Aura of Self Discovery (2025)

21/07/2025

TITLE: I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW BROKE I WAS UNTIL...

I didn’t realize how broke I was until I had to borrow money from my ten-year-old niece.

Yes. You read that right.

That day, I was sitting in my small self-contained room in Kubwa, watching my phone battery die like my dreams. I had just finished boiling rice without stew, just salt and onions. And even that rice was borrowed. Mama Chika, my neighbour, had given me one derica out of pity. I ate it with shame, like I was chewing poverty itself.

My phone buzzed just before it died. A message from my bank:

"Your account balance is ₦43.17."

I laughed out loud like a mad woman.

₦43.17.

That's not even enough to buy sachet water for two days in this Tinubu economy.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how I got here.

I had a good job once. I used to be a Personal Assistant to the MD of a popular media company in Abuja. I wore heels to work. I had an iPhone. I went for brunch with colleagues. I used to send ₦10,000 airtime to friends during birthday shout-outs on Instagram.

Now I was arguing with a mallam over the price of pure water.

Everything started going downhill the day I fell in love with Tunji.

Tall, dark, and deceptive.

He came into my life like a prayer point answered by mistake. I met him at a wedding, he was the MC. Sharp mouth. Fresh haircut. Cologne that smelt like stolen destiny. We danced. We laughed. He asked for my number and called me before I left the venue.

For the first three months, it felt like magic. He’d take me to Jabi Lake, order chicken wings and mocktails, and make me feel like the queen of Abuja. But behind that sweet smile was a manipulator with the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon.

It started subtly.

“Babe, my car is bad, can you help me with Uber fare?”

“Babe, my cousin is in the hospital, just ₦15k for deposit.”

“Babe, the POS swallowed my card. Can you help me sort out my mechanic today?”

Before I knew it, I was spending my salary on Tunji and living off Indomie and prayer.

But I was in love. Or maybe I was stupid. Either way, I was blind.

I didn’t realize he had three other “babes” until the day I mistakenly saw a WhatsApp notification pop up while he was charging his phone at my place. I didn’t even snoop. It was God that wanted to deliver me.

“Thanks for the transfer baby. I’ve bought the wig. I’ll send pictures.”

Her name was Doris. I still remember. She used three pink heart emojis.

I confronted him. He denied everything. Then he got angry. Somehow, I was the one apologizing for invading his privacy.

That was the beginning of the end.

The breakup wasn’t even dramatic. He just stopped picking my calls. Like that. As if I was a scammer and he had gotten tired of the fraud.

By the time he ghosted me, my rent was due, I had resigned from my job (on his advice to “start something of my own”), and my savings was down to ₦3,500. That money vanished in two days. One small jollof rice craving and a DSTV subscription I couldn’t watch.

I tried to get my job back. My MD said my position had been filled.

I sent out CVs. Nobody answered.

I started baking cupcakes and selling them on Instagram. But data is expensive. And Abuja people will price something you made with your last strength like it's roasted groundnut.

So yes, I didn’t realize how broke I was until that day my niece came to spend the weekend and asked for Indomie and egg.

I went to my kitchen and stood there, pretending to be thinking of the best spices to use. In truth, I was trying to calculate how to cook one pack of Indomie and share it between two people without it looking like punishment.

That was when she entered the kitchen, opened her pink Barbie purse, and brought out a ₦500 note.

“Aunty, take. Daddy gave me for biscuit.”

I didn’t cry. I just stood there like a statue, staring at the ₦500 like it was a bank cheque.

That night, while she was sleeping, I borrowed the money, made Indomie, and kept her change inside her purse.

I told myself it was a loan.

But you see life? It has a wicked sense of humour.

That same week, I ran into Tunji at a mall. I was hiding behind the Milo shelf, trying to buy one sachet of milk and pretend I was shopping. He was there with another girl, laughing like nothing in the world could touch him.

They looked happy. I looked hungry.

That day, I went home and made a decision.

No more pity. No more silence. No more shame.

I started applying for jobs like my life depended on it, because it did. I swallowed pride and reached out to an old friend who used to be a classmate. She ran an NGO and needed a content writer.

That job paid ₦50k a month. Not much. But it was something.

From there, I started freelancing. Wrote blogs, CVs, captions for Instagram vendors, proposals for NGOs, anything that brought in cash.

And guess what?

Three months later, I landed a remote writing gig for a UK-based company. Paid in dollars.

The first time I received $300, I screamed like someone who won Big Brother Naija.

Today, I’m not yet rich. But I’m no longer begging a ten-year-old for Indomie money.

I have savings. I pay my rent without panic. I’ve bought a small car, even though it drinks fuel like a demon, it’s mine.

I’ve blocked Tunji. Doris too.

And last week, my niece came over again.

This time, she brought her Barbie purse and said, “Aunty, you want biscuit?”

I smiled.

“No, baby. But do you want pizza?”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes!”

And this time, I paid for it with my own money. Proudly.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Sometimes, rock bottom is not a curse. It’s a rebirth.
You may be broke today, but your story is still being written. Don’t let one bad chapter convince you it’s the end.

15/06/2025

I was only six when I noticed that other children had mothers who came for visiting days with jollof rice and orange juice. Me? It was always Daddy. No matter how tired he looked, or how dusty his trousers were from his mechanic workshop, he always showed up.

With a black nylon bag.

Inside, there was always bread and egg. Sometimes, if he had a little more money, he would add malt. He would sit with me under the mango tree at the corner of the school compound and ask me everything... how school was, if anyone bullied me, if I was praying.

But one thing he never talked about… was my mother.

I asked once.

“Daddy, where is Mummy?”

His face changed. He looked at me like I had just opened an old wound. Then he smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, “She’s in heaven, angel.”

I believed him.

For years, I believed him.

Until the day I turned 18.

That day, Daddy didn’t come home early. I was alone in the house, cleaning his room because I wanted to surprise him with a neat house. That’s when I saw it... a brown envelope, half-torn, sticking out from under a pile of old newspapers in his drawer.

Something about it called me.

I opened it.

Inside was a picture of a woman — she looked like me. The same eyes. The same mole under the left eye. Behind the picture was a letter written in shaky handwriting:

“If you ever decide to forgive me, I’ll be in Abuja. I don’t expect you to bring her to me. I just want to know if she’s okay. Tell her I love her… always.”

It was signed: Ruth.

I didn’t understand. I ran outside and waited for my father.

When he came back and saw the letter in my hand, he froze.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Then he sat down on the floor and said just one thing: “So the time has come.”

My father, the strongest man I knew, cried like a child that night.

Then he told me the truth.

My mother was alive.

Her name was Ruth. She wasn’t in heaven.

“She left us when you were three,” he said. “I woke up one morning and she was gone. Just a note that said she needed to find herself.”

I blinked. “She left… me?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know how to explain that to a child, so I told you she died. I didn’t want you growing up feeling abandoned. I wanted you to have peace.”

“But… you told me a lie.”

“I told you a lie,” he agreed. “But I did everything else with the truth. Every meal, every school fee, every prayer I said for you.”

I cried.

I didn’t know if I hated my mother or just wanted to meet her. But one thing was clear: my father had sacrificed his entire life for me.

And now, I had a choice, go find my mother or stay angry forever.

I traveled the next week. My father didn’t stop me. He gave me the address on the letter and hugged me tight.

“If you find her… listen with your heart. Not just your ears.”

Abuja was big. I was scared. But I found the house. I knocked.

When the door opened, I saw her.

My mother.

She gasped when she saw me. Covered her mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You look like your father,” she said softly. “But your eyes… your eyes are mine.”

I didn’t know what to say.

We sat for hours. She told me how she battled depression, how she felt like she was losing herself in marriage and motherhood. How she thought she would return in weeks but stayed away for years because of shame.

“I watched you grow… through photos your father sent. He never hated me. He just loved you too much to bring chaos into your life.”

That night, I realized something.

My father was not just a parent. He was a protector.

He shielded me from trauma I didn’t even know existed. Loved me enough to hide his own pain. Raised me with double the love, so I would never feel the gap.

When I returned home, I hugged him for so long, he had to ask if I was okay.

“I met her,” I whispered. “I forgave her.”

He nodded.

“I forgive you too,” I added.

He didn’t ask what for.

But I knew he understood.

We never spoke much about it again. But something changed. We grew even closer. He allowed me to ask more questions, and I answered his with honesty too.

Today, I am a psychologist.

I help children and parents heal from emotional trauma.

And every time I see a father walking his daughter to therapy, I smile.

Because I once had a father like that.

A man who gave up his youth so I could have a future.

A man who taught me that love is not always loud… sometimes it is quiet, firm, and steady... like a hand that never lets go, even when life pulls.

A FATHER’S LOVE is not always perfect.
But it is often the reason a child survives the storm.
And I? I am the product of a love that refused to break.

14/06/2025

I used to think I had it all.

Good job. Comfortable apartment. A man that everyone said was “husband material.” Friends that toasted me every birthday with wine and laughter. To the world, I was winning.

But on the inside? I was dying slowly.

It started with small things: forgetting what I loved doing, waking up tired even after ten hours of sleep, ignoring calls from friends who knew me too well, and pretending to smile when I didn’t even feel my face.

The worst part? I didn’t even realise I was losing myself until the day my fiancé, Jide, looked at me during dinner and said:

"You’re not the girl I fell in love with."

I laughed. But something about the way he said it cut me. It was the truth… and I hated him for noticing it.

He left two weeks later.

No fight. No cheating. Just a calm, painful goodbye. He said he wanted “peace.” And apparently, I had become a storm.

I didn’t cry that night.

But the day after? I wept like a baby. On the floor. In the bathroom. With the tap running so the neighbours wouldn’t hear.

That was the beginning of my journey to self-discovery.

But back then, I thought it was the end.

I decided to take time off work. At first, I thought I needed just a week to clear my head. One week turned to two, then three. Before I knew it, I had taken unpaid leave and was home alone, with nothing but my thoughts.

That’s when I realised how loud silence can be.

I deleted social media.

Stopped picking certain calls.

Even avoided my mother, who would have told me to pray, fast, and move on.

I didn’t want to move on. I wanted to understand how I got here in the first place. How I became the woman who abandoned her own dreams, hobbies, peace... just to fit into a picture that wasn’t even mine.

I found my old journals in a box under my bed. The first entry was from when I was 17. I cried reading it.

That girl wanted to travel the world, write books, work with orphaned children, learn photography, and live somewhere near the ocean.

Now? I was 32. Living in a busy city I hated. Writing reports for a corporate job that drained me. And the only water near me was in my bathroom tap.

What happened to me?

One evening, I sat by the window, opened a blank page in my journal, and wrote a letter.

To myself.

“Dear me…”

I wrote for three hours. Cried for two more. Then slept like a baby.

That letter became my turning point.

Not because I had all the answers… but because for the first time in years, I was asking the right questions.

I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years: take a trip, alone.

I booked a quiet guest house in Jos. No noise. No friends. Just me, nature, and whatever healing I could find.

On my second day, I met a woman named Mama Ijeoma... the caretaker of the guest house. Sixty-something, always barefoot, always humming.

She saw me crying one afternoon under a tree and sat beside me.

“You dey find yourself?” she asked, gently.

I nodded, too weak to lie.

She laughed. “I lost myself too. Then I found her. That version of me that I had buried under everybody’s expectations.”

That day, she shared her story. Of marrying young, raising four children alone after her husband disappeared, and still finding the courage to open a farm and raise goats even when people mocked her.

She said something I never forgot:

"You no need everybody to understand you. You just need to understand yourself first."

I started waking early to watch the sunrise. Every morning, I journaled. I wrote about everything: my fears, my regrets, my childhood, my secret dreams, the little things I used to love but forgot... like dancing in the rain, eating suya by the roadside, and reading romance novels under my duvet.

Every memory felt like a tiny piece of me returning.

One morning, it rained heavily. I stood outside and let it wash me.

Not just my skin… my soul.

I danced in it.

I cried in it.

And for the first time in a long time, I laughed like a woman who wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

After a month, I returned to the city.

But I was not the same.

I didn’t go back to my old job. I took a freelance offer that gave me more time and peace.

I reconnected with my best friend... not to complain, but to say thank you for always being there, even when I shut her out.

I wrote my first blog post titled “The Day I Found Me” and posted it on a small platform. That one post went viral. Women... young and old, reached out to me, saying they saw themselves in my words.

That’s when I knew… this journey wasn’t just for me.

It’s been two years now.

I started a podcast.

Wrote a book.

Facilitated self-discovery workshops for women.

And opened a quiet healing café named "HerSpace." No loud music. Just tea, books, journals, and love.

One day, a lady walked in and said, “Are you the woman who wrote ‘The Day I Found Me?’”

I smiled. “Yes.”

She hugged me, cried on my shoulder, and whispered: “You saved me. I was dying inside, and your story brought me back.”

I cried too.

Because what she didn’t know was that her words saved me again.

WHO I AM NOW

I’m not perfect.

I still have bad days.

Sometimes I still cry when I remember who I used to be. But now, I honour her. She survived. She carried me until I was strong enough to walk again.

And now?

Now I walk boldly.

With joy.

With scars.

With strength.

With freedom.

Because the day I found me… was the day I finally started living.

10/06/2025

THE PERFECT ME THAT WASN’T

If you had asked anyone around me then, they would’ve said I was living the dream.

I had a good job in one of the biggest firms in Lagos. I lived in a serviced apartment in Lekki, drove a clean white SUV, and wore sharp gowns with matching heels. I smiled at everyone, spoke politely, and quoted motivational quotes like “Be the woman you needed when you were younger.”

But the truth?

I was drowning.

Every night, after the wig came off, and the lights were out, I’d lie in bed and stare at the ceiling like a prisoner watching the sky through a tiny window. I was 33, unmarried, childless, and tired of pretending like I was okay.

But I couldn’t say it out loud.

Because people around me had already crowned me "the strong one." The one who had it all figured out.

So I wore the mask.

Until the day it cracked, and my real self showed up.

It was a rainy Thursday evening when I got the call that shattered my foundation.

“Mama don faint o!” my younger brother shouted over the phone. “She dey hospital now now. Dem say na stroke.”

I froze.

My mother... my rock, my shield, the only person who truly saw me... was now fighting for her life. I left work immediately, drove like a mad woman to the hospital, and saw her lying there… motionless. Tubes. Beeping machines. Blank stares.

She didn’t even recognize me.

I broke down in the hallway.

All those years I had spent climbing corporate ladders, trying to prove my worth to people who didn’t care, and now the one person who truly loved me might never say my name again.

That night, I didn’t go back to my apartment. I slept on the bench in the hospital corridor, and by morning, I knew I couldn’t continue living the life I was living.

Two weeks later, I resigned.

I didn’t tell anyone except my HR and my brother. I packed a few clothes, withdrew my savings, and told the gateman I was travelling for “a short break.”

What I didn’t know was that it would be a journey that would change everything I knew about myself.

I left Lagos and travelled to a quiet village in Ondo State... where my late grandmother used to live. I needed silence. I needed air that didn’t smell like stress. I needed to breathe again.

And that was where the real journey began.

In that small village, I met her.

An old woman named Iya Dunni. She lived two compounds away, walked with a limp, and always had this calm, mysterious smile on her face.

She reminded me of someone I couldn’t place. One day, I was fetching water at the local well when she asked, “Why is your soul louder than your voice?”

I was shocked.

“What do you mean, ma?” I asked.

She looked straight at me. “You’re not lost… but you’re not found either.”

From that day, I started spending time with her. She taught me how to cook with firewood, how to sit still without touching my phone, how to journal, how to ask myself questions I didn’t want to answer.

Questions like:

Who am I when no one is watching?

If I wasn’t afraid, what would I do?

Whose voice do I always try to please?

Who hurt me so deeply that I forgot myself?

And the deepest one:

When did I stop being me?

One night, I had a dream. A painful one.

I saw myself at 13, standing behind a door, listening to my father shout, “Why can’t she be more like the neighbour’s daughter? She’s always too quiet, too slow!”

That day, something in me broke.

I had spent the next twenty years trying to become “the better version” of myself. Trying to be louder, smarter, faster, stronger... all to please a man who never once said “I’m proud of you.”

Iya Dunni called it the inner funeral.

“The day you buried your real self,” she said. “But you can exhume her.”

I stayed in the village for three months.

Three long, healing, quiet months.

I learned to wake up without checking my phone. I danced under the rain. I cried without shame. I looked in the mirror and stopped adjusting my stomach.

I even found a small boy, Tobi... who reminded me of joy. He had a speech delay, and people mocked him. But I saw myself in his quietness. I started tutoring him every evening.

His first full sentence was, “I love you, Aunty.”

And just like that, a seed grew inside me.

When I returned to Lagos, I wasn’t the same.

I didn’t get another corporate job. Instead, I started an online platform for helping quiet, introverted young women rediscover themselves. I called it “The Mirror Space.”

It started slow, but within a year, it exploded. Women began sharing their own stories. Some were doctors. Some were teachers. Some were stay-at-home mums. But they all had one thing in common:

They had lost themselves… and they were tired of pretending.

I started hosting small retreats... not the fancy kind... but real, deep, emotional gatherings in quiet towns. We cried, prayed, journaled, laughed, and rediscovered the girl behind the filters.

And me?

I finally forgave my father… even though he never apologized.

Because I realized he couldn’t give what he didn’t have.

Two years later, during one retreat, a girl stood up and said, “You saved my life.”

I smiled… but then I remembered something Iya Dunni once said:

“You didn’t save her. You found yourself. And by doing that, you gave others permission to do the same.”

And that… was the day I knew.

Self-discovery is not a destination.

It’s a daily fight to be yourself in a world that wants you to be everything else.

And now?

Now I wake up every day, look in the mirror, and ask:

“Are you being YOU today?”

Because that’s the real success.

10/06/2025

Title: WHEN LOVE LOOKED AWAY
(A Story of Love, Lies, and What Was Left Behind)

THE LETTER I WAS NEVER MEANT TO SEE

I found the letter on a Sunday morning, tucked under the carpet in our bedroom, near the edge of the bed.

It wasn’t addressed to me.

It was folded neatly, worn from time, like someone had read it over and over again. At first, I thought it was something old from my husband’s past, maybe from his late father or a friend. But the moment I read the first line, I felt my knees give way.

"Dear Kosi,
If you're reading this, it means I couldn’t live with the guilt anymore… I didn’t know how to tell you that Amara is not your daughter."

The letter was written in my husband’s handwriting.

I sat down on the floor, shaking, trying to breathe. Amara… not my daughter? But I carried her for nine months. I gave birth to her. I nursed her through fevers and midnight cries. How could she not be mine?

The rest of the letter explained everything... or at least tried to.

Apparently, three days after my delivery via emergency C-section, there was a mix-up in the hospital. A baby girl had been mistakenly swapped. The nurse discovered the error weeks later but kept quiet because she was scared. My husband, Dele, found out two years ago… and never told me.

Instead, he hired a private investigator, located the other baby, and secretly began sending money to her real mother, a woman named Grace... every month.

Why? Because he “didn’t want to destroy me.”

But he destroyed me anyway.

I clutched the letter, screamed into my palm, and crawled to the bathroom to throw up. My hands were shaking. My head was spinning. My world, everything I thought I knew, was suddenly upside down.

How do you look at your child… and wonder if she belongs to someone else?

TRUTH DOESN’T KNOCK

When Dele came back from the gym that evening, I was sitting in the living room with the letter on the table. He knew instantly. His face lost all colour.

“You found it,” he said quietly.

“That’s all you have to say?”

He didn’t respond.

I stood up, walked to him, and slapped him. Not once. Twice. “You kept this from me for two whole years. TWO YEARS!”

Tears spilled from his eyes. “I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how. Every time I tried, I saw the way you looked at Amara. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“She’s not mine?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“She is… but biologically, no. They switched the babies, Kosi. And I only found out by accident when the investigator was looking into the hospital fraud case. I asked for a DNA test… and it came back negative.”

I dropped to the floor and wept like someone whose soul had been taken.

That night, I sat by Amara’s bed and watched her sleep. My little girl… the one who called me mummy a thousand times. The one I almost died giving birth to.

If she wasn’t mine… then whose child was I raising?

The next morning, I made a decision: I needed to meet the other mother.

I needed to meet Grace.

THE WOMAN WITH MY CHILD

Grace was nothing like I imagined.

She lived in a small, neat bungalow on the edge of town. A soft-spoken woman with tired eyes and a quiet strength. She opened the door and stared at me for a few seconds before saying, “You finally came.”

So she knew about me. Knew this day would come.

She invited me in, offered me water, and called a girl from the back.

That’s when I saw her.

Her name was Teni. She looked… just like me. Same dimple on the left cheek. Same eyes. My nose. My exact laugh when she giggled while chasing a puppy in the compound.

I almost collapsed.

“My daughter,” I whispered.

Grace nodded, holding back tears. “I always knew. But when the hospital called me, I couldn’t imagine taking her away from you after months. I thought it was better this way.”

“You let me raise your child.”

She looked away. “And you raised her well. She’s smart, strong, and full of joy. She’s yours in ways that science can’t explain.”

I stared at both children... Amara and Teni.

One I raised.

One I birthed.

And now, I had to choose?

WHEN LOVE LOOKED AWAY

We didn’t swap the children back.

At first, we thought about it. Lawyers got involved. Psychologists were consulted. But in the end… we decided to let love decide.

Amara remained with me.

Teni stayed with Grace.

But we didn’t stay strangers. Instead, we became family, the most unlikely kind.

Weekends became a shared rhythm. Amara and Teni grew up knowing they had two mothers. We didn’t lie to them. We told them the truth, in doses, as they got older.

It wasn’t perfect.

Some days, I cried in the bathroom, wondering how different things could have been.

Other days, I watched both girls playing in the backyard, grateful for the strange, painful miracle that brought us together.

As for Dele and I… we didn’t survive it.

He left a year later, unable to handle the weight of the truth he buried for too long. I didn’t chase him. I was too busy learning how to breathe again.

Now, five years later, I run a foundation for women who have lost children to death, to circumstance, or to fate.

And every time someone asks me how I survived, I tell them the truth:

“Because even when love looked away… I kept looking until I found it again.”

10/06/2025

Did you know...???

09/06/2025

THE TRUTH I NEVER SAW COMING

Episode 1 – THE PERFECT STRANGER

I never believed in love at first sight. In fact, I didn’t even believe love was real. Not after what I saw growing up... the way my father treated my mother like trash, the way she stayed because of us, and the way she died silently in her pain. So I built a wall around myself, and I told myself I would never fall for anyone.

Until I met him.

He came into my life like a calm breeze after a long storm. His name was Samuel. He was tall, calm, well-mannered, and had the kind of voice that could make you forget your problems. We met at a job interview, one I wasn’t even prepared for because I was still grieving the loss of my elder brother. He sat beside me and noticed my shaky hands. He offered me a bottle of water, and just like that, we started talking.

He didn't get the job. I did. But he left me with his number and a smile that stayed with me for weeks.

I didn't call.

Three months later, I ran into him again at a bookshop, and it felt like fate was trying to tell me something. This time, I saved his number.

We started talking every day. Weeks turned to months, and before I knew it, I had fallen. Deeply. Madly. For the first time in my life, I felt seen.

Samuel was everything my father was not. He was soft-spoken, patient, and deeply attentive. When I introduced him to my friends, they all said the same thing: “Don’t lose this one.”

But it wasn’t long before little things started to feel off.

He never talked about his past. Anytime I asked about his family, he would change the topic. He never posted me, never even mentioned me to his friends. I convinced myself he was just private.

One day, I fell terribly ill and ended up in the hospital. My phone died, and I couldn't reach anyone. I expected him to panic, to come running. He didn't. I was in the hospital for three days.

When I finally turned my phone back on, I had just two messages from him:
“Hope you’re okay.”
“Let me know when you’re free.”

That was when something in me snapped.

I went to his place unannounced, hoping to confront him. But what I saw that day broke me into pieces.

There was a woman in his house. Not just any woman... a pregnant woman.

I stood at the door, frozen. The woman looked at me with surprise, then smiled.
"You must be one of his sisters. He said some of you might stop by."

Sisters?

I turned and ran.

Samuel called me that night, but I didn’t pick up. Not the next day. Not the day after.

A week later, he showed up at my gate, looking tired and broken.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

I didn’t let him in. But what he said next kept me awake for days:

“She’s not my wife. She’s my sister-in-law. And she’s carrying my late brother’s child.”

What?

Nothing made sense anymore.

EPISODE 2 – BURIED SECRETS

I didn’t sleep for days after Samuel said that. “She’s not my wife. She’s my sister-in-law. And she’s carrying my late brother’s child.”

I didn’t even know he had a brother. He had never mentioned any siblings.

My heart was tired of breaking. I kept hearing that woman’s voice: “He said some of his sisters might stop by.”

What kind of man lies like that?

After ignoring his calls for days, I finally picked up. “You have five minutes,” I said coldly. “I need more than five. Please, just let me explain.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed to meet him in a public place.

He looked nothing like the charming man I fell for. He had bags under his eyes, unshaven beard, and pain written all over his face. I sat opposite him and folded my arms.

“I lied,” he began. “Not to hurt you, but because I didn’t want to lose you.”

I rolled my eyes. “You lied because it’s who you are.”

“No. Please listen. Her name is Anuli. She was married to my elder brother, Chijioke. He died last year in a car accident. They had been trying to have a child for years. Two months after his death, we found out she was pregnant.”

“And why was she calling you her brother-in-law like you were married?” I asked sharply.

He sighed. “Because of our family tradition. In my village, if a man dies and his wife is pregnant, she returns to her husband’s family home until she gives birth. It’s cultural. She stays under the care of her late husband’s family—me, in this case.”

I blinked. “So she’s living with you?”

“Yes. But not like that. There’s nothing between us. My mum insisted she stay with me because our family house is under renovation.”

Everything sounded… reasonable. But something still didn’t sit right.

“So why did she think I was one of your sisters?”

He looked away. “Because I told her nobody must know about us yet.”

My heart dropped again.

“Us?” I asked.

He swallowed. “You and I. I didn’t want to introduce you to my family yet, because… there’s something else.”

I stood up. “I’m done. You’re clearly hiding something. Don’t contact me again.”

I walked away from that café like my legs weren’t even touching the ground.

But it wasn’t over.

Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.

Yes, pregnant. For a man whose truth kept changing like the weather.

I didn’t tell him.

I didn’t even know what to do. My mind was spinning. I didn’t want to raise a child alone, but I couldn’t go back to him.

Then one morning, I woke up to see Anuli, the same pregnant woman from his house sitting outside my gate.

She looked sick and weak.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, barely able to keep her eyes open.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

She smiled sadly. “I’ve always known. I’ve known about you… from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath. “Samuel is not who he says he is. He’s not just my brother-in-law. He was my husband’s best friend.”

“I know that already,” I replied.

“No,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “You don’t understand. My husband didn’t die in a car accident. That’s what they told the world. But he actually… took his own life.”

I froze.

She continued, “And he left a note. The last line said, ‘I’m tired of pretending. I’ve seen the messages between Samuel and my wife. I’m done.’”

The ground beneath me shifted.

I held onto the gate to steady myself.

Anuli wiped her tears and whispered, “I’m not here to fight you. I just need to know one thing. Did you know him before he died?”

“No!” I screamed, my voice shaking. “I never even knew he had a brother!”

She nodded slowly, staring at my face like she was searching for the truth.

“Then you’re innocent,” she whispered. “You really didn’t know.”

I stared at her, confused. “Didn’t know what?”

She stood up weakly, placed her hand on my shoulder and said: “You’re not the only one carrying his child.”

FINAL EPISODE – WHAT WAS HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

My legs went numb. My heart was pounding. I stared at Anuli like I had seen a ghost.

“You’re not the only one carrying his child.”

That statement echoed in my head, refusing to make sense. “Wait… are you saying you and Samuel?”

She nodded, eyes red and heavy. “It happened only once. I was broken. He was grieving too. We both made a mistake...”

I couldn’t breathe.

“He said it was a mistake,” she continued, her voice cracking, “but now, standing here with you, I realize I wasn’t the only woman he deceived. Maybe not even the first.”

I stepped back slowly, trying to make sense of everything. “Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because I saw the test kit in your dustbin.”

I froze.

“I came to your compound to return your cardigan... the one you forgot at his house. I was going to drop it with the security man… but I saw your trash bag open. I saw it.”

There was silence between us for almost a full minute. I had no words. Just tears.

“I’ve been trying to be strong,” Anuli whispered, “but I’m not. I’m a widow. And now I’m the fool who slept with her late husband’s best friend. A man who clearly cannot tell the truth to save his life.”

I didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or collapse.

Later that night, Samuel called again. This time, I picked.

“I need answers,” I said immediately.

“I know,” he replied quietly. “Meet me. One last time. Come to my apartment tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything.”

Against my better judgment, again I went.

He was sitting alone when I got there. No music. No TV. Just silence and a small leather file on the table.

“I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” he began. “Because I owe you the truth.”

I didn’t respond. I just folded my arms and listened.

He took a deep breath. “My real name is not Samuel.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“My real name is Emeka. Samuel was my brother.”

I stood up instantly. “What kind of stupid joke is that?”

“I’m serious,” he said, lifting the file and handing me a photocopy of a birth certificate. It read: Samuel Obiora, Deceased.

“Samuel was my elder twin brother. We looked alike. Everyone said it all our lives. When he died… something snapped in me. He was the good one. The quiet one. The responsible one. I was the rebel.”

He continued, “He found out that his wife... Anuli was having an affair. But not with me. With someone else. A colleague. But he blamed me because I had introduced her to that company. He thought I helped them. He stopped talking to me.”

My legs were shaking. I slowly sat back down.

“I tried to reach out. He ignored me for months. And then… one day, I got a call. He was gone. He left a note. But not the full one. My mother destroyed the second page. Only she and Anuli saw the whole thing.”

He leaned forward. “After his death, everyone turned to me. His wife. His unborn child. His responsibilities. And I didn’t know who I was anymore. I started using his name. First it was just to comfort my mother. Then people started assuming I was Samuel, so I let them.”

“Why?” I asked, choking on tears.

“Because I hated who I really was. And because you… you saw me as someone good. Someone stable. You loved the version of me I could never be.”

“But you made me fall for a lie.”

He nodded. “Yes. And I hate myself for it.”

I stood to leave. I had heard enough.

As I reached the door, he said the final thing that crushed my spirit.

“I know you’re pregnant. And I also know… I might not deserve to be part of that child’s life. But just know this time, I was ready to be real.”

I turned back slowly. “So what now?”

He shrugged. “Now, I live with my consequences. And maybe… you find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wear someone else’s skin to be loved.”

I walked out without another word.

That night, I cried like a child. For Samuel, the man who no longer existed. For Emeka, the man who didn’t know who he was. For myself, for believing in a love that was never really mine.

But most of all, I cried for the child growing inside me. An innocent soul born from layers and layers of secrets.

ONE YEAR LATER

I never went back to him. I raised my child on my own... with the help of therapy, prayer, and the most unexpected person: Anuli.

Yes, we became friends. Strange how pain can bring strangers together.

She gave birth to a baby boy. I had a girl. Our children are growing up knowing they’re siblings, even though the story behind their existence is one neither of us plans to fully explain anytime soon.

As for Emeka, he disappeared. Word has it that he left the country. Maybe he's finally learning how to live as himself.

Me?

I’m still healing.

Still learning.

Still finding peace in the truth I never saw coming.

Aura of Self Discovery

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