Before you read further, here is a spoiler alert: this article may contain spoilers from books such as Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo and The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives by Lola Shoneyin.

I recently read Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo, and it broke my heart in ways I can’t shake. Even weeks later, the story lingers with me. It mirrors our society so closely: the quiet around male infertility doesn’t just harm individuals—it reshapes marriages, distorts intimacy, and places an unfair moral burden squarely on women.

Fertility is deeply tied to womanhood in Nigerian society. A woman’s value—particularly in marriage—is often measured by her ability to conceive. When pregnancy does not come, the assumption is swift: something must be wrong with the woman, and her womb is heavily scrutinized.

Masculinity, on the other hand, is closely associated with virility, making male infertility an uncomfortable contradiction. Rather than confront this possibility, families often choose the more comfortable path of denial, silence, or implausible explanations that protect the male ego while placing emotional and physical strain on the woman.

I’m glad there are books that shed light—however little—on male infertility. They remind us that male infertility exists and show how the dishonesty surrounding it can deeply affect the women in these men’s lives. Before I read Stay With Me, I had read The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, and I appreciated how Baba Segi’s fertility issues were also highlighted.

These books show us that fertility should not be tied to womanhood alone. It takes two to tango. Yet, in both stories, the men are rarely burdened by society’s expectations around fertility. Instead, the women carry the shame and responsibility for something that was never their fault.

This conversation remains important even in our modern society. Recently, in a church I attended, only women were asked to stand and place their hands on their bellies to pray for “the fruit of the womb.” Why is this burden placed solely on women? I rarely see this responsibility extended to men.

I’ll end this article by saying that reading fiction has taught me more than many self-acclaimed self-help books ever have. Through these stories, I’ve learned empathy, understood pain more deeply, developed emotional intelligence, and even encountered concepts like pseudocyesis.

(lol…I just had to shade self-help readers:.))

PS: you can clap more than once and tell me what you think about this article in the comments.

Love ya!

I feel a pang in my chest because this part of the verse is akin to my life, my career path, my goals, and aspirations. A little dose of panic and fear begins to set in, leading to sweaty hands despite the cool breeze coming from the window.

The new year begins in a few minutes… I should be positive, I should have renewed hope and unshakeable faith because is that not what everyone around me is having?

So when the Preacher moves to verse 3, then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light, and then the Preacher makes a declaration:

“THEREFORE I DECLARE LIGHT OVER EVERY DARKNESS AND CONFUSION IN YOUR LIFE.”

I shout a resounding AMEN!!! It doesn’t matter that a tiny piece of fear is sitting at the corner of my heart, it doesn’t matter that a tiny piece of doubt is making a mockery of me.

All that matters is that the new year is starting in a few minutes, and I must go into it with renewed hope because hope is the only way I know how to survive… I must stay grounded for the new year, and hope is one of the ways I know to stay grounded.

So I hope and believe that God will speak clarity into my heart and light over my seemingly formless career path.

Today is one of those days in Nigerian media—so many unfortunate news reports of death. I don’t know how to feel. Earlier this month, the majority of us were excited to be seeing the sunset of this year. I saw people making trendy posts about their 2025 wrapped, and we were all excited about ending the year and what 2026 had in store for us. TikTok and Twitter (X) advisers were telling us, “START PLANNING YOUR NEW YEAR FROM NOW. DON’T WAIT FOR THE NEW YEAR TO START WORKING TOWARDS YOUR GOALS.”

a new you is a new you before a new you is a new you~ X user

Some even condescendingly told us that we aren’t serious with our lives if we haven’t started working towards our 2026 goals. I wonder what they’ll say about those of us who don’t even have balls to juggle—talk less of “goals.” 😭

Somebody say “THE PRESSURE IS GERTTING WERSERRRRR”.

Now, after all this pumped-up energy for the new year—the assurance that we, our families, and friends would, without a doubt, all see the new year—only for these assurances to shatter in our faces. I won’t use the word “hope” because, no, we were not hopeful; we were sure. We were so assured that when the news of death came, we asked, HOW??? We rejected the news. We were not supposed to die—we did 2025 wrapped, and we had promises and visions for 2026. It simply can’t be possible.

Though I did not lose anyone relatively close to me, my heart breaks hearing of the deaths of young people during this season that is supposed to be celebratory. How are their families and close friends faring with this news? The deceased—how were their final moments? Did they know, or did they have an intuition of their death? It is so sad; I almost shed a tear.

I have this weird wish sometimes—I wish I could beg God to bring some people back to life. I wish they did not have to die, and if they did, I wish I had the power to plead an appeal to God. Oh, what a sad thing it is to lose a loved one during a yearly celebratory season. Will the Christmas season ever feel like Christmas for them again?

Four years ago, I lost my grandpa in December, close to the Christmas season. I was indifferent then—maybe because he was already old and I wasn’t close to him—but as time went by, I began to miss him. I miss him sometimes. On the 22nd of December, my heart really ached, and I missed him terribly. I miss going to the village to see him, a family tradition from before he died. I can’t even remember his voice anymore.

Sending my love, hugs, and condolences to families and friends facing the devastating loss of a loved one—or loved ones—during this season. I know my prayer might be little to no good, but I pray for comfort. I pray that you find a way to keep it moving. I pray that your heavy heart becomes a little more bearable. I am thinking about you, and even though I don’t know you, I empathize with you.

The unfortunate news of deaths has been clouding my mind, so I needed to release my thoughts. I grabbed my laptop and started typing.

Quite frankly, there are a lot, but I’ll just mention a few;

What I Thought My Early 20s Would Look Like vs. What It Is Currently Looking Like (My Reality)

When I was a teenager, I had expectations (or should I say delusions) of what my life would look like in my 20s. I know I’m still in my early 20s (I just got here ),but the vision I had at 16 for how my life would look like at 21 is...not quite aligning with reality. Sometimes I sit and think about all the dreams I held so tightly back then, and I just shake my head.

At 16, I was so sure of my life and how it would turn out (let me tell you, I was such a serious teenager). My past journals are evidence of this. I was so meticulous and took life so seriously.

Now? 21-year-old me wouldn’t even recognize that 16-year-old girl.

In just five years, I’ve changed a lot. This is the most confused season of my life…

How I metamorphosed from that “so sure” 16-year-old to this confused, supposed adult in her 20s is beyond me.

I Am Now an Adult. Literally.

The other day, I was filling out a form, and it required me to tick either minor or adult. It felt so odd ticking adult… like, what do you mean I’m now an adult human? when did that happen?

It’s crazy. And now that I’ve graduated from university, the realization is hitting hard — because now, it feels like I’m supposed to be a responsible adult and take charge of my life.

When It’s Not Your Time, It’s Just Not Your Time.

You can have dreams and expectations for your life, but they will only be actualized at the right time. You can’t rush destiny. Trying to do so will only hurt you.

Maybe the reason your dreams seem delayed is that it’s simply not yet your time. There might be certain things — lessons — you need to learn to prepare you for what’s ahead.

Or Maybe… Just Let Go of That Dream.

(This is so hard to come to terms with.)

What if that dream you’ve been holding onto isn’t actually meant for you? What if the life you imagined just isn’t yours to live?

Letting go of a dream can feel like letting go of a piece of yourself. But sometimes, it’s necessary. Sometimes peace begins with acceptance — that certain things, certain expectations, certain versions of you — need to be released.

That release might be painful, but it also might be the very thing that sets you free.

Sometimes, you just have to sit with yourself and ask the hard questions.

Lastly, Create Your Own Happiness.

This may sound cliché, but it’s the truth — and a necessity if you want to survive adulthood. There’s always something, and let me tell you — depression is never too far away when you’re in your 20s.

No one is responsible for your happiness but you.

Your early 20s can be confusing. They’re tough. They can even be lonely and disappointing. But in the midst of all this, you have to find your own little joys — something that keeps you happy and sane. Whether it’s reading a really good book, watching a great movie, treating yourself to good food, or indulging in some ice cream once in a while — do what you need to do to be happy, anyway.

Final thoughts

I am just a confused (supposed to be)adult and I really don’t have all the answers. I am still figuring out this adulthood and if you are in the same boat just know that you’re not alone.

PS: please click on the clap button on the bottom left and you could clap more than once.

I smile awkwardly as Lizzy, my secondary school “school mother,” asks me if I have started my period. I politely say no.

“Tell me when you start o, so that I will take care of you,” she says, pats my cheek, and walks away.

Even though I had seen my first period during my JSS2 summer break, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.

“Respectable girls don’t go around announcing their menses to the whole world” — the words of my housekeeper ring in my ear.

So, I saw my period as something disrespectful, something shameful, and something to be hidden.

Looking back, I honestly don’t know what exactly prompted her to say those words to me, because I was only eleven years old at the time and hadn’t started my period.

Those words stuck with me, and even now, many years later as an adult, I find it hard to unlearn the shame I learnt that day.

Maybe it was easy to believe my nanny because when I finally saw my first period a year later, during the long summer holiday of 2015, I was having a nap on the couch in my parents’ living room. I woke up feeling sticky between my thighs and saw red stains on the white couch.

Oh shit! I became frantic.

Thank God my siblings were playing outside and I was alone in the living room. I hurried to the bathroom, grabbed my bathing sponge and a bowl of water before I could think, and started scrubbing the red stain on the couch before anyone walked in and saw.

After I was sure there was no visible stain, I went back to the bathroom and started stuffing tissues into my panties.

Gosh, I smell, I thought to myself.

For some reason, I was irritated with myself. It didn’t help that my lower body was in so much pain — I felt dirty and smelly.

And though I had nannies, aunties, and uncles who lived with us at the time, I couldn’t tell any of them because, in spite of how I was feeling, I was a respectable girl and…

“Respectable girls don’t go around announcing their menses to the whole world.”

I sat on the floor of my room because I didn’t want to stain my bed. At least if I stained the floor, it would be easier to clean.

If I don’t tell anyone about this… will I use tissues forever? I thought.

No, I couldn’t possibly do that. So I decided to wait for my mum — she would know what to do.

I waited, tears in my ears and shaky with anticipation. Eventually, I fell asleep on the floor.

When I woke up, the room was dark and I could hear my mum’s voice in the kitchen.

For a second, I forgot my predicament, but a sharp pain in my lower abdomen reminded me of my reality — along with the now soggy tissues in my panties.

On my way to the kitchen, I rehearsed what I was going to say to her.

Mummy, I have seen my period.

Mummy, I have started my menses.

Mummy, can I talk to you in private? I imagined taking her to the room.

She looked so pissed as she stirred the semo we would eat for dinner.

My heart was beating fast and I was so nervous, but my vagina was becoming itchy from the wet tissue.

“Mummy, I saw blood in my pant,” I blurted out.

She looked up from the semo she was turning and asked,

“When?”

“This afternoon,” I replied.

“Okay, go and bathe… I’m coming,” she said went back to her semo turning.

I removed the tissues and flushed them down the toilet, hid my blood-stained trousers, and washed my stained panties frantically.

I made a mental note to throw the panties away later, but for now, I had to reduce the blood.

Then I took my bath, relieved that I had finally told my mum.

At least now she could explain the awful pain I was feeling in my lower abdomen and legs — and whether it was normal that the flow smelled so bad.

After bathing, I came out of the bathroom and saw an Always pad on my bed.

I felt downcast because I thought my mum would stay and show me how to wear it, and answer the many questions running through my mind.

Oh well. I tore open the pack, picked up a pad, and tried to wear it the way I had seen seniors do it in boarding school.

It felt awkward, and I wasn’t sure I had worn it correctly.

I sat on my bed, waiting for my mum to come in and give me some sort of lecture.

This was a huge change in my life, and she acted so dismissively.

Maybe this was the silent suffering of women that I was now being introduced to — and if I wanted to be respectable, I couldn’t talk about it.

I mean, it’s dirty blood… look how smelly it is.

When I finally stepped out of my room and went to the kitchen to get my dinner, my mum asked,

“Have you worn it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

That was all she said — like it was normal.

Like my life hadn’t just changed.

I felt sorry for myself.

She didn’t mention it again until I was about to return to school, telling me to carry enough black nylon bags because

“Menses is not something you should be disposing of anyhow.”

When I went back to school, I made it a point to hide the fact that I had started my period whenever my friends or peers asked.

The topic was too awkward.

And how can respectable girls be running their mouths about their period?

“Why do you lie that you haven’t started your period? I saw you changing,” Grace, my best friend, said accusingly.

I didn’t deny the allegation like I usually would.

Instead, I just looked at her and smiled awkwardly.

“Well, I don’t know why you hide it like it’s something to be ashamed of. My sister told me there’s nothing shameful about menstruation — it’s like a superpower,” she said In that high-pitched voice of hers.

I still didn’t say anything.

Because how do I explain to her that while she was taught not to be ashamed of her period, I was taught that the very act itself is shameful and disrespectful.

P.S: You can actually clap more than once on a story — up to 50 times, in fact! So if you enjoyed the read (or even if you just want to give me a little encouragement), go ahead and tap that clap button. Every clap means a lot!

"Huh?" I blink.

"Your birth certificate, Beatrice. Your job interview is tomorrow... when was the last time you saw it?"

"Oh, that's true," I say. My heart starts pounding, a sharp thud of dread.

But I can’t start looking for it now. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m already late for church.

"It doesn't matter," Anxiety shrugs, that shadowy frenemy of mine. "Tomorrow is the interview, and if you don't have it, you're doomed."

For as long as I could remember, she had been a shadowy presence—always lurking in a corner, watching me. I never knew her name. Never cared to ask.

Until she introduced herself when I was sixteen, in my first year of university.

"Hi," she said. "My name is Anxiety, and I’m your frenemy."

I’ve always wanted to ask why she wouldn’t just pick a side—friend or enemy—but I never did. I just accepted this new frenemy of mine.

Indeed, sometimes she was my friend—always there, keeping me company. But most of the time, she hurt me, and I would beg her to stop.

“Philippians 4 vs 6
Be anxious for nothing...”

I repeat to myself when she won’t stop talking. Sometimes, she just rolls her eyes and disappears. Other times, she snaps, "Beatrice! Shut up and say the things you really mean!"

I’ve never really known how to get rid of her—the presence that’s always lurking, watching me from the corner, hovering behind me. Sometimes, she grins, other times she sneers. And then there are moments she watches me with such deep concern that I can’t quite tell if she’s a friend or an enemy.

I close my eyes to pray, hoping that when I open them, she’ll be gone. And sometimes she is—only to reappear moments later, grinning or laughing at me.

Stop trying to get rid of me, she says, her voice low and mocking. I’m going to be your frenemy for a long, long time.

"Why are you praying when you sin?" she asks me on the morning of my job interview.

"What do you mean? I ask God for forgiveness, and my God is merci—"

"Oh, shut up, Beatrice," she cuts in. "You’re a liar and a sinner. How sure are you that you’re forgiven?"

I shrug as I finish getting ready for the interview, quickly rounding up my prayer.

"You should be Catholic," she says out of the blue.

Oh, and she says the most unexpected things—completely out of the blue.

"Huh?" I glance up, surprised.

"You should be Catholic. At least then you’d have a priest to confess all your sins to, and you could be sure of true repentance."

"What do you know about Catholicism?" I ask, confused. "I’ve been Pentecostal since birth. Apart from what I’ve read in books, I know nothing about Catholics."

"I know things, Beatrice," she says quietly. "I know things."

By then, I’m already in the taxi, heading to the company for my interview.

"This driver looks suspicious," Anxiety says, her eyes narrowing. "Are you sure he knows the way? And I think you’re going to be late for this interview."

I started rubbing the pendant on my necklace for comfort, trying to recall any Bible verse I could repeat—anything to calm myself. But for some reason, I couldn’t pray. Maybe because Anxiety was hovering loudly over my shoulder, making it so hard to think. Even the Psalm momma makes us recite during morning devotion slips from my memory. I can’t remember anything past, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…”

“You see why I say you should be Catholic? You could have had your rosary, chanting the Hail Mary,” she says.

“Oh, shut up, please,” I sigh. “The only reason you’re talking about Hail Marys and rosaries is because I’ve been reading a lot of Catholic stories lately.”

“Maybe that’s true,” she replies, her voice low and knowing. “But have you ever wondered why Catholicism is suddenly so interesting to you?”

“I’m Pentecostal, not Catholic,” I say flatly as the taxi pulls up in front of the company. I climb out and head inside.

I wait two hours at the reception before I’m finally called in for my interview.

And in those two hours, Anxiety had her fun. She tortures me, whispering over and over how unfit I am for the job. How delusional I am to think I could get hired with little to no experience, fresh out of university. How foolish I am to believe life is easy, or straightforward. She laughs right in my face, staring at me like I’m some kind of joke.

“Oh, my darling. Oh, my delusional, naïve, silly, stupid Beatrice,” she sneers. “Always forgetting she’s not like other people. You must truly suffer to get half of what you want. Don’t you know that already?”

And then she laughed again, cruel and familiar.

The interviewer said they would get back to me as I walked out of the company, Anxiety whispers, "Do you truly believe that crap? That you’ll get the job after that crappy interview… you have an ugly voice, by the way."
What my voice had to do with anything, I don’t know. But Anxiety won’t stop whispering, won’t stop hovering.

In the taxi, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to go home. To shower. To sleep. The heat wave in Abuja is insane.
Anxiety, although she’s no longer whispering, watches me from the corner with that familiar sneer on her face.

“Maybe it’s not that bad. Today wasn’t that bad. Your life isn’t bad. Things could go easy for you.”

A voice? No, more like a thought, popping quietly from the back of my mind.

“Okay… try to weigh the upside and downside of your day. You’ll see it,” the thought continues, gentle but persistent.

So, I begin. I try to list the upsides and downsides in my mind.
But Anxiety is still there, watching me with those cold, evil eyes.

Then—
“Stop deceiving yourself,” she hisses.

And just like that, I can’t concentrate. I try to list the upside, but all I can see are the downsides.

In the silence of my room… Anxiety starts strangling my neck with its mean, bony hands.

What are you doing?! I scream, startled.

“Reminding you,” it whispers coldly. “Stop being delusional. Why are you weighing the upside and downside?”

“There’s no upside, you foolish girl. No upside at all.”

“Only downside… Why don’t you see it? Why do you choose to be delusional? Now I have to remind you.”

I claw at its hands, trying to free my neck from its wicked grip. My fingers tremble, desperate, but Anxiety just grins—wild and cruel.

“Please… let me go,” I beg, my voice barely a whisper.

“No,” it says, tightening its hold.

I plead, gasping for breath, but it’s useless. My vision blurs… and all I see is darkness.

Today, something personal happened to me, and I’m in the spirit of gratitude…even though I can’t share on here what exactly happened — I want to share something I noticed recently.

I opened my Snapchat yesterday, and I saw a flashback of the snaps I took 2 years ago on the 21st of January 2023. On that particular day, I was in a classroom with my friends. I think we were reading for a biochemistry test it was a Saturday, and I can remember we studied from morning till evening, and at some point in our studying, we started calculating our cgpa. I remembered how worried I was about my cgpa and how many grade points I had to get to improve my cgpa at the time to get a first class — I was worried sick and at the time, it was such a huge problem for me.

I know you are wondering, okay, where are you going with this story — The point is that now I’m no longer worried about my cgpa or how I could get a first class that is no longer my problem my problem has changed. I’m a graduate now worried about new things, and I think it is such a blessing. One thing I have learnt about life is that life is not devoid of problems. In fact, the higher you go in life, the more problems you face.

And as weird as it might seem I’m grateful for the problems of life…the blessings of problems . I’ve been through a lot lately —I can’t even count how many times I’ve cried this year—and the year has just begun , but then I look back at the problems I used to face and I’m grateful that they are no longer my reality, I’m grateful that I can now say they are my past and one way or the other, they were resolved.

And that gives me hope, you know, that no matter the problems or difficulties that I might be facing now, it will one day be resolved, and it will all be behind me.

Life is beautiful when I think like this. You know that saying?

“God doesn’t allow a problem that is too big for you to handle to happen to your life”

I think it is somewhat true because even when the problem looks so unbearable, somehow I tackle it, and God helps me through it.

I’m grateful for the lessons that come with challenges. As I conclude this brief article, I pray never to lose hope or perspective.

It gets good, then it gets better, and then it becomes best.

I know the best is yet to come, but I’m grateful for the good that is already here. I could even say that I’m grateful for the better that I have now because it was good, and now it is better.

When I was thinking about what to write on my medium to close the year, I was thinking of writing on how the year was not so good for me, but I scaled through, and I’m still grateful…I read someone’s article where she told a story about a young man who seemed to have everything he wanted but did not feel a sense of accomplishment and a thought came to me-

There might be other factors as to why the young man does not feel a sense of accomplishment, but could it be that this boy is not aware of the good or the better in his present because he is busy looking for the best that has not yet come instead of acknowledging his present.

As I was wondering and thinking to myself after I read that article, I realised that me too I’m somewhat like that boy. Good things happened to me this year, and here I am not acknowledging these good things but seeing mostly the bad things, whining and complaining about what could have and what couldn’t have.

We often don’t realise how ungrateful we can be sometimes. Life can be like the weather sometimes.

Sometimes it is rainy and sometimes it is sunny and sometimes the weather can be just right.

Yes, my life is not the best I want it to be, but I’m grateful for the good and better life that I have now. I said I don’t quite have plans for 2025, but while writing this article, I think I have one now. Which is loving myself 2025- I’m going to spend my year appreciating my good and better life while working on making my life the best I want it to be so help me God.

So, as we wrap up 2024 I’m grateful for my good and better life, for my highs, and for my lows, for the times I laughed and for the times I cried, for the lessons learnt, for the friends I made, I achieved quite alot this year- I became a Bsc holder this year(yayy) and I kept a streak of 363 days on my bible app, I helped my sister with her first orphanage outreach and it was a huge success. There are a lot more that I’m grateful for.

I’m grateful to God for loving me even in times when I found it hard to love myself. He loved me and held me, always reminding me that He is always with me and would never leave me. I pray for more grace to love myself in 2025 and to always remember that it gets good, then it gets better, and it becomes best❤️

Happy New Year ❤️✨️

As the silence settled, my mind drifted into deep reflection. My convocation is just a few hours away, and I’m feeling a swirl of emotions—bittersweet. I find myself replaying moments, both cherished and regretted: the mistakes, the silent tears, the struggles and triumphs, the laughter, the happiness, friends lost, and friends gained. A wave of emotion hit me, and as much as I tried to hold back, tears came anyway.

I blamed myself for a lot of things, but the beautiful thing about me is that, even in self-evaluation and blaming, I manage to find ways to praise myself, too.

After some reflection, I reached a conclusion: the future may seem blurry and confusing, but I can’t lose hope and faith. To me, faith is the assurance that everything will work out in the end. In moments like these, when thoughts of the past mix with present worries, I find solace in reminding myself that “it’s always going to get better.” I repeat it like a mantra: “everything is going to get better.”

As a Christian, I believe in God and the Holy Spirit. When I start to lose hope, I pray for strength and peace, trusting that God will renew my faith.

By 5 AM, I still hadn’t fallen back asleep, as the nearby mosques began their morning prayers. I got up to prepare for my convocation.I’m feeling much better. My heart was filled with excitement and hope for the future, and all the good things it has in store for me.

And by the way, today was my convocation. I’m officially a BSc graduate of Human Anatomy.