What is an Invisible Disability? An Invisible disability is a disability or health condition that is not immediately obvious. It defies the stereotypes of what people might think a disabled person looks like. It is crucial to emphasize that a disability not being immediately obvious does not diminish its impact. People with invisible disabilities want to be treated with respect and as individuals—just like people with visible disabilities and the general population. Even though you cannot see evidence of a disability, the disability still exists. This podcast aims to raise awareness about invisible disabilities and provide guidance on how to seek help.
Home Blog
ON THE OTHER SIDE
Everyone around me was getting married or engaged. I didn’t care; I would not settle for just anyone; I knew the one I wanted, and he was going to be mine whether he liked it.
I saw this guy at the cinema with 3 of his friends. He mistakenly bumped into me when we were getting popcorn and the way he looked at me and smiled melted my soul. I knew instantly I had to have him. That day I had gone with Wale, my current boyfriend. To be honest, Wale had asked me to marry him twice, but I just kept asking him to give me more time to decide. I didn’t like him enough to get married to him, but I also didn’t want to be without a man. So I strung him along, besides, he was fine, generous in bed, so what’s not to like? His flaws were that he wasn’t tall enough to be my husband. His English was wonky, his family was very humble, and he didn’t have the money I was dreaming of my man having. Still, for now, I could manage him. He doted on me and at least he had a brand new car that his company gave him.
On wale’s part, he had a complex. He was a brilliant guy, but he still needed a pretty face on his arms to make him feel whole. He believed that with me his status in life was elevated and they could accept him as one of the happening big boys. Come on, I was fine, 5 ft 8 inches, really light, long legs, beautiful curves, flawless skin and a law degree. Whenever I was with Wale and he met anyone, he would say meet my fiancée, she’s a lawyer, she just finished from Yale in the USA, isn’t she amazing? Well, he wasn’t telling a lie, I did just get back; I finished my secondary school in Lagos, then my father insisted I go to America for university, fortunately, I got admission into Yale, did my first and master all in one swoop, then I had to go back to Nigeria to work in my father’s law firm.
Unfortunately, I milked Wale’s insecurity. I could say he gave me 70% of his earnings just to keep me by his side. He didn’t know I was just waiting for my ideal man to come along. How did I meet wale, well My dad introduced him? Since I got back, I dated and dumped 5 guys. Feed up with my attitude. My dad thought I could do with a stable, responsible guy like wale. My dad also felt the other guys were a bad influence cos they all came from rich homes and were over pampered and felt entitled.
My mum was just fed up too, my younger sisters, both of them, already brought home guys they were going steady with. But for me Wuraola, no way, I hadn’t found him yet, until that fateful day at the cinema.
Tosan, his name was, I found out when one of his friends called out to him, Tosan Cole, get over here, the guy had said, so I wrote his name, went on Facebook and I found him. Hmmm, things you could learn on Facebook. He was 31, single, and 2nd to the last of 4 children. His siblings, except for his younger sister, all lived in Canada. His mother was dead, but his father was an ambassador at one time, now a business executive. He went to Leeds and the London School of Economics. Finished his MBA, 3 years ago. He lives in a posh estate in Lekki Peninsula and drives a Range Rover Sport. Has 3 best friends and currently works for himself at Tosan Consultants, Victoria Island.
I got all this from trolling through his Facebook page. It actually took me 2 full days and I knew almost everything about him, oh, did I say he went to church also in Lekki and he was an usher, yes he was. He liked smart homely girls, who could cook, oldies and James Bond movies, the sound of music was his best movie.
So, armed with all this information, I proceeded to his church the following Sunday, thankful wale was in Port Harcourt on a company assignment for 3 weeks, so I had time for myself. I got to church late intentionally, that’s when ushers have to get your seats, I waited and watched as each usher took latecomers to a vacant seat, as soon as I saw him, I moved forward, and he said hello, welcome to church, that’s when it happened, I walked forward, intentionally stumbled and fell, I hit the floor hard; I didn’t mind the nagging pain in my arm from the pretend fall, I was on a mission. Tosan gently lifted me up and asked if I was okay, I said I felt dizzy, and he supported me to a back room, where he asked me to sit and he went to get some water, he brought the water and waited with me for a while, although; I asked him not to worry. So he left and promised to check back in a few minutes. When he came back, I told him I wasn’t feeling too well, I would just like to go back home. He asked if I bought a car, I said, no, even though I parked outside, he offered to drop me off at home, and I accepted.
That day he left the church Service and dropped me off at GRA Ikeja. The gateman came running to ask where my car was, I said my friend took it and sent the gateman back to the gate. Tosan helped me into my apartment and asked if I was okay to stay on my own. I said I was. He then asked that I give him my no so he could check on me later.
Later, didn’t come, it devastated me. Anytime an unknown not called my phone, I would pick it up quickly, hoping it was Tosan, but nope, it wasn’t. Two weeks later, with no response or call from him as promised, I went back to the church. I couldn’t pull the falling down stunt anymore, so I just went and sat as normal and kept looking out for him. I spotted him halfway through the service. He was sitting next to a pretty girl, not as fine as me but pretty. Actually, I had seen her with him on Facebook, but I completely ignored that bit.
After the service ended, I went up to him to say hello, fortunately; he was alone, immediately he saw me, he apologized and said he had misplaced the paper I wrote my number on, could I just type it on his phone now, overjoyed; I typed it and then called my no, so I could have his too.
That evening he sent me a text asking how I was and that I looked great today and then asked if I was In a relationship. I thought to myself, yes!, he likes me, so I replied I wasn’t. He then responded, saying would I mind if he took me out on a date next Friday? I said okay.
From that Sunday to Friday, I wasn’t myself. I was so happy, singing, dancing all over the place. On Wednesday, I went for a facial, did my hair, and nails and got a nice outfit, even though I had loads of outfits, this date was special, it was with my husband to be, I had to get something new, exquisite and expensive to wear.
Wale called twice a day, I just said hello and told him I was fine and got on with my day. But Tosan, I sent him, “how are you doing?” texts every morning, and his response would be, “fine dearie and you? “.
On Friday he turned up in a 2 door jaguar, not the range rover I saw him with on Facebook and he took me to a nice club on the island, we danced, talked and danced some more, around 2 am, he asked if I won’t mind spending the night at his; I feigned surprise and said of course I mind; he apologized and said he was a bit tipsy, he won’t be able to drive to the mainland and back to his place, so if I don’t mind could I just come over to his, wait for him to sleep it off, then go drop me in the morning. I said that was okay.
So we get to his house and the same lady I saw him with on Facebook and in church, opens the door. He introduced her as his younger sister who stays with him, I was so relieved. Anyway, he went to crash, while my sister and I sat in the lounge watching films. She was nice, but didn’t really say a lot.
Anyway, 2 weeks later, Tosan asked me out, and I said yes. We started a relationship, at this point I asked wale to give me a break, I told him I needed time. he insisted he couldn’t live without me when I told him I wanted to break it off with him, he said I could go sow my royal oats. He’ll be waiting for me. This guy was unbelievable. Anyway, I said okay and left.
Being with Tosan was like heaven, I fell hard in love with him, our relationship was the opposite of what wale and I had, Tosan told me what to do I did it, as for wale I told him what I wanted, he did it. But I didn’t care, if we were to do the math, wale loved me 90, I loved him 10% I loved Tosan 70%, and he loved me 30% but that was okay with me.
Shortly after we started dating, I got to know Tosan better he was possessive, he would get upset if he called me once and I didn’t pick up if he sees me talking to a guy, trouble if I get a call, the question, who was that? Would definitely come after my call. But on the bright side, he pampered me, bought me everything I ever wanted, a new car, trips to Paris, London, New York, Singapore, and South Africa, with him, never on my own. He didn’t like any of my friends, soon he isolated me from everybody, even my family, it was Tosan alone and no one else.
Then one day my sister’s fiancé saw me at ShopRite, and gave me a hug. He was still holding my hand when Tosan came from behind and dealt him a punch. I couldn’t believe it, I was about to protest when he dealt me a slap right in the middle of the store; it was so painful tears rolled down my eyes, I stomped off with my sister’s fiancé and left him standing there shouting after me to come back here.
For two days he called and came to the house. I refused to see him, then one morning I was going out. As the gateman opened the gate, Tosan was kneeling down on the driveway with an enormous bunch of roses. That day, he swore he would never lay a finger on me ever again.
Now, remember, wale was still calling once a week to ask if I had thought about our relationship. I would say I was still thinking. 6 months later Tosan proposed, up until then he hadn’t hit me. So I believed he had changed and said yes I will, what followed was a great big engagement party. At the party, he introduced me to a friend of his who just come in. When I saw him, he looked familiar. As the night progressed, we found out we were in Yale and then it clicked. We started laughing and chatting. Tosan would come round once in a while and then go off and talk to some other friends.
That evening when we got back to his place, he asked if his friend and I dated when we were at Yale, I said No, I barely knew him. He called me a lair and said he heard us catching up on old times. I tried to correct his impression but to no avail and that’s when he beat me to a pulp. He just lost it. By the time he was done with me, I was barely breathing. His sister had to rush me to the hospital.
The doctor said I was lucky, I had a broken rib, fractured arm, wounds all over my body where he had punched me repeatedly and a broken wrist. at that point, I asked his sister to call my parents and the entire story came out. My dad was upset. He felt I brought this upon myself, having warned me that boys like Tosan, spoilt and entitled, had no manners or respect for a woman. Wale would never raise a finger on you, he said. That marked the end of my relationship with Tosan. He begged and begged, but it was too late. That ship had sailed already.
As for Wale, God bless him, he forgave me wholeheartedly and now am back with him and totally content.
I learned my lesson the hard way. Most times, what God wants for us, which will surely do us great good, is not what we want for ourselves. A spirit of contentment is what everyone should pray for. I had everything I needed right in front of me, but I could not see it, I thought Tosan was better for me. It just goes to show looks can be deceptive and the grass is not always greener, on the other side.
PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT BELOW, THANK YOU.
Image from freepik.
HOW TO MASTER YOUR MENTAL VOICE
We all have that voice.
The one that whispers, “You’re behind,” or shouts, “You’ll never get it right.”
It sounds convincing. Familiar. Like it knows you.
But here’s the truth: just because it’s loud doesn’t mean it’s accurate.
If you’re feeling exhausted, stuck, or not enough, it’s time to question who’s actually behind the wheel.
Here’s how to stop being ruled by your mental narrator and start reclaiming your mind.
1. Your Thoughts Are Not Truth; They’re Just Noise
The mind doesn’t deal in facts. It deals in stories.
“I’m a failure.” “They don’t care.” “It’s too late.”
These aren’t truths. They’re assumptions dressed in emotion.
Imagine thoughts like pop-up ads, you don’t need to click.
Instead, ask: “Is this voice helping me or holding me hostage?”
You don’t need to silence it. Just stop treating it like the authority.
2. Let Go of the Why; It’s a Trap Disguised as Healing
You don’t need to figure out why it hurt to let it stop hurting.
We obsess: Why did they do that? Why do I always end up here?
But the constant analysis becomes its own form of pain.
Some things don’t need a reason to be released.
Let yourself feel it, name it, and let it move.
Surrender isn’t giving up, it’s getting free.
3. You Are the Awareness, Not the Inner Weather
You are not your irritation. Not your panic. Not your shame spiral at 2 a.m.
You are the one watching it all unfold. The calm underneath the chaos.
Think of emotions as weather, fleeting, wild, but passing.
You are the sky. The storm doesn’t define you.
It just passes through.
4. The Present Moment Is Your Exit Door
Overthinking only survives in two places: the past and the future.
It replays, rewinds, fast-forwards, forecasts.
But never now.
Want peace? Get sensory.
Feel the coffee mug in your hand. Smell the rain.
This moment is your anchor. Everything else is mental static.
5. Speak to Yourself Like Someone You Love
Self-compassion isn’t about letting yourself off the hook.
It’s about no longer using pain as motivation.
That voice saying, “You should be further along”, it’s not wisdom.
It’s the echo of old survival patterns.
Try whispering instead: “This is hard, but I’m doing my best.”
That’s not weakness. That’s revolution.
6. You’re Not a Problem to Solve
The self-help world wants you to believe you’re broken so it can sell you a cure.
But you don’t need fixing. You need remembering.
You are already whole. Even with the mess.
Even when healing is slow.
Let go of the constant upgrades. Be here. Be enough, now.
7. You Can’t Control Every Thought, But You Can Challenge It
You don’t need to banish every negative voice.
You just need to stop believing all of them.
When your brain says, “You’re unlovable,”
ask: “Who told me that? What if they were wrong?”
Freedom doesn’t come from force. It comes from curiosity.
Final Note:
You are not your mind. You are the one noticing your mind.
And that noticing? That quiet awareness?
That’s your way home.
DAY 63
ABBY
It’s funny how, in hindsight, you regret so much.
As I sit and write today, I shudder at the thought of what I’ve done. What I allowed. What I endured in the name of power, beauty, status, and survival.
The “school”, as they called it, was no ordinary school. That much became clear very quickly.
A week after our arrival, we were summoned at midnight and instructed to come down to the grand hall wearing nothing but lingerie. No explanations. Just obey.
We were blindfolded and led, one by one, into a room.
That night began what they called our education in Kamasutra.
If you know what that is—kudos. If not, go look it up. I won’t explain here.
All I can say is, it was the most invasive, humiliating, bizarre three weeks of my life.
By the time we were told we’d “graduated,” they said I’d earned a first-class. Based on what criteria, I couldn’t tell you. But by then, I could balance a glass of water on my head and walk a mile without spilling a drop. My posture was perfect. My hips swung like they had their own agenda. I swear I’d grown taller.
I had also become—how did they put it?—a goddess of pleasure. Interpret that however you like.
I flew back on a private jet and was greeted by a Rolls-Royce in Macau. There, I was told that the powerful man—the one who chose me—wanted me to spend a week relaxing, being pampered, wined and dined, while waiting for his arrival.
I’ll tell you how things progressed in time. But by the end of that year, my life had transformed beyond recognition.
I was socialising with princes and princesses from multiple countries. My accent had changed. My diction and tone were nearly flawless. My skin? Three shades lighter. A single ounce of the cream I used cost $700.
And my name?
It was no longer Abby.
It was simply AB.
Keep reading.
It only gets deeper from here.
CHRIS
They say waiting is agonising.
I never truly understood that until Thomas and I were forced to wait. Not for freedom. Not for hope. But for deportation.
Turns out, Thomas had gotten away when we first arrived. Slipped out unnoticed. He found work on a farm picking apples for export. He was given a barn to sleep in and food to eat. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.
He planned to save up, keep his head down, and eventually apply for residency. Maybe marry. Maybe build something real.
After a while, another worker on the farm told him about a shared house nearby, where a few African guys were staying. So he moved in. Got a job as a road cleaner, working for a Turkish man who paid cash. It wasn’t much, but he had a bed, a plate of food, and a plan.
No socialising. Just working, saving, surviving.
That life went on for nearly two years.
Until one morning, everything unravelled.
His Turkish landlord got into a fight and injured someone badly. The police came looking for him. Instead, they found Thomas. No papers. No answers.
That’s how he ended up back in court—with a deportation order stamped across his file like a death sentence.
Now I don’t know what’s worse.
Coming all this way and being sent back without ever tasting the life you dreamed of…
Or actually living it for two years—having a bed, an income, a goal—and then losing it all in a blink.
They say, you can’t miss what you never had.
But haven’t I?
Haven’t we?
…hmmmm
You’re Not Broken — You’re Healing: Why Trauma Needs a Voice
There’s a quiet ache that trauma leaves behind.
It’s not always loud.
It’s not always dramatic.
Sometimes, it’s in the way you say “I’m fine” too quickly.
Or how your stomach tightens when you get a text from someone unpredictable.
Or the way you laugh it off, but you don’t really feel safe in the room.
And here’s the thing, you don’t have to have gone through something “big” to carry trauma.
Sometimes it’s not what happened, but what never did, the love you didn’t receive. The safety you didn’t feel. The apology that never came.
And if no one ever told you, what hurt you didn’t have to be violent to be valid.
Trauma isn’t just in the past, it lingers in how you live now
Trauma doesn’t stay in the moment it happened.
It lives in your body.
It hides in your nervous system.
It speaks through the voice in your head that whispers:
“Don’t trust them.”
“You’ll mess this up.”
“You’re not enough.”
“You’re too much.”
“You’re too late.”
“You have to earn love.”
That’s not your truth talking.
That’s trauma, looping in the background until you give it a voice.
Healing isn’t forgetting. It’s remembering who you were before the pain.
So many PEOPLE come into healing spaces saying:
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
But here’s the secret: you’re not gone.
you are underneath the layers you wrapped around yourself to survive.
That fire? That softness? That joy? That peace?
Still in you. Still waiting. Still whole.
Here’s what I want you to know about healing:
You don’t have to forgive for them you forgive to free yourself
You don’t need to rush forgiveness. You don’t need to perform it.
But know this: forgiveness doesn’t mean they win. It means your nervous system does.
It means you no longer want to carry what they did like it’s your identity.
You’re allowed to say, “That hurt me deeply. But I get to live fully anyway.”
Try this:
Write a letter you’ll never send.
Say it all. The truth. The rage. The grief.
Then write one line at the bottom: “I release this now — not for them, but for me.”
You don’t have to forget. You just don’t have to carry it anymore.
Mindset isn’t about being “positive” — it’s about being powerful
Let’s be honest: some days, mindset work feels fake.
You can’t just slap an affirmation on a wound.
But mindset is about not letting the lie win.
That lie that says:
“You’re broken.”
“You’re behind.”
“You should have healed by now.”
No.
You are healing.
You are rebuilding.
And healing doesn’t follow a calendar.
Mindset tip:
Every morning, ask yourself: “What do I choose to believe today?”
You can believe in survival again.
Or you can believe in your softness, your strength, your becoming.
Choose the one that brings you back home to yourself.
📓 Journalling is the softest way to scream
Sometimes we don’t have words to say it out loud.
But the page can hold it.
The grief. The shame. The memory. The longing.
All of it.
And what journalling does — when done without judgement — is create space.
It turns “What’s wrong with me?” into “What happened to me?”
It turns chaos into clarity. And silence into self-trust.
Try this tonight:
- What does my younger self still need to hear?
- Where in my life am I still living like I’m unsafe — even though I’m safe now?
- What version of me am I finally ready to let go of?
Write it raw. Write it ugly. Write it free.
And finally…
You are not too late. You are not too damaged. You are not too far gone.
You are exactly on time.
You are being rebuilt, not erased.
You are allowed to take up space with your story, your softness, and your strength.
Your healing doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s.
It just has to be yours.
And even if no one clapped for you today — I see you.
Healing is not easy. But it’s holy work.
So breathe.
Put your hand on your heart.
Say softly:
“I am not broken. I am healing. I am home.”
DAY 51
ABBY
Abuja. The name sounded smooth and official when I got the offer. I imagined glass buildings, clicking heels, conference calls. Mallam Rabbu had said, “You’re smart. I got work that suits you. High-paying. Easy.” He didn’t say anything about poles or bikinis.
I got to the place. It looked like a lounge—neon glow, low thump of bass under the ground. I thought maybe it was a fancy club. Maybe I’d be working the front desk, smiling, pouring drinks. I still had hope.
But when I told the manager I was reporting for duty, he looked me up and down and handed me a plastic bag. Inside: red string bikini, barely anything.
“Go get changed,” he said.
“For what?”
“You’re on in an hour.”
“An hour? Dance? Wearing this?”
He nodded. Smiled like it was normal.
“To start with,” he said. “Eventually, you take it off.”
“Off?” I repeated. My throat closed. “What do you mean—take it off?”
He leaned in.
“My dear, this is a nude club. Girls dance naked. Just dancing. No touching. Touching gets them kicked out.”
I couldn’t speak. Just stared. He sighed like I was slow.
“You think 250k a night was for waiting tables? Mallam said you agreed. He said you signed the release.”
“I didn’t read it,” I mumbled. My legs went numb.
“Well,” he shrugged, “too late now. You run, Mallam finds you. And next time, he forces you. You don’t get paid. You don’t get a choice.”
I sat down. Couldn’t breathe.
“My advice,” he continued, like we were talking groceries, “do it for a few months. Then get a man to propose. Mallam lets girls go when they get marriage offers. But it’s got to be real—church, invites, rings, proof. He checks.”
I didn’t say anything. Just stared at the bikini like it might bite me.
“No phones allowed,” he added. “No cameras. No laptops. No CCTV. So your pictures won’t leak. Total privacy. It’s better that way.”
I didn’t believe him, but I had no more fight in me.
“Everyone’s scared at first,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
God help me…..hmmmm
CHRIS
I remember scrubbing pots in that detention center kitchen thinking, This is temporary. This is just a pit stop.
I figured, At least I’m learning. When I get out, I’ll know how to cook, how to run a kitchen. Something useful.
Two months passed. People started leaving. Some returned. Some didn’t. No explanations.
Then, four months in, I heard my name on the tannoy. “Report to reception.”
A woman was waiting. Court-appointed lawyer, they said. Two cops with her.
“Your asylum hearing is up,” she told me.
We got in a van. Drove through the countryside. For a moment, I forgot everything. The trees. The hills. The air.
Then we hit the city—traffic, high-rises, gates, tinted glass.
They parked in an underground lot. Led me upstairs. Metal detectors. Pat-down. Then a courtroom. Bleak. White walls. Strangers staring.
I was called first.
The judge looked over his glasses.
“You haven’t given your country of origin,” he said. “You say you want asylum. Why?”
I froze. Then whispered, “Asylum.”
He frowned. “Mr., you have to give a reason for asylum. Not just repeat it like a parrot.”
I felt my ears burn. I looked to my lawyer.
He turned to her. “Does he understand English?”
She flinched. “Your Honour, I was just assigned this morning. May I have time to confer with my client?”
He waved her off. “Take all the time you need. You’ll represent him in a month.”
Banged the gavel.
“Next.”…hmmm
Journalling Through Trauma: A Gentle Guide to Healing on the Page
When you’ve been through trauma, your mind can feel loud and your body distant. You might find yourself bracing for things that aren’t happening anymore. Trust becomes fragile. Rest feels impossible. Healing can feel like a maze with no map.
But there is one small, steady tool that’s helped thousands of people find their way back to themselves: journalling.
Not for show. Not to be neat. But as a raw, honest way to process pain and reconnect with your truth.
Why Journalling Helps
Journalling gives you space to:
- Release what’s stuck. Emotions that get bottled up find their way out through words.
- Slow your thoughts. When your mind races, writing helps put the brakes on.
- Track your patterns. You start seeing what triggers you and what calms you.
- Reconnect with your body. You notice tension, tightness, fatigue and cravings — not to judge them, but to understand them.
- Feel heard. Even if no one else reads it, the page becomes your witness.
“Writing creates a bridge between the chaos in your head and the calm you’re trying to reach.”
How to Start Journalling When You’ve Experienced Trauma
You don’t need the perfect notebook or hours of spare time. You need just two things: honesty and consistency.
Start with 5 to 10 minutes a day. That’s enough.
Use prompts if you get stuck:
- What does my body feel like right now?
- What am I avoiding today?
- What’s one small thing I wish someone would say to me?
- What was a moment I felt even slightly okay this week?
Write like no one’s watching. Because they’re not. This is for you. No filters. No edits. No pressure to explain.
What to Look Out For
Journalling can stir things up. You might feel shaky, emotional or drained after writing. That’s not a sign to stop. It’s a sign you’ve touched something real.
But go gently. You don’t have to dive into the deep end every time. Pace yourself. You are allowed to step away and return when you’re ready.
Grounding tips after journalling:
- Drink cold water
- Step outside and feel the air
- Put both feet flat on the ground
- Listen to calming music or nature sounds
- Touch something textured like a soft cloth or a stone
What to Expect Over Time
With regular journalling, many people experience:
- More clarity. Thoughts become less tangled. Decisions feel easier.
- Less reactivity. You start noticing your feelings before they take over.
- Deeper self compassion. Your tone shifts from “What’s wrong with me?” to “Of course I feel this way.”
- A stronger sense of self. You see your strength, not just your scars.
- Moments of unexpected joy. Little flickers of peace and even gratitude start to surface.
This isn’t about writing your trauma story in perfect order. It’s about writing through it, piece by piece, until you’re no longer trapped inside.
Journalling won’t fix everything. But it creates a rhythm. A return point. A way of saying: I matter. My voice matters. I’m still here. And that is the beginning of healing.
Entry 47 –
Abby-Fear can drive you to do things you never imagined. Looking back, I realise it wasn’t just common sense that led me to open a new bank account and hide most of my money—it was survival instinct. And thank God I listened.Chief had been everything to me: saviour, provider, lover—and now, the man trying to take everything. When he showed up that night, pretending everything was normal, acting like we were still in our ‘us against the world’ fantasy, I played along. I smiled. Ate the tasteless rice he brought. Nodded while he gave me his poetic speech about “ours is ours” and “my family is your family.” Then he dropped the real question: “Where’s your debit card?”
Without flinching, I handed him the old one.
He sighed like a man saved from drowning, kissed my forehead, and promised to send money when I needed it. Just text—don’t call, especially if his wife was around. That’s when it hit me: this was the end of the illusion. I was no longer his hidden treasure—I was an expense. A line item. A liability.
As he pulled off, smiling like he’d won, I walked back into the guest house, paid the bill, packed my bags, and left. No message. No explanation. I vanished.
Thank God I had transferred most of the money out earlier. Because if I hadn’t? I would have been left with nothing—not even my dignity.
CHRIS
After my talk with Adenike, I barely slept. The next morning, it all happened so fast. At 10 a.m. on the dot, three people arrived—one of them a police officer. They uncuffed me, read me my rights, and walked me out to a van with five other men. No one spoke.
We drove through a town, then into the countryside, finally stopping at a fenced-off compound that smelled faintly of the sea. It looked like a warehouse from the outside, but inside it was something else—like a prison pretending to be a hostel.
They called us in one by one. When it was my turn, two people sat across from me. They asked my name. My reason for entering. My story. To everything, I said one word: “Asylum.”
Eventually, a bell rang and someone escorted me out. “You’ll be held here while your application is processed,” he said. “You work here. You live here. You do not leave until it’s finalised.”
Then he showed me to my room. Six bunks. One shower. A shelf full of old toothbrushes and towels. A welcome pack lay unopened: two t-shirts, a jumper, a puff jacket, socks, toiletries. My backpack was gone. Everything I had left behind in the boat was gone.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the grey walls of this strange new life. I was finally here—but where was here?
This wasn’t the Europe I dreamed of. But it was the Europe I fought for. I just didn’t know what would come next…
Hmmm.
Life choices
Entry 46
Abby: “Project” indeed. That’s what I was, Chief’s little side project. Nothing more.
A few days after the chaos in the flat, after constant bickering and his wife’s sharp silences, I got a text from Chief: “Come into the living room. Tell us you’re leaving to stay with a friend. I’ll explain later.”
My heart skipped. I thought, Finally, he’s sorting something out. Maybe a new place. Maybe things go back to how they were.
So I walked into the living room, held my head high, and said, “Uncle… Aunty… please, can I have a word?”
His wife eyed me like I was the dirt under her shoe. “This better be good,” she muttered, kissing her teeth. Chief nodded calmly. “Of course, go on.”
And like a puppet, I said the line I’d been told. I was leaving to stay with a friend.
“Thank you, God!” she yelled. “Are you leaving now? Please do.”
I glanced at Chief. He nodded again. His wife caught it. “Why are you looking at him? GO.”
I walked away with what was left of my pride, headed back to the room where the kids had already turned my things upside down. I packed up my two suitcases and just as I zipped the last one, another message came in: “Go round to the guest house on Yemi Street. Book a room. I’ll come to see you later.”
So I left. Rolled my suitcases down the sunlit street, still half-hoping Chief would fix everything.
At that point, I still had my bank card, my account, and the money Chief said would “sustain the household.” So I thought, Well, at least I can start over.
But something in my spirit whispered, This man will leave you dry.
So I went to the bank. Quietly opened a new account, transferred 70% of the money, and told them not to issue me a card. If I needed it, I’d walk in. Just like that, I reclaimed a little control.
But this story, my story, was only just starting to twist. The next chapter? Wild. …hmmmm
Chris: When I finally woke up properly, I tried to sit up only to realise my left wrist was cuffed to the hospital bed.
I pressed the bell. The nurse came in. “Why… why am I handcuffed?” I asked.
Her face was blank. “Immigration. They said you’ll be detained once you’re fit to leave.”
My eyes scanned the room. “Where’s Thomas?” “He was taken last night. Immigration came while you were sedated.”
I froze. My chest tightened. I was terrified.
Later, a woman came in to tidy and drop off food. Her name tag said Adenike. Nigerian. My eyes lit up. “Sister… please help me,” I whispered.
She paused, looked around, then leaned in. “They’ll move you to a migrant centre soon. That’s where they’ll ask about asylum. You need a strong reason. Say you were targeted, maybe by a politician. Or claim you’re fleeing the Niger Delta crisis. Something serious. That’s how I got my papers.”
She asked how I arrived. “Dinghy,” I replied. “Good. Did you have a passport?” “No.” “Even better. They can’t prove where you’re from. You can say Sudan. Syria. Just don’t say Nigeria. Tell them your country is at war.”
I nodded. I just wanted to let you know that I took it all in. Rehearsed the story in my head. She patted my shoulder. “They’ll come today. Or tomorrow morning. Be ready.”
I was no longer just Chris, the village boy chasing destiny. I was now… an asylum seeker. …hmmmm
Entry 45
ABBY: When Chief’s wife walked in with her children and a suitcase in each hand, it was like a scene from a badly written soap opera, only it was my life. She stopped in the doorway, looked me up and down and said, “So, you’re the girl?” Not hello, not thank you for letting us stay, just that, dripping in sarcasm. The kids said nothing. Just stared. Wide-eyed. Confused. Angry.
Chief tried to smooth things over. “My dear, let’s not start. We’re all in this together for now.” His wife snapped, “I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came here because you’ve turned our lives upside down. And now you want to play house with your project under the same roof as me and my children?”
That word project hit like a slap. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t the villain here. That I didn’t ask for any of this. But I stayed silent.
I watched them move in. My things were pushed into corners to make room for their bags. The fridge, once filled with food for one, suddenly looked bare. The peace I had built in this bubble of luxury was shattered.
Later that night, Chief came to talk. Said he was sorry. Said it was just temporary. That he needed me to cooperate, to “help hold things together.” I just nodded. What else could I do?
But as I lay on the floor that night beside a 13-year-old boy who snored like a bulldozer, I realised I had hit the express road my mum once talked about. And there was no exit in sight… hmmm
CHRIS: When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a white ceiling and the soft blur of lights. For a moment, I thought it was heaven. But then I heard a machine beeping and felt the tug of tubes in my arm. I was alive.
We were in a hospital somewhere in southern Italy, they said. Rescued. Registered. Saved.
They had stripped and disinfected us, fed us warm food, and wrapped us in clean clothes. Thomas was beside me, thinner than I’d ever seen him, but breathing. Alive.
The nurse smiled and said, “You made it. You’re safe now.”
I cried.
Later, we were interviewed. Names, countries, families. They took our photos, gave us ID numbers, and told us about the refugee camp where we’d stay until they processed our cases.
But I didn’t hear most of it.
I was stuck on one thought, made it. I chased my destiny and somehow survived. But was this it? Was this the start of something better, Or just another beginning I hadn’t prepared for?
I didn’t know. All I knew was I wasn’t dead. And for now, that was enough. …hmmm
Entry 44
Abby:
“Abby, Abby!” I heard my name, but I was too dazed to truly comprehend what Chief was saying. He knelt beside me, his face tight with stress.
“Abby, my darling, there is a situation… the government is after me for something I didn’t do. They’ve seized all my properties and frozen my accounts. This apartment is the only one left because it was bought in my wife’s maiden name. I’m sorry, but my family will be moving in here. And… the money in your account, I need it. Please, that’s what we’re going to survive on.”
His words felt like punches. That luxury—the chef, the flat, the car, the travels—was all a house of cards. And now? He needed the money in my account. The jeep? Gone. The allowance? Stopped.
He continued, barely letting me speak. “I’ve told my wife you’re a friend’s daughter. He’s based in America and pays rent, but he can’t keep up right now. I told her you’ve invited us to stay.”
I sat there, numb. He spoke about bunk beds. Sharing my room with his three children—15, 16, and a 13-year-old boy—as if it was a camp retreat. “You’ll all manage,” he said. “After all, he’s just a boy.”
I couldn’t even process it. Not until the next day when his wife actually showed up, carrying luggage and dragging the kids behind her. I heard their argument as soon as she stepped in: either I leave, or she goes to the EFCC and tells them Chief owns this property too.
And that was just the beginning…
Chris:
Seventeen started. Ten left.
By day 23, I was half my original weight, covered in insect bites, and my gums ached from not brushing. Thomas looked skeletal. The dinghy’s motor gave out and we drifted, baking under the sun, freezing under moonlight.
The guides said we were near Europe, drifting into a shipping lane. That was our only hope.
The nurse, her lips swollen and body dotted with sores, whispered prayers at every sunrise and sunset. She was hanging on by faith.
Three days later, in the dead of night, we heard a loud horn.
Lights.
Shouts in another language.
Then figures in orange jackets appeared, abseiling down ropes. They wrapped us in foil blankets, strapped us to harnesses, and lifted us into a ship. I barely registered it. I drifted in and out of consciousness as warm liquid pulsed into my arm through a drip.
I remember thinking, “Am I dead? Is this heaven? White men, flashing lights, and injections? Maybe heaven is warm and fuzzy…”
And then everything went dark.
…hmmm
Entry 43
Abby:
I know one isn’t supposed to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help it. The three men I let into the apartment, whom Chief addressed as SAN — Senior Advocate of Nigeria — didn’t seem like the usual visitors. The last man carried two large suitcases, which Chief instructed him to leave in the corner before returning to the car. The others sat, and the mood shifted. I quietly left the door slightly ajar and sat nearby, trying to listen.
Chief asked, “So what’s the situation now?”
Now, before I tell you what I heard, let me just say this: sometimes I look back and laugh at myself, and other times, I cry. The level of naivety I displayed still shocks me. I ignored every red flag, every sign, and just kept driving down a road that eventually became an expressway with no exits.
What I heard that day chilled me. One of the SANs said, “Chief, you have no choice. You’ll need to lie low for a while. The good news is that this property is in your wife’s maiden name, so she and the children will be moving in with you tomorrow.”
My heart dropped.
Then Chief asked, “What about my girl?” referring to me. One of the lawyers mumbled something I couldn’t catch.
An hour later, after the lawyers left, Chief called me in. His tone was soft. “Baby, my darling, please sit down. I have something to tell you.”
He began to explain, but as the truth unfolded, my whole body went cold. I was frozen. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, until I heard him shout my name and shake me.
“Chief… I…” hmmmm
Chris:
We rode the waves all night, switching between the two guides who managed the motor-powered dinghy. They seemed to know what they were doing, using a compass to keep us on course. But after 15 gruelling days at sea, people began to fall apart.
It started with vomiting. First one man, then another. And then diarrhoea. Soon 11 of the 14 people left were heaving, weak and crying.
The nurse we had onboard was the first to name it: cholera.
It hit me like a slap. Where had it come from? That’s when we realised — the only people not affected were the guides, Thomas, myself, and the nurse. The rest had drunk from the shared water container after the dinghy capsized.
Turns out, one of the guides had topped up the water with seawater when we were running low. He said, “I’ve done it before. Nobody died.”
But this time, people were dying.
The nurse came to us with a small packet of tablets. “I only have enough for six people,” she whispered. “There are eleven who need it.”
She handed us sticks. We had to draw lots.
I wanted to scream. Why should I get to decide who lives and who dies?
We picked.
Two days later, five were gone.
There were no funerals. No goodbyes. Just the sound of bodies being pushed into the ocean.
I cried until I blacked out.
Thomas didn’t cry. He stared into the sea and muttered, “Survival of the fittest.”
Only much later did I realise he was deeply traumatised. He just couldn’t process it.
…hmmm