Gradasands Organics

29/06/2025

What I Thought Marriage Would Be Like Episode 1 : Breakfast in Bed... and Gas💥🤯

When I said “I do” to Obinna, I genuinely believed I had entered a lifelong romcom. The kind where the husband wakes you up with fresh squeezed orange juice, strokes your forehead gently and whispers, “My love, breakfast is ready.”

Let me be clear: on our first morning as husband and wife, Obinna did wake me up.

But not with pancakes.

With fart.

Yes. A loud, unapologetic morning gas release that made the windows beg for freedom.

I was still adjusting to our mattress’s firmness when it happened. I thought maybe someone had started the gen. But no, it was my husband’s intestines celebrating matrimony.

He rolled over casually and said, “You go still hear plenty. This is just the beginning.”

I wanted to go back to my father’s house immediately.

---

Before marriage, Obinna was all charm. Flowers on my birthday. Surprise suya at work. On Valentine’s Day, he booked a rooftop dinner with a saxophonist playing Asa's "Bibanke" in the background. He even stood in the rain once, holding a handwritten letter, because he wanted to apologize "like in the movies."

This man wore cologne that smelled like ambition and coconut oil. He ironed his shirts before dates. He prayed out loud. He quoted scriptures during arguments... gently. He said things like, “Our marriage will be our ministry.”

Now?

This same man wears hole-ridden singlets and calls it "freedom of expression." The cologne? Replaced by roll-on and raw confidence. His scriptures? Muted. His prayers? Mostly when NEPA strikes.

---

Let me take you through my expectation vs reality diary of Day 1 as a married woman:

Expectation: Breakfast in bed. Possibly French toast and strawberries.
Reality: I served him pap and akara because he said, “That's what keeps me grounded.”

Expectation: Romantic cuddles till noon. Reality: He spent 45 minutes searching for his second sock and asked me if I had seen it “in the spirit realm.”

Expectation: Deep, meaningful conversation about our goals.
Reality: He asked if I wanted him to teach me how to bet on football and called it “financial literacy.”

Expectation: Sweet morning devotion together, where he leads prayer.
Reality: He said, “Let’s pray in our hearts” and dozed off mid-Amen.

By noon, I realized something tragic:

Obinna had exhaled, and with that breath, left behind all the packaging.

---

That first morning, I tried to pretend. I hummed while I made breakfast. I arranged our new curtains with a smile. I looked at the framed wedding photo on the wall like it held secrets to marital peace. But inside, I was Googling, “Is it normal to miss your single bed the day after your wedding?”

Later that day, I called Zinny, my best friend. She’s single, savage, and suspicious of anything involving joint accounts.

"Girl, how’s married life?" she asked.

"You remember that time we watched a movie and the guy cooked for his wife in just an apron?"

"Yes?"

"Obinna can’t even find the apron. Or the kitchen."

Zinny burst out laughing. "Welcome to real love, babe. Where the roses die and the man sleeps like a lion."

---

The day dragged. I tried to stay positive. I told myself every marriage needs time. I washed the dishes with energy. I folded laundry with care. I even called my mum to ask if Daddy used to snore too.

"He still snores," she said. "Thirty-two years and counting. That’s how I know he’s alive."

Great. My future was loud nights and deep breathing therapy.

---

By evening, I was plotting.

I decided to spice things up. Maybe we needed a little romance to start the rhythm. I turned our tiny dining area into something out of a wedding planner’s dream.

I lit candles. Played soft music. Arranged plates like YouTube taught me. Made jollof and dodo with fried plantain flowers. I even wore a flowy red dress I saved from my bridal shower.

Obinna walked in, dropped his phone and said, “Ah ah, who died?”

Jesus, take the wheel.

"It’s a dinner surprise," I said, smiling through my pain.

He shrugged. "Hope it’s not spicy. My stomach has been funny since yesterday."

He ate. Burped. Then said, "You too try, wifey. But next time, just bring the food near me in the parlour. No need for all these arrangements."

I should have married Kunle. At least he used to iron his shirts.

---

That night, Obinna snored like he was powering NEPA.

I lay beside him, wide awake, wondering what I had done. I had imagined marriage as bliss, sparkles, and morning devotion with joined hands.

But what I got was sleep farting, bet slips, and shirts that hadn’t seen detergent in days.

And yet, somewhere between his third snore and my fifth sigh, he turned around in his sleep, pulled me closer, and murmured, “Thank God I married you. Best decision ever.”

My heart did a small backflip.

Because maybe marriage isn’t magic every day.

Maybe it’s burnt plantain and stinky moments. Maybe it’s learning to laugh even when the movie becomes skit. Maybe it’s choosing someone who doesn’t always get it right, but keeps coming back to hold your hand.

That night, I slept like a baby.

A slightly annoyed baby. But a baby nonetheless.

---

😍 What I thought marriage would be like: Breakfast in bed.

‼️What it really is: Fart in face. But also, forehead kisses when you least expect.

To be continued...

Follow Africa lores and tales for Episode 2. And please share if this felt like your life or your future...

29/06/2025

29/06/2025

🌍 African Proverb of the Day🪘
“The lion does not lower its roar to please the forest.”
-African Proverb

In a world that often asks you to quiet down, blend in, or make yourself smaller to fit someone else's comfort, this proverb is your reminder:

🗣️ You were not created to shrink.

The lion roars because it knows its power. It doesn’t ask for permission to be bold, and neither should you. Don’t dim your light for fear of being “too much.”
Don’t edit yourself to avoid making others uncomfortable.Your voice, your truth, your presence... they matter.

Stand tall. Roar if you must. Because your authenticity is your strength.

📍FB Africa lores and tales

29/06/2025

Sometimes success isn’t a celebration or a loud win.
It’s waking up with less anxiety.
It’s having enough.
It’s a quiet morning without chaos.
It’s not chasing, but being content.

We’ve been taught that success must feel exciting, big, fast. But the truth?
Success often looks like stability, routine and peace of mind. And that’s not failure... it’s freedom.

Don’t overlook the quiet wins. They’re valid. They count. They matter. Happy Sunday ALT FAN-MILY 🙂

📍FB Africa lores and tales

21/06/2025

Golden advice 🫰🏼

21/06/2025

21/06/2025

Housegirl’s Diary Episode 2 : The Rules of the House

Dear Diary,

Today, the sun rose with heat and questions. You know those mornings when you wake up and your bones are already tired? That was me.

I woke up before the compound bell rang. Madam insists the generator must never come on before 6:30 a.m., but she expects the house to be clean before she walks into the sitting room at 7. So the only alarm I need is my worry.

I mopped the tiles with cold water because we were out of disinfectant. I used salt, like Mama used to say in the village. As I worked, I heard Madam upstairs yelling into the phone. Her voice is like dry pepper when she’s angry... fast, sharp, and painful. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but the word "school" came up.

Maybe it was about the children. Maybe… just maybe… it was about me. I still hold on to that hope like garri in a flood.

After sweeping, I made custard for the children. Dara likes two cubes of sugar. Timileyin prefers Milo. Mofe didn’t come out of her room.

Madam called me into the kitchen around 10 a.m. Her nails were freshly done. Long, pink, and shaped like the claws of a Lagos madam.

"Adaora," she said, not smiling, not frowning. Just that lemon-face she wears.

"Yes, ma."

"There are rules in this house. And I don’t like repeating myself."

I nodded. "Yes, ma."

"Number one: You are not to go upstairs unless you are called. Number two: You are not to touch the children’s things without permission. Number three: You are not here to ask questions. You are here to work."

I kept nodding. My hands trembled a little, but I pressed them to my wrapper.

Then she added, "And number four: Don’t get too comfortable. People like you sometimes forget themselves."

People like me.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just said, "Yes, ma," again.

I wanted to ask what she meant by ‘people like me,’ but rule number three held my tongue hostage.

After she left, I sat behind the kitchen door and breathed. Deep. Slow. Like Mama used to teach me when Papa beat the wall in frustration because there was no yam for dinner.

---

Around noon, something strange happened. Mr. Durojaiye came back early. It was raining. The driver dropped him at the gate, and he walked into the house drenched.

I rushed to get a towel from the bathroom downstairs. When I handed it to him, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Thank you, Adaora."

His voice is soft, like the sound of a handkerchief falling on tile.

But it made me shiver.

He never calls me by name.

He disappeared upstairs, and not long after, Madam stormed out of the room. Her makeup was half-done. She didn’t look at me.

Then I heard a loud crash from upstairs. A door slammed. Mofe came down slowly, eyes red, face swollen.

She saw me and stopped. For the first time, she didn’t roll her eyes.

She just whispered, "Don’t trust anybody in this house."

Then she walked past.

---

Diary, I don’t know what I’ve entered. Every time I think I understand my place here, something shifts. Like I’m walking on top of a roof made of eggshells.

At night, I lay on my mattress and stared at the ceiling fan that doesn’t spin. Ngozi the rat came out to nibble on old bread. I didn’t chase her. She’s the only thing in this place that doesn’t hide.

Before I slept, I took my small torchlight and looked at the four corners of the room. Just to be sure.

Because something in this house… something is hiding.

And it’s watching.

Till tomorrow,

Your Adaora

---

To be continued...

If you're enjoying this story, follow and like our page Africa lores and tales so you never miss an episode. Share with fellow story lovers to keep the diary alive.

21/06/2025

True talk

You can be proud of progress no one else sees. The quiet wins. The silent healing. The shifts no one noticed but you, It still counts. It still matters.

In African wisdom, growth isn’t always loud, it’s often sacred, quiet, and personal. You don’t need validation to know you’re evolving. Be proud anyway. Grow in peace as your roots are deepening. Good morning ALT FAN-MILY 🙂

If this spoke to you, you’re not alone.
Follow Africa lores and tales for more healing truth, cultural wisdom, and powerful daily reflections.

21/06/2025

🪘 African Proverb of the Day 🪘
“The tongue that rushes ahead of the brain builds bridges it cannot cross.”

In a world that rewards quick reactions, this proverb reminds us that : wisdom pauses before it speaks.It only takes a moment to speak, but a lifetime to undo the damage.
Because some words build bridges, others burn them.

So, Slow down. Reflect. Speak with care.
Don’t let today’s words become tomorrow’s regret.

📍Follow Africa lores and tales for more timeless wisdom that speaks to your present.

12/05/2025

Episode 2: Who Is He?

Chioma stood just inside the doorway, arms folded, watching Ifeanyi under the mango tree. His back rested against the trunk, legs stretched, a worn-out novel in his hands. He did not notice her at first. He was deep in the kind of silence that did not beg for attention.

She cleared her throat.

He looked up slowly, calm as always.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

He raised the book slightly. “Things Fall Apart.”

Chioma blinked. “That old book?”

He nodded. “It is not old. It is still true.”

She stepped outside, curiosity nudging her forward. “So you read novels under trees? That’s your thing?”

He smiled faintly. “This is the quietest spot in the house.”

There was something in his voice that was measured, deliberate. She had expected him to stumble, act shy or even stutter in her presence. But he did not.

“You fixed my phone yesterday,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“Online,” he replied. “I take free courses. Mostly in coding and device repair.”

Chioma’s brow lifted slightly. “Coding? As in computers?”

“Yes.”

“And you just... taught yourself?”

He nodded again. “I use Mama’s old laptop. It is slow, but it still works.”

She glanced at the laptop beside him, screen cracked, keyboard missing a key.

“What exactly are you working on?”

Ifeanyi closed his book, sat up straighter. “An app. It’s still in early stages, but it helps small traders calculate sales, debts, and savings without needing to know English or maths.”

Chioma stared at him, stunned for a moment.

“You built that?”

“I am building it,” he corrected. “It is not ready.”

Chioma stepped back slightly. This boy, this quiet, invisible boy had built something useful while she had been struggling to caption pictures.

She did not know what to say next, so she said what came easiest.

“Well, good luck.”

She turned and walked back inside quickly, unsure of what she was feeling.

Later that day, Vera came over with her usual energy and a phone full of gossip.

“Chi, this your house is too quiet abeg,” she said, dropping her handbag on the couch. “Where is that maid of yours?”

“In the kitchen.”

Vera moved to the dining area and spotted Ifeanyi passing through the hallway with his laptop.

“Wait...who is that?”

Chioma waved it off. “That’s just Mama Nneka’s son.”

Vera tilted her head. “Fine boy sha. Is he the one I saw in the background of your video yesterday?”

Chioma paused. “Maybe. Why?”

“People in the comments were asking. Some thought he was your cousin. Some said houseboy. But girl, you need to be careful. These online people are quick to twist things.”

Chioma rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to twist. He’s just… there.”

Vera smirked. “Just make sure ‘just there’ doesn’t become something more. Because if gist leaks, your brand is finished.”

Chioma laughed. “Abeg, nothing dey happen.”

But deep down, her mind had already replayed the way Ifeanyi spoke. The clarity. The quiet intelligence. The way he never looked at her with awe, only honesty.

That evening, she scrolled through her Instagram comments. One caught her attention:

“Who’s the guy in the background? He looks smart. Something about him feels intentional.”

She tapped the profile. A random follower. But the comment stuck.

Something about him felt intentional.

She opened her camera and took another selfie, this time in her bedroom.

She paused before posting.

Then closed the app entirely.

Downstairs, Ifeanyi sat with Mama Nneka, eating quietly.

“Mama,” he asked, “what do you think of Chioma?”

Mama Nneka sighed. “She is a good girl, but fame makes people forget small things. Like how to look at people properly.”

Ifeanyi nodded.

Upstairs, Chioma lay on her bed, eyes on the ceiling.

She did not know what was changing but something was.

And it started with a boy she never planned to notice.

To be continued...

16/04/2025

A Womb Full of Secrets: Season 2

Episode 6: The Voice Beneath the River

The last of the shadow creatures dissolved into ash and silence settled over the sanctum like a heavy curtain. Femi stood with the spear still glowing in his grip, his breaths ragged, his body humming with unfamiliar energy.

Achalogu’s hands lowered slowly as the shimmering light walls she had conjured faded into mist. She looked at Femi—her eyes no longer just hers. They glowed with the wisdom of those before her. There was power, yes, but also pain. Deep, ancient pain.

Muocha approached them, her face grim. “You have awakened, but the awakening is only the beginning. The true storm gathers at the mouth of the River Niger.”

Femi narrowed his eyes. “The river?”

“The heart of the ancestral balance,” Muocha said. “It is where the veil between worlds is thinnest. The shadow force that attacked you—those were scouts. The one who commands them… he was once a Guardian.”

“Once?” Achalogu asked.

“He was called Okwaraji—one of the strongest of our kind. But centuries ago, he turned. Drunk on his own gift, he sought to bend the Rivers’ power to his will. The ancestors sealed him beneath the riverbed, where he has waited… until now.”

Femi frowned. “Why is he waking now?”

Muocha looked at Achalogu’s stomach, then back at both of them. “Because of the child. Your child isn’t just a bridge—it’s a key. If Okwaraji gets to it before it’s born, he can unlock the ancestral gates and rewrite the balance of the world.”

A silence fell over the room.

“Then we go to the River Niger,” Achalogu said.

Muocha looked uncertain. “You’re not ready yet. You’ve only just awakened.”

Femi stepped forward. “We don’t have time. If he’s after our child, then delay is a luxury.”

Muocha studied them for a long moment, then nodded. “Then you must consult the Voice Beneath the River before you face him. It is the only way to find the path that will not end in death.”

They traveled in secret, guided by Muocha’s surviving guardians through underground river paths and forgotten caves until the current led them into a vast cavern lit by glowing stones and weeping roots.

In the middle of the cavern was a still pool—dark as night and impossibly quiet.

“The Voice sleeps below,” Muocha whispered. “Only the blood-marked may wake it.”

Achalogu stepped toward the water and pricked her finger with a sliver of silver bark Muocha handed her. A single drop of blood fell into the pool—and the effect was immediate.

The water rippled.

Then boiled.

Then turned mirror-smooth as a face emerged from its depths.

It wasn’t human.

Or maybe it was once—but now it was river and spirit, bone and current.

“You disturb me, child of the two names,” the Voice said. “Why?”

Achalogu’s voice was steady. “We seek the path to protect our unborn child. To stop Okwaraji from rising.”

The Voice studied her in silence. Then its gaze shifted to Femi.

“You. You do not carry the ancestral blood. Yet the Rivers have touched you. Why?”

Femi swallowed. “Because I chose her. And I will again. Every time.”

The Voice was still. Then, to their surprise, it smiled.

“Love is power. But it is not enough.”

It raised a hand and the waters swirled into a spiral. Within it, they saw flashes—Okwaraji’s prison cracked open, spirits fleeing the rivers, the Stronghold burning again, and the child being born into chaos.

“Your child’s birth will draw the enemy,” the Voice said. “To prevent it, you must bind the Gates with three Seals—each guarded by trials. One lies in Enugu’s ancestral shrine. One in the heart of Ibadan’s forgotten forest. The last… in the blood you fear to face.”

“Blood?” Achalogu asked, confused.

But the Voice had already begun to fade.

“You have little time. Choose courage over comfort, or lose everything.”

The pool stilled once more.

Femi clenched his fists. “Three Seals. Three chances.”

Achalogu nodded. “Then we begin with Enugu. My father’s land. The land of my birth.”

Unseen in the shadows above the cavern, a pair of eyes watched them, glowing faintly purple.

And then they disappeared.

To be continued...

16/04/2025

Hey TUTS FAM 😋🍽️🎉, let’s settle this once and for all!

If you had to eat one meal every day for the rest of your life, what are you picking?
No second guessing o, just that one dish you can never say no to.🤔

Drop it in the comments and let’s see who has the best taste on the timeline!