If not for the fact that I am sure I don't have a problem comprehending information, I would have thought I didn't hear properly.

My friend's marriage has been a chaotic one for as long as I can remember. There is hardly a week that goes by without me trying to encourage her to stay strong.

There are times I have been tempted to tell her to take a break from the marriage, but fear, honestly, fear won't let me say it out loud.

There was a time things got so bad that I asked her to travel and visit a family member who would understand her plight. At least, she could have a whole month to breathe and get away from the situation.

One day, I was with her when chaos erupted, and the argument went back and forth.

I stood there watching because, at least to me, what started the argument was something very minor.

The woman got frustrated and told the man that since she married him, she had known nothing but pain.

The man responded by telling her that he was helping her prepare a better place in heaven because the more a woman suffers in her marriage, the more she enjoys when she gets to heaven.

He went further to say that women have a special grace to endure whatever their husbands do to them, but his wife's case was different because she was always complaining.

This is not fiction. This is something I witnessed.

I left there that day without interfering, as usual, because I was completely dumbfounded.

In 2026? Where did that kind of teaching come from?

The incident that day has not left my heart.

Since when did enduring abuse become a measure of a woman's spirituality? And who came up with the idea that a woman's suffering in marriage is some sort of heavenly investment?

It is well with womanhood generally.

Over time, people in the neighborhood started joining. There was one man who used to attend occasionally with his family.

My uncle later discovered that the man wasn’t very responsible. He tried to talk to him about it, but the man got angry and stopped attending the fellowship. His wife, however, continued to come.

A month later, my uncle decided to hold a three-day prayer program. Of course, money was needed to make it happen.

During one of the fellowship meetings, while they were announcing the items required and their costs, the man who had stopped attending suddenly showed up. Everyone was surprised.

He sat quietly as they listed the expenses. Then, out of nowhere, he stood up and pledged almost half of the total amount needed.

My uncle was stunned.

The man didn’t wait until the end of the service before leaving.

His wife immediately knew something was wrong because she knew her husband didn’t even like the fellowship.

It turned out she was right, the man had been drunk that day and didn’t even realize he had entered the church.

Later, when his wife reminded him about the pledge, he caused a scene.

His neighbor and close friend eventually revealed that they had gone drinking together earlier. Afterward, the neighbor stopped by to see someone, while the man said he was heading home, but somehow, he found himself in church.

My uncle was disappointed. He had been happy, thinking that God had used an unlikely person to meet the fellowship’s need.

The man later warned them never to mention the fellowship to him again.

It was funny but who would dare to laugh? My uncle was frustrated.

His wife sha kept encouraging him even though she joined us to laugh secretly.

Las Las, the program still held because some other people supported in cash and in kind.

I had just gotten admitted into the university after sitting at home for four years.

My expectations were high. I won't fail God for answering my prayers at last and I won't disappoint my dad.

The first day I got to the campus I had so much confidence. I said to myself I must graduate with a first-class from this prestigious department.

And the journey began.

Our first semester results were released and as new students, we were very anxious so we clustered around the notice board. I was trying very hard to trace my number when one 300-level student volunteered to help me. "Did I even know that matric number was a huge secret in school? I read well and wrote well so what am I hiding?"

This guy had a very good height so he was able to find his way close to the board and traced my number.

He turned and looked at me. At first, I could not interpret the look and I was all smiles, "then he said my sister you are not graduating with others o, you will spend an extra semester. You just failed chem 101."

"Me ke? Extra semester for where? What have I been attending Pentecostal churches for? I quickly told him back to the sender. He smiled and said I am not cursing you o, I am telling you the truth that's how it works here. It's a prerequisite course. Oga please leave me alone what kind of big word is that?"

Ah! I went to ask around and they said it's true that I will spend an extra semester. I was sad but I was determined not to have another carry over again and I must graduate with first class.

The second semester came and nothing prepared me for what I saw. I failed another prerequisite course. Meaning I will spend an extra year. God punish the word prerequisite.

Some things were not feasible anymore so I said I would work very hard and graduate with a second-class upper. I was also a prayer warrior so I prayed very hard about it.

200 level came, and something started advising me to settle for second class lower. "Ah! Me that I am always reading like this, no way. I shall have what I decree because it is written that I shall decree a thing and it shall be established unto me."

Long story short, by the time I was in 300L my prayer point had changed drastically.

"What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?

It is not by merit but by Mercy.

It's not about first class, God qualifies the unqualified.

Joseph didn't need a certificate before he became prime minister."

I had to look for a way to encourage myself o because it seemed like what my seniors had been telling me was coming to pass.
" Abi it's not what they are teaching me that I am reading? Why is it that the more we stay in the department the less we understand what is happening?" CGPA was just going down down down.

When I got to 400L I had only one prayer point. "Lord just let me leave this school in peace. I don't even want a class of graduation again. I am angry with anything called class now.

Just let me go oooo."

Eventually, I left the school with a certificate and a class too after spending an extra year. But to date, I am not on good terms with the certificate.

I am not even sure if I can still define an atom.

"How did I not see the fashion designer in me?"

"Who deceived me that I am a descendant of Sir Isaac Newton?"

Please don't ask me what I am doing for a living now because I am still beefing that certificate.

Some days ago, my neighbour ran to my room, shouting my name as she approached.

I was wondering what the problem could be.

When she arrived, she pushed me aside and began to speak in hushed tones.

"They just called to inform me that there will be a burial in this compound," she said.

"Who died?" I exclaimed.

The woman said she didn't know.

Then she added that the burial wasn't the problem. It was the spot they intended to use for the burial.

Right in front of her room.

Yes, you read that correctly. Right at the entrance to her living room!

Instantly, I felt goosebumps all over my body.

Then the silent protest began.

The woman insisted that when she rented the room, nobody told her that it could become a burial ground one day.

They began to go back and forth.

That was when we realised that the person they intended to bury there hadn't just died.

She died over 25 years ago!

The first place they buried her was later turned into a road by the government, so they had to exhume her body.

They took her to her son's house and buried her there. That was the second burial.

This year, the son sold his house, so they had to exhume her body again.

Then they brought her to where we live because it is an ancestral home.

"Why won't you people just bury her in a cemetery and let her rest in peace?" I enquired.

They said she was a prestigious person and that her body couldn't be buried outside the family compound. Apparently, they also had to appease her by offering sacrifices every year.

"Ah! So you mean that after burying her right at the entrance to someone's living room, you will slaughter animals there every year?"

"Yes," they affirmed.

Then the back-and-forth continued.

For the burial to take place, the owner of the room wouldn't even be able to enter her room because they were going to dig up the spot.

They even ordered her to move the things she had kept at her entrance.

I was speechless at some point.

The argument went on for a while, but with serious intervention, the tenant prevailed.

The body was eventually buried at the back of the house.

But that wasn't all o!

Cooking and celebrations started.

They cooked for the living and the dead.

Guess what? They dished some special portions and brought them to me. Don't ask me if I ate it or not.😜

It was an unbelievable experience.

It scared me, but tradition is tradition.

One sad thing about being in the expectation room is that you become a dumping ground for all sorts of advice and suggestions.

The saddest part is that people expect you to accept whatever suggestions they throw at you.

They make it look like you have lost your sense of reasoning in the process of waiting.

They make it look like having a choice or preference is a crime.
They torment you with constant reminders that time is passing.
Your rejection begins to look like pride.

Your insistence on waiting begins to feel like foolishness.

People become mean to you because you are not dancing to their tune.

Gradually, you become lonely because no one understands you.
People become eager to hear things about you, not because they want to hear that things are finally better, but because they are eager to hear that you have failed since you didn't take their advice.

Listening to and taking every piece of advice during your waiting period is risky because some of those suggestions, though they come from well-meaning people, are not always right.

The waiting period is hard because there are people who take advantage of your desperation and ruin you with what looks like beautiful advice.

Waiting is hard, but still wait.

Some years ago, I was at Barnawa Market in Kaduna. My oga's tailoring shop was around there.

The area was a very busy one, and you couldn't avoid gist. Even if you were too busy to sit outside your shop and catch up on the latest gist, the gist would follow you inside your shop.

My oga was quite friendly, and he too always had funny stories to tell whenever he wasn't busy. That's if customers weren't quarrelling with him, o.

One of those days, there was no light, so we sat outside, just in front of the shop, gisting and whiling away time when an elderly man stopped to greet my oga.

As usual, he engaged the man in a few more conversations. When the man was done, he left.

My oga then turned to me and asked if I had taken note of the man's face.
I said no. I wasn't even paying much attention to what they were saying.
I asked if the man was owing him, and he said no.
He then added that something had happened to the man many years earlier.

That particular year, the man had fallen ill and eventually died.
News of his death soon spread around, and sympathisers gathered.

They prepared him for burial according to Islamic rites.

My oga said that while they were praying, the imam leading the prayer noticed that the dead man's toes moved.

For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.
But it happened a second time, and then a third time.

The imam stopped the prayer and informed the people present about the movement he had noticed.

They untied the body and took the man to the hospital.
And guess what?
The man was truly alive!

"Ah! So these stories are true?" I asked my oga. "I've only heard about them. I've never seen anyone who experienced something like that before."

My oga said he couldn't remember the exact year the incident happened, but the man lived and had a son after coming back to life.

As of the day my oga told me the story, the son he had after his return to life was already married.

Wow! Was all I could say.

Let's assume the son was about 30 years old when I heard the story. That means the man could have missed out on at least 30 years of his own life if he hadn't come back to life.

Thank God for a second chance!

If God is not through with you, nothing can cut your life short.

Your story is not over until God says it is over.

I remember some years ago, during the Ebola scare, when people were asked to use salt.

I can't remember the exact reason why I was the only one who slept at home that day.

You see, I wasn't afraid of staying alone, even if the house was a 20-bedroom mansion. Yours faithfully would be just fine!

So, I guess that's why everyone went about their business, knowing fully well that the person they were leaving at home would be fine.

I slept and woke up normally, by the grace of God.

I put the house in order, watched a movie on DStv, and had brunch. I didn't call my people to check on them, and they didn't call me either.

Around 1 p.m., I had my bath and left the house. I was learning tailoring at the time.

Even though I enjoyed some special privileges because I was also running a postgraduate programme, that wasn't enough reason for me to go to the shop late when I could easily go early.

I had already cooked up some stories to tell my oga about why I was late.

When I got to the shop, Oga said he didn't think I was going to make it that day. He said he had even planned to call me.

I asked him why he thought I wouldn't come, and he said it was probably because I was suffering from the effects of the salt bath.

Salt bath ke?

I was confused.

He then explained that, at midnight, some people had started spreading information that a salt bath could cure Ebola, and the news spread like wildfire.

I listened to his story, and before long, his shop was filled with people discussing the salt bath.

I was shocked to hear that some people had even been rushed to the hospital because they had taken an overdose of salt.

I was just there, mopping.

Nobody called me. I didn't even know that such a rumour had spread!

I just sat there wondering, if salt was truly the cure, I would have missed it o! Na my people for suffer because they would come and live with me in the same house.

But do you know what?
I was grateful that nobody called me that night.

You see, I am a very obedient person.
If you tell me to use one spoon of salt, I may just use an entire sachet!

So, I thank God that nobody called me that night.

On a more serious note, I pray for divine intervention against the spread of Ebola and any other deadly disease. May God protect our nation and grant wisdom to those responsible for keeping us safe. Amen.

That was the only question on my mind after the man who was rushing towards me suddenly stopped and took off.

This happened in 2007. I was still a student at the University of Jos.

I lived opposite the then-famous Febuna Hotel, in a small but mighty compound called De-Yard.

Talking about De-Yard now, I remember one person who made the compound interesting, among others.
Sanusi (real name). Since Sanusi graduated, I haven't heard from him. I believe he is fine. Sanusi, I miss you o! I can imagine you turning your nose up at me now. 😂

So, back to my story.

This area was behind Angwan Rogo and was not too far from Katako Market, so we had many people living there, even though the area was largely dominated by students.

There were times when students were attacked on their way back from school after staying late to study. Others were attacked while trying to buy something from a nearby shop. The girls fell victim more often.

I reconnected with my friend from secondary school. We met again at the University of Jos.

She got married while we were in school, and soon, she was pregnant.
I would go to pass time with her because she lived alone. Sometimes, I would even spend the night. I enjoyed staying at her place because her balcony gave us access to free gossip. What's a student-dominated environment without plenty of drama?

My friend's building was opposite De-Yard. A narrow road separated both houses.

On that fateful day, I spent the night at my friend's place, but I had a test the next day. It was a Physics test.

My friend told me to come with extra clothes so I could just dress up at her place and go to school. The test was scheduled for 7 a.m., but I insisted that I would leave her house at 5 a.m.

I woke up at 5 a.m., picked up my books, and headed out. My friend still asked me to stay a little longer, but I told her I didn't want to be late for school, so I left.

As soon as I got outside their gate, everywhere was quiet and calm, so I walked towards the road to cross over and enter our own compound.

Suddenly, two men approached.

I assumed they were heading to their shops at Katako Market or maybe Konan Shagari.

They were talking, but as soon as they sighted me, one of them whispered something to the other, and then he turned towards me.

I froze because I knew there was trouble already.

His speed increased as he approached me. I wanted to turn around and run or scream, but what happened next shocked me.

The man stopped suddenly, as if he had seen something scary. Then, he also turned and ran away.

The other man was waiting for him, but as soon as he saw his partner running back, he took off too.

That action scared me as well because I thought someone was going to attack me from behind.

A few seconds after the guy ran away, I stole a glance behind me, but I didn't see anyone.

Ah! What just happened? This guy was obviously going to attack me, but he acted as if he had seen someone or something, and he took off.

I was scared to death, honestly. I just stood there.

A minute or two later, Umar, our security man, opened our gate. He was on his way to the mosque.

I quickly ran across the road and into our compound.
What happened felt like a movie to me because I could not comprehend it.

I had my bath and got dressed but didn't have the courage to step out until I was sure it was bright enough and people were moving around.

I didn't make it to school as early as I wanted, but it didn't matter as long as I didn't miss my test.

I came back after the test and told my friend the whole story.
She reminded me that she had warned me to stay until it was bright enough or, at least, to go to school from her place.

It's been ages since that thing happened, but whenever I think about it, I am always grateful to God, for only He can explain what happened that day.

When I write my stories, which are mostly culled from real-life experiences, I try to limit the lessons I attach to them.

I want readers to read with an open mind. I want the story to touch where it is supposed to touch in the life of each reader.

Inspiration is different for everyone.

Someone might learn something about kindness from a story, while another might learn about hard work.

What matters most is that the reader has something to take home.
Another thing is that some readers draw lessons from a particular story almost immediately.

Some take a week, a month, or even years to draw a lesson.

Some might have forgotten the story, but an encounter will make them remember it. And it is at that point that the story will do what it is supposed to do.

There are also times when I don't write with the intention of teaching anything. I just want to provide pure laughter and entertainment.

But even then, you will find someone who has a takeaway from that piece.

Learning or discovering something by yourself is very important because you will hardly forget. A truth you discovered by yourself is priceless.

So, I like to write my stories with a liberal heart and trust that the universe will drop the necessary lessons in the heart of each reader.

The spaces between my teeth started increasing on their own. Anything I ate, I would start looking for a toothpick.

It got so bad that even bread used to get stuck there. The only thing that didn't get stuck was liquid.

I became worried, especially because I couldn't eat meat in peace.
God knows that I love meat.

So, I decided that instead of carrying dental floss everywhere, let's kuku go and tie the teeth.

That's how I woke up confidently one Monday morning, after checking out some dental clinics online.

I walked in with great hopes and smiles.The reception was warm. The atmosphere was cozy, AC was just blowing me from all corners.

Then I told them I wanted to fix braces. They started explaining the procedure, and I was like,

"That's okay."

Then they told me the price of the package.

₦1.5 MILLION!

As soon as I heard the amount, my body forgot that AC was on because I started sweating.

The lady kept explaining, but honestly, I wasn't hearing her again.

I found a way to end the conversation and quickly left the place.

I walked for over 2 kilometres before I realised that I had forgotten to take a keke.

₦1.5 million? Honestly, I wasn't informed!

So, that small thing they glue to your teeth is that expensive?

I have gone to buy more packs of dental floss, sha.