As children in our final year of school and in typical youthful exuberance, my classmates and I had a catchphrase. It was, in Nigerian parlance, “life na choice.” We said it as an act of defiance; a symbol that we had arrived and could do whatever we liked, school rules or not. Hostel masters or not.

We chanted it when a teacher caught us lingering in the dark corridors of the classroom blocks after night prep, usually in pairs — a girl and the boy who would eventually get away. We said while considering dropping out as we bemoaned the stress of our exams. Life na choice. We were indeed right. However, I bet none of us knew just how right we were.

Four years ago, I was given a book titled You Can If You Think You Can by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. The book had about 300 pages, but it took me a little over a year to finish reading it (I only need two days to finish a romantic novel of the same length). It remains one of my favourite non-fiction books, although I do think some of the stories in it are a bit exaggerated. Regardless, Dr. Peale’s message is simple and oddly familiar — life is what you make of it.

I have long realised that life is indeed a compendium of choices. Even the mere fact that you are in this world is a result of the decisions of two people. And now, every day, until you can no longer, you must make a myriad of choices — big ones like who to marry and small ones like the dental care brand to use. You did not ask, but I am currently 5kg over my weight goal. Unfortunately, my favourite meal probably has a calorie count of about 100,000. Now, I have a choice to make: stick to the less appetizing vegetables or continue devouring balls of fermented granules dipped in large plates of oily, aromatic soup, generously garnished with huge chunks of ogufe every night. You get the picture.

Therefore, our power to choose is largely tied to the free will that we have. However, I have only recently realised what many people have yet to fully grasp: for every choice made, there is a corresponding consequence. Like Newton’s third law of motion. More often than not, you must sit with the results of your choices, whether good or bad.

But, in true Adam form, how many times have we tried to escape from the consequences of our willful actions? It is something I have come to notice — not just in others, but in myself too — how easily we find ways to excuse what we have done. My only consolation is that it did not start in this present age. Even my Lord and Saviour, in His time on earth, fell victim to this cunningness of man (honourable mention to Judas, whose surname rhymes with “carrot”). Life is indeed simple: you do something, and something happens to you.

For example, passing a test requires a lot of reading and — unless you are a nepo baby — buying a Benz or any other object of ostentation requires hard work, whether legal or otherwise; because, in case you have not been following all this while, life is a choice. Thus, failing to read increases your chances of failing, and getting rich through illegal means might just be a one-way ticket to a cell. Or not. You see, this is the seemingly unfair side to life — that some people do eat their cake and somehow get away with it. But that is not our bone of contention here.

It is true that time and chance happen to all, but to a large extent, you can determine the outcome of your life simply by the choices you make. However, sometimes — and rather unexpectedly — life throws a curveball and we must, albeit unwillingly, respond to the harsh choices it presents. Like the untimely loss of a loved one. Even in that, there is still a choice: to walk on water or let it drown you. To everyone who has had to walk on water, I apologise if I have ever told you not to question it. I now know how easy and convenient it is to say that when I am not the one with the question.

So yes, life na choice, but it is also consequence, timing, and sometimes, sheer mystery. Still, if I must keep choosing every day, I might as well try to choose better or at the very least, choose in a way my future self will not insult me for. Because in the end, life is not just what happens to us; it is what we agree to, what we resist, and what we repeatedly choose. Therefore, choose well. Or don’t. Either way, life will respond.

May the fourth be with you. Whatever that means.

2025 knew that I had zero expectations and so, it allowed everything to happen to me. Here is a little back story; I genuinely hoped that 2024 was the year that all the images on my vision board would finally become a thing of past. Sadly, my hope was dashed hard against the head of a wife who is convicted that her cheating husband would one day “repent”.

I crossed into 2025 with deep hurt and resentment. I dumped the heartbreak 2024 gave me on 2025 and it said “oh really? okay nau”.

I admit that I had no plans for this year. I came into it with a defeated mindset — que sera sera. Fret not, I have long acknowledged my errors. If this piece had an alternate title, it would be “The Year of Losses” because, without mincing words, I did lose everything.

JOY

Beginning with the least obvious, joy. Contrary to popular belief, I did not have joy in chaos. How could I, when every quarter came with its own hurdles? And if you know, you know that I do not do sports (pun intended). I was absent but present enough not to cause any panic. Please, do not get me wrong. I do not mean it in an “unaliving” way. I was just….tired, burnt out even. I struggled with fatigue and rest. My mind was on a constant speeding train. I had no motivation and thus, lost the most important thing anyone has…

MYSELF

Without joy, I lost myself. With fatigue, I could not write. I could not create content as I desired. I woke up each day only with the aim to power through it. In doing this, I lost a lot of opportunities and people who could not understand why it took days to respond to their messages. I visited the hospital a lot this year, sometimes, for ailments that I did not even know I could have (Tonsillitis, at my big age?). In fact, as I write this, I am reminded that I have some medications to pick up from the pharmacy today.

I lost myself so much so that I woke up one random morning, took out my hard-earned money and…. paid for therapy. What a shocker. Then, for weeks, I faltered and kept rescheduling our meetings because, what do you mean A.J.A is in therapy? (story for another newsletter). It helped talking to a neutral face. It did not help, however, that when Cupid fired again, it missed another shot.

LOVE

Growing up, I had one wish; to love once and finally. LOL. It appears that some princesses — like me — are destined to kiss metaphorical frogs before landing the prince. For a long time, I truly believed this frog was finally my prince and I eagerly awaited its transformation. Sadly, it was what it was — just another frog. Three months after my frog leaped away, I lost my father.

MY EVERYTHING

My father’s death came to me as a shock which, you will find out soon, is ironic. For the nearly three decades of my existence, my father was my everything. I could be having a year like this one but knowing he was always a call away made each day bearable. Without him, who did I have to call now? Losing him, I felt seen and uncovered. I felt shame and honestly, I laugh at this because why would I feel ashamed that I lost my father? Grief is a terrible thing.

These days, without thinking, I have developed an unhealthy routine. I wake up, keep my thoughts distracted with baggage weights or whatever movie Omoni has put out and nearly remember to eat. Then, as day envelopes into night, just before I slip into a dreamy realm that I will have no recollection of the next morning, I think of him. Sadly, I do not think of the happy moments. I think of his last days — the last meals I fed him, the last time our eyes met from across the room, our last hug and his last prayer over me. I think of how I had thought then, that this might be our last conversation.

COUNTING MY BLESSINGS

On a grateful note, 2025 was not entirely bad. I made some wins, one of the biggest being promoted at work. That promotion felt like God throwing down an anchor as I sunk nose-deep in the ocean of losses. It felt like, “hey. I see you”. Imposter syndrome tries its best but my aching spinal cord always reminds me that I indeed deserve that win. So, yes, thank you Jesus.

This year, I walked down the stage, shook hands with the notorious Obiageli Ezekwesili and received my long-coveted certificate in Public Leadership and Policy. My journey to that stage was not the smoothest but I thank God for ease and provision.

I realised the gift of family and friendship this year. Without their support, there is a 70% chance that I would be writing this piece from Yabaleft. I am thankful for the nights E.A pretended not to know that I was too frightened to stay alone and let me sleep over at hers, for when F.M loaned me cash as I was too broke to fix my flat. For K.J who listened patiently as I ranted about my frog that got away, thank you. I am grateful for the nights S.A stifled his yawns as we kabashed into the night because he knew how much I needed those prayer meetings.

For A.E, words will fail to describe how this unintended friendship has blessed me. O.A, my sister and therapist before my therapist, will always have a special place in my heart. E.B knows that she will ask for bread and I will build multiple factories for her. The caretaker of my flat deserves an honorable mention for allowing me to pay my rent in parts, something I never had to do before this year. My colleagues at work made me laugh so hard this year. Thank you so much. Sosongo.

FINAL NOTE

I write this piece not to elicit pity or worry from you, my reader. I write this as a memorabilia. I write this in hopes that, in the coming year, good fortune will shine upon me. But I will not make the same mistakes I made this year. From 2026, I make my demands.

2026 owes me great joy. I expect to wake up each day fearing that my heart will burst open from happiness. I demand rest from 2026. No more fruitless toiling. Oh, I desire peace — the one the good book says surpasses understanding. After the whirlwind of 2025, 2026 owes me clarity and answered prayers. I do not wish to visit the hospital so frequently moving forward and so, 2026 better make it so. While I will be busy not only planning but taking action towards what may be, if Cupid decides to fire again, I hope 2026 ensures that it is no longer aimed at a frog.

In case you have not yet deciphered, I choose to end this sad year on a happy note. I am not gullible to think that the next year will not bring its own wahala. However, 2025 has fully prepared me. I know better now and so, I look forward to 2026 with excitement and a childlike anticipation. God is with me and despite what I think, I will not fail.

Goodbye, 2025. Sang-a sung. I forgive you but I hope we never meet again.

The entire country was on fire! She smiled as she heard her people chant her name loudly on the busy streets of Yaba.

Who would have thought that a 30 year old unmarried woman from the East would contest in a Lagos State gubernatorial election and win?!

She felt like she was floating on the metaphorical clouds and nothing could bring her down.

She said she would do it and she did it! Where were those who said she couldn’t, eh?

Amidst the many congratulatory calls and goodwill messages, her friends managed to surprise her with a private celebratory dinner tonight.

“To the woman of the moment! A beacon of hope to many women! Cheers!”

The clinking of glasses and hearty shouts filled the room. She was afraid her heart would burst open with joy so she held her hands to it.

She paid attention as the head chef of the fancy restaurant they were at spoke to the party of ten about his well curated menu for tonight’s dinner.

She laughed when Tosin, her campaign manager, complained of the portion on his plate and said, “Boss, it’s a 4 course meal, you know”.

As she looked at the smiling faces surrounding the table, she could not believe her luck. A year ago, her life was completely something different.

Tonight, she would focus on the people who loved her and try not to remember the things she lost on her journey to this moment.

She cleared her throat as she began to speak, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I really appreciate everyone for being here to celebrate me …..”

Amaka chuckled as her madam let out a loud laughter in the middle of her lone speech and contemplated calling oga — her madam’s father — but decided against it.

Quite frankly, she was enjoying tonight’s free entertainment, even though whoever did her madam this thing did not try at all.

A year ago, when her Aunt got her this job, all she was told was that she would be an assistant to a big man’s daughter.

Living in the city was something a naïve village girl like her had always thought of, so she wasted no time accepting the offer.

Plus, the pay would ensure that her little brothers went to school.

She dreamed of the many parties she would follow her madam to, the clothes she would wear and how she would give out commands to the servants in the house — The many Nollywood movies she’d watch, she believed, prepared her for this job.

Amaka would soon find out that her job covered none of her imaginations and more of things she signed never to mention outside.

She was her madam’s assistant. Her nurse. Her sister. Her pastor. Her enemy.

In fact, she was whoever her madam wanted her to be, depending on her mood for the day.

The doctors called it chronic hallucinations — Amaka called it madness. Her madam was mad.

But it won’t be from her mouth that they would hear that Okra soup used to draw.

It reminded me of the lady in the cheesy romcoms — the one gleefully running down the shores of a sandy beach, the wind tossing her blond strands as she attempts to hold down her dress while her lover chases her down.

Its sleeveless A-line cut cascaded through my frame and I walked a little faster in it just so I could watch its layered frills dance around my knees. I was in love.

Because nothing lasts forever, the hemming of the dress grew weak a year later. With every loose seam, I painstakingly pushed a threaded needle through in hopes that it would remain the same. I couldn’t bear to lose my favourite dress.

Then, the first layer of frills gave way and so, I cut it away. It revealed the scars on my knees a little more but I did not mind. The dress, in my favourite floral pattern and colour, still complemented my skin tone. I grew even more in love with it.

I wore it so much that I did not realise I wore it so much. Eventually, my family could no longer ignore.

It had been years now and my dress no longer shone as it once did. It now hung unflatteringly on my shoulders. I knew I had to stop wearing it but how? That dress was like a second skin. Because I wore it everywhere, it had soup stains, soaked tears and ink marks that, no matter how much I tried, refused to wash away. Yet, I wore it like it was Hermès.

My aunt begged me to let that dress go. My dad threatened to cut it off from me. Easy for them, hard for me because how do I let go of something I once loved fiercely?

You looked so different now. Your freshly relaxed hair fell limply on your now slender neck and I couldn't help but notice your French press-ons as they tapped furiously on your phone.

What happened to the girl who fought almost all our teachers and was nicknamed “boy-girl” in grammar school? You were a… woman now.

“You look different” I commented.

“Life has been kind to me, aburo”

You didn’t lie. Even your voice sounded different — like mine now. It hurt because that was our only feature that told us apart. Kehinde with the sweet sonorous voice, Taiwo with the gruff one that sounded like Baba’s.

The dinner was filled with our nervous laughs and forced conversations. You didn’t want to be here anymore than I wanted. Ignoring the obvious elephant between us, we hoped the grass was greener on the other tables and it would move there.

One hour was all we could bear before calling it a night. I let out a breath as the cold air hit my warm face and watched as you sashayed towards a shiny Lexus.

The sound it made as it unlocked reminded me that I was still owing Yusuf, my mechanic.

“Can I give you a ride?” you asked, I almost believed you cared.

“No, I’ll just walk”

“Okay, see you again” I nodded in agreement to your lie.

You surprised me with a stiff hug before getting into your car. At least one thing about you had not change — showing affection was still tasking for you.

My walk home was filled with memories that were once buried deep. Our plan had worked, judging from the happiness that radiated from you today — the one you tried woefully to hide so I don’t regret the choice I made twelve years ago in that clinic with the heavy smell of bleach.

That was the first and only time I ever saw fear in your eyes. What kind of sister would I have been if I had left you to literally wallow in the pool of your own blood and shame?

You had moved on but here I was, still dealing with the beautiful mess you created. Call me crazy but I would do it again. Love had made me crazy.

For once, I didn’t mind that the front door had been left open yet again. I ignored the pile of dirty dishes on the dining table as I walked past into my boy's room.

Flinging my bag to the corner, I scooped him into my arms and remained there, ignoring his verbal protests. Like mother, like son.

After what felt like an eternity, he successfully removed himself from me and fell back into his wheelchair.

As we sat there, facing each other, I willed my mind to forget about the dinner with my son’s mother.

It reminded him of that verse in Solomon’s book.

She was perfect

Da Vinci’s muse for The Mona Lisa.

But he knew

Just one invitation

one cup of water from his home and she would be soiled.

Damaged beyond repair.

Better to end now thinking

the worst of each other than

living with the worst of each other

five years later.

He saw what love did to his mother.

What she tried to hide underneath

the colourful Jalabiyas and makeup

two times her tone.

He saw what love did to his father.

What he tried to hide behind his crooked smile

and generous donations.

Fists permanently tightened

Always prepared

to strike first.

He saw what love did to his sister

What she tried to hide

with half-clad photos

Boy 1 today

Boy 2 tomorrow

How could she find love

when she didn’t even know what it was?

He saw what love did to him

What he tried to hide

with the constant highness

and dumb freedom speeches.

It was glaring yet

feigned ignorance

But he saw.

She was flawless

He was flawed

But she would never know.

She would never understand

why he was willing

to suffer the sins of those

who birthed him.

Love is fickle

Family is bond.

He stirred, annoyed to be awake barely four hours after he had won tonight’s battle against insomnia.

Sleep had been a luxury since trouble came knocking two days ago.

From his window, he saw a small crowd gathered outside his apartment. With the way he held the machete like a symbol of authority, it was obvious that Dare, his Gen-Z neighbor who had a Tesla but never took it out, had assumed leadership of the group.

Removing the newly installed bolts from his door, he willed himself to face the group. What were his neighbours up to at this ungodly hour? Was that Hakeem, his laundryman?

“Hello everyone, what seems to be the problem?” He was not surprised when, after two minutes, nobody answered. His thick British accent always made it twice as hard for him to be understood.

He spoke again and this time, he asked slowly in the language they all knew, “Kilode?”

Flora, the lady who lived in the house painted blue when everyone else was white, responded, “E kaaro Akin. Sorry to wake you up but there’s something you should see”

Warning sounds went off immediately in his head. Was this what he had been hoping for?

He immediately walked out of his apartment, following the lady as the group gave way. He spotted Kufre, his least favourite neighbour, pressed against the railings of his balcony and when their eyes met, the man looked away. He was never one to maintain eye contact with anyone.

Flora led him outside of their gate, towards the end of the street where the general waste bin stood.

A different crowd was there and more than the one he had woken up to. The growing tension in his heart at the moment could not be cut, even by a surgeon’s knife.

A foul stench from the bin almost knocked Akin out as they drew closer. The chatters from the crowd increased when they spotted him. He noticed some looking away, those who were bold enough to look at him held pitiful gazes.

A short man, dressed in faded Levi’s and black boots, stood in the middle of the crowd scribbling furiously in the notepad opened in his hands.

The mystery man introduced himself as they approached. “Good morning, Mr Akin. My name is Inspector Tola, I work with the estate security. Have you been informed yet?”

“About what?” the poor man answered wearily. He was one breath away from throwing up the little semo he had eaten last night.

The disconcerted look on the Inspector’s face showed uncertainty and regret, maybe.

“Well then, I apologize for what I’m about to make you do. Please look into the bin and let us know if you recognize what’s there”

Looking from the man to the crowd, Akin was unsure. However, as he peered into the bin, his eyes met the gold name tag and that was the only thing he needed to see to know this certainly was not what he had hoped for.

Face bent over the bin, Akin emptied his insides on the remains of what was once his beloved furry best friend.

To: idybabetoohawt@yahoo.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: Hello!

07/12/2022 (12:46pm)

Hi Idara!

Fancy running into you at the airport the other day. It has been what? Ten years? I must confess, you still look as gorgeous as the first day we met at mama Teju’s shop :)

I was in so much of a hurry that I forgot to ask for your contact details then I remembered I still had your mail, that is if you still use this. Remember how I used to tease over it? Good times indeed.

Fingers crossed you see this. I look forward to your response. Stay charming!

Love,

Yakubu.

From: idaraessien@gmail.com

To: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: <<blank>>

09/12/2022 (01:00am)

Hassan,

I never thought I would see you again but life is cruel that way.

I am well, okay. There is no need to revive what’s dead so don’t bother replying to this. Enjoy your life.

From: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

To: idaraessien@gmail.com

RE: <<blank>>

09/12/2022 (05:15am)

Idy…

I am so sorry. I know there is nothing I could say that could erase the pain I caused you. In my defence, I was young, foolish, naive…

How can I make it up to you? Is it money? I have loads of it now. My phone number is 09036678910. Could you call me so we could talk better? I really am sorry.

Also, I noticed the name change. Did you get married? I’m genuinely happy for you, although I wish it was me but…

Call me, please.

Yours,

Yakubu.

From: idaraessien@gmail.com

To: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: IDIOT!!!

12/12/2022 (13:52)

YOU MUST BBE A BIGGER FOOL THAM I THOUGTH IF YUO THINK IM INTERSTED IN YUR DIRTY MONEY!! LEVE ME ALONE!!1!

From: essienjoe@rubix.com

To: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: Urgent.

18/12/2022 (14:03)

Hello Yabuku,

This is Joe, Idara’s husband.

We need to talk. Call me — 08178260821.

From: essienjoe@rubix.com

To: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: <<blank>>

22/12/2022 (06:45)

Yakubu,

I apologize for walking out on you and for some of the things I said when we met…

I would love for us to meet again. Tomorrow, same place and time?

Thank you.

From: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

To: essienjoe@rubix.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: The truth

25/12/2022 (19:40)

Good evening Joe,

Thank you for meeting with me the other day. I know you said not to contact you or your wife anymore but I haven’t been able to sleep well knowing that you’re in the dark as regards my past with Idara. I feel you should know the whole truth at least.

Idara and I were not only together for three years, we got engaged too.

I really loved her but my parents were not in support of our union based on tribal differences. Then she got pregnant. I begged her to elope with me to Europe. My plan was that we would start another life there with the baby she was carrying.

I thought she was on board with the plan till few hours before we were to leave Nigeria. She called and said she could no longer go ahead with the plan, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her family. Worse of all, she said she had gotten an abortion, that there was no need for us to be together anymore.

Maybe I should have left the airport and gone to see her, convince her to leave with me regardless. But I was shocked, confused and hurt. How could she kill our baby and end our relationship just like that? There I was ready to sacrifice everything for her but she couldn’t do same for me.

So I left in anger and blocked her everywhere. I didn’t know she had planned to put the pregnancy on you. All those years we were together, I never suspected that she was seeing someone else. Love must be indeed blind.

Anyway, I’m sorry for everything. I know you love your wife. I hope this doesn’t change your opinion of her. She’s a good person but sometimes, even good people tell lies.

I know I promised not to push further but I would really love to meet my son. Help me convince Idara. She owes me that much.

Merry Christmas, by the way.

Regards,

Yakubu.

From: yakubuhassan@gmail.com

To: essienjoe@rubix.com

CC: idaraessien@gmail.com

EMAIL SUBJECT: HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ENGLAND!

01/01/2023 (00:00)

Hello The Essiens!

How are you doing? Hope the harmattan in Nigeria is treating everyone nicely? For me, I’m trying my best not to get covered in snow but failing woefully. See attached pictures for evidence ;)

I just wanted to say thank you for allowing me meet “our” boy. You both are great parents to David and I’m okay with being “uncle Hassan” as long as I remain his favourite uncle! I plan on sending some new year gifts across to him though — with your permission of course.

My therapist says I look a lot happier now, all thanks to you both. I do hope you get back together soon. Think of our boy, please?

Happy new year people! Have the best of 2023!

With all my love,

Yakubu.

I do not know what evil spirit possessed me to show up at her apartment in the early hours of the morning. The same spirit also pushed me to knock incessantly on her door and scream her name as loud as I could, ignoring the threats from her neighbours who were now awake, until she finally opened the door — arms akimbo — ready for the fight she thought I brought.

Without her signature heavily powdered face, black eyeliner and red pouty lips, she looked innocent. Like she was incapable of stealing another woman’s man.

“Iyale. Good morning. Hope all is well with our husband?” I didn’t miss the smirk on her face or that she still referred to me as her first wife even though I had almost broken her arm the last time she called me that.

I pushed past her and entered the flat my husband had rented for her. Immediately scanning the living room, I found no evidence of his infidelity. No framed wedding photograph on the wall, no discarded male clothings on the floor, and none of his favourite books on the centre table — all of these were present in our home.

Resisting the urge to look in the bedroom, I settled into a blue sofa and rested my legs on top of the mahogany table. I knew the evidence I wanted would be there, in the form of a 6ft by 8 inches mattress. I had found the receipt hidden in his briefs’ drawer.

Funmi, ever playing the role of the dutiful second wife she believed she was, kneeled beside me.

Funmi, the one who was to give birth to the children I was unable to give my husband.

Funmi, the one whose children would cause my own children to finally come into my womb.

Akin and I would be married for four years in a week and in those years, I had gotten pregnant zero times. It didn’t matter what specialist hospital I went to or what concoction Akin’s mother, Moomi, prepared for me to drink, my monthly visitor was as punctual as the school bell.

His mother was on my side until last year when Teni, the wife of Akin’s half-sibling, took in in their first year of marriage. Worse of all — for me — she gave birth to a set of twins — two boys!

Then, Moomi decided it was time to act fast. Acting fast meant marrying a second wife for her son. One humble enough to live in another flat, not in the same house as her first wife for peace’s sake. One fertile enough to wipe away the disgrace I had brought upon her.

The object of my disdain cleared her throat and my attention was brought back to the yellow-coated room.

“Would you like to eat? I prepared Amala and Efo for our husband. He said he would be coming over after work today”

He had told me yesterday that he would be working late today.

“Or would you prefer a chilled bottle of small stout? It would calm your nerves” she continued with a mocking tone. The nerve of this woman.

Ignoring her, I looked down and gently rubbed the growing bump through the rumpled chiffon shirt I had hurriedly put on before leaving the house. My doctor had not confirmed it yet but I was sure. Women knew these things.

Then, my eyes settled on her discoloured face. I did not know it was possible to have green veins on one’s face. Her brows were furrowed as she focused on the movement of my hands.

Pushing down my irritation, I said, “I would love that drink but you see, it wouldn’t be good for the baby in my womb”.

I wish I had brought a camera along to record this moment. Funmi’s reaction would be great content for a Twitter meme. Was it the way her mouth hung open or the way her eyeballs temporarily left their sockets? It was hilarious to see.

Holding back the laughter that threatened to burst out from my insides, I gathered my things slowly and for effect, put in extra effort to get up from the sofa, just like a pregnant woman would do.

“Anyway, I just stopped by to share the good news with you. ó dàbọ̀!” I bade her farewell joyfully.

The walk to the door felt like forever. I kept glancing back in fear that she might pounce on me. But she remained on the floor, gawking at me like a child in Disneyland.

The truth is if we weren’t so busy fighting to get pregnant for the same man, Funmi and I would have remained best friends.

Anyway, Funmi-0, Yejide-1.

I’m not bothered by the gang of devilish owls that have taken up residence in the Almond tree by my window. I have since learnt that no matter how many times Ezekiel, the gardener, prunes that tree or destroys their nests, those freeloaders will never give up on the shelter and food the tree provides. Neither will they stop trying to scream down my roof at sunset.

Frankly, I respect the hustle.

The dizziness and constant bouts of migraine don’t bother me as much as they used to when I first lost my sight. Plus, if I imagine as hard as possible, I could see the life one idiot stole from me fifteen years ago; one filled with blue skies, red sand and bliss.

Refusing to go down that train of thought, I redirected my attention to something else. Just opposite the house, on the other end of the street, was my hell on earth — Paradise Event Centre. Such an irony.

When they first started, I didn’t mind the parties hosted every weekend. I didn’t mind that the incessant car honks or speakers that blasted songs with incomprehensible lyrics meant a bigger budget for Aspirin. I didn’t mind the savoury smell of jollof rice that wafted its way into my nostrils each time — food that I never got to eat.

In fact, at first, it used to be fun deciphering what event was happening based on the sounds I could pick up.

High-life music meant either an indigenous wedding party or someone’s fiftieth birthday. Chatters from children meant a school’s end-of-the-year celebration or an infant’s first birthday. A solemn procession followed by Horatio Spafford’s It Is Well With My Soul meant someone had kicked the bucket. This was my favourite for obvious reasons.

However, six months and a ridiculous dent in my savings meant I had to be bothered. Judging by the ongoing rain of accolades and live fuji band, it probably was another birthday bash.

I wish someone with half a brain would tell whoever was singing now to shut up. I imagined the crowd was there for the jollof rice, Instagram pictures, souvenirs and if lucky, the contact of a fine babe or guy. Did they really care that Baba Anu was 80 years old? I doubted the poor celebrant would survive till the next morning if that man didn’t shut up.

Wishing the building tension in my head would cease, I searched my table till I felt the sharp end of a pencil. I entertained the thoughts of ramming it into my eardrums and putting an end to my misery.

Being blind and deaf may not be as bad as being blind only.

I was about to get on with Operation Get Deaf when I heard someone clear their throat behind my shoulder and I stilled immediately. It was a Saturday afternoon which meant my parents were in their clinic and I had the house to myself.

Refusing to give whatever demon it was the pleasure of seeing me scared, I reached for my cane rested by the side of my seat. If today was the day I died, I wouldn’t go down without smacking that demon on the head.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you” The person spoke. The husky tone revealed it was a man and clearly not Papa or Ezekiel. The accent didn’t have the intonation of a typical Ibibio man.

“Who are you?” It was in moments like these that I wished I had functional eyes.

“Louis. I am Dara’s friend. You must be Eno” He pronounced my name as Ah-nuh and if I wasn’t so convinced that I was about to die, I would have let out a laugh.

Besides, last I heard, Dara was in Orlando on a journey of soul searching— whatever that meant. I was particularly relieved when he left home. Living with the person who took away your sight does something to your soul and not in a good way.

It all began with a heated squabble over whose turn it was to do the laundry and it ended with him pouring bleach into my eyes, rendering them useless within 48 hours.

You would think permanently damaging me would cause Dara to turn a new leaf, pick up a Bible and minister to juveniles like himself but nooo….

If I woke up and couldn’t find my cane, then Dara most probably took it away. The one time I slipped and almost broke my neck, he had poured water down the hallway and screamed for me to come down. It was a miracle I survived that fall with no other major injury. That day, I was so thankful for my coconut head. If only I had coconut eyes too…

Anyway, the boy could probably go missing and I wouldn’t mind one bit. That was probably an ill way to speak of one’s brother but who was judging?

I almost forgot that there was a stranger in my room till I caught a whiff of something new. I was still debating whether I loved or hated it when a sneeze escaped from me.

The voice, now panicked, continued, “I’m sorry. I got you flowers, Daffodils. I wasn’t sure which were your favourite”

I took a minute to process what I just heard. Was this a joke? Was this moment being recorded? The silence proved he was waiting for a response.

“Wow. Thank you so much, they look so pretty” I responded with what I hoped was a glaring look while tapping my cane slowly. I hoped the sarcasm didn’t fly over his head.

The swear word muttered under his breath finally released the laughter held in my throat. I laughed so hard that I was afraid the tears from my eyes would turn to blood.

It must have been an awkward five minutes and when I finally caught my breath, I asked with a sly grin, “So, apart from bringing a blind girl flowers, why are you here?”

On the night our boy was born, Louis would say he had only come to the house that day to drop off Dara’s belongings and the suicide note that was found where he hung himself.

He would say he had brought those flowers for my mum but had awkwardly given them to me — he would claim my beauty confused him. He would confess he had had a girlfriend at that time but on his way back to his hotel, he had called and ended things with her; she had been cheating on him for a while.

He would thank God that I finally agreed to be with him after a year of chasing and bringing me flowers, a different one with a different meaning each time; He had brought a bouquet of Tulips and Daisies the day Dara was laid to rest — a peace offering on behalf of his friend. The single red Rose on our first date meant Cupid was working overtime.

I would begin to weep while he is still speaking and being the ever-doting husband, he would wrap his arms around my still damp frame and whisper that everything would be fine — our boy would be fine. I would believe him but then, we are yet to find out just how cruel the world could be to a half-black boy with no vision.