as told to | Page 3 of 6

I wanted to talk to someone who went to unbelievable lengths for love. That’s how I met Mrs. Mosope*(52), a woman who stole from her mother, travelled across continents, and spent two decades chasing a man who abandoned her.

This is Mosope’s story, as told to Betty:

I met Adekunle in early 2000, and we started dating almost immediately. He was tall, handsome, and charming, and whenever we went out together, women would always admire him.

We didn’t come from money, but we were happy. Some of my favourite memories from that time are of him buying rice from my favourite bukka at Ikeja and bringing it to me at my mother’s shop in Mushin. Within the year, our families knew about our relationship and our plans to get married.

In mid-2001, I found out I was pregnant. My mother was furious, but Adekunle accepted the pregnancy and promised to do right by us. The problem was that we did not have a lot of money, so we couldn’t even afford to get a place of our own. Having a child out of wedlock at that time wasn’t like it is now — I faced a lot of abuse and mistreatment. My mother threw me out of the house, saying that if I could get pregnant before marriage, I could also sort myself out.

Adekunle still lived with his family, so I moved in with a friend in her self-con in Yaba and started an apprenticeship at a hairdressing salon. It was a struggle, but I eventually got really good at doing hair and even started my own business in Yaba — although I had to share a shop with a tailor to afford the rent.

In March 2002, our first child — a boy we named Dare — was born. He looked just like his father, and we were very happy. My family warmed up to us after the baby was born, but my mom insisted that I couldn’t move back into her house. She kept pressuring Adekunle and I to get married, but after paying the hospital bills and hosting a small naming ceremony, we couldn’t even afford a registry wedding, let alone the elaborate owambe our families had in mind.

One day in May 2002, Adekunle and I were discussing the future. He had always talked about emigrating to America, but a lack of funds had held him back. When I was pregnant, he had scrounged up enough money for a visa but got scammed by the agent he used. That day, he complained bitterly to me about how much he wanted to make a good life for me and our son, and if he could just touch down on American soil, he was sure he would make a lot of money and bring us over to join him.

His passion was infectious, and I started thinking about how I could help him raise some of the money. But I had nothing valuable to sell, and I didn’t know anyone who could loan us the amount we needed. Then I remembered that my mom had been buying gold pieces since I was little, keeping them under her bed as savings. I knew selling them would fetch a good sum.

So, I visited her under the pretense of letting her spend time with her grandson. As she cooed over Dare, my hands were shaking. I swallowed my fear and slipped into her bedroom, heart pounding in my chest. I hesitated for only a second — then grabbed it all.

I made about four million naira — enough to pay for a tiny apartment for the baby and me, as well as Adekunle’s visa, travel, and initial expenses.

Adekunle and I were ecstatic, and in December 2002, he left for Chicago. Our plan was simple: he would work for six months, save enough to replace the gold, and send me the money so I could return it before my mother realised it was missing.

Six months turned to eight, then a year passed, and Adekunle still hadn’t sent a dime home — not for the gold, not for the baby.

ALSO READ: He Cheated Twice, So I Did It Too. Now I Hate Myself

In March 2004, I called him because he hadn’t reached out for our boy’s birthday and a woman picked up the phone. Confused, I asked after Adekunle, and she casually said he had gone grocery shopping. Then she introduced herself as Clara and had the audacity to ask if I was one of Adekunle’s sisters “back home in Nigeria.” I hung up without responding.

I called my close friend in Ibadan, crying because I didn’t know what to do. If there was another woman in America with Adekunle, was I not ruined? How would I care for my child? At the time, I could barely afford to feed or send him to school on what I made as a hairdresser. My friend encouraged me to visit her in Ibadan with my son, so I did.

While I was in Ibadan, everything got worse.

[ad][/ad]

I hadn’t heard back from Adekunle yet and was getting more anxious. So when my phone rang, I picked it up without even checking the caller ID. It was my mother — she had found out about the missing gold. She knew I had to be the one who took it because the only people who knew about it were her own mother and me, her firstborn. She started screaming and cursing at me, threatening to get the police to close down my shop if I didn’t bring her gold back. I fell to the floor in my friend’s house, crying. I felt completely lost.

My friend was furious on my behalf. Without hesitation, she picked up her phone and called Adekunle. Surprisingly, he answered. She told him my mother had found out about the gold and that if he didn’t want us to go to a babalawo to ruin his life, he had better start sending money that day. He then explained that he was only with Clara for the green card and that once his citizenship was finalised, he would divorce her and marry me like we originally planned.

My friend also called my mother and apologised on my behalf because I was too scared to talk to her after that first phone call. Somehow, she managed to de-escalate things until I felt safe enough to return to Lagos. I was so grateful to her for all she did.

Before I left for Lagos, my friend had a serious talk with me. She said if I didn’t want to lose Adekunle, I had better go and scatter whatever he was trying to do with this Clara person before it was too late. I took her advice very seriously.

On my return to Lagos, I started doing odd jobs along with my hairdressing to try to get the visa and flight money for me and my son. In 2008, I had finally made enough money for the visas. I paid an agent to help me with the visa applications, but he absconded and left me almost destitute. Thankfully, my friend in Ibadan had married a well-to-do husband, and they reimbursed me for the money.

Unfortunately, our US visas were denied. I was ready to give up, but my friend insisted I try again, but to the UK this time. Aside from the fact that the UK visa was cheaper then, she said it would be easier to get a visa to the US from there instead of Nigeria. She and her husband sponsored our UK visas, and in 2008, my son and I moved to the UK.

I continued my hairdressing business while Dare went to school, and two more years passed. During this time, I was paying my mother back for her gold and also saving up to reapply for US visas.

One random day, while on a bus to work, I saw the agent who had stolen my visa money in 2008. Without thinking, I lunged at him, causing such a commotion that other passengers had to intervene. I told them he had stolen my money and left my child and me homeless. To my relief, they took my side, telling him he had two options: return my money or deal with the police.

He panicked and agreed to talk, so we stepped off the bus and entered a café. I grabbed his bag and emptied its contents, discovering a ship ticket to America. When I confronted him, he claimed it belonged to another client. I seized it immediately, telling him that until he returned my money, his client wasn’t going anywhere.

Desperate, he proposed a deal. He said he could get me a valid visa to America — albeit under a false name — but it would only cover one person, and I would have to travel by boat, which would take a month.

By this time, Adekunle had gotten his citizenship after marrying Clara, but he claimed he couldn’t divorce her because she refused to sign the papers. She said she was in love with him and wanted to make it work. Even when he told her about our son, she didn’t care. When he told me this, my head was hot. I was willing to do anything to get to America, so I accepted the agent’s suggestion.

I begged my boss at the hairdressing salon to help me take care of Dare. I lied that his father was deathly ill in the US, but I couldn’t get Dare a visa, and I wanted to see him before he passed. She was very accommodating and agreed. I left the UK in 2010 to go to America by boat, and that was the last time I saw Dare in person.

On getting to America, it was easy to remind Adekunle of what we had. He ensured his divorce with Clara was finalised, and we moved to Texas later that year. In 2011, we were planning to move Dare to the US to be with us when I found out that I was pregnant again. We couldn’t afford both a baby and Dare’s visa, so we pushed it back by a year. We made sure to send money for upkeep to him so he never lacked in the UK, but we just couldn’t bring him over.

In 2011, we had a beautiful baby girl, Loretta — and then three more girls in 2013, 2015 and 2018. These pregnancies meant that we kept pushing Dare’s move to the US back further and further. In 2020, the lockdown happened. We called our son to apologise again for the delay and promised that once the travel ban was lifted, he would come over to join us.

By this time, Adekunle had started a software development job, and I had a beauty supply store in Nashville. But to our surprise, Dare said he had no interest or intention of coming over to the US to live with us.

I was confused. All the work we had done was to bring him to be with us. He hasn’t even met his sisters in person yet. I want all of us to live under the same roof, even briefly, because that’s what families do, right? But Dare inherited my stubbornness. He said if we send him the money, he won’t use it on a visa. He claims he has friends and other things in the UK, and he can’t leave them behind just because we’re finally ready for him to come over.

Initially, I was very angry. I thought he was ungrateful, and my absence from his life had allowed him to fall in with bad gangs in the UK. It was Adekunle that made me realise that we were at fault. We had been gone for so long that, of course, he didn’t feel attached to us. Since 2020, I have been begging him to at least visit the US so he can meet his younger ones. He says he’ll think about it and I think that’s progress. His father visited the UK in 2021, so they’ve met, but I haven’t seen him since 2010 and I have no idea when he’ll visit the US or if he even will.

I don’t regret coming to the US to be with Adekunle, but I regret not being more intentional about bringing our son over. If we had done that immediately after we had Loretta, maybe this situation would have been different. He’s his own man now, so I can’t force him to do anything, but I miss him so much. He said he might spend this Christmas with us, and I pray every night that it happens.

Leaving already? If you enjoyed reading this story, you’ll like what’s here: I’ve Not Spoken to My Sister in 8 Years, and I’m Not Sure We Ever Will
For Doyin*(25), peace of mind trumps closeness to her family. She talks about how her family’s overzealous religious beliefs made her superstitious and drove a permanent wedge in their relationship.

As told to Betty:

Source: Canva Dream Lab

When I was six or seven years old, two cousins — a boy and a girl — from my father’s side of the family came to live with us. They were a bit older than me and my three siblings, and I thought they were cool.

My family was comfortable, so we could accommodate the additions. Don’t get me wrong—we weren’t wealthy, but we certainly weren’t poor. My father had a great job at a bottling plant, and my mum had a thriving store. We lived happily together with my cousins for a year. Then, everything changed.

My mother, a very spiritual woman, occasionally hosted clergymen for meals at our house. It was routine for a pastor or evangelist to drop by our house for lunch or dinner, so when this “Prophet” came through on a Sunday for lunch, I thought nothing of it.

After the meal, we all gathered in the living room for a short prayer before the Prophet left. This was also normal; the men of God who visited said a prayer before they left. The Prophet started to pray for each of us individually, placing his hands on our heads.

The prayer session was uneventful until he placed his hands on my cousin’s head to pray for her. She fell to the ground and started screaming that he was burning her ears. Her brother burst into tears and started writhing on the ground as well.

My cousins said they were witches sent to kill my mother and stagnate my father. They said my father was cursed and bad things would start to happen to our family by the end of the year. The living room descended into chaos and prayers.

For one awful week, no one left the house. We all fasted and did a week-long deliverance service for my cousins. It was very surreal.

On the last day, my parents gave my cousins some money and sent them back to my dad’s hometown. The Prophet prayed for our family one last time and left. That was the last time I ever saw him.

This happened 20 years ago, but my family hasn’t really moved on. Three months after the event, my father lost his job. In the same year, my mother’s store burned down. For many years, we believed we were cursed.

I felt the toll, too; I started doing poorly in school, withdrew from friends and became very superstitious. I believed everyone had some evil spiritual agenda against me and my family.

One day at school, which was getting harder to afford, a kind teacher called me aside to talk about my plummeting grades. I’d gone from being a really good student to a struggling student, and she didn’t understand why I was flunking.

I tried to explain to her that I was cursed and there was no way for me to do well at school anymore. I’ll never forget her; she didn’t laugh at me or call me a liar. She prayed with me and told me that only I can give a curse power. She encouraged me to study with her during break times and free periods.

I was very encouraged when my grades rose back up. I still believed in the power of the curse, but I didn’t feel powerless. I could work my way out, right?

My parents didn’t think so. Things kept getting worse — For starters, we sold our house and returned to renting. My dad moved from pastor to pastor, church to church, in search of a miracle, spending a good chunk of his savings to pay for holy water.

If I needed a textbook at school but some evangelist had told my dad to bring the same amount for them to read psalms over some water, I knew that we were paying for the water. The curse had become a whole new and expensive family member in my house, and I started feeling resentful in my teens.

Fast-forward to 2018. I was in 200L, studying for a law degree, and my relationship with my family really began to deteriorate.

Once, I went home, and as usual, a pastor was around to pray for some reason. We ate and during the following prayer session, he prayed for each member of the family. He stopped when he got to me and said that the Lord had revealed to him that I was a witch, the final stronghold of the curse in my family.

I have a gold chain that my parents bought for me when I was a baby. It was one of the few things we didn’t sell when times were bad. He pointed to this chain and said it was the talisman I was using. According to him, I had to take it off before they could do a deliverance service to save us from the curse.

I insisted I wasn’t a witch and refused to take the chain off. When I refused, the pastor tried to yank it off my neck, which escalated into a fight.

My parents believed me and gently ushered the pastor out, but I was angry that they didn’t throw him out as soon as he accused me. I told them this, and they argued that they had to honour the servants of God.

My parent’s blind belief in pastors whittled my own faith. I became concerned about the amount of influence that pastors and self-proclaimed prophets have on older Christians. Still, I couldn’t talk about it in my community or to my family because they felt these people were above censure.

As a result, I stopped going to church and turned to YouTube for sermons. The only way to sanely practice my faith is to do it by myself for now, and my parents hate it. The witch allegations have not gone away completely since then; my less pious approach to Christianity makes my family think I might become a witch in some way or another.

After finishing school, I moved out of the house and got a great job. I try to send money home to help out, but things are still tough, especially with the economic downturn. My mum tests me by offering me holy water to drink when I visit home, and I drink it every time because I have nothing to hide. More importantly, I don’t think it works.

[ad]

My dad and I are not on speaking terms anymore. When I moved out after school, I started sending my dad job applications so we could increase our family’s income but he’d take the applications to pastors to pray on it, and they would ask him for money to pray for his success. More often than not, he didn’t have the money to pay the pastors, and he’d end up not applying for the job.

It’s crazy to me because my father is so talented; he doesn’t need a pastor to co-sign everything he does. I believe that you can fight against a curse with personal faith and hard work, not by waiting on a human for a miracle.

My relationship with my family now is distant and transactional. I send money home when they need it—which is a lot, but I don’t mind. I miss the relationship I used to have with them, but I prefer the peace of mind that comes with hard work. I also like not looking over my shoulder for witches and witch allegations all the time. Most of all, I really love not feeling cursed.

Next Read: A Fake Genotype Result Cost Me The Love Of My Life

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Grief comes to us all in different ways.

For Damola*, his grief has deepened into an overwhelming feeling of guilt after visiting the cemetery one year after his mum’s death and being unable to locate her grave.

As Told To Adeyinka

In July 2022, I lost my mum a few weeks after her 55th birthday.

The entire experience still feels like a script from a Nollywood movie. She fell sick on a Monday, complaining of a fever and cold feet.

At first, we thought it was nothing serious—just the regular cold that’d require over-the-counter medication and some hot liquid. But by midnight that Monday, what started as a cold had also affected her breathing.

We went to a private hospital very early the next morning, and the doctor thought it was probably a severe case of cold. She got stronger doses of cold and catarrh medication, but she didn’t feel any better.

By evening, her younger sibling joined us in the hospital and insisted we take her to a specialist hospital in Ebute Metta. By then, her breathing had gotten really bad. At the specialist hospital, the doctors confirmed it wasn’t a cold, but pulmonary embolism.

My mum died in the early hours of Wednesday morning before the doctors could prep her for surgery.

The burial ceremony was a blur. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take note of my surroundings—not who was there with us or what the place looked like. I just knew we were at Atan cemetery in Yaba.

Reality only set in the next morning. I got a call from my aunty asking me to return to the cemetery and make plans to properly secure my mum’s gravesite.

The first question I blurted out was, “Where is her grave?”

The question threw my aunty off, and she went on a gentle rant about how she’d shown me markers the previous day. I wanted to argue, but I didn’t know if she’d understand if I told her I had little to no memory of everything that transpired at the cemetery.

After the call, I found my way to the cemetery in Yaba. Luckily, some guys remembered me from the previous day and offered to help me locate my mum’s grave. I thought it was kind of them until they started pitching their services, and I realised it was a business.

They suggested marble tiles, a gated fence, headstones, and other options to beautify the grave. We eventually went for a simple marble and headstone design.

I remember taking several pictures of my mum’s gravesite after the workers finished. I also recorded the surrounding graves and trees — everything I considered a landmark to help me remember.

After leaving the cemetery, I made a pact with myself to visit the grave as frequently as possible. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my mum was all alone in the ground, in the vast ocean of graves, and she’d need a companion, or at least an offspring, who remembered her every once in a while.

For reasons beyond me, I couldn’t keep that pact.

To start with, I was posted to Osogbo for NYSC three months after my mum died. There wasn’t enough time to visit the cemetery the few times I was in Lagos. Besides, after her death, I’d listened to Islamic lectures where I learnt it was wrong to idolise the grave of a loved one. Nothing else really counts as long as you remember to pray and seek forgiveness on their behalf.

So, every time I didn’t visit the grave, I took solace in the fact that I prayed for my mother. Yet, this hasn’t stopped me from feeling guilty.

I returned to Lagos earlier this year. Soon after, I started to have more frequent dreams about my mum. The dreams weren’t strange — they’d always happened — but the increased frequency this time worried me. So, one day, I called my spiritual guardian and told him what I’d been experiencing.

He asked when last I prayed or gave alms on my mum’s behalf, and I said I always prayed for her. He then suggested a bigger prayer session with family members on her behalf and said I should visit her grave.

I hadn’t been to the grave since early 2023, but I was convinced the pictures and videos on my phone would be helpful. I was so wrong.

[ad]

The day I went to the cemetery, I didn’t see any familiar faces. The workers at the security post seemed completely different, and when they asked what I was there for, I told them I was visiting my mum’s grave. They asked if I knew where it was, and I said yes.

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure that I did.

A lot seemed to have changed in the cemetery—the place had been overrun by grass and weeds. But I wasn’t willing to admit to strangers that I was unsure of where my mother’s grave was. The mere thought of that admission made me ashamed.

So, with the pictures on my phone, I tasked myself with finding the grave. At least 80 per cent of the landmarks were still in place; the real problem was finding the particular line where her grave was. I couldn’t find any graves I’d photographed on my phone. Most of the headstones read 2024, and it didn’t seem like there was any grave of anyone who died within the last three years in sight.

I went on and on with the search, tiptoeing around graves and being careful not to step on those that had weakened with time. Being alone in that ocean of graves snapped something within me; I stopped searching and broke down in tears.

When it became clear that I didn’t know where the grave was, I called my aunt and asked when she last visited. She said she visited the grave two weeks back when she accompanied a friend to bury her mum. She also seemed surprised that I was there and asked why I didn’t mention I was coming since we were both at the prayer session the day before. I ignored the question and said we could come together the next time she planned to visit.

I didn’t tell her I had no idea where the grave was. She’d have made a drama of it.

Now, I’m counting down to the day we’d go together. But I can’t help feeling bad. This feeling is worse because I haven’t dreamt of my mum in a while. I feel like she’s mad at me.

Read this next: I Lived Beside a Cemetery for 20 Years
I wanted to speak with people who have had friendship breakups due to living with their friends, and I found Habib*.

His 10-year friendship with Ibukun* is about to end after just six months of living together as flatmates.

As told to Adeyinka

I’ve only lived with Ibukun for six months, and it’s the worst decision I’ve made in a long time.

I’ve always been against having a roommate or living in a shared apartment. Even when I lived with my parents, I was the only sibling with a room to myself. I used to share the room with my immediate brother, but we were always fighting. He never arranged his bed, preferred the lights on and windows open, and left the doors open. All of these things unsettled my peace of mind, so it was hard to overlook. After our eldest sibling married, I didn’t say a word before he moved and left the room for me.

When I got into university, my parents didn’t argue when I insisted on a self-contained off-campus apartment instead of the school’s shared hostel arrangement. They knew their child well, and putting me up with a stranger would have unsettled them as much as it did me.

I met Ibukun at university in 2014. He was my super cool coursemate, whom I convinced to move into my hostel. When we met, he was looking for new accommodation, and there was a spare self-con in my hostel. Since we’d gotten along as coursemates, I was thrilled by the idea of having him in the hostel.

Living in the same hostel moved us from coursemates to actual friends. We attended lectures together, came home together, planned meals together, studied together, and made more mutual friends together. On some days, we crashed in each other’s rooms.

At some point, people who didn’t know the history of our friendship thought we were related, and we went with that narrative. To some people, we were friends, and to others, cousins. During short holidays when I couldn’t make it to Lagos, my parents gave me permission to spend it at Ibukun’s in Osogbo.

We saw less of each other after we graduated from university in 2018. I came to Lagos, where I did my NYSC. Ibukun was back in Osogbo and served in Ibadan. But the long distance had nothing on us; we were still guys. We texted, called and occasionally attended owambes of family and mutual friends.

[ad]

In November last year, Ibukun told me his job was transferring him to Lagos, and he needed help finding a place. Coincidentally, I was house hunting because I wanted to move out of my parents’ place.

My search had been fruitless. Lagos agents were asking ridiculous sums for horrible houses with poor ventilation. They also kept insisting that I couldn’t get a decent mini-flat on the mainland with my ₦700k budget except I was open to houses in Ikorodu, Iyana Ipaja and the likes.

When Ibukun asked, I told him I couldn’t be of much help because I’d also been house hunting and hadn’t found anything. Immediately after I mentioned I was house hunting, Ibukun suggested getting a place together. He said we could get a two-bedroom and both have our rooms to ourselves.

It didn’t sound like a bad idea, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled by it. The first thing that struck my mind was my reservation against living with someone. But in that moment, I also realised Ibukun’s suggestion was probably worth considering if I wanted to move out and get a decent house. Besides, just like he said, we’d have our rooms to ourselves, and if he became overbearing, I could always retire to my room.

In the first week of January, we concluded payment for a two-bedroom and started setting up the space. Moving into the house made me realise rent was just the first of several steps. We had to pay for much more — furniture, light and curtain fittings, bed, etc. I was super thankful that I could split the bill with someone. We finally moved in the last week of January, and my parents and Ibukun’s dad came to pray for us in the house.

Living with Ibukun was cool. We agreed on everything, and splitting bills wasn’t a problem. But things started to fall apart in April.

I should mention one habit I found disturbing about Ibukun during our undergrad days. My guy was never one to keep his dick in his pants. Ibukun had different babes who spent the night with him in the hostel. Six girls could visit him in a week, and at least four of those would spend the night. I thought it was excessive, but I never mentioned it since it wasn’t making him any less serious with school.

The problem is, Ibukun’s hoe-phase followed him into adulthood. At first, I didn’t suspect anything. Actually, there was nothing to suspect. He’d just moved to Lagos, didn’t know many people, and was trying to find his balance at work. So, there wasn’t a lot of time for leisurely activities.

But by April, when he was fully settled, the Ibukun from uni reared his head. It started with him coming home from work with a female colleague. The babe would come with a change of clothes, and they’d leave for work together in the morning. She seemed like a nice babe, so I didn’t have issues. Also, I assumed they were serious since she was spending days at a stretch. After about two weeks, I stopped seeing the girl. Another one had replaced her, and since then, I’ve lost count of all the girls that have been to our house.

The annoying thing is that the people he brings over have no respect for our house. They invade everywhere. I entered the kitchen one morning, and there was this strange babe in a crop top and pants making noodles. I had to dash out of the kitchen, apologising—which is crazy because WTF? It’s my house; I should be able to show up anywhere I want.

As if that’s not bad enough, they cook our food, eat our cereals, use gadgets that drain power units, leave stuff in the living room, and mess up the bathroom and toilets. I can’t count the number of times I’ve cleaned lather off the bathroom walls, washed off pubic hair, and opened the toilet to see clumps of tissue.

Let’s not even talk about the sex noises. The ladies are always unnecessarily loud. I don’t know if he makes them do it intentionally or if they’re uncouth. I could be up observing midnight prayers, and the moaning sounds wouldn’t let me focus.

One day, a guy spent the night, and I could have sworn I heard moaning sounds. To this day, I’ve convinced myself a girl was probably in the room with them for a threesome, or they were watching porn. I’ve never known Ibukun to be bisexual.

I’ve complained, begged, and given the coldest shoulders to his guests, but nothing seems to work. The last time we talked, we raised voices at each other, and he kept saying that no one ever comes inside my room, which means I still have my privacy. I’ve considered telling his parents, but how do I even go about telling on an adult who chooses to be sexually irresponsible?

At this point, I just feel deep resentment and hatred toward him. We stopped joint contributions for foodstuffs last month. I now put my provisions and foodstuff in a separate cupboard in the kitchen. He can continue feeding his guests from his pocket.

I’m definitely not renewing the rent when it expires. Maybe I’ll move back in with my parents and save up until I can afford a place in a nice area.

Read this next: An Old and Forgotten Friend Made My Japa Dreams Come True
Two years after he left Nigeria, Mujeeb* still marvels at the change of circumstances that made his relocation possible.

He shares how an old friend was instrumental to his relocation journey and how he plans to pay the kindness forward to friends who are still trying to japa.

As told to Adeyinka

It feels like a dream whenever I think about how I made it out of Nigeria. How do you explain someone you haven’t seen in over 20 years giving you money to support your japa plans and pulling strings in your favour?

Tunde and I went to the same secondary school. He was my seat partner for most of my senior secondary school years, and I won’t say I liked him much. When we were in SS1, I thought we could be friends, but we had different interests. He loved football and always taunted me, calling me a “woman” because I didn’t like any sports.

He was also part of a clique that considered themselves the school’s “big boys”. Whenever he was with them, I couldn’t relate to him. So I decided there was no need to pursue a serious friendship.

We graduated from secondary school in 2009, and he moved to the US. He constantly shared pictures on Facebook. I went through his timeline, but I never sent a friend request. I assumed he wouldn’t accept or be condescending towards me because I was still in Nigeria.

I didn’t want anyone to make me feel that way, so I observed from a distance. As the years went by, he didn’t post about his life as much, and I also wasn’t as interested in keeping up with him. I had my life to live in Nigeria.

In 2017, I got a WhatsApp notification that I’d been added to an alumni group. Honestly, I wanted to leave the group immediately because the previous alumni groups ended in disaster. Some people were still as shallow as they were in school; some just wanted to brag and others were there to observe.

However, there was an interesting conversation in the group that morning about one of our teachers, and everyone had funny memories to share. I had my share of experiences, so I stayed back and joined the conversation. It was hard to say who was who because most of us didn’t have our numbers saved, but you could tell some of the numbers were international.

Then, out of the blue, one of the international numbers asked, “Is Segun Oni in this group?” I checked the display picture to see who it was, but the person’s profile picture was an artwork. So I responded with, “Who’s asking?”

The response was, “Your seat partner.”

Then he sent me a personal message. Even though it had been years, my memories of Tunde from school came rushing back, and I was somewhat guarded in our conversation. It also didn’t help that he asked questions like, “So what do you do now?” “Are you married?” “Where do you work?”

The questions felt intrusive, and a part of me assumed he was trying to size me up. I answered as honestly as I could without sharing more than necessary. He went on about life abroad and shared more than I asked. I was thankful when he said he had to go to work.

After that interaction, I kept my distance because my memories of him were still tied to how he treated me in school. We bantered occasionally in the group, and sometimes, he diverted the conversation to our personal chat.

[ad]

The truth is I didn’t understand where the sudden overfamiliarity came from. Did he forget how annoying he was in school? Did he think we were buddies? I couldn’t tell, and I was getting tired of playing along.

Meanwhile, I actively pursued my japa dreams. Two of my friends from uni had relocated to the UK through the education route, and another had gone through the job route. Other friends were in various stages of planning their relocation, and it was only a matter of time before I caught the japa fever.

The problem was I didn’t have the money to cure the fever. My mum had retired and couldn’t sponsor a master’s abroad on her monthly pension. My job at the time paid ₦120k, and I had a strict ₦80k monthly savings goal. Friends said they spent around ₦3 – 5m. Twitter japa influencers constantly put out scary figures, and I only had ₦1.6m saved.

But it didn’t stop me from applying to schools. I was always posting Twitter japa content on my WhatsApp status and lamenting the financial implications. When I wasn’t posting about japa, I lamented Buhari’s government and how the rest of us in Nigeria were in trouble.

One day, Tunde responded and seemed genuinely concerned. He asked how bad the situation was. I went into a full-on epistle about it. His genuine interest soon turned to monosyllabic responses, and I thought I’d messed up. The thing with people abroad is when you talk about problems too much, they assume you want to ask for money. And the smart ones know how to cut you off before you get to that point.

I cringed at the thought of Tunde putting me in that box, so I blocked him from viewing my status. With him blocked, there was hardly any opportunity for random conversations.

Fast forward to 2021, we had one of those random moments on the alumni WhatsApp group, and Tunde was in my DMs again. We texted, and he asked how my relocation plans were going. I gave a “We thank God” type response because I didn’t see how it was his concern. I’d secured a UK admission at the time and was actively looking to pay the £4,000 deposit. I think it was around ₦2.2m.

Even though I didn’t give him any important details, something about him asking about my plans seemed genuine, so I unblocked him on WhatsApp. Besides, I’d stopped talking about japa because I wanted to move in silence.

One day, Tunde called on WhatsApp. He must’ve been bored, but the call came when I could also use some banter. We reminisced about school, and he had a lot to say about the times I came through for him during exams. Until that call, I didn’t remember that part of our history. Tunde wasn’t the brightest student in class, but it hardly reflected in his grades because I didn’t have issues helping him out.

The conversation eventually turned to relocation again. I needed help at that point even though he was the last person I wanted to unload my financial burdens on. But since he was asking and had asked before, I gave him a rundown of everything. How I’d used up all my savings to pay the deposit, how I needed Proof of Funds and didn’t know how to sort the rest of the tuition, accommodation or flight tickets. It was a lot to dump on someone abroad who’s probably avoiding billing, but I spared no details since he was bent on knowing.

What happened in the weeks that followed still blows my mind. Like how Portable says, “Who go help you no go stress you.”

Tunde spoke with his dad on my behalf, and the man funded my account with the ₦10m POF I needed without any charge. That was a huge relief because individuals were asking for ridiculous sums. But that wasn’t what blew my mind. After that call, Tunde asked for my bank account and continued to ask for updates. I’d share the latest with him, and he’d offer to help seek second opinions from his network.

Then one weekend, two months before I travelled, I received a ₦3.5m credit alert on my phone. I’d been expecting something from Tunde since he asked for my account, but the amount drove me mad with excitement. Almost immediately, I got a message from Tunde on WhatsApp. It was a transaction receipt and an apology for not doing more. In my head, I was like, “What do you mean not doing more?” ₦3.5m in Buhari’s economy? That’s still the highest sum I’ve gotten from anyone, and I don’t know if anyone can top it.

After the huge donation, he helped with other things until I arrived abroad. Honestly, I doubt my relocation would’ve worked out that year if he hadn’t come through at the exact time he did. I would’ve most likely deferred to another year.

Weirdly, I can’t say our friendship has moved from point A to B. I tried to invest more time and energy in the friendship after he came through for me, but he’s not been forthcoming. We text haphazardly and have occasional lengthy calls. Whatever the case, I’m indebted to him.

A lot of my friends are still in Nigeria, and I know relocation has become more capital-intensive. Hopefully, I can pay the kindness forward in the future.

Read this next: I’m the Odd One in My Friend Group, and It’s Lonely
I was looking to speak with young men navigating failures in their lives when I found Sunkanmi*.

The 33-year-old opens up about how his inability to start a family due to Nigeria’s harsh economic conditions makes him feel like he’s failed his ageing parents, who toiled to give him a better life.

As told to Adeyinka

In the version of my early thirties that I spent my twenties dreaming about, I should be married with two kids by now. I should also have a nice house and cars for my wife and me, be able to take vacations abroad and have a bank account with savings that guarantee peace of mind. I’m 33, pushing 34, and I’ve not achieved any of these things.

I’m usually not one to let these delays weigh me down because I’ve always believed that it’s never too late for life to pleasantly surprise you. But recently, it’s started to bother me. My dad is a good example of “It’s never too late to start”. Let me explain.

Until I graduated from secondary school, things were tough at home. My dad was out of a job because he was ill — doctors could never come up with a diagnosis for all the six years he was sick. So, my mum, a frozen foods trader, was the family’s sole provider. We never lacked, but we only had enough for the necessities. My sibling and I learnt early enough never to ask for money for anything deemed unimportant.

After I completed secondary school, my mum became increasingly worried about the expenses of funding my university education. It was a constant talking point in the house. Her frozen foods business only generated enough income to cater to our small family of four and tend to my ailing father. Funding a university education on that income just wasn’t feasible. My mum even considered approaching family members to crowdfund. I hadn’t even gained admission to a school, but she didn’t want to wait until the last minute.

Call it a miracle or coincidence, but my mum’s sadness and desperation at the time reawakened something in my dad. He started recovering, and the illness left as mysteriously as it came. He reconnected with old friends and business associates who were kind enough to return his calls and help him find his feet again.

After my dad turned 50 in 2012, he launched his automobile sales company, bought my mum’s first car, and I gained admission into a private university with higher tuition than the government university my mum wanted me to attend.

I left uni in 2016, and eight years later, I can’t say that life is looking up. I don’t know what the future holds.

Honestly, things started to go downhill right after graduation. I left uni with a third class and kept it from my parents. I couldn’t bear the thought of sharing the news and breaking their hearts. I came up with all sorts of lies about my result until they stopped asking. Thankfully, I went for NYSC soon after graduation, which erased their doubts about whether I truly completed university.

After NYSC, my dad resumed asking for my certificate and CV so he could send them to friends who had promised to help with a job. But with a third-class degree, I was sure I’d make myself and my dad laughing stocks to people who held him in high regard. So, I stalled and came up with more excuses whenever he mentioned the topic.

Fast-forward to two months later, I talked my parents into letting me move to my uncle’s place in Lagos, where I was certain I was going to hit it big.

As someone who spent most of his teenage years in Ogbomosho, I’d seen friends and relatives move to Lagos and seemingly have things go well for them. I was especially convinced because some of them didn’t attend uni. If they could make it, I felt I had a better chance as a graduate.

[ad]

Lagos wasn’t all I hoped it would be, but after weeks of submitting job applications, I struck gold with manufacturing factories. Most didn’t care about my third-class degree as long as I had the physical strength to work. I landed a factory job that paid ₦65k for an eight-hour shift and threw in a bonus for people willing to work weekends.

Six months after my first job, I changed jobs a few times and landed a supervisory role at a beverage production factory in Ijebu. The role came with free accommodation and paid ₦150k.

I left the factory job in 2021. My body could no longer take on the physical demands and long shift hours that were required. Also, the ₦150k salary that had seemed like a big deal in 2019 was barely enough in 2021.

I returned to my uncle’s place in Lagos after I left the job. A friend told me he was making a killing from Uber and Taxify as a cab driver, so I gathered my savings and bought a second-hand Camry 2004 Le for ₦1.8m. I could’ve bought it from my dad or asked him to help with the car, but I wanted to do it myself. At 28, I didn’t want to be seen as depending on my parents for handouts. Moreover, I’d given them the impression that my life was on track in Lagos.

I started the cab service fully in early 2022. On the side, I took on private driving gigs for companies and individuals, worked as a part-time driver with a catering company, and even enrolled as an apprentice at a private mechanic workshop.

More than three years after “hustling”, as the streets would call it, I can’t say I’ve done much with myself. It’s as if Nigeria swallows up your efforts no matter how hard you try. You think you’re earning a cool sum or have saved up enough to consider settling down, and the economy suddenly takes a dive, reducing your savings to nothing and leaving you uncertain. I should also mention that I lost ₦2.5m of my savings to relocation scam.

In all of this, my love life has been non-existent. I’ve gotten into on-and-off relationships, but nothing serious. I’m constantly afraid I’ve not made enough to start a family or fend for one.

I once had a lady who almost pressured me into marriage. She wasn’t bothered about my finances and used every opportunity to mention that her parents would support us in every way—they’d foot the wedding, help us with an apartment, and even sponsor our relocation abroad. As much as it sounded like a good deal, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of depending on her parents. I eventually broke things off.

Last year, my mum was diagnosed with glaucoma and partially lost her sight for some months. I remember almost breaking down in tears when I visited her at home. At that moment, I realised there was a possibility she’d never see my face again, my children, who I choose to spend life with, or what my wedding ceremony would look like.

I’ve watched my parents travel miles for wedding ceremonies or naming parties of friends and relatives. I’ve watched them tend to the neighbours’ children like their own. I’ve watched them babysit for relatives who needed support. In their old age, I’ve realised that these things give them a deep sense of joy and fulfilment. Even though they never pressure me, I feel like my inability to settle down and start a family deprives them of the joy they derive from outsiders.

Sadly, I don’t know what the future holds or if they’ll be alive to witness it. I’m still out here hustling and doing my best to create a soft landing for the family I don’t have yet. I’ve accepted that I might be a late starter, just like my dad.

Read this next: My Parents Once Ignored Me for a Year
Funmbi* talks about her relationship with James*, the incidents that led to their breakup, and the possibility of getting back with the love of her life.

Image created with Starryai

This is Funmbi’s* story, as told to Chioma.

I met James* on Tinder in 2021. He was sweet and hilarious, so we exchanged contacts and started talking, but it all fizzled out after a while.

One night, I was ranting on my WhatsApp status, and he reached out to check on me. He called me again the following day, and we spoke for about two hours. Before it ended, he gave me a gig. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me that month.

After that, we just continued talking to each other. He was smart and kind, and the next thing I knew, I was convincing myself that my school in Ilorin wasn’t even that far from Lagos, where he was, and long-distance relationships weren’t that bad. I knew he wanted to ask me out, and he was just waiting for the right moment, but I didn’t have the patience for that, so two weeks later, I asked him to be my boyfriend.

Our relationship was great. He was the best boyfriend anyone could ask for, and we had this communication rule to make sure the long distance didn’t affect us as much, but I knew something would go wrong. I assumed the worst and hatched a plan for when it happened. So I already thought of the worst thing—him cheating—and then I told myself that he was probably already doing it.

I wasn’t wrong.

James and I were heavy on communication, calls, texts, notes by pigeon. As long as we got to speak to each other constantly, we would do it. Two months into our relationship, I started noticing a communication gap. He would disappear for hours and come back without explanation, so one day, I decided to go to Lagos and see what was happening. I had an event to attend, I had cash, and all this man had to do was pick me up from my friend’s place and take me to his house. We needed to talk, and most importantly, we needed to have sex.

I waited all day for James to show up, but he didn’t. I was livid. I had travelled from Illorin to see him, but he couldn’t drive from Ajah to Lekki to pick me up. I wanted to be petty. I wanted to do something to spite him, so I had sex with the friend I was staying with.

I swear, it didn’t mean anything. To me, sex isn’t such a big deal. I mean, it is, but only when you attach meaning to it, and as far as I was concerned, sex outside a relationship was as meaningless as it came.

I think that’s why I was able to forgive him when he finally confessed to cheating on me the first time.

He came to pick me up from that friend’s house, and after we spoke about the communication gap in our relationship, he confessed. I forgave him after a couple hours because, well, I did just cheat on him, too, but I still loved him, and I already knew he was cheating. He lived in Lagos. We were doing long distance. He gets horny at least twice a week, and he’s a hot guy. There’s too much fish in the river for him not to be tempted.

I didn’t want to lose him, and I had a feeling it would happen again because how do you ask a man to stay celibate because of long distance? In Lagos? It’s like begging water and oil to mix. It’s like trying to say Tinubu should approve a ₦400k minimum wage. It won’t work.

I suggested we open up our relationship. We would still love each other and be together, but we could sleep with whomever we pleased and talk about it. He went ballistic and said he didn’t want that. I think his ego couldn’t handle the thought of someone else touching me. Instead of opening up our relationship, he decided we would take a break and try to sort out our issues. I was fine with that, and then I found out he used that time to cheat again. I gave up after that, and we broke up.

It’s been a year since we broke up, and we’ve built a really good friendship.

The friendship is golden.

He japa’d last August and has been trying to get me to move. That’s a more complicated discussion. But I still love him a lot, and I know it’s mutual to some extent.

Want to know something crazy? If he asks me to give it another shot, even with him thousands of miles away, I just might say yes.
I was curious about people who live beside cemeteries and wanted to know about their experiences when I found Ibrahim*.

In this story, Ibrahim talks about his family’s cemetery residence with its supposedly good-luck charm, the ghost rumours and the friendship heartbreaks that came with it.

As told to Adeyinka

Until I turned 12, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to my environment. I knew we lived on Lagos mainland and had lots of trees in the area. Occasionally, an influx of people showed up on random days, and they always seemed so sad. Some of them even cried. One day, I asked my mum about these strangers and why they always gathered in the compound next to us.

My mum told me, “That’s where they bury people who have gone to heaven.” I’m not sure if I understood this, but I didn’t press further.

Then, I got into secondary school and got a true picture of how weird our accommodation was. My friends would hesitate when I invited them to visit, then come up with all sorts of excuses. I was sad when this happened because I visited them without fail.

When I was in JSS 3, another major event put things into perspective for me. It was a few weeks before the Junior WAEC exams and two of my friends and I had a lesson teacher who taught us at our homes. But the workload was too much for him, so he asked our parents if they could agree to have him teach all of us at once at one person’s house.

Our parents agreed until the question of the lesson location came up and the teacher suggested my house. To be fair, we were the only ones with a spacious backyard that could be used as a makeshift classroom.

The other parents didn’t like the idea. They didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of their kids being that close to a cemetery. The lesson was also from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m., so that timing freaked them out.

That was the first time I felt ashamed of where I lived. But this shame didn’t translate into us moving out, and I get why. The building was a family house and our rent was subsidised. It was also a pretty comfortable house. Also, my dad strongly believed the house brought us good luck and aligned with our stars. I don’t remember us having any major difficulties or setbacks in the house.

[ad]

Here’s the thing: In the 20+ years we lived there, I never had any encounters with ghosts or any of these bogus rumours about cemeteries you see in Nollywood movies. Yes, there were times we woke up in the morning and found calabashes with sacrifices at the junction, but I think this was common with places that had T-junctions. Maybe the cemetery in the area contributed to this, I honestly don’t know.

Some neighbours and older folks claimed they heard or saw things — from strange footsteps to shadows in the midnight. But neither I nor my family members did, so we treated them as what they were… rumours.

The last one I heard about before relocating was someone who said he was washing his car late at night and whistling. He heard a voice asking him to stop the noise. He didn’t answer and continued, then a ghost slapped him.

I’ll say the only thing that scared me, even till my adult years, was walking past the cemetery late at night or early in the morning. There’s an eerie calm and coldness that hangs in the air during these times. I can’t explain it, but it’s always there.

In 2022, I moved to Osogbo for NYSC and decided to stay back after my service year ended. My parents also moved out in late 2022 into a house they built.

It’s still our family house, but we’re considering renting it out. Let me say it’s not easy getting people to rent a house beside a cemetery.

READ ALSO: I’m Pretty Sure My Last Uber Driver Was A Ghost
Femi Dapson recently went viral on X for this post.

He shared a throwback video from when he was a cleaner in 2017, which he’d made as evidence of his strong belief that he’d make it one day. It has since amassed over two million views.

It’s 2023, and he did make it. He shares his inspiring journey with Zikoko.

As told to Boluwatife

Credit: Nouvelle Films

I grew up poor.

We were so poor my family rented uncompleted buildings because we couldn’t afford anything else. It was that bad.

I was born in Agege, but we moved to Idowu Egba, a neighbourhood in Igando, when I was about four years old. The uncompleted building we lived in had no windows or roof, so we used empty rice sacks to cover the ceiling and window openings. The floor was uncemented, so we put mats over the red sand.

Despite the sorry situation we were in, I always knew it wasn’t the life I was made for. My dad was a driver, and my mum sold food. I saw them constantly struggling and would always tell myself that I’d never end up like them.

And I backed this mindset with actions.

I made a deliberate effort not to make friends on my street. We were all poor there, so what was I supposed to gain from an equally poor person?

I have a way with people, and I’d always target rich kids. I wanted to be like them. So, I’d wake up every morning, iron and wear the only shirt I had, and walk the 15-minute distance to Diamond Estate to meet with the friends I’d made from church or while helping my mum sell food in schools.

My rich friends liked my vibes. I showed and told them things and slang they’d never heard before. In return, I learned how they lived, ate their food and always stood out when I returned home. The only person I got close to in my neighbourhood was the son of a prominent general, and it was because I did everything in my power to make sure we became friends.

Growing up poor meant I also had to start hustling early. I did many menial jobs while moving from one secondary school to the other due to challenges with paying the fees. You want to clear the grass in your compound? I’m there. You need someone to paint your house? I’ll most likely do rubbish, but just pay me ₦2k.

I started my hustle proper after I dropped out of school in SS one when my parents could no longer pay my fees. There’s almost nothing I didn’t do to survive —from barman, to primary school teacher, to factory worker. One thing I made sure to do each time was to put in 110% in every job.

In 2014, we moved to yet another uncompleted building in Sango, and I got a job cleaning at a popular church’s headquarters in Ota. I got paid between ₦11k – 15k monthly to sweep portions of the church premises, chapels, and sometimes, wash cars. I did that for about two years.

One principle guides my life: “If you can read and write, you can teach yourself anything.” In 2016, while still cleaning, I started volunteering to help input evangelism converts’ data into a computer. I’d taught myself computer basics with a cousin’s computer when I was in JSS one, so while other volunteers would use all day to input the data of 100 people, I’d do it in 30 minutes.

The General Overseer’s secretary noticed and took a liking to me, and I unofficially became the assistant secretary to the G.O. Because I didn’t pass through the normal employment process, I didn’t get a raise. But it didn’t stop me from putting in my all. I helped the department make financial approval processes almost paperless before I left after six months. My reason? I was scared they’d just wake up one day and tell everyone without the right qualifications to go.

In 2017, I moved in with a cousin in Ikeja and got a cleaning job at an event centre. It paid between ₦18k – ₦21k/monthly, but damn, the workload wasn’t beans. After parties ended around 10 p.m., the whole place would be a mess, and I’d clean and clean.

But I understood the power of positive confessions. I’d always tell my guys and say to myself that I’d be great; I was born to be great. I’d watch celebrities come to parties where I worked and even pour soap to wash their hands after they used the restroom so they’d give me ₦200 tips. That was the life I wanted. To spray money freely at parties and be greeted, “Good evening, sir”, when I entered toilets, too.

I made this video in 2017 at a low point. I was down with Typhoid and had been in and out of the hospital for two weeks, but I left and returned to work while still sick because I was scared I’d be sacked for staying away that long.

On that day, I was weak and frustrated. I had just finished cleaning the hall and was washing the toilets. At a point, I stopped and started self-affirming that this was just a temporary phase and I’d look back at the memory one day. I decided to document that moment, so I took my phone and recorded myself. If not for the fact that my physical look has improved since then, people would say I took the video yesterday, and I’m just lying. The confidence with which I spoke was crazy.

A large part of my confidence stemmed from the fact that I know God loves me — that’s even what my name, Oluwafemi Ifeoluwa, means. I also had a habit of sacrificially giving out the little money I had at the time — I still give a lot. I believe that the more you give, the more you receive, and I know God is too faithful to fail.

Knowing God saw my heart, I’d drop my bracelet or anything on me in faith when I didn’t have money. I even gave my toothbrush as an offering once. It wasn’t useful to anyone, but God knew that was all I had.

So, I made that video with complete confidence and kept it as evidence so that when I made my money, no one would come and say I did fraud.

And God did come through for me.

I gathered the little money I had and sat for O’Levels in 2018. Then a year later, I got an opportunity to work as a junior auditor in an auditing firm for ₦30k/month. How I got the job was even funny. When I arrived at the interview, I met guys with degrees speaking big English, but when it got to my turn and I showed the partners how I helped make that church in Ota go paperless, their minds were blown.

I had to leave the job a couple of months later because I had stayed with my cousin for too long, and it was starting to become uncomfortable for him. My next stop was Egbeda, where I moved in with a photographer friend, Perliks. We started working together, and I helped him rebrand and manage his business. He was such an amazing photographer, and I made sure he saw it, too. Many of the projects we worked on together went viral.

It wasn’t just Perliks and I in Egbeda; some other friends lived with us. One of them was an artist, and that same year, he got funding for a music video. Perliks had some directing knowledge because he had been on a similar set before, so he said he could shoot it, and I’d produce. I didn’t know anything about production, but I read up about it and said I could do it.

The first day of that production was a disaster because rain destroyed the set, but we pushed through and made the video. It cost ₦800k to shoot, and we even ran at a loss because of the rain. Another artist manager saw it, loved it, and hired us to shoot a video for one of the artists she managed. We went on to shoot three videos for three of her artists. We didn’t make any money from it — we were just trying to give our all.

Around the same time, I pitched a social media influencer and told her I’d like to manage her, and she agreed. While doing that, I met someone who organised monthly parties for a Whiskey brand. He asked me to come on as his partner to blow the brand in Lagos. We threw the littest parties, and it brought cool money. Money cool enough to buy my first car; a Toyota Avalon which cost ₦1.6m.

[ad][/ad]

In 2020, a media production company signed Perliks and me as director and producer, respectively. It’s still crazy how these professionals were absolutely loving what I did with music videos, and I was just a random boy from Egbeda.

When my contract expired the following year, I left and created my own company — Nouvelle Films — and I’ve had the privilege of working on amazing jobs. That’s what I do till date: production and the parties.

I believe everything I’ve gone through in life was specially designed to allow me to get to where I am right now. I never look down on people because someone selling Gala on the streets could be at a level you’d never imagined tomorrow.

Now, some people message me to say we grew up together; they may never have imagined I’d be where I am today. I mean, if someone had told me four years ago that I’d be driving a Mercedes Benz today, I may not have believed it.

Some advice I’d give anyone is to hold on to positive thoughts, hold God and believe in yourself. If you don’t first see IT, no one will see IT with you.

Tickets are now available for the biggest meat festival in Nigeria. We’re celebrating the Nigerian culture of meat and grill simply for your enjoyment. GET A TICKET NOW.

NEXT READ: I’ve Made Three Career Changes, but I’m Still Unsure About My Future
Here’s Ibrahim’s* story as told to Sheriff

I grew up in a Muslim family of five. We were moderately religious, at least when I was younger.

My father had grown up in a staunchly religious family but left home early, so he couldn’t learn so much about the religion before going off to boarding school. He didn’t want the same thing for me, so I started learning about Islam very early on.

I was five years old when I was first enrolled in a Madrasa — an Islamic school, where I learned about the basics of Arabic and Islam itself. I spent two hours at the Madrasa after school on weekdays and five hours during the weekends.

By the time I was eight, I’d memorized the entire Quran. It was a flex; many people in the area and in my family thought it was a cool thing to achieve at such a young age.

I didn’t stop attending the Madrasa after this, so I was able to go deeper into my studies. At this point, I was in the high school equivalent of Islamic Studies. I learned about Islamic Law, Arabic Grammar, theological thought, and even how to write poetry in Arabic. When I was ten years old, I was already speaking fluent Arabic.

A female childhood best friend recently told me she always thought I’d become a Muslim cleric. But I did not.

At the time, though, I was the model kid for my dad and my extended family — well-learned in religion and doing great at school, too. It was the best of both worlds for them.

But there was one problem — I was too inquisitive. It started off as a harmless thing my dad indulged, but it eventually took on a life of its own.

I’d question everything I didn’t understand, and I’d debate you until I got a satisfactory answer.

In early secondary school, I got into religious debates with my Christian classmates about which religion was “more correct”. Now that I think about it, I must have been quite insufferable. To me, I knew everything, and my religion was perfect. There were no flaws in what I’d learnt, and I had sound logical explanations for everything. Not that the interreligious conversation ever went beyond harmless debates, but I derived pleasure from proving that I was right.

I was 13 when I first realised that I might be wrong. It started when I asked the cleric I’d learned from a question about the concept of destiny. In the Islamic doctrine, belief in Qadar (destiny) is one of the articles of faith.

But the explanation I got from my cleric just didn’t make sense.

As a Muslim, you’re meant to believe that everything that happens is ordained and destined by God. Both the good and the bad stuff. And this doesn’t apply to just the broad strokes of our lives alone. Even the tiny details like the choice of food you had for breakfast on a certain Monday happened because God said so.

My question was simple: if this was the case, why does God still need us to pray, have faith, do good, or even do anything? Since it’s simply all His will playing out in everyone’s life.

For the first time, I was told that some questions are inspired by the devil. But this event was the start of my search for answers. I asked every adult I knew for answers, and while they all saw how inconsistent the idea was, it made them sick to their stomach that someone pointed it out. They were always shocked at the realization of what the logical conclusion is. So, they’d ask me to stop asking questions and stick to my faith, because some things are beyond the knowledge of man.

Since I couldn’t get answers from the people in my life, I turned to books. My dad never censored the kinds of books we read, and luckily, my school had lots of them. It had books that had no business being in the library of a secondary school. It had novels that explored the history of religion, and even a copy of the Bhagavad Gita. It was there I read a lot about other religions and the doctrines they’re built upon. I also learned about Abrahamic religions through the lens of history and started to see things really differently.

For example, I read about how the collation of the Qur’an was completed many years after the prophet passed, and how the formation of the Qur’an formed the basis for standardised Arabic today, as the tribes had different dialects at the time.

So, how could I even be sure that what I’d memorised actually meant what I was taught that it meant? It all started to seem a lot less divine at this point.

Also, with the thousands of religions that exist, and the documented reports of metaphysical experiences from each of them, how can I ever be sure that mine is the right one?

I suffered cognitive dissonance for a while, but I just kept learning outside of what I’d always known. When I went off to university, I was finally able to be open up about my views with the friends I made. Some of them were shocked that I’d say such things, while others admitted that they had their doubts, but they’re choosing to believe. With time, I realised that I didn’t really care so much about the faith anymore.

I started missing prayers because I thought, “What’s the point anyway?”. I also got tired of asking questions because I mostly didn’t care anymore. At home, my parents noticed that I’d stopped praying altogether, but they thought it was just a phase. They still forced me to do it anyway, but it was all for show.

A year ago, I had an existential crisis that shook me. I felt like I needed some sense of meaning since I didn’t believe that anyone up there was guiding my life anymore. I was somewhat depressed because it felt like my life had no meaning whatsoever. I thought, “Why not just go back to the safety of having faith in God? Does it really matter if any of it is true?”

I started praying often and doing all the things I’d normally do as a devout Muslim, but it felt like I was only going through the motions.

I’ve made my peace with it now — I’ve outgrown faith, and I doubt that anything can change it. But I don’t intend to come out publicly about my disbelief, at least not in real life. So, I’ll carry on and hope something changes and makes it feel right again.

NEXT READ: The #NairaLife of a Career Directed by God

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity

This is Mosope’s story, as told to Betty:

As told to Betty:

Next Read: A Fake Genotype Result Cost Me The Love Of My Life

As Told To Adeyinka