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Kosisochukwu Chinedu Amamchukwu, Awka (2025)

12/10/2025

When My Child Laughed Again

For months, my son hardly smiled. He used to sit quietly, drawing in silence.

Then one evening, while we were cooking, he burst into laughter over burnt plantain. I joined him.
I realized healing is contagious; when mothers heal, children bloom.

The Apology That Never Came

I used to wait for his apology—the one that would make it all make sense.
But it never came.

Then one night, I stopped waiting. I told myself, “He doesn’t need to say sorry for me to heal.”
That freedom was better than any apology.

The Business Idea
I started selling small gift baskets—perfume, soap, Ankara scarves. Nothing big, but it kept my hands busy and my mind hopeful.

When the first customer sent me ₦5,000, I danced like I had won a contract.
Money you earn from peace tastes sweeter than the one you got from endurance.

Visiting the Women’s Meeting

I joined a women’s fellowship in town. The first meeting, I sat quietly, listening.
One woman shared how she rebuilt after her husband left; another talked about losing everything and finding faith again.

By the end, we were holding hands, praying.
Community heals in ways solitude never can.

The Day I Wore Red

For years, I wore dull colours—brown, grey, navy. I wanted to disappear.
But on my birthday, I wore a red dress.

When I stepped out, heads turned. A friend said, “You look alive.”
I smiled and said, “I am.”

Sometimes healing is as simple as wearing joy on your skin.

11/10/2025

The Friend Who Stayed

Many friends disappeared when my marriage failed. Some avoided me like divorce was contagious.

But one—Ngozi—never left. She’d stop by with zobo and laughter. She reminded me that friendship is also medicine.

When I couldn’t pray, she prayed. When I cried, she said, “Cry finish, then we go find solution.”

Dancing Again

Our church held a women’s night of praise. I almost didn’t go—afraid someone would judge me. But when the drums started, my body moved before my mind objected.
I danced until sweat soaked my wrapper. For the first time, my tears were not from pain but from gratitude.

Healing sometimes looks like dancing in the same church that once pitied you.

The Letter to My Old Self

That evening, I wrote a letter:

“Dear Me,
You did not fail. You survived.

You walked through fire and still smell of grace.

You are enough—not because someone chooses you, but because God already did.”
I folded it and placed it in my Bible. Every time doubt whispers, I read it again.

The Return to School

I always dreamed of getting a diploma in Guidance and Counselling, but marriage swallowed that dream.

Last week, I filled the form. I was shaking as I wrote my name; it felt strange seeing “Ms.” instead of “Mrs.”

That small tick in the box was a roar inside me: I’m starting again.
When I told my classmates my story, they didn’t laugh—they clapped. One said, “You’re proof that age doesn’t end purpose.”

11/10/2025

The Day I Smiled Without Fear.
I wanted to lie, but I remembered I promised myself never to hide truth in shame.

I was walking home from work when someone cracked a joke by the roadside.
Before I knew it, I laughed.

And suddenly, I realized — it had been months since I laughed freely.

That night, I danced with my children in the living room.

It wasn’t a big victory, but it was proof that healing had entered my home.

When My Ex Called

He called, saying, “I’ve changed. Come back home.”
My heart raced, but I was calm.

Once upon a time, I would’ve run back — believing love meant pain, forgiveness, and starting over.

But this time, I knew better. Healing doesn’t mean going back to the fire that burned you.
I told him, “I forgive you, but I can’t forget who I became when I was with you.”

I dropped the call, made a cup of tea, and thanked God for growth.

The First Market Day Alone

Going to Ariaria Market without him felt strange.

Before, he would walk ahead while I trailed behind carrying the bags. Now it was just me and my big nylon of vegetables. I caught people staring. Some looked with pity, others with gossip.

Still, when I priced the ugu and paid from my own purse, something inside me lifted. Freedom has a sound—it’s the rustle of naira notes you earned yourself.

When I got home, I cooked vegetable soup and ate with satisfaction, not fear.

When the Children Asked Questions

My little girl asked, “Mummy, why doesn’t Daddy stay with us anymore?”
My throat tightened. I wanted to lie, but I remembered I promised myself never to hide truth in shame.

I told her, “Sometimes adults hurt each other, and the best way to love is from far away.” She nodded slowly and hugged me.

Children understand sincerity faster than we think. They heal when we stop pretending.

A Visit to the Village

I travelled home for a burial. As expected, Aunties whispered, “Marriage no work?”
One even said, “You better beg him; a woman alone is incomplete.”

I smiled, fetched water from the well, helped with cooking, and kept my peace.

That night, under the stars, Grandma sat beside me. She said, “You are not cursed, my child. You are alive—that’s blessing enough.”

Her words felt like palm oil on dry skin.

Finding Work Again

A friend linked me to a small school needing a counsellor. I was nervous—after years of insults, my confidence had shrunk.

During the interview, the proprietor asked, “What do you bring to this role?”
Without thinking, I said, “Empathy. I know what broken people need.”
He smiled and said, “You’re hired.”

That day I walked home in the sun, sweating but proud. My story had finally become my strength.
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11/10/2025

When Neighbours Started Talking

“WHO WILL MARRY HER NOW?”

The rumours came fast.
“She chased her husband away.”
“She’s proud.”
“Who will marry her now?”

In Nigeria, people talk like your life is their evening news.
I used to cry every time I heard a whisper. But one day, Mama Nkechi — an older woman in our compound — said to me, “My daughter, let them talk. When they tire, they’ll look for another story.”

Those words freed me.

People will always talk, but none of them will live with your pain.

Meeting My Reflection Again

I hadn’t looked in the mirror properly in months.

That day, as I combed my hair, I paused and stared at myself.

My eyes looked tired, but alive. There were lines on my face I hadn’t noticed before — reminders of everything I’d survived.

I whispered, “You’re still beautiful.”
And for once, I meant it.

Healing began when I stopped seeing a victim and started seeing a survivor.

The Woman From Aba

Her name was Chika — a tailor I met at the market.

She told me her husband used to beat her for “disrespecting him.”

One night, she ran away with her baby and started sewing from her veranda. Today, she’s training other women and paying rent on her own.

She said, “Leaving was hard. But staying would’ve buried me.”

Her strength reminded me that bravery doesn’t always roar — sometimes it whispers, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

10/10/2025

INTERNATIONAL DAY OF THE GIRL CHILD

“Her Voice, Her Future.”

Somewhere this morning, a little girl tied her wrapper, swept the compound, and dreamed quietly before the world woke up.

She dreams of becoming a doctor, a pilot, a teacher — anything that lets her make a mark.

But the world, sometimes, tells her she’s asking for too much.
She carries water, but she also carries hope.

She helps her siblings, but she also carries dreams no one has yet seen.

Behind her small hands is a strength the world underestimates.
The girl child is not waiting to be saved.

She’s waiting to be seen.

She needs space to learn, to speak, to grow — without being told she’s too loud, too bold, or too ambitious.

Today, we celebrate every girl who has dared to keep dreaming, even when no one clapped for her.

To every girl — from the small towns to the busy cities — your voice matters.

You are not a mistake. You are a miracle in motion.
And when you rise, Africa rises with you.

💗

10/10/2025

Not HACKED
Official Statement
Kosisochukwu Chinedu Amamchukwu

10/10/2025

The Night I Prayed to Die

It was one of those nights when the house felt colder than the rain outside.
He had stormed out after shouting. I sat on the floor beside the bed, the children asleep, the bulb flickering.

I remember whispering, “God, just take me. I’m tired.”

I didn’t want revenge. I didn’t even want justice. I just wanted peace.

But then my son rolled over in his sleep and called out, “Mummy.”
That one word broke me open.

If I left the world that night, who would love them like I do? Who would teach them better love?
That was the night I decided: I would live, but differently. I would fight for my peace, not with shouting, but with leaving.

The Quiet After the Storm.

The day he moved out, the house became too quiet.

No shouting, no slamming doors, no heavy footsteps — just silence.
You’d think peace would come immediately, but it didn’t.

That night, I sat in my room and realized I didn’t even know what I liked to eat anymore. For years, I had only cooked his favorite meals.

Healing wasn’t peace at first; it was confusion.

I had to relearn myself — what I liked, who I was, how I wanted to live.
I started by cooking moi moi and pap for dinner. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.

The Church Sister Who Understood

I avoided church for weeks because I didn’t want anyone asking, “Where is your husband?”
But one Sunday, I gathered courage and went.
After service, Sister Joy pulled me aside. She whispered, “My dear, I’ve been there too.”

That one sentence melted all my shame.

We sat in her car for almost two hours talking — about fear, about faith, about starting again.

She told me, “God is not angry at you for leaving pain. He’s proud that you chose life.”
For the first time, I prayed without guilt.

10/10/2025

THE DAY MY MOTHER TOLD ME TO STAY.
What would freedom look like for you if you stopped worrying what people will say?

My mother came that morning after my husband had locked me outside for “talking back.”
She didn’t ask if I ate, she didn’t even sit down. She said, “Marriage is not easy. I endured, you too must endure.”

I wanted to scream, “Mummy, he is breaking me!” but the words died in my throat.
That day, I understood how pain is passed down like an inheritance. She had survived her own hell, and now she thought survival was love.

Later that evening, as I bathed my daughter, she looked up and asked, “Mummy, why are you always quiet when Daddy is angry?”

I cried. Because I knew silence was teaching her something dangerous.
That night, I promised myself that the cycle would end with me.

🕊️
How I Learned to Pretend

Every Sunday, I wore my best wrapper and tied my gele like a crown.
People would greet me, “Mrs. Okafor, your home is blessed!” and I would smile, carrying my Bible like a shield.

Nobody knew that before church, I had cried in the bathroom while covering my bruises with powder.

I perfected the art of pretending. I laughed when people made jokes about “strong women.”
At work, I was everyone’s counselor. At home, I was a ghost walking through her own life.
One day, I realized my pretending was killing me faster than the abuse. You can’t heal from what you hide.

So I told one friend the truth — just one. She didn’t judge me; she hugged me. That hug was the first time I felt human again.

The Woman Next Door

Her name was Ngozi, and she sold fruits by the junction.
People said her husband was a “good man” because he never raised his voice outside. But one night, I heard the sound of breaking bottles and crying.

The next morning, she still went to her stall, smiling as if nothing happened.

When I asked if she was okay, she said, “My sister, na so marriage be. If I leave, where will I go?”
That sentence sat heavy in my chest. Because that was exactly how I used to think.
Many women stay, not because they don’t know pain — but because they have nowhere else to go.

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09/10/2025

The Night I Knew I Was Done.

Story: Rain falling, insults, fear, and the decision not to die in silence.

That night, rain was falling like God Himself was weeping for me. He had shouted at me again — this time because the stew had too much salt. The plate broke, the children hid, and my heart left my body. I remember kneeling in the kitchen, holding my chest and whispering, “God, this can’t be marriage.”

I wore my wrapper and sat outside in the rain because the house no longer felt like home. Neighbor’s watched through their curtains, but nobody came. In our culture, people mind their business — until it’s time to gossip.

That was the night I decided I would not die here. I didn’t leave that night, but something in me left him.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been crying silently, hear me: you deserve peace.

When Love Turned Into Fear.

There was a time I called him “my king.” I washed his clothes with my hands, cooked his favorite soup, prayed for him more than I prayed for myself. But slowly, I started living like a housemaid who paid rent with her tears.

He started checking my phone. He said I dressed “too fine.” He’d tell me, “You’ll never survive without me.” The day he slapped me in front of my mother, and she said, “Just endure, all men are like that,” I died a little.

I began to understand that love can become a prison if you’re not careful.

To every woman still enduring “for the children” — please, they see your pain. They hear the crying. They’ll grow up thinking that’s what love means.

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21/09/2025

Effects of Emotional Abandonment / Negligence on a Child
Host Kosisochukwu Chinedu Amamchukwu
And Queen
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20/07/2025

Ecclesiastes 4:9

Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other reach out and help.

10/07/2025

1. MY HUSBAND IS 19 YEARS YOUNGER THAN ME‼️🖤

2. I waited until 46 to get married & I'm grateful I waited because I am sure I would have been divorced if I married anyone I dated in my 20s or 30s

3. I don't have children & I don't regret not having them except on the very rare occasion when I see a really cute pic of my husband when he was little and think of how cute our kids could have been (which is a very fleeting thought)
4. I've never had Botox or any work done, besides my eyebrows (ombré shadowing). But I'm not necessarily opposed to it.

5. I didn't start putting boundaries up with people until my 40s. I got push back, and I'm ok with that. Because my sanity is worth it.

6. I am perimenopausal and the last few years have been a struggle. Hair loss, weight gain, anxiety, I mean the list goes on. But I'm on HRT now, eating protein like it's my job and I lift weights 4x per week so I am finally seeing a light at the end of this tunnel.

7. My circle of friends has gone from huge to very small. I've noticed that besides proximity the one thing that really changed was I could no longer maintain the "high-maintenance" friendships as I got older. The few friendships that lasted were the ones in which we gave eachother a lot of grace and ones in which we gave eachother a lot of grace and we pick up where we left off whether we saw eachother a day ago or a year ago.

8. Being married = compromising. My husband is not a traveler but he has held my hand across this world because he knows it's a non-negotiable for me. I would love to move out of the US but he wants to stay put or possibly do a micro move first (maybe another part of California). It's crazy after spending so many years single living nomadically to consider someone else's wants and needs but his happiness means the world to me. So I do.
Live! Love❤️!! Respect ✊
Kosisochukwu Chinedu Amamchukwu

Kosisochukwu Chinedu Amamchukwu

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