ABBY:
Trauma is real. I didn’t realise it back then, but every lie, every manipulation, every act of abuse stacked up like bricks, building the person I became. The worst part? I had no idea it was affecting me in ways I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I thought it was normal.
When Aunty asked me what kind of woman I wanted to be, my first instinctive answer was: “The kind that can get anything she wants.”
At the time, I didn’t even understand what I meant. But now I do.
Before I was even a teenager, I learnt that covering up for people gave me power. They’d mess up, and I’d protect their secrets—only to use those secrets to get what I wanted. It felt clever. Like I had an ace up my sleeve. But what I really became… was a manipulator. A blackmailer. And it only got worse with age.
One of those moments was what Aunty referred to when she said I ruined her life. Back then, I thought she was being dramatic—delusional, even. But looking back now, I get it. If Aunty had known I wouldn’t cover for her, maybe she would’ve made a different choice.
I know she was a grown woman, and her actions were hers alone—but my little games, my conniving ways, they didn’t just cost me Olumide the doctor…
They cost me something even bigger.
Mr 16.
He came home one summer. By then, he’d been away at school for three years, in his final year, and planning to apply to university in America. He was different—quieter, more withdrawn, not the boisterous boy I remembered.
When I asked him if he was okay, he just smiled and said he was fine. But one evening, I heard him crying. I peeked into his room and saw him scribbling furiously in a diary. I made a note of where he kept it. Later, while he was downstairs having dinner, I snuck in and read it.
That’s when I found out his secret.
By then I was 15—queen of lies and blackmail. I can’t even count how many times I threatened friends just to get what I wanted. Their feelings didn’t matter. It was about control.
That evening, when Mr 16 came back into his room, I sat on his bed and told him to give me the new phone his parents had sent from America—or I’d tell everyone what I’d read.
He looked at me—shocked, confused, like he didn’t even know who I was. “Get lost,” he said.
So I did. But later, I sent him a text with the secret written out.
The next morning, he wasn’t in his room.
He left a note. It said he couldn’t take it anymore. That his secret was out. And no one should look for him.
My heart stopped.
I was terrified. I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done.
A full-scale search began. The police got involved. I was frozen with fear.
Three days later, they found him in hospital. He’d tried to run into traffic. A car hit him, but he survived—with a broken leg and fractured ribs.
When they asked him why he did it, he simply pointed at me.
Needless to say, Uncle packed my things that same day and kicked me out.
And that’s how I ended up with Madam J.
Hmmm…
CHRIS:
Felix’s story about the prophet shook me. Something in the way he spoke, so sure, so settled in his destiny—it convinced me. So I told ED I’d go.
We travelled to the prophet’s village. When we arrived, there were already people waiting. It was clearly a popular place. After about an hour, it was our turn to go in.
The prophet sat in a faded blue armchair, a fan gently blowing on him. A bottle of water sat on a stool beside him.
As we walked in, he didn’t look at us. Just said, “Welcome. Please sit. Don’t tell me why you’re here.”
He asked me to stretch out my hands. I did.
He took one in his own and ran his fingers over my palm slowly. Up and down. Then he said, “Chris. That’s your name, right?”
I nodded.
“You were born to be great,” he said. “Everything you’ve experienced so far has been preparation for a destiny that is vast and significant. Your path is across waters. You will thrive, and make it big—over there.”
After he finished, I asked, “Sir… which waters? Is it the UK? America? Europe? Where exactly?”
He smiled gently. “God didn’t show me that. God bless you.”
Then it was ED’s turn. The prophet read his palm and said his destiny was to work in an office. If he stayed dedicated and patient, he’d rise to the top—eventually run the company.
Afterwards, we sat on a culvert near the prophet’s house. I was quiet for a long time. Then I finally said, “Why? Why does God hate me so much that He placed my destiny across water? I can’t swim. I hate water. I lost my best friend to water. Why would He do that?”
ED looked at me with a sad sort of sympathy. “I’m sorry, bro. But that’s your path. At least now you know.”
I stared into the distance for a while.
Then I said, “Well… that’s that. I need to start looking for money. I have to get a visa to go abroad.”
But that, my friend, is another story.
Hmmm…
