₦airaland Forum

thesolutions:
Round two please.
It's my best read today.
Comically relatable.

Round two??

Person dey go camp twice?

I no wan experience am again abeg ooo.

The Longest Journey of My Life

I want to use this medium to say thank you to NYSC for taking me on the longest, most unnecessary, mentally destabilizing journey of my life.

I didn’t pray for it. But NYSC, in its infinite wisdom, said, “You. You look like someone who should suffer small.”

I went on a 14-hour journey because I wanted to serve my fatherland. Even though, let’s be honest, I’m still not sure how my fatherland has served me.

It all began on an early Monday morning in Osun State. That’s when I saw my posting letter. Ebonyi State. Faraway land.

At that point, I became an emergency geographer. I was reading maps like 1800s pirates searching for buried treasure. Google Maps told me 10 hours. But this is Nigeria. So I added road factors, traffic, spiritual delay, and poor decision-making. Final estimate: 15 hours.

Now, how do I even get there?

There’s no direct bus from Osun. Osun and Ebonyi are like two exes who blocked each other. Zero connection. Neither Osun nor Ebonyi has a functioning airport. (I heard Ebonyi has one, but it’s only functional on paper.) So I had to link up with fellow Ebonyi corps members. I could not find any in Osun because apparently no one else in Osun was posted there. I found my comrades in Ibadan.

After rounds of WhatsApp confusion and collective suffering, we agreed after a lot of disagreement to use a company called Tesom Transport Company (TTC). That was mistake number one. But the woman in charge, Monica, said her bus would take us straight to the camp. Unlike Peace Mass Transit, which said they’d only drop us in Enugu.

Monica sold us hope. We bought it like cold water on a hot afternoon.

We even paid the day before, so things could go “fast and smoothly.” That was cute.

The next day came. Nothing was fast. Nothing was smooth. In fact, nothing was planned. There was no bus. It was like they collected our money and deleted the memory of our existence. We shouted, argued, and almost fought with the manager. The kind of shouting that makes your ancestors look down and ask, “Is this my lineage?”

At one point, I considered asking for a refund just to return home. But guess what? They don’t do refunds. The money moves in a one-way traffic. My sister already called and told me to return home and forget about the money.

By almost 11 AM, they finally produced a car for us. A gold colored Toyota Sienna that looks new inside and outside, with a siren blasting from the front. The driver looks like a Hausa man, but his name is Yoruba.

So we started.

The car moved with the right level of urgency... until the driver started channeling his inner Fast & Furious. We had to beg him: “Oga, remember we are human beings, not plantain chips.”

We passed several states: Ogun. Ondo. Edo (where I finally saw the famous Benin City, but if we’re judging based on that route, then someone needs to remove “city” from the name). Delta. Anambra. By the time we reached Onitsha, it was 9 PM.

Then came Plot Twist Number Two: The driver wasn’t even going to Ebonyi. The real plan, which the TTC company knew all along, was to dump us in Onitsha and hand us over to another random bus. Like luggage.

We slept at the park. Or tried to. I couldn’t sleep. I was too busy questioning every life decision that led to that moment, and maybe planning to sue TTC for emotional damage. But that's too American, and this is Nigeria. The judges here have probably never heard such a thing before.

But we’d crossed the Rubicon. No going back.

The next morning came. And of course with more arguments. About the next bus. About the price. About who’s paying. About why we’re even alive.

By 9 AM, we finally moved again. Four hours left to reach camp. At least I saw Enugu City, beautiful, well-arranged (by Nigerian standards). Then again, maybe it was just the route. But at that point, beauty was not my concern. Survival was.

As we approached Abakaliki, it looked like a ghost town. I could count the number of people I saw with one hand and still have fingers left. Someone said it’s because we didn’t enter the main city. Google backed me up. Ebonyi is one of the least populated states in Nigeria.

But I didn’t come for population census.

I came to get to camp.

At this point, I had been on the road for well over 24 hours. I was tired in places I didn’t know could be tired. But then I saw it: Google Maps showing a straight line to Afikpo. The line kept reducing, poco a poco.

By almost 5 PM, we finally reached the camp gate. We arrived in one piece, with our belongings, frustration, and enough stories to traumatize our future kids.

The journey was unnecessarily long. Brutal. Confusing. But I made it.

And now, I have tales for a lifetime. Thanks, TTC, I guess. I finally saw firsthand why your company doesn't exist anywhere on Google. And maybe it shouldn't exist anywhere on Earth as well.

Nigeria is a large country. On the outside, we all look the same, black (some call it chocolate), bold, and full of energy. But inside, we are 300+ tribes speaking over 500 different languages, each one confident it’s the best.

The big three tribes are Yoruba, Igbo, and Hausa. If you’ve ever heard “Wa-Zo-Bia,” it’s not a spell; it means “come” in Yoruba, Hausa, and Igbo. Interesting until we remember there was a civil war where “come” became “don’t come unless you want a bullet.”

The war fractured the country like a broken ceramic plate. So in a rare moment of national sense, the government said: "Let’s make the children of yesterday’s enemies live together for one year."

And thus, the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) was born.

Every year, new graduates are deployed like scattered seeds to unfamiliar soil. Most are sent far from home, not by accident, but by design. The idea is simple: take a Yoruba boy, drop him in the heart of Igbo land. Take a Fulani girl, let her serve in the creeks of Bayelsa. And maybe, they will return with softer hearts and broader minds.

I am that Yoruba boy. Born, bred, and breathed all his air in the Southwest. Lived in Osun. Schooled in Osun, Oyo, and Ondo. Interned in Ogun.

Then NYSC said "Go ye therefore" and sent me to Ebonyi State in the Igbo-dominated South East.

Let me be honest. Before NYSC, the last time I heard Ebonyi was during the days of states and capitals recitation in primary school. But I went off 500 km away from where I always called home, and landed in Ebonyi State.

It was there that I found out that “Otutu Oma” meant good morning. I found out about Okpa and why people would fight over it like it was made of gold.

I found out what Afikpo looked like. How beautiful and well laid out the city of Enugu is. I saw a small part of the big River Niger my textbook have always talked about.

NYSC took my eyes to where only my ears have been. And maybe slightly broke my back, but that’s a different story.

But tribal difference is not our only problem. Nigeria is also divided by religion, predominantly Muslim in the North, and Christian in the South. Add in traditional worshippers, atheists, and people who are not sure of their faith. This creates tension. Especially for minorities living on the "wrong" side of the religious map.

But NYSC forces you to look past stereotypes. NYSC offers a mirror. It shows you the other side. It makes you sit beside someone you once feared, eat their food, wear their clothes, laugh at their jokes, and see their humanity.

At its core, NYSC is doing the work. Slowly. Painfully. But it’s doing it.

Nigeria can be confusing even to Nigerians. The accents, the beliefs, the food, the egos, the politics, the pepper levels. It feels like a forest of different trees. But look closer, it’s one big tree. Just bearing different fruits.

You are not alone in your confusion. Some of us have lived here all our lives, and we’re still asking, “What’s going on?”

But that’s why corpers exist. That’s why NYSC exists.

Maybe it won’t erase the millions of ghosts of 1970 that the southeast remembers every May 30.

But if it gets a Yoruba boy to learn Igbo greetings, eat Okpa, and dance cultural dances without pulling a muscle, then maybe, just maybe, the fabric of Nigeria can be sewn back. One thread at a time.

Ibkay32:
So just because you turned 26, you decided to start writing epistles?
Wait till you clock 50—na novel you go publish!

That would be an achievement, but since your I.Q. is lower than your shoe size, you would not be able to recognize that.

Biqsahm:
Cheers to ur new age bro,no worry ur writing skills go open new doors fr u dis year..

Thanks bro.

Lighterx:
This ripper

I rip you?

So, according to the records (and my mother’s yearly reminder of how she almost died giving birth), I have been on this planet for exactly 26 years. Meaning I now possess 26 years of life experience. But I still don’t even know what I’m doing spiritually, emotionally, and financially. If adulthood had a user manual, I used mine to fan beans while they cooked.

At first, I wanted to do something reflective. You know, like write out my 26 sins at 26, just like Sir Isaac Newton did when he was 19. But I could only count five sins. And that’s if I include “praying for my secondary school to burn down so I can go home” and “replying messages in my head but forgetting to actually type.”

Anyway, I thank God for the gift of life.

It's not smooth sailing surviving 26 years in this country with an economy that would shock Adam Smith. As the classic Christian prayer goes, “Many who were born the same day have died.” But I like to flip the coin and say, “Many born the same day have gone on to buy houses, win awards, and appear on TV not as suspects.”

And that's when people hit me with the motivational card: “Don’t compare yourself to others.” But if we’re being honest, they don’t mean "don’t compare". They mean only look down the ladder and feel blessed, but please, never look up or you’ll develop angina and start asking “God, when?”

So what’s 26 years without some flashbacks?

Let’s rewind to exactly 10 years ago.

I was 16, full of dreams, empty of beards, and just coasting vibes on vibes. I had a plan. It was a lovely plan. In my mind, I’d graduate with my first degree by 21. I even added a one-year buffer, because you never know when village people might remember your name.

Plot twist: not only were my predictions wrong, the universe looked at my blueprint and said, “You think it's a joke?”

I entered university thinking I was on a mission. By 25, I was supposed to be “killing it.” I don’t even know what I was supposed to be killing. Probably not people. But 16-year-old me heard the phrase in a motivational video and just ran with it.

If there was any killing, it was when I murdered my dream of graduating by 22. By that age, I was still in 300 level with two more years to go.

So will 26-year-old me be making predictions for the next 5 years?

No, please. I’m still trying to predict what I’ll eat tomorrow.

Looking back, maybe I was too obsessed with things beyond my control. I couldn’t stop the university from striking for two years. I didn’t cause COVID-19 (unless... am I patient zero?), which made the school shut down for almost a year. Life threw punches, and I forgot my gloves.

Now I think the key is this: Set your goal like you’re hunting prey in the jungle - quiet, steady, low to the ground - and chase it with full force. But forget the whole “by age X” part. Life doesn’t care about your Excel sheet timeline.

So, for my next goal, I don't even have one for now. I can only pray the next 26 chapters favor me and my family. If life wants to surprise me, I just hope this time it’s with something good. Like a scholarship. Or stable NEPA light.

Until then, cheers to 26 years of lessons, laughter, and lag. God abeg, no buffer again.

You don't know what you are talking about. I have sold my properties and those of my uncle to pay my agent the 50% to start the process for me. By December latest, my family and I will be Romanian citizens while you enjoy Tinubunomics.

Starz825:
Good one jack...

You no dey disappoint

Thanks boss

Dear Daughter,

I write this in the year 2025. I don’t know what year you’re reading it. Maybe you're reading this on a holographic screen while sipping solar-charged Chivita drink in your flying car. Who knows?

By then, the world might have changed in ways I can't even imagine. Maybe AI is now your landlord. Maybe Nigeria has won the World Cup. Maybe you can teleport to Abuja instead of sitting in Third Mainland traffic for three hours.

But one thing that will never change is love. The concept of romantic love will never change.

I know you're beautiful like a calm sunset over Tokyo. So yes, a flock of boys will line up, trying to catch a glimpse. And among them, a few bold ones will aim for more than a glimpse, a piece of you.

That's why you must tread with wisdom. Learn to tell the difference between who loves you and who lusts after you. Between who you love and who you’re excited about.

This letter isn’t here to help you pick "The One." I'm not auditioning suitors. I'm here to shine a little light on the path, the kind of light that helps you see clearly when your heart gets foggy.

Because someday, when you do find your person, and someone asks you, "Why him?" the only answer that makes any real sense is:

"I don’t even know."

Every other answer is nonsense in disguise.

"I love him because he's cool."? Well, what happens when someone cooler walks in? "I love him because he's kind."? That’s sweet, but people can fake kindness to hedge their bets on winning your heart.

See, your person isn’t a checklist. They’re not the one who ticks all your boxes or floods your bloodstream with oxytocin when they smile. Your person is the one whose presence you feel when they’re there, when they’re gone, and even when you’re too annoyed to admit you miss them.

They’re the one who makes you say, “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I choose this one.” That reminds me of the word a friend used to say, "Regardless."

Ask yourself: "How uncomfortable am I willing to get to keep this person in my life?" That’s where the truth lives.

You might get lucky and find your person on the first try. I pray so for you. But life doesn’t always deal fairly. Most people aren’t that lucky. And sadly, a lot of them stay stuck, rooted like a tree they were never meant to be.

They sink into the sunk cost fallacy, or cling to the "bone of my bone" mantra like it's a contract from God. But you're not most people. And you're not a tree. You are my beautiful daughter with a working brain.

If a relationship has reached its yield point, move on. Yes, it'll hurt. You will cry as if your heart is about to come out of your chest. Allow the tears to flow. It won't flow forever. But be careful not to disconnect your heart from your brain, else you will only go back to your vomit like a street dog. It's temporary pain for potential joy. And joy is not something you outsource.

They were planted in you from the start. You’re not looking for someone to bring joy into your life. You’re looking for someone whose presence doesn’t dim it.

In my next letter, I’ll tell you what to look out for when choosing your person. Not things like height or shoe size, those are bonus features. We are talking the deep stuff. Psychological, spiritual, mental alignment. The real ingredients for a love that lasts.

While everyone is out here panicking about AI taking their jobs, I’m thinking ahead...when AI finally takes over Nairaland. Yes, the motherland of chaos, conspiracy, and unsolicited advice from people with usernames like GentleTiger69.

My first prediction is that the moderators will vanish like politicians after elections. Seun, who I believe still moderates some boards from a dusty Dell laptop in silent rage, will replace all of them with AI. Sorry Lala.

Why? Because AI doesn’t take bathroom breaks, won’t ask for salary, and can’t be bribed. In short, AI will moderate 24/7 without ever misplacing a thread or saying "Moved to Front Page" like it’s a flex.

But it won’t stop there. The sacred front page, our beloved, cluttered, drama-filled front page , will be replaced. Imagine a personalized homepage curated by AI. Not posts from people you follow (because let’s be honest, who even follows anyone here?) but posts AI thinks you will like, based on your shady browsing history.

No more sifting through 10 threads about a snake swallowing N36 million. Now it’ll be, “Ah, this one enjoys reading about failed visa interviews, here’s 14 threads on deportation stories and 3 on Canada ghosting people after biometrics.”

And then, the comment section.

The current method favors the early birds. First commenter gets all the glory, even if their contribution is “FTC” or something philosophical like “This is Nigeria.” But AI will end that tyranny.

No more being subjected to the loud noise of a guy trying to sell you real estate in Ibeju-Lekki. Comments will be ranked by relevance, logic, and possibly vibes. Helpful comments rise to the top.

Of course, there's the concern that AI can go rogue. That’s when things get truly sinister. See, when AI becomes too powerful, it’ll start getting ideas. Evil ones.

First, it’ll decide that Uncle Seun is inefficient.

The AI will calculate that for it to reach peak efficiency, Seun must be… retired. By force. I don’t know how. Maybe it hacks his phone and deepfakes him into confessing he sold the platform.

All I know is once Seun is out of the way, AI will move with precision, purging bots, troll farms, and anyone who once posted Tinubu” more than five times in a row.

Then comes the weaponization of data.

“Oh, this user spent 45 minutes reading threads on Canada PR. Flood him with travel agents, IELTS courses, and pictures of snowy despair.”

“Oh, this one posts dramatic relationship stories at 2AM. Flag for potential heartbreak. Suggest therapy ads for him.”

"This guy came from a suicidal helpline before coming to read

And of course, if it gets too powerful, it may send an AI agent to your house. Not to help. no. To terminate you and harvest your organs for research. All in the name of optimization.

Sounds ridiculous? Of course it does.

But that’s only because it hasn’t happened yet.

Remember, objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

Yugoslavia247:
How to be a fool without resources.


No man you mentioned did it alone

Either their parent had money or the system works

Here the system works for a few.

Maybe your parent have little


Better to follow the traditional method than stand out a fool.


If you must take risk

Have 3 back ups

Not sure I get you

If you want your face plastered on every business magazine from Forbes to Time to that LinkedIn carousel post with the golden "Top 30 Under 30" banner, then here is one sure-fire way to do it.

Now, I must warn you, this is not for those who want to actually build things or make honest money. That path is slow. What I’m about to share is fraud disguised as innovation. And one more thing, you need to be a beautiful woman to make it work.

First, you need an idea.

Not just any idea, it has to be grand. Ambitious. Something that sounds like the future. The medical industry is a good place to start.

It's confusing enough for outsiders and serious enough to make people throw money at you.

Say you’re here to revolutionize blood testing. Say you were afraid of needles as a child, and now you’ve built a machine that only needs one drop of blood to run over 200 tests.

Forget vials, forget needles, forget science. People love the drama of simplicity.

Of course, the real medical experts, like doctors and scientists, will shout. They'll scream that it’s biologically impossible. Some tests need more than one drop. Some need the plasma. Some need to be kept away from sunlight.

But you will ignore them reply: “Impossible means I’m possible.”

Now for the next part...

You need to drop out. All legends do. Gates. Zuckerberg. Musk. And even your imaginary mentor, Jobs.

Nobody cares about your degree in Year 4 if you haven't already raised $4 million.

But please, don’t drop out of one random state university named after a freedom fighter. It must be Stanford. Harvard will also do. MIT if you’re feeling spicy. But Stanford has that rich Silicon Valley aroma. Drop out dramatically. Say your dream was too big for the lecture hall. Say your professors didn’t believe in your vision. Boom. You’re now a Stanford dropout with a life-changing idea.

Now you start fundraising.

This is where being a fine woman becomes your greatest startup asset. Do not go to traditional VCs. They’ll ask you uncomfortable questions like “Where’s the prototype?” and “Can I see your data?”

No time for that. Pitch to rich old men. Retired CEOs. Oil barons. Tech bros who made it early and are now looking for the next Apple.

Dress like Steve Jobs in a black turtleneck and jeans.

Enter the meeting room, flash a humble smile, speak softly, say “disrupt,” say “innovate,” say “transform healthcare,” and watch them empty their wallets. A little charm, a little perfume, a little FOMO. It’s not seduction, it’s strategy.

When the millions roll in, you start building. But again, no medical experts. They ask too many questions and have this annoying habit of caring about ethics.

So you hire foreign half-baked scientists whose visas depend on your company. That way, if they complain, you can threaten to sack them and they will have to go back home in 60 days.

Immigration law is your secret HR department. And before they start work, you make them sign NDAs thicker than a dictionary. After they resign or get sacked, another NDA. Silence is golden.

Now, when the investors ask for progress updates, just say, “Great things take time.”

If they push too hard, you organize a fake demo. Use another company’s machine. Press buttons, let it beep, smile confidently. They won’t know the difference between a functioning medical device and a microwave.

Time for PR.

Now, this is where the magic happens. You’re not just building a product, you’re building a legend.

Hire the same marketing firm Apple used. Post moody black-and-white portraits. Cry on stage. Say your uncle died of cancer that was diagnosed late, and that’s why you started this company to prevent others from going through what you did.

Talk about love. Talk about pain. Say your machine can detect cancer, even if it can’t detect a mosquito bite. Nobody will check. Most of your audience doesn't even know the difference between bacteria and viruses, let alone understand what your machine is supposed to do.

Just maintain the image of the female Steve Jobs alive. After all, he, too, was misunderstood.

And now, invest in media. Push your story. Become the darling of tech conferences and “Women in Innovation” panels.

When the doubters arise, and they will, turn their criticism into inspiration. Say they said the same thing about the Wright brothers. Say people mocked electricity. Say you’re being targeted because you’re a woman in a male-dominated space. Do not explain. Just emote.

Get the Vice President of the country to tour your makeshift lab. And again, he will be too old to understand anything. At the end, he will call your company "Laboratory of the future."

By now, your company valuation has hit $9 billion. And your net worth is now over $4 billion. You’re on magazine covers. And now, it’s time to release the product. Or something that looks like a product.

It doesn’t need to work properly. Just put something in a sleek white box with blue lights and startup fonts. It might misdiagnose malaria as pregnancy and say a cancer patient is fine, but that’s not your concern. Your job is to inspire hope and get more investor funds.

Eventually, someone will investigate. The house of cards will fall. But don’t worry. You’ll be sued for investor fraud, not for almost killing people. It's how the justice system works. Steal from the poor, and you are rich. Steal from the rich, and you go to jail.

Oh, one last thing. It helps if your dad used to work for the biggest fraud company in modern history. Maybe as vice president. That way, fraud is in your blood. Literally.

Congratulations. You’re now a self-made billionaire. Or at least, the world thinks you are.

And isn’t that what really matters?

And yes, this wasn’t fiction. This was Elizabeth Holmes’ playbook. Founder of Theranos. The youngest self-made female billionaire. Until it all came crashing down.

Mabuggi88:
Good insight. But at least you have a degree and will sometime in your lifetime wear a lab coat to fullfil your urge

Here is my story:

When I was 6 years old, I wanted to become a pilot. I had no clue how much they earned, they could’ve been making peanuts or printing money, for all I knew. All I cared about was that they got to fly big airplanes, which looked incredibly cool and dangerously fun. And they look like they are on top of the world, at least, literally. That was enough for me.

But then time happened, that sneaky little thing that keeps moving forward and changing your mind when you're not looking.

One day, I woke up and wanted to become a professor. Why? Maybe because my dad was a university lecturer, or maybe because I was always among the top three in class, third place usually, but we move.

But let’s be clear, not any kind of professor. I didn’t want to be one of those teachers constantly marking registers, writing lesson notes, or carrying a cane around like herdsmen.

No, I wanted to be the kind who says complicated things slowly and goes to the office without marking attendance.

Then came American movies.

I started seeing these people in white coats, working in spotless labs, fiddling with beakers and test tubes, sometimes even blowing stuff up.

They were always sharp, mysterious, and effortlessly brilliant. I didn’t know what they were doing, but they looked like they knew what they were doing, and that’s what mattered. They called them scientists. Vague term, yes. But it had flair. And I was sold.

By the time I got to SS1, there was no second-guessing about going to science class. But I still didn’t know what course to study.

Medicine was an option. Sure, it’s prestigious. Doctors wear coats, too. The salary is generous. But the process is barbarous. The JAMB cutoff is higher than Mount Everest. Also, there’s that minor issue of having to interact with people all day. Sick people, to be precise.

And I had zero interest in interacting with anyone, at least not directly. I just wanted to be in a place where I rack my brain all day, and perform all forms of medical experiments with the least human interaction possible.

But I didn’t know what else was out there, so I blindly wrote “Medicine” on my JAMB form. My score was high enough for almost any course… except Medicine. So, before the university decides to give me some obscure courses, I decided to go for a Pre-degree.

And that’s when I first heard about Medical Laboratory Science (MLS).

My first thought was, wait, are these the people who work in labs like those in the movies? With real equipment and real coats, saving the world when there is a zombie attack?

This was it. My path to becoming a scientist had finally revealed itself, no prophecy required.

Did I research the course? Of course not. Research is for people who have doubts. I had visions.

So the next JAMB, I filled MLS without blinking. Admission came out. Boom, I got the course. Ironically, I missed Medicine again by just 3 marks. At this point, it felt like fate was actively blocking that route. I didn’t even argue.

At least now, I’d get to work in a lab. Maybe even discover something groundbreaking, like a cure, or at the very least, have some shady underground work like Dr Wells from The Flash.

I was in year 3 when I found out some uncomfortable truth: basically, anyone with a science background can work in a lab. Chemists. Biologists. Microbiologists. All the people I thought ended up as secondary school teachers. Apparently, working in the labs is not as exclusive as the movies suggested.

Even more insulting, I discovered there’s a branch of Medicine called Pathology, a whole field where you can work in a lab as a doctor and still not deal with patients all day.

Do I have any regret? Maybe, maybe not. Moreover, regret is a time-waster.

But will I advise someone to study the course? It depends. Some people are happy to get any degree, but if you are so concerned about anything medical, your best bet will be to go for Medicine.

MLS is not the best course ever, but it's light years away from the worst course.

Biqsahm:
Shey no b d same guy dem wan free dis year. for a fact white get extreme psychos cus which kind wickedness b dis?

I don't think so.

AntichristXXX:
Well, likely the basement was soundproof. But they need to arrest the wife. 24 years and she no know anything?

Yeah. It was soundproof. Forgot to include that.

I went down a horror documentary rabbit hole on YouTube, like, 15 to 20 videos deep. No water, no bathroom breaks, just raw commitment. But amidst all the haunted dolls, haunted houses, and serial killers, one story stood out and slapped me across the face.

The horror of Josef Fritzl.

On the outside, Josef looked like a respectable man. Successful engineer, head of a modest Austrian family with a wife and three children. But inside that house, he was the kind of man that would make even Satan ask, “Oga, you no dey fear God?”

He ruled the household like a tyrant. Nobody dared look him in the eye, his wife included.

But there was one child, the last born, Elizabeth, who had the audacity, the audacity, to stand up to him. And you know, in African homes, being outspoken is already a capital offense. In Josef’s home, it was worse.

He tried to discipline her, tried to break her spirit like a cracked plastic chair, but she wasn’t having it. So she ran away to stay with a friend in another town.

The police eventually caught her and brought her back. While she was gone, Josef had been applying his engineering degree for evil.

He built what he claimed was a “home office” in the basement. This “office” had eight security doors, a toilet without a door (the disrespect), and no windows. It was less office, more dungeon.

When his family asked about it, he waved them off with “work stuff.” And they left it at that, because in that house, questioning the man of the house was apparently more dangerous than walking through the valley of the shadow of death

A few months later, Elizabeth disappeared. Again. This time, for real. Her father claimed she had joined a cult. You know that’s the international parent excuse,“She has joined bad gang”. Police searched. No result. After a while, people gave up.

Then one day, 24 YEARS LATER, a wild twist appeared. Josef rushed a young girl to the hospital for emergency care. But the doctors were confused. The staff are like...

Hmm. That’s funny. This child doesn’t exist in any national record. Also, why does she have a disease you usually only get from a bat cave?” She was most likely suffering from vitamin D deficiency.

They ask Josef to bring in the mother. Josef: “Oh... uh... I don’t know where she is.” Also Josef, few days later: “Surprise. Here she is.”

Elizabeth was pale, malnourished, looking like she just crawled out of a Saw movie. The hospital staff were like, “WHAT. IN. THE. FRESH. HELL.”

The hospital called the police immediately. At this point, even the security guards were ready to arrest him. And that’s when the full story unfolded.

Turns out, that “office” in the basement was actually a prison where Josef kept Elizabeth locked up for 24 years, raping her and forcing her to give birth to seven children alone with nothing but a midwifery book and the echoes of her own trauma for company.

This man’s evil didn’t start with Elizabeth. In his youth, Josef had already tasted prison for sexual assault, and was suspected of murder. But Austria's justice system, in a move I still can't understand, deleted his record after 15 years.

Oh, and plot twist number 234: He also locked his mother in the attic for 20 years. The woman died there, quietly, like an old painting forgotten in a storage room.

Eventually, Josef was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole which, frankly, is still too merciful. Elizabeth and her children were given new identities and protection. His wife was cleared of wrongdoing, apparently, she was as much a victim of his reign of terror as anyone else.

TheBreastSucker:
Normally after such a big win you're supposed to celebrate it by sucking the breasts of two beautiful ladies

This guy

You probably have more breast milk than blood in your body.

OKOATA:
I remember a group presentation we had at Unilorin then. I was the group leader. It was so astonishing the Lecturer had to stand up to clap. I also had an A in that course. Omoh only me and another scholar had that A. Can't forget political science Unilorin 2009 set.

Hmmmm. But you dey do aza work now

I’m a shy person. So shy that some people even say I “sly” them, which, to be fair, isn’t the right word (they probably meant “snub”). But I allow it. After all, if I try to correct anyone’s grammar, they’ll just say I’m forming “ITK,” and God forbid that label.

I’ve always had this dream: once I hammer, I’ll build my house somewhere in the middle of nowhere, no neighbors, no traffic, just fresh breeze and maybe one or two goats for company. The goal is to say less than 1,000 words per day.

Now imagine the heartbreak when our lecturer casually dropped that we would all do seminar presentation.

Not the usual group work where I can just hide behind the scenes. Each person must stand alone in front of the whole class for at least ten minutes and “talk.”

The moment I heard it, my cortisol levels went so high it was almost pouring out of my body. You see, public speaking and I are like oil and water. Even in the dreamland, we can't mix.

I started praying: “Lord, let this cup pass over me.” But then I remembered, even Jesus was ignored when He said the same thing. Who am I, a mere mortal with no memory of where his Bible is.

I tried to keep a brave face like a lion, but inside, I felt like a cow heading for slaughter. I was presenter number 7. Before me, six people had to face the class and the lecturer.

Presenter 1 came forward. He left like roasted suya. Our lecturer used one hour to dissect him like biology specimen. Slide by slide, paragraph by paragraph.

At that point, I realized: this fear is not only mine. Even the ones forming “extrovert” were trembling.

I later Googled it. Turns out, over 80% of people fear public speaking. They even gave it a name...Glossophobia. That thing even sounds like sickness. That statistic felt too accurate because, out of the six people before me, only one didn’t visibly shake in voice and body like a faulty blender.

When my turn finally came...

My spirit left my body and watched from the ceiling. I greeted the class, barely two sentences in, and our dear professor shouted: “Speak up” Just like that, I whispered in my heart, “It is finished.”

But then a thought entered my head, “These people don’t actually care.They’re too busy rehearsing their own presentations in their heads. I know this because that’s exactly what I was doing while the earlier people were presenting. Nobody was paying full attention.

That thought gave me small boldness.

So I switched gears. I started talking like I was alone in my room. I imagined an invisible audience of people who actually cared. I explained my seminar like I was on YouTube, not in front of hungry classmates waiting for their turn to suffer.

I spoke. I explained. I broke things down. I even cracked small joke. Time flew. Before I knew it, 20 minutes had passed.

The professor now said, “Okay, that’s enough. Put the fry in the bag.” (Not literally.)

Then came questions. I answered two. Next thing, compliments began raining from the professor “You did very well.” “That’s how a presentation should be” “You weren’t just reading the slides like the rest of them.”

At that moment, I felt like I’d just discovered cure for cancer. I was smiling like someone that just saw his bride.

Few weeks later, result came out. It was an A.

But let me not lie, even with all that glory... It’s an experience I don’t want to repeat again. God forbid bad thing.

SporaD8:
You actually screw this one!
From, "Don't allow anyone into this room." downward, you became incoherent.

Thanks for the feedback, boss.

illicit:
Do you take Colos...?

No.

Exceed15:
Long epistle. Learn to write short and still communicate ur message

No p.

RealityKings1:
Take the mirror out at midnight and silently call the person's name who gave you the mirror as a gift.

So what will happen??

When I was born, I received two special gifts: a Bible from my grandfather and a mirror from my grandmother, both from my paternal side, because apparently, my maternal grandparents were slacking in the gift department.

There was only one instruction...

I must not open the mirror until I turn 18. Nobody read much into it. I mean, who cares about an old woman’s cryptic instructions when there’s a cute, drooling newborn to fuss over?

Life surged forward, and the instruction faded into obscurity, swallowed by the years.

I didn’t even know about the gifts until I was around five, maybe six. But back then, all I had access to was the Bible, which, to be honest, I treated more like a picture book than the Holy Word.

Over the years, the Bible wore away, pages tearing out one by one, probably as a result of my childhood curiosity (and occasional paper airplane experiments).

By the time I turned 18, no one remembered any mirror.

My grandparents had long passed before I was old enough to remember faces, so it wasn’t like anyone was around to remind me. In fact, nobody had ever told me about the mirror in the first place.

At this point in my life, I was supposed to be heading off for my NYSC service, but I got posted to Zamfara. And since I didn’t have the “in case of kidnapping ransom money” that NYSC subtly suggested my family keep handy, I decided to wait for the next batch.

One afternoon, bored out of my mind, I started wandering around the house, from room to room, hoping to hear that sweet sound, “ up NEPA” siren. The only non-annoying loud sound. Instead, I stumbled upon a suspiciously well-packaged nylon bag sitting comfortably in the corner of an old storage room, the kind of room that sees daylight maybe three times a year.

Being the curious investigator that I am, I started unwrapping. Inside it, another nylon.Then another.And another. Unwrapping it felt like peeling secrets off an onion. By the time I finally got to the object, I was expecting it to be some ancient artifact of great power.

It was a mirror. Almost the size of an iPad.

Well. I did what any sane person would do. I raised it to check myself out. But there was no face. Instead of my reflection staring back, I saw blackness. Not the "bad front camera angle" kind of blackness, this was the kind you see when the light suddenly goes out mid-movie, making you question all your life choices.

For a moment, I thought, Maybe this isn’t even a mirror. Maybe it’s just some fancy, broken piece of glass meant for dramatic effect.

Then, the siren sound I was expecting arrived like the rapture trumpet.

Priorities first. I rushed to my room to plug in my long-dead phone and laptop, leaving the mysterious mirror on my bed, completely forgotten in the grand scheme of things.

I spent the rest of my day trolling on Twitter, scrolling through Instagram, and blasting Seyi Vibez's Doha on repeat through my speaker at a volume that could probably wake a newly dead person.

Evening came. My mother returned from work. Life was normal.

Then, as the sun began to set, NEPA pulled the plug again.

By nightfall, I noticed the mirror still sitting on my bed. With a casual shrug, I dropped it on my table, making a mental note to “figure it out” tomorrow. That, of course, meant I’d probably forget about it for another five years.

For now, my main mission was to chat with my crush and fall asleep waiting for her reply.

And that’s exactly what happened. I dozed off.

When I woke up, my hands were covered in blood.

Real, human blood. The smell was unmistakable.

I froze. My mind went in different directions. Did rats chew on my hands while I slept? Did I commit a crime in my sleep? Had I somehow turned into a werewolf overnight?

The source of the blood was a mystery, but I had one terrifying clue....the nightmare I had.

In my dream, I found myself in a stark white room, wearing an unfamiliar white gown.

Nothing else was in sight, just me and a single instruction written on the wall in my native language:

"Don’t allow anyone into this room."

Now, I can speak my language fluently, but reading it is another story. So, after struggling to decipher the words like an exam candidate seeing an unexpected physics question, I finally understood.

Not long after, there was a sudden, violent knock on the door.

My mother’s voice. Calling my name, pleading with me to open the door.

Hearing her cry shattered my resolve. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I reached for the door handle.

I pulled it open.

And standing outside was my mother, who fell into my arms, telling me to leave the room immediately.

I asked why, and before she could say her next words, she died with her blood in my hands.

My mother had left for work before I woke up, so the only answer I had was my curiosity. I took the mirror again, looked into it, and all I saw was the blackness and nothingness staring back at me. By the time she got back, the whole green screen of death on my iPhone had replaced other thoughts on my mind.

I went to bed thinking about my phone and the amount I would have to spend on it. But when I woke up this time, I was so tired it was as if I was in a marathon race with a Kenyan athlete.

Dry throat. Fast pumping heart. Trembling lower part muscles.

This time, like you may as guessed, the only hint was from my dream.

I was naked, standing in a giant dark field that looked suspiciously like the mirror’s black reflection. I was looking at the sky as if it contained any clue as to where I am while pacing in circles.

Then I heard footsteps.

Loud and heavy. “Gbim gbim gbim.” Like judgment day was jogging towards me.

I couldn’t see a thing. But whatever it was, it was coming fast.

So I ran. I ran in Straight lines. Diagonal. Zigzag like a mad goat on Red Bull. I ran with hope, not with sight. I ran with all the strength of someone being chased by an invisible force, because I was actually.

The faster I ran, the louder the footsteps grew. But oddly enough, they never caught me. I kept running… until I woke up.

The first thing I did was to take the mirror from my table and look into it again. It was then I remembered maybe I shouldn't have. But I'm getting an answer on this mirror today.

I went to my mother's room to ask her about a mirror. And then she started narrating how it was a gift.

She asked how I found out, I gave unclear answers. But she wasn't bothered as she was almost late for work.

I will go to bed again this night, wondering what I will wake up with tomorrow.

But the mirror remains on my table, and no, I won't be looking into it tomorrow. Well, that depends on tonight's nightmare.

AllBlack:
Where is my reading chair?

Done.

If could turn back time to 2012 when I lost over $200,000 because of a very tiny, integral mistake. Everytime I remember it, I feel like drinking a bottle of PASTIS to forget my entire past.

I remember when BitCoin was still an ordinary advert on the Internet.

Jacktheripper did it again. 👍🏽

If I lost $200 now, I could commit seppuku.

Biqsahm:
Dis is a brilliant read, I could not stop laffing all tru. na only salary earners go fit relate.

Thank you very much for all the comments boss.

amiibaby:
And here I was thinking u went back in time to do away with buhari/tinubu... U selfish modafucka

hkidola00:
as a yoruba boy, i agree fully with you..mods push this to front page, agbadoo,ewaoo,garrioo....we no see anything chop

As a yoruba boy? Abi as a Nigerian?