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SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi, Lagos (2026)

22/12/2025

I wish my father was still alive today to see how his only daughter is being treated unfairly. (Episode 4)

A story by M.F.O

The judge adjusted his glasses, his face unreadable, and motioned for everyone to sit. His gavel hit once more.
“Court is now in session.”

My pulse quickened. I could feel my husband’s presence behind me—silent but solid—yet a tiny corner of my heart whispered doubts. What if the court also failed me? What if the law turned its face away, the same way my family did?

The opposing lawyer—the very man who once held my father’s will in trust—rose confidently. His suit was sharp, his voice even sharper.

“My Lord,” he began, bowing slightly. “This case is simple. The plaintiff, Mrs. Adanne, though my late client’s daughter, is married. According to our cultural practices, she has no rightful claim to her father’s landed properties. She is already settled in her husband’s house. Her attempt to drag her brothers to court is not only an act of greed, but also a violation of the very traditions our people respect.”

The words hung heavy in the courtroom. My mother nodded from her seat, her face hard, as if to say, You hear that? Even the law knows. My brothers smirked.

My lawyer, Barrister Kelechi, rose to respond. He didn’t shout; his voice was measured, firm—cutting through the air like a blade.

“My Lord, with all due respect, this is not a cultural court. This is a court of law. And in the eyes of the law, every legitimate child—male or female, married or unmarried—has equal rights to their parent’s property. We will present clear evidence that the deceased, Mr. Obinna, made it known in his will that all his children, including the plaintiff, are beneficiaries. What the defendants are attempting is not only unjust, but criminal.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. My brothers shifted uneasily, but their lawyer pressed on.

“Where is this so-called will?” the judge asked.

The opposing lawyer cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, My Lord, the will cannot be tendered. It was never formalized in the manner the law requires. What we have here are merely words—words that cannot outweigh custom.”

My stomach tightened. So that was their game. They had hidden or destroyed the original will. My father’s voice, silenced once in death, was being silenced again.

Barrister Chike stood tall, unshaken. “My Lord, the will exists. We have witnesses who were present on the day Mr. Obinna read his intentions to his family. We also have records showing that the document was submitted to this very lawyer, who now conveniently claims it ‘cannot be found.’ We will prove bad faith and corruption in this matter.”

The judge leaned back, his expression still unreadable, but his pen scratched notes across the paper before him.

Then came the moment I dreaded—the witness stand.

My eldest brother strutted forward first. His voice was heavy with false sorrow.
“My Lord, we loved our father. We respected him. But in our tradition, property passes to the sons. Our sister has been married for years. She has a home, a husband, and children. Why would she want to drag our late father’s name through the mud by taking us to court over what everyone knows belongs to us?”

Every word felt like acid poured onto my skin. My hands trembled in my lap.

My second brother followed, fiercer, his words sharp as arrows.
“My Lord, this case is shameful. Our sister is greedy—that is the truth. Instead of focusing on her husband’s house, she wants to bring disgrace upon this family. We beg this court to dismiss this matter.”

Their lawyer nodded vigorously, painting them as saints and me as the villain.

Then it was my turn.

The bailiff called my name. My legs felt heavy as I stood and walked to the witness stand. My heart hammered, but I lifted my chin. I remembered my father’s voice: No one is excluded. You are all my children.

The oath was administered. I held the Bible with trembling hands and swore to tell the truth.

I looked around—at my brothers and their smug faces; at my mother, who wouldn’t even glance my way; at my husband, whose eyes silently urged me to stand firm.

“My Lord,” I began, my voice low but steady, “I am not here because of greed. I am here because my father’s last words deserve to be honoured. He told us himself—all five of us—that his property belongs to all his children, equally. He wrote it down. He made it clear. But instead of honouring his wishes, my own family turned against me. They bribed the lawyer who held the will. They shut me out because I am a woman.

“But I am not just a woman. I am his daughter. And I have every right to my father’s legacy.”

Silence fell over the courtroom. My brothers shifted, uncomfortable. My mother fanned herself, avoiding my gaze.

The judge tapped his pen on the desk, staring at me long and hard.

And in that moment, I knew—this war wasn’t ending anytime soon.

To be continued…

©️SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

21/12/2025

“I swallowed hard. Those words hit deep because I knew people had already begun to whisper. My phone buzzed almost every day with unknown numbers sending me insults, calling me greedy, calling me disrespectful. I clenched my fists and forced myself not to cry. “

📌Full story on my page

21/12/2025

I wish my father was still alive to see how his only daughter is being treated unfairly (Part 3)

A story by M.F.O

That night, before the second hearing, sleep refused to come. I lay on my side, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing faster than my heartbeat. The house was quiet, but inside me was a storm that refused to settle.

I turned and looked at my husband. He was awake too, his back against the pillow, arms folded across his chest. The glow from the bedside lamp cast half of his face in shadow, and I could tell from his eyes that something heavy was weighing on him.

“You’re not sleeping either,” I whispered.

He sighed and shook his head. “How can I sleep when my wife is fighting her own family in court?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t light either. “Honey, I know you’re doing this for your father’s honour. I respect that. But I can’t help worrying… What if this tears everything apart?”

His words stung because they echoed the fears I tried to bury. I sat up slowly, adjusting my nightwear. “Tears what apart? My family? They’ve already torn themselves away from me. My mother won’t even look at me. My brothers turned their back against me . What else is left to tear?”

He turned his face to me, his eyes soft but troubled. “You don’t understand. I’m talking about us. You and me. Our children. The shame, the whispers, the insults. People will say you dragged your own mother and brothers to court like strangers. They will say your husband couldn’t control you. Have you thought of that?”

I swallowed hard. Those words hit deep because I knew people had already begun to whisper. My phone buzzed almost every day with unknown numbers sending me insults, calling me greedy, calling me disrespectful. I clenched my fists and forced myself not to cry.

“So you’re saying I should give up?” I asked quietly.

He rubbed his face with his palm and let out another long sigh. “No. I’m saying I don’t want to lose you to this fight. You’ve been carrying anger, pain, and bitterness since this started. You’re not the same Adanne I married. Every day you come home with fire in your eyes, and sometimes I wonder if you still see me, if you still see us.”

That broke me. Tears spilled before I could stop them. “I see you,” I whispered. “I see our children. I see everything we’ve built. And it is because of that I can’t back down. If I let them silence me now, what lesson do I teach our daughter? That her voice means nothing? That her rights end where men’s ego begins? No. I can’t, my love. I can’t.”

For a long time, he was quiet. I thought he would argue again. Instead, he pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on my head. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Then promise me one thing. Promise me you will fight, but not lose yourself in the fight.”

I nodded against his chest, holding onto him tightly like a lifeline. “I promise.”

When he finally drifted off to sleep, I stayed awake, whispering prayers into the silence. I prayed for strength. I prayed for truth. I prayed that my father’s spirit would not rest until justice was done.

The next morning, the courtroom air was thicker than the first day. My brothers came in, dressed sharply, their lawyer walking ahead of them like a warrior ready for battle. My mother followed, her head tie tied higher than usual, her face carrying that look of pride mixed with anger — like she was here to prove a point.

I sat on my side of the courtroom, clutching my bag, my heart steady but heavy. My husband sat behind me for support, but I could still feel the doubt he carried.

Then the bailiff’s voice rang out:
“All rise for the Honourable Judge.”

Everyone stood. The gavel hit the desk.

The real battle was about to begin.

To be continued…

©️SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

14/09/2025

I wish my father was still alive today to see how his only daughter is being treated unfairly. (Part 2)

A story by M.F.O

The courtroom was cold that morning, yet my palms were sweaty. I could feel every beat of my heart echoing against my ribs as I sat there, waiting. The wooden benches creaked whenever someone shifted, and the murmur of voices filled the room like restless bees.

My brothers were seated together, shoulders pressed tightly against one another like soldiers in formation. Their faces were stern, yet there was a certain arrogance in their posture — as though they were already celebrating victory. They threw quick glances at me, smirks passing between them whenever their eyes met mine.

Mama sat with them. She didn’t even try to hide her disdain for me. At one point our eyes met. I thought maybe she would look away. Instead, she held my gaze with a sharpness that made me feel like an intruder in my own bloodline.

I sat alone.

My lawyer, Barrister Chike, leaned slightly toward me. His voice was calm, but his eyes were serious. “Adanne, remember everything we discussed. Do not let their lawyer intimidate you. The law is on your side. Your father’s will is valid. Trust me.”

I nodded, though deep inside doubt gnawed at me. I knew — I knew — the lawyer my brothers had brought was not just any lawyer. He was sly, ruthless: a man with a reputation for twisting words until lies began to look like truth.

The clerk banged the gavel. “Court! All rise.”

Everyone stood. My heart leapt. The judge walked in, robed in authority. His face betrayed no emotion. He sat, and we all followed suit.

The proceedings began.

“Case number 214/2025,” the clerk announced. “Adanne versus the family of the late Chief Nwosu, regarding the inheritance and ex*****on of the will.”

The air thickened.

Their lawyer — a tall, thin man with piercing eyes — stood first. He introduced himself with confidence, his voice echoing in the room. “My Lord, this is a simple matter. Our tradition is clear: a married woman cannot, and should not, lay claim to her father’s property. This is not just law, it is custom. And custom is the soul of our people. My clients are here today to protect what rightfully belongs to them.”

His words cut like knives. I felt the stares of strangers pressing into me. Some nodded in agreement; others whispered.

Then it was my lawyer’s turn. Barrister Chike rose, calm but firm. “My Lord, while tradition may have its place, this is not a matter of custom but of law. The deceased, Chief Nwosu, wrote a will. The will names the plaintiff — his only daughter — as one of the beneficiaries. The law upholds the right of a testator to share his property as he pleases. My Lord, we have evidence that this will exists, and we will call witnesses who were present when the deceased read his intentions to his children.”

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

Their lawyer quickly objected. “My Lord, these are mere allegations — unfounded and baseless. There is no will. If there was, where is it? My clients have not seen it. Perhaps it is a fabrication — a scheme by the plaintiff to rob her brothers of their inheritance.”

I felt my blood boil. I wanted to stand and shout, Lies! Papa read it to us himself! But I remembered Barrister Chike’s advice — stay calm.

The judge adjusted his glasses and turned to my lawyer. “Do you have proof of this will?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Barrister Chike said, his voice steady. “We have filed a copy, though the original is being contested. We will also call witnesses.”

The judge nodded slowly. “Very well. The matter will proceed to hearing.”

Even as he spoke, I noticed the sly smile tugging at the corners of their lawyer’s mouth. He had something up his sleeve. Something I wasn’t prepared for.

Mama leaned toward him, whispering. He gave a small nod. My chest tightened.

When it was their turn again, the lawyer stood tall. “My Lord, may I also add: the plaintiff is a married woman. She has her husband’s home. Her attempt to claim a share in her father’s estate is not only unlawful but dishonourable. Is she trying to take from her husband’s family and her father’s? This is greed, not justice.”

The courtroom murmured; some people even laughed under their breath. My brothers’ faces lit up with satisfaction.

For the first time, tears burned behind my eyes — not because of the property, but because of the humiliation. My own family had turned me into an enemy before strangers.

Barrister Chike rose again, his tone sharper. “My Lord, this is not about greed. This is about rights. The Constitution recognises the equality of children — male or female. A woman does not lose her rights as a daughter simply because she is married. The issue before this court is the validity of the deceased’s will, and we intend to prove it.”

The judge raised his hand. “Enough for today. This court will adjourn to allow for cross-examination of witnesses at the next sitting.”

The gavel came down. “Adjourned!”

People began filing out, buzzing. I sat frozen, my body trembling. My mother and brothers walked past me without a glance, their lawyer smirking as if victory was already in his pocket.

Barrister Chike touched my shoulder gently. “Do not be discouraged, Adanne. This battle has just begun. We will fight it to the end.”

I tried to summon strength. But deep down I knew one thing — the real war was yet to start.

To be continued…

©️ SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

11/09/2025

I wish my father was still alive today to see how his only daughter is being treated unfairly.
Sometimes I sit alone and wonder: if he were here, would they have the courage or audacity to do what they are doing to me?

A story by M.F.O

I grew up in what I can confidently call a peaceful home. My father didn’t believe in discrimination of any kind. He raised all of us — four boys and me, the only girl — to believe we were equal. There was never that “you’re a boy, you’re more important,” or “you’re a girl, stay in the kitchen” type of treatment. My father made sure each of us had access to the same opportunities, the same love, and the same respect.

People used to say my father “spoiled” me because I was his only daughter. But truth be told, he didn’t spoil me — he loved me the same way he loved his sons, without making me feel less for being female. That was the kind of man he was.

Before he passed away, my father made it clear that he had written his will. He gathered us all one evening, and I still remember his words: “When I am no longer here, I still want this family to stay as one. Everything I have worked for should be shared equally. No one is excluded, not even my daughter. You are all my children, and you all have rights to my sweat.”

Those words sank deep into me. I felt protected. I felt secure. I felt seen.

But life changes color when the person holding the balance is gone.

Six months after we buried my father, we all returned to the family house. The air still smelled of loss, but that day was supposed to be one of planning. We were meant to sit down and decide how to share his properties — the land, the houses, the investments.

I walked in with hope in my heart. I believed my father’s words would guide us. I believed we would honour his memory.

What met me that day broke me in a way I still cannot fully explain.

It started with small murmurs. My brothers looked at one another more than they looked at me. My mother sat in the corner, quiet at first. When she spoke, her words cut me like a blade.

“Adanne, I did not expect you to be in this meeting, but since you’re here, we’ll proceed,” she said. “You are married now. You shouldn’t be dragging your father’s property with your brothers. You need to face your husband’s house and let your brothers have the properties.”

I thought I didn’t hear well. My eyes went straight to my eldest brother. “Is this a joke?” I asked.

He cleared his throat and avoided my gaze. “Sister, Mama is right. You know in our tradition, women don’t inherit property. You’re already settled in your husband’s home. Let us men handle this.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “But Papa made it clear,” I said, my voice shaking. “He wrote a will. He told us himself. He said none of us is excluded. Even me. He made it very clear!”

Instead of reasoning with me, they all hardened their faces. My second brother even raised his voice. “So you want to come and drag land with us? As a married woman? Nwaanyi a na-ekpe ikpe ala?” (Does a woman drag a land case?) “Don’t you feel ashamed of dragging properties with men?”

That day I realised I was standing alone in a room full of people I thought would protect me. Even my mother — the woman who gave birth to me — turned against me. She said, “Listen to your brothers, Adanne. Don’t bring disgrace into this family. Let them share it. You should not put your mouth in this matter.”

I cried — not because of the property itself, but because of the betrayal. How could they act like my father never spoke those words? How could they pretend the will didn’t exist?

I later discovered something worse: they had bribed the lawyer my father had entrusted with the will. The very man who should have been the guardian of my father’s last wishes had sold his conscience for money.

That was when I knew I had no choice but to fight.

It wasn’t about houses, land, or bank accounts anymore. It was about my dignity. It was about my father’s honour. If I stayed silent, then all the values he taught us — fairness, equality, justice — would mean nothing.

So I stood up to them. I told them plainly, “If you all want to pretend that Papa’s words meant nothing, then I will see you in court. We will let the law decide.”

At first, they laughed. They thought it was a bluff. But I meant every word.

The day I filed the case was the day the real battle began. My brothers stopped taking my calls. My mother stopped speaking to me. Suddenly, family gatherings felt like war zones, with everyone whispering about me like I was the enemy.

But I didn’t flinch. I knew what was at stake.

Weeks later, the first hearing date came. I arrived at the courthouse early that morning, dressed simply but firmly. My brothers were there too, chests high, whispering among themselves. My mother sat on one side, refusing even to look at me.

I sat quietly, my heart pounding, waiting for the judge to walk in.

To be continued…

©️ SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

10/09/2025

I was 19 years old, just fresh out of secondary school, living with my elder sister and her husband in Port Harcourt. They took me in to help me get admission into the university and, of course, to ‘help around the house.’ You know how it is.

A story by M.F.O

Things were okay at first. I did everything they asked—cooked, cleaned, bathed the kids, took them to school. I didn’t complain. I was grateful they gave me a roof over my head, and I wanted to make life easier for them.

Then one Saturday morning, my life turned upside down.

We were all in the sitting room when Uncle Joe, my sister’s husband, suddenly entered and said in a serious tone,
‘Who took the ₦25,000 I kept in the drawer in our room?’

At first, I thought it was a joke. Nobody answered. He repeated the question, this time louder.

My sister turned and looked straight at me.
‘Chidimma, you’re the only one that goes into that room to clean. Are you saying you didn’t see the money?’

The way she asked made my heart skip. I was shocked.
‘I cleaned the room, yes, but I didn’t see any money. I didn’t touch anything,’ I said, my voice trembling.

From that moment, everything changed.

Uncle Joe’s face hardened. ‘So you’re denying it? You think you can come into my house and steal from me?’

I felt my chest tighten. My sister joined him, shouting that I had embarrassed her, that she regretted bringing me into her home.

Before I knew it, they seized my phone. They searched my bag, my clothes, even shook my underwear in front of the kids. They found nothing. But that didn’t stop them.
‘You hid it somewhere, abi? Just say the truth!’ Uncle Joe shouted.

I kept crying. My hands were shaking as I begged them to believe me. But they didn’t.

By evening, my sister picked up the phone and called my mother in the village.
‘Mama, your daughter has stolen my husband’s money o!’ she screamed.

When they passed the phone to me, I was already crying. But nothing prepared me for what my own mother said.
‘Mma, if you took it, just tell me. I will beg them. Don’t lie to me.’

That broke me. Even my own mother didn’t believe me.

That night, they locked me outside the house. Just like that. I had nowhere to go. I ended up sleeping in Mama Ifeoma’s shop—the woman who sold provisions on our street. She saw me crying and let me stay on a mat behind her counter.

For weeks, people in the neighborhood whispered about me. ‘That’s the girl who stole from her sister’s husband.’ Some pointed. Some shook their heads. My name was stained.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I prayed every night: ‘God, please, vindicate me. Show them the truth.’

Three months later, I was back in the village when my sister called. She didn’t even say hello. She just said,
‘Mma, we later found the money.’

I froze.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

She explained that Uncle Joe had gone to the dry cleaner’s shop to pick up his suit. The dry cleaner handed him an envelope and said he left it in the pocket of the suit he brought for washing. Inside the envelope was the entire ₦25,000. Intact.

For a long moment, I couldn’t even speak. I felt hot tears sting my eyes, not from joy, but from pain.

My sister’s voice was shaky. She didn’t know what to say. Even Uncle Joe later called, trying to smile it off, saying, ‘My daughter, forgive me eeh. We made a mistake.’

But the damage was already done. They had disgraced me, called me a thief, thrown me out like trash—and even my own mother doubted me.

I didn’t shout. I only said, ‘Now you know the truth. But I always knew God knew.’

They begged me to come back. But I couldn’t. Something inside me had broken.

That experience taught me one thing: sometimes, it’s not strangers who destroy you—it’s the people closest to you. And once trust is shattered, you can never look at them the same way again.

©️SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

05/09/2025

Guess who is not attending her best friend’s wedding tomorrow—all because of ₦100k.

A story by M.F.O

Her name is Janet. My best friend since NYSC days. We met during service year, clicked immediately, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. So, you can imagine my excitement when she called me one morning and said,

“Babe, I’m getting married!”

I screamed. Literally screamed at the top of my voice. My neighbors probably thought I won a lottery. That was how happy I was for her. I didn’t even let her finish before I started saying things like,

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there for you. I’ll do everything. I’ll support you.”

You know that best friend energy you put in when your person is about to start a new chapter.

Now, one thing about Janet—she loves classy things. That’s her lifestyle. She doesn’t hide it. I remember one of our phone conversations when she was telling me how she wanted her big day to be. She said,

“Babe, I want my asoebi girls to be hot and classy. I’ll look for girls with cash, girls that will spray me money and spoil me with gifts that day without looking back.”

I laughed. I thought she was just talking. After all, it was her big day, and she had the right to dream big. What I didn’t know was that her “classy” expectations would later become a stray bullet aimed directly at me.

A few weeks later, she created a WhatsApp group for her asoebi girls. Of course, I was added. Then she dropped the price of the asoebi fabric—₦150,000. My chest almost collapsed, but I didn’t complain. Even though I was going through a tough financial period, this was Janet, my friend. So, I had to run around, borrowed small here and there, and finally raised the money. I bought the fabric because missing her wedding wasn’t even an option in my head.

I spent every dime I had on preparations for her wedding. I even sent her money to support her. I was doing all this while still managing my own tough situation. That was the beginning.

Next thing, she announced her chief bridesmaid. And to my surprise, it wasn’t me. It was some girl in the group I barely knew. I won’t lie, it hurt. I thought being her best friend automatically meant I’d be chief bridesmaid. But I swallowed it. I didn’t complain. I just told myself, It’s still her wedding. She can do it however she wants.

Fast forward. The chief bridesmaid—this same girl—dropped another bomb in the group:

“We’ll all contribute ₦100,000 each to buy a surprise gift for Janet. And anyone who doesn’t contribute will be removed from the asoebi group.”

I thought it was a joke.

So, I messaged Janet privately. I told her,

“Babe, things are tight for me right now. I can’t raise 100k at the moment. You know I’ve been struggling, but I’ve tried my best so far. Can’t I just come with what I have?”

Her reply cut me like a knife. She said,

“Girl, it’s only 100k. Why are you complaining? Other girls are paying without any fuss. Just know you won’t be among my asoebi girls if you don’t contribute.”

I read that message over and over again. This was my best friend talking to me like I was some random person. I didn’t even know what to say. I just replied,

“No problem. You can remove me. I’ll still come for your wedding as a normal guest.”

To be honest, I didn’t think she would actually take it that far.

But just two days ago, she messaged me again. This time, she said,

“Don’t bother coming at all. Our friendship is over.”

That was it. No room for explanation, no appreciation for all I’d already done, no empathy for my situation. Just like that, my best friend of years threw me off over 100k.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I didn’t even reply. I just kept my cool.

Tomorrow is her wedding. And guess who won’t be there—all because I couldn’t bring out 100k.

©️SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

04/09/2025

Having overprotective parents is not easy at all. Sometimes it feels like they don’t even trust you.

A story by M.F.O

Sometimes I honestly feel like my parents are the most overprotective people in the whole world. I don’t even think they know the meaning of freedom.

While other teenagers were out there attending birthday parties, going for sleepovers at their friends’ places, or even hanging out at the mall, me? My life was just house → school → church → repeat. They didn’t allow me to visit friends, didn’t allow me to wear certain clothes, and if my phone rang after 9 p.m., it was like committing a national crime.

I remember one time I begged them to allow me attend my classmate’s birthday party. I even promised to come back early. Guess what my mom said?
“No child of mine will be gallivanting up and down in the night. Not when I am still alive!”

I couldn’t wait to enter university to have my freedom. So I started counting down to university like it was heaven.

When I finally gained admission, ah! It was as if chains fell off my hands and legs. I was free. Free at last. No one telling me what to do. No one monitoring my phone or questioning my movements.

At first, it was just little things: wearing trousers and crop tops my mom never allowed me to wear at home, staying out late with friends, eating out at restaurants every day. But little by little, I started pushing limits.

Soon, I began attending night parties in town. Sometimes my friends and I would even skip lectures to attend birthday parties or go to nightclubs. It felt so good living life on my own terms.

I had a boyfriend, and one weekend, I decided to travel to his place. I told my roommates I would be away for a while, but in my mind, I planned to stay at least two weeks. Freedom sweet die!

But then, on a Tuesday afternoon, my phone rang. I picked it up and froze. It was my mom!!

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What would I say? That I wasn’t in school? She kept calling. I refused to pick. After a while, the calls stopped, and I thought it was over.

Until a few minutes later, my friend Betty called me.
“Babe, where you dey?” she asked in a low voice.

“At my guy’s place, why?”

She sighed. “Your mom is at the school gate. She said she came for a conference in town and wanted to surprise you. She’s been calling you since.”

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.
“Ehn?? My mother?? At the gate??!”

Betty lowered her voice even more. “Yes o. She even called me when you didn’t pick, asking where you were. I had to tell her you were writing an important departmental test. That’s why you didn’t come out.”

I sat on the bed, shaking. If not for Betty, I would have been finished that day. My mom actually believed her, gave her the things she brought for me, and left. That was how I escaped.

The following day, I told my boyfriend I had to cut my stay short. Even though I planned two weeks, I knew if my mom came back to check and didn’t see me again, wahala would burst.

So I packed my bag and boarded a bus back to school.

But along the way, something happened that shook me to my core.

Our bus had a terrible accident. One moment, the driver was overtaking another vehicle, the next thing I knew, tyres screeched, people screamed, and the bus tumbled off the road.

When I opened my eyes, I saw blood, broken glass, and passengers crying in pain. Some had deep cuts, some had broken bones. The driver himself was unconscious.

Me? I only had bruises on my knees and elbows, plus small scratches on my body.

That night, as I lay on my hostel bed, I couldn’t sleep. My heart kept replaying the accident.

I kept asking myself: what if I had died? What if I had sustained a serious injury? What would I have told my parents? That I was in another city, sleeping at a boy’s place, when they thought I was in school?

It hit me like a slap. My parents weren’t being wicked or trying to cage me. They were just trying to protect me — even from myself.

That night, I cried silently. Because for the first time in my life, I understood their love.

Sometimes the people we call overprotective are the ones quietly saving our lives. Do you think strict parents are a blessing or a curse?

©️SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

SoulWords by Mmesoma Favour Obi

22/12/2025

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