had seen the eviction notice and I didn’t inform him of it. One can only be beaten up so many times before one knows where to draw the line.

That’s how we ended up here. Almost Penniless. Regardless though, there is a brothel in the other street that he frequents and he somehow always has the money to buy drinks.

Once, when we had nothing to eat for breakfast, and I suggested we asked one of his brother’s for help, he had beaten me up and told me I was an ingrate. I was lucky to be married to a prince. I didn’t bother telling him that my parents were richer than we are now.

I tried getting a job, but everything required a level of formal education I didn’t possess and Henry forbade me from doing any cleaning or serving. “I won’t have my wife stoop so low.” That day, I had laughed for so long and cried for even longer. I was useless.

Now, I’ve decided to put an end to that. I’m walking away. I’m sure life has more in store for me than abuse, hunger, and idleness. Henry would instead kill me than have me get a divorce. He would say that such things don’t speak well of a man, much less of a prince. But I can’t do it any longer. I have to move on and try to gather the pieces of my broken life and make something out of it.

I walk into the building for the very last time, get into our apartment and drop the ring on his kitchen table. My bag is very light since there’s little I haven’t pawned to be able to afford a meal. I pick it up and walk out of the building… for the very last time.

Adeleke Praise

THE ROLE OF MOODLE IN THE LEARNING PROCESS OF COVENANT UNIVERSITY STUDENTS

The current study was carried out to show the impact or effect of e-learning in learning process of Covenant University student .From the result of the study it is clear that the e-learning platform in Covenant University [Moodle] has significantly improve the academic performance and learning process of Covenant University students. E-learning is an effective means of facilitating academic performance in Covenant University. It ill also help students to develop potentials for rigorous academic studies and studies and research purposes which are basically needed skills for successful academic pursuits.

Ekpo Mfonobong Eyo

THE BOND OF SISTERHOOD

There is a saying that one doesn’t get to know the worth of what he has until he loses it. I didn’t get a clear understanding of this adage until I experienced it myself. After living in the same house, under the same roof with my immediate younger sister for over seventeen years, I didn’t value the bond that tied us together until she died. I didn’t realise what I had lost until I began to feel her absence. After struggling with breast cancer for about two years, she gave up the ghost while recovering from her previous surgery.

Ironically, the bond began to wax stronger after I lost her to death. I suddenly began to remember the times we spent together. We had spent only a few times in love and other times we were seen arguing and shouting at each other. I miss her so bad, and I wish I could make up for the times I acted like a big bad sis. I wish I could make up for the times she wanted to talk to me, and all I did was to chase her away by because I was on the phone with someone. Gradually, snubbing her and not giving her the attention she needed became a habit. Slowly, distance and dislike and hatred started to grow between us. Deep down within us, we were both burning with anger and rage against each other.

Whenever I remember how we were before she died, I feel so bad because even though we lived in the same house, we were still far apart. Now I am longing for that closeness we never had. If only I had one last chance to correct all my wrongs, I will make sure I serve her efficiently and with all seriousness. I will make sure I give her audience and listen to all her complains. If only I were given the opportunity to see my sister again I would apologize for the times I harassed her for no particular reason.

Now she is gone, and nothing can be done about it. Irrespective of the fact that when she died, we were not on good terms I still have a burden in my heart to make things right with her. Now I want her forgiveness, and I hope she forgives me where ever she is. All I want right now is the opportunity to make things right again so we can live as one happy family.

Written by Oduyemi Oluwatomisin

 

THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

  I’ve never liked grandiose things. I feel they’re pretentious and unnecessary. Like the bigger a thing is, the less enjoyable it becomes.

Unfortunately, my mom doesn’t share my view.

Being a recognized Yoruba woman in the society, my mother feels obliged to attend every big party and hyped ‘Owambe’ and then host an event that they will pale in comparison to. Consequently, all my birthdays have been marked with parties that became talks of the town and I have hated every single one of them.

Until my eighteenth birthday, which became the best day of my life.

I had woken up to my mother’s yelling in the hallway. When I went out to find out what was wrong, she had been clutching her phone to her ears, her face contorted with rage and a vein pulsing in her neck. She was shouting some things in Yoruba into the speaker, her hands were resting on her waist, and she was slightly bouncing, only with her legs firmly rooted to the ground.

I couldn’t make out most of what she was saying because I have an insufficient understanding of the language.

I tiptoed behind her as she continued to rage at whoever she was talking to until we got to the kitchen. I had then poured some cereal into the plate and sat by a counter, munching it quietly and from a safe distance, lest I become the next target of her anger.

She ended the call and sat silently for a while. The anger radiating from her was palpable.

“Mom?” I called out tentatively, and she turned to face me, her scowl morphing into a frown of sadness.

“Tomi, Tomi, you’re not going to have a party today. Madam Lucy messed me up. I told her about the party two months ago, and I’ve paid for everything. I’ve been trying to call her for two weeks now to no avail. I didn’t even bother much because it’s normal for her to go off the radar like that but she normally always pulls through at the end. She said her daughter’s baby came two weeks earlier than expected and she has been worrying about her since then. I understand, but it’s your eighteenth birthday, eh” a tear rolls down her left cheek, “What about all the people I’ve invited? The venue has been booked oh. She didn’t even remember to cancel the reservations or the invitations. Yesterday, Mama Eliza was talking about the new dress she got for the party…”

Then I stopped listening because it clicked then that for the first time in my life, my birthday won’t involve me wandering in crowds with faces not less than thirty years older than mine. That for the first time, happiness was a possibility on my birthday.

By the time my mom was done talking, she looked resigned. “Tomi, do you know what? We’ll probably move the party to next week. See me, eh, I’m tired. Invite your friends over or go out with them and have your fun. My debit card is on the dining table. I need to go and disappoint all my friends now. Mummy Kosi will be so disappointed…”

In my defense, I waited for her to leave the kitchen before exploding into squeals of delight and excitement. If she heard me, she didn’t react.

I picked up my phone and dialed Stephanie, “Birthday girl! I’ve been trying to reach you, what’s up?”

Three hours later, I and my five best friends were sitting cross-legged in a semi-circle around the television in the darkened living room. We had closed all the blinds and curtains. The shredded wrappers of the presents I received from them were strewn carelessly across the floor. I had taken the gifts to my room.

“I’m opening the third box of Pizza!” Amaka yelled as she held the pizza box to her chest.

Stephanie laughed, “Girl chill. You’re just a hungry child. We said we wouldn’t open another one till we’re done with this episode.”

Amaka rolled her eyes and looked at me, “Tomi?”

I shrugged, “Do what you want, Amaka.”

Cynthia laughed, “Tomi, do you know how funny you look with that ‘Birthday Girl’ hat on your head?”

I feigned indignation and threw a handful of popcorn on her face.

“Hey!” Simi yelled, brushing off the stray piece of popcorn that had landed on her gown. Being the vengeful soul that she is, she packed popcorn from her bowl and threw it at me. Next thing I knew, we were having a food fight. Well, popcorn fight actually, Amaka made sure the pizza didn’t get involved.

The ordinarily four-hour seasonal took us six to complete after which we moved to the dining to have dinner. My mom had contacted some of the caterers to bring over some of the food over so that my friends and I could have a proper fancy meal.

There was a comfortable silence among us as we ate. I looked at the faces of everyone seated there. I noticed how the candles caused shadows to play across their faces, how we all kept exchanging glances between one another and smiling words that need not be spoken, how we looked both out-of-place and like a perfect fit sitting in the grandly decorated dining room in our very normal boring clothes.

I was with the people I loved the most in the world, excluding my mom that is, and my heart was filled with a sensation that although I couldn’t place, I knew was good.

“Sorry eh, I don’t mean to be local, but I’m tired of these cutleries, guy,” Amaka announced, breaking the silence and tossing her knife and fork to the side.

Everyone laughed and mostly dropped their cutleries too. The mood was lost as everybody was now chattering about one thing or the other but I was still pleased.

More so when Stephanie picked up her wine glass and struck it with her knife, causing everybody to go silent.

“To my best friend, Tomi, who is the first of us to turn eighteen but will forever be my baby. We love you and pray that happiness will grace all of your days.”

Adeleke Praise

 

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED

As I looked at the report, it became really clear to me that I had ‘played myself’ all along. Uncontrollable droplets of tears streamed from my eyes. Here I was, I was told that I had always played the victim of my circumstances. But now I didn’t have to play the victim, I was a victim, a victim of HIV/Aids.

I stood up to gather my things from the hospital reception. The nurse asked me to register my name in a book and fix days that I’d be free so I would see the doctor. I’d probably guess that was the book for people living with the deadly disease.

They often say that having Aids isn’t the end of the world but mine might definitely be an exception. This was the end of my world. I with my hands, brought my world to an end. No one did, I did.

Four years after my father died, my mother re-married. My father left me and my mother in this cold world when I was 10. He died of a liver problem, since he was a chained smoker and Alcoholic.

My dad loved me and I knew it. I was His first child and only girl although he had children with numerous women after me. I was like the apple of his eyes, treated with so much love and care. My parents used to quarrel a lot as a result of my dad’s infidelity.

My dad would apologize to my tiny self whenever they just had an argument, promise me he wouldn’t cheat again even though he never really kept those promises. He once told me that I was the reason he still stayed with my mum. I knew definitely that he loved me and I loved him too.

So my mother’s remarriage wasn’t too much of good news to me. I couldn’t object since she deserved her happiness and I wanted to see her happy. My step-father was the popular Chief Ashimolowo who divorced his wife in the early days of their marriage.

Chief had three children from his first marriage, three boys. This probably made my mum a good choice for him. All was going well until Chief started abusing my mum physically, for reasons I still don’t understand.

I couldn’t stand it and then I took a drastic step, a foolish step. I ran from home. That was the beginning of the horrible life I started to face. At age 15, a fast growing adolescent, that was a very stupid step. I wandered the streets of Lagos in search for food, shelter and work.

Severally, I ran into the hands of touts who would tease me, laugh and sometimes steal the little I made from carrying bags for people at the market. I ran into fortune by the time I was 17, that fortune was my long time senior in primary school. She took me in. I was surprised to see an 18 year old living on her own but since she was probably the helper God sent to me, I didn’t ask questions.

2 years gone, I and Bisi, my senior were living good lives. She worked and brought the money home while I’ll stay at home and do every single house chore. She paid the bills, often bought me clothes. I was comfortable. We were comfortable. Until, Bisi brought the idea of us sharing the bills, which I was clearly unprepared for. I had no idea where I was going to get a job.

I started my search an found a nanny job, which didn’t seem much of a problem since I loved children and could do house chores. I started the job, the children were fine. Very lovely children, they didn’t give me problems. The only problem was the Man of the house, who didn’t usually g to work because he worked from home.

Bisi started to place a lot of pressure on them as my pay was little compared to hers. I looked for other jobs of which I didn’t find any. I asked for a raise in my pay at the place where I worked. The raise only came on the conditions of me sleeping my Boss’s Husband.

I totally rejected the idea, but gave in because the pressure from Bisi was overwhelming. I would be honest here, I enjoyed every part of our affairs and he knew how to play his cards because his wife never found out.

I went to the house as usual only to meet my boss and her husband in a heated argument, I listened to the argument and realized that my boss had found out about her husband’s extra marital affairs. The shocking part was that she hadn’t even found about my affairs with her husband but about other numerous women. From the arguments, it appeared like the man had contacted an STD. I excused myself from the house and walked to the nearest hospital to conduct a test.

The tests results are out now and I have contacted HIV/AIDS.

I should have stayed back at home,

I should have fought for my mum,

I could have evaded this kind of problem.

AJAYI FAVOUR AYOMIDE

 

SOCIALLY AWKWARD

It had become a norm for me to begin the week, all stressed out. I had loads of uncompleted projects staring me in the face. Most of them were due for submission at the end of the week, but I had barely gone halfway. The only escape route would be ‘waking up to my ten-year-old self,’ back then when my only problem was ‘finding my stockings.’ Nice joke! Now back to reality. I didn’t have time for myself anymore; my wardrobe was untidy, and I hadn’t washed my hair in weeks, but those were the least of my problems. Time flew quickly; with class in just an hour, the uncertainty of my presence there was evident. I should probably tell Bimpe to sign attendance for me. I needed to finish up my assignments – at least before the day ran out.

His text popped up as soon as I switched on the mobile data on my phone. I wanted to browse on a project – not chat with him. I was tempted to respond, but I knew that if I made the mistake of settling for a conversation, the little but precious time I had would have been wasted. It was as though he knew I was up because his messages continued to pop-up. I just couldn’t ignore them; he could begin to think I was becoming a snob. I answered when he called because I couldn’t leave him hanging, he would get angry, and I couldn’t let that happen. It took me time to work on our relationship. I had to learn to keep tabs on him, find out his likes and dislikes, speak with his friends and do things I never thought I would. He meant too much to me, to be ignored.

 So, before I realized it, I found myself whiling away time, and not remembering the pile of tasks I needed to tidy up. Ironically, in that moment I felt at ease, time ceased to exist as I took my mind off the projects on my desk, or the class I was boycotting. He made things easy; he made me laugh and eased all the tension weighing my shoulders down.

Although we’ve been together for just a few months, it seems like we’ve known each other our whole lives. I have never needed to tell him about my interests, he always accurately guessed my preferences and ensured I never ran short of them. He initiated the most exciting conversations, filled with so much wit and humor; springing forth numerous fantastic ideas. Don’t get me wrong! He’s brilliant, but I guess not just by himself. He loves rubbing minds with others. And I heartily took part in the ‘mind-rubbing’ process with renewed enthusiasm as he kept me occupied with the not-so-important-stuff while my life ticked away.

Tongues wagged – aged tongues whose taste buds had become useless. They said I was spending my life carelessly with him. But how could they understand, when they had never tasted the ‘sweetness’ I was experiencing? Those tongues had noses, which could not stick to their faces. Those noses were in my business, sniffing out faults from my affairs. Their rantings irritated me. How could they be so blind to see how valuable he was to me?

While aged tongues wagged, the youthful thumbs were up, supporting my every move. They fanned the flames of the game of pretence, called a relationship. However, within I gradually desired to pull away from all these, to get out of the parasitic link, all I got were ‘likes’ and ‘followers.’ Where was I leading the so-called followers when I was lost, only seeing before me, a mirage of self-deceit? No one around me saw beyond his nose because the façade the media put up was the ‘ideal model’ to them. I had struggled to impress with lenses and filters, but that was FAKE! While I tried to prove to the world that I was strong and could keep up the relationship, inside I was scared; ashamed to show my true self and to sink down the bog of social vanities.  What would the world think of me, the socially awkward one? ‘It’s all a phase’ I keep telling myself, ‘Wasn’t it just Instagram?’

Ubani May

 

MOTHER’S PAIN

Mother told us she cried when she received us into the world. She said we were her little bundles​ of joy, her lovely twin girls. All mother wanted for us was nothing more than to see smiles on our faces. She always had our backs​, mainly when we were right. She would spank us silly whenever we made mistakes. She focused on disciplining and teaching rather than taking sides and encouraging bad behaviour. She was never too occupied to take care of us.

Mother took in a lot of us, especially when things did not look so fantastic as expected. She would always encourage us in our worst times and let us know that all things will work together, only if we push for it. She sacrificed a lot of things for us and always said it was worth it. She didn’t get the chance to wear expensive clothes or jewelry like her mates did, but she was comfortable with it because our happiness was all that mattered to her.

Being a housewife was a  decision she had to take long before we were born because of the community she grew up in. They were strict about issues like that. They believe a woman shouldn’t know or have too much, unless, she would start contesting with her husband. Her only role should lie in the upkeep of the household; and home. Mother never went against them, she was always obedient and didn’t mind. The only job she found for herself aside taking care of us, was managing the shop father rented for her near our compound. She put in so much effort into making the business grow, but of it all, I could see she wanted more, more than just being a shop owner or housewife. Mother wasn’t always happy; I had seen it in her eyes no matter how much she tried to fake it, besides, I  wasn’t getting any younger not to notice how her smiles were fading, she was not the same person anymore.

One day I saw her crying, she didn’t know I was watching because I stood at a distance. I was wondering what went wrong until I saw how bruised she was. I moved closer to ask her what happened but quickly, she wiped off her tears, put on the same fake smile as before and said it was an accident. I asked father what could have happened, but he kept telling the mother would be excellent. That night felt endless for me; I could not sleep. I kept thinking of what could have resulted to the bruises on mother’s face, it was not​ an accident, but still, I couldn’t point it out. Mother started keeping a lot to herself. She was being maltreated but never mentioned it to us. We found this out a week ago when mother and father had a heated argument which made father lock their room door. We peeped to see what was happening but could see nothing. We could only hear sounds of lashings coming from the room. I wonder how long this went on because it wasn’t my first time of meeting the doors closed to strange noises.

Mother never complained about it for once, even when Aunty Chioma came by the house the other day. Mother told her the bruises were a result of her falling down the stairs. Days later, mother enrolled us in a boarding school. She said it would be better for us to stay in school while we study. I loved the idea a lot but my twin, Chisom, didn’t buy the idea. Chisom said mother was tired of lying to us about the bruises she got and wanted to keep us away from the violence she faced. On the other hand, Father was comfortable with the idea of the boarding school. He just encouraged us to read harder and be of good behavior. It was no news to us that father was the cause of mother’s bruises, but he wasn’t a bad person as Chisom thought.

I always thought father loved us dearly and would go any length for us. He just changed a lot lately because he was duped of a massive sum of money he was planning to use to start-up a business. Anger and depression started to set in, and it made him lash it out on mother. She told us his partner ran away with the money. Father started coming home more stressed, and sometimes angry. On one occasion he yelled at us for not sweeping the compound and was about raising his hand to beat us when mother came to the rescue. It made him furious, and he dragged her into the room as she kept pleading. The rest of the incidence was left to our imagination.

My first year in boarding school was miserable because I kept thinking of what would happen to mother since we weren’t there. We were not allowed to place regular calls home, but when we did, mother assured us that everything was going well at home. We didn’t always count on her words because we could tell right through her voice that she was suffering in silence. She wasn’t ready to report him to anyone, probably because she still loved him deeply. She felt reporting to the police would be going against her religious beliefs. Besides, the police were not to be trusted and what would the village elders say? They would blame her for whatever the allegations are.

Mother didn’t come to pick us from school when we vacated for the long break, and so did father. Rather, it was Aunt Chioma. This raised suspicions in my head, was mother ok? Aunt told us mother was fine. She said mother had a lot of things to do at the shop and that we would be spending the holiday in her house. The reason mother didn’t come to pick us was something we all knew; we weren’t getting any younger. This time around she was badly bruised because father found out she secretly enrolled for a part-time course at a university near our house. Mother knew coming to pick us at school would raise a lot of questions from our teachers, she didn’t want people asking her about it. She came by that afternoon to see us at Aunt Chioma’s house. Mother didn’t look good; she looked fed up. She told us we should help Aunt Chioma around the house. While we spoke, tears rolled down my eyes because mother was taking too much upon herself. She looked like she had not eaten for weeks. Her collarbone was starting to show more than ever. If only I could do something to help her, but what could a ten-year-old do? Talking to father was impossible, and I had no other options. It became my prayer that God creates a way for all this drama to end.

On Friday night, mother came to Aunt Chioma’s house. She told us to pack our things. We are unaware we were going to the airport, in fact, leaving this country to California, never to come back. Mother told us her friend invited her over to live there. Her friend helped to arrange the paperwork for our visa secretly. It was mother’s only escape route out of the hell she was facing.

Ubani May

 

 

 

THE ENCOUNTER

In every smile there was always a pain for me, Florence said while talking to Rachael her mentee. Florence was now 25 after going through a terrible sickness cancer of the breast or instead of breast cancer.

It was a sad experience she said. It all started when she was 16 when she felt a growth in her breast but was not well educated at that time which she wished she was at that time. When she found out about this growth, she ignored it thinking it was a pimple or something but unknown to her it was a lump. It continued with very sharp pain, so she decided to tell her mum. Her mum was scared because she was already 18 and this growth started a 16, so her mum had an idea already. They went to the hospital for a check-up, and it was discovered that she had breast cancer. Florence broke out in tears that was out of control all that went through her mind was how would she live comfortable and confidently with that type of sickness; she was scared that she was going to die

It was not a pleasant life for Florence, but she passed through it because she was strong not only that she had an encounter. Florence believed that there was someone called God, but she was not rooted in the spirituality thing hers was just to go to church and pray at least she knew how to pray. One fateful night is sitting on her bed, after listening reluctantly to a message that her best friend gave to her titled THE ENCOUNTER she said quietly. I may not be spiritual God, but I have heard this message, and I need an encounter this night. She slept off and then saw herself in a strange place, she could not describe. But she noted that it was lovely because all she saw was someone in white; touching her and saying ‘it is finished.’  She could only wake up the next day feeling strong happy and joyful like never before unaware of her healing until she visited the hospital for the next check-up;  then she remembered THE ENCOUNTER

If you need an encounter with a sincere heart, you will get one.

daisi flourish