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TALES BY ONYI Studio, Fountain Estate street, Port Harcourt (2026)

Step into a world where words ignite the soul, where emotions run free, and where every tale leaves a mark that cannot be forgotten.

03/10/2025

💔 WHEN BEAUTY MEETS POVERTY – Episode Four

🌹 Written by ©️ TALES BY ONYI Studio 🌹

Sometimes, when you think all hope is lost, when you've reached the absolute end of yourself, that's when God shows up. Not always in the way you expect, but always right on time. Promise stood frozen in the hospital corridor, staring at the pile of money scattered at Dr. Adeyemi's feet. ₦218,000. The sum total of everything he owned in this world; his keke, his TV, his dignity, all reduced to a pathetic heap of dirty naira notes that wasn't even enough to save the woman he loved.

Helen's screams from Room 7 pierced through the walls again, and Promise felt his knees buckle. Dr. Adeyemi looked at the money, then at Promise, then sighed heavily. "Mr. Promise, I understand your situation is desperate, but— "But what?" Promise's voice cracked. But my wife should just die? Is that what you want to say? She should just die there on that cold floor because I'm poor?" That's not what I'm saying—

"Then what are you saying? Promise shouted, not caring anymore who heard him. What are you saying, doctor? Tell me, my wife is bleeding, my children are dying inside her, I've sold everything I own. What more do you want from me? My kidney? My heart? Oya, take it, cut me open and sell my organs! Just save her!

The nurse on duty looked away, tears in her own eyes, she had seen this scene play out too many times in Nigerian hospitals; good people dying simply because they couldn't afford to live. Dr. Adeyemi's phone rang, he glanced at it, irritated, but his expression changed when he saw the caller ID. "Excuse me," he muttered, walking back towards his office. Promise sank to the floor right there in the corridor, his back against the wall. He had nothing left. No money, no keke to go hustle with, no other TV to sell, no parents to call, no friends with deep pockets. He was empty. Completely, utterly empty.

And so he did the only thing he had left to do: he prayed. "God..." his voice was barely a whisper. I know I'm nobody, I know I'm just a poor keke driver, I know I don't pay tithe because I barely have enough to feed, I know I don't go to church every Sunday because I'm out there hustling. But God, you know my heart. You know I'm a good man, you know I've never stolen, never cheated anyone, never hurt anyone intentionally. Tears streamed down his face as he continued. "Helen left everything for me. Everything! Her father's mansion, her mother's comfort, her family's wealth, she left it all because she believed in me, because she loved me. God, how can I let her die? How can I watch the woman who sacrificed everything for me bleed to death on a hospital floor?

His voice rose, breaking with emotion. You gave

us these twins, God. You blessed us without us even asking, we didn't do IVF, we didn't struggle with infertility, you just gave us two babies at once. How can you give us such a blessing and then take Helen away? It doesn't make sense! You said in your word that every good gift from you comes without sorrow. So why are we drowning in sorrow now? He was shouting now, not caring that people were staring. Come down, God! Come down and help me! I don't know what else to do, I've tried everything, I've begged, I've cried, I've sold everything. There's nothing left, if you don't show up right now, Helen dies, my children die, and I'll die too because I can't live in a world without her!

Promise buried his face in his hands and wept; the kind of deep, guttural weeping that comes from a soul completely shattered. And that's when his phone rang. At first, he ignored it. What was the point? Who could possibly be calling him at 6:30AM with good news? But the phone kept ringing, persistent, urgent. With trembling hands, he pulled it out of his pocket. The caller ID made his heart skip: Mummy Helen; Cynthia. Helen's mother, the same woman who had sat there hours ago, painting her nails while her daughter was dying. Why would she be calling now?

Promise almost didn't answer. But something; call it instinct, call it desperation, call it the hand of God made him press the green button.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse from crying.

"Promise." Cynthia's voice came through, and it sounded different, shaky, emotional. "Promise, where are you?" I'm at the hospital, ma. Where else would I be? Your daughter is dying, and you people are at home drinking wine. "Promise, please..." Now she was crying too. Please, listen to me. I haven't been able to sleep, I haven't been able to breathe since you left here. I tried to close my eyes, but all I could see was Helen's face as a little girl. I tried to drink water, but it tasted like poison. My heart has been beating so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack.

Promise said nothing, he didn't have the energy for more disappointment.

"I'm a mother, Promise," Cynthia continued, her voice breaking completely now. Before I became Chief Benedict's wife, before I became a woman who wears gold and drinks expensive wine, I was a mother. And a mother cannot sit comfortably while her child is in pain. I don't care what my husband says. I don't care about his pride or his principles. That is my daughter, my only child. The baby I carried for nine months. The little girl who used to hold my hand and call me 'Mummy, Mummy' whenever she was scared." Promise's grip on the phone tightened.

Promise, come to the house right now. Don't tell anyone, don't make noise. Just come to the back gate, I'll be waiting for you there. "Ma, please don't play with my emotions," Promise whispered. I can't take any more pain tonight. If this is a trick— "It's not a trick!" Cynthia said urgently. Promise, I have money for you. Three million naira, cash. I've been hiding it from my husband for years, it's my own personal savings. I was keeping it for emergency. Well, this is the emergency. Come and collect it, pay the hospital bill, take care of Helen, take care of my grandchildren. And there will be more where that came from. I'll send you money every month through one trusted person. My husband doesn't need to know.

Promise couldn't believe what he was hearing. His mind was spinning. "Ma... are you serious?"

Promise, I know I've been wicked to you. I know I've said terrible things. But please, forgive me. I was influenced by my husband. I was trying to be a 'good wife' and support his decisions. But tonight, God has been dealing with me. He has been asking me: 'What kind of mother lets her child die to prove a point?' Promise, I cannot answer that question. I cannot live with myself if Helen dies tonight because I refused to help.

Tears were flowing freely down Promise's face again, but these were different tears. These were tears of hope.

There's a taxi stand at the junction near the hospital, Cynthia said quickly. "Take a taxi, come to the house. Use the back gate, the small one beside the generator house. I'll tell the security man there to open it for you. My husband is asleep in the main house. He won't know anything. Come now, Promise. Every second counts. "Thank you, ma," Promise managed to say through his tears. Thank you, God will bless you. God will—" Just come, my son. Come quickly, let's save my daughter.

The line went dead, Promise jumped to his feet like a man possessed. He ran to Room 7 where Helen was still lying on the floor, her breathing shallow, her face pale. "Baby," he knelt beside her, kissing her forehead. Baby, hold on. Just hold on a little bit longer. Help is coming, I promise you, help is coming. Your mother—your mother came through for us." Helen's eyes fluttered open weakly. "My... mother?" Yes, baby. She called. She has money for us, three million naira. I'm going to get it right now. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Just hold on for me. Please, Helen, hold on."

Helen managed the faintest smile. "I told you... God would make a way..." Promise kissed her again and ran out of that hospital like his life depended on it—because it did. Helen's life depended on it. His children's lives depended on it. He flagged down a taxi at the junction. "Chief Benedict's house! Banana Island! Drive like your life depends on it! I'll pay you double!" The taxi driver, sensing the urgency, pressed down on the accelerator.

As they sped through the dark streets of Lagos, Promise couldn't stop thanking God. He prayed out loud in the back seat, not caring that the driver probably thought he was crazy. "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you! I knew you wouldn't forsake me! I knew you would come through! Thank you for touching Mama's heart! Thank you!”

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to the back gate of Chief Benedict's mansion. True to her word, Cynthia was standing there in the shadows, a black Ghana-must-go bag in her hands.

Promise jumped out of the taxi and ran to her.

"Mummy!" he called out, and for the first time, he meant it. This woman had earned that title tonight. Cynthia grabbed him and hugged him tightly, something she had never done before. "Take the money, my son. Go and save my daughter. Tell her I love her, tell her I'm sorry, tell her that her mother is not as wicked as she thought."

She thrust the heavy bag into his hands. Promise opened it quickly and saw bundles and bundles of crisp naira notes. His hands trembled. There's actually three and a half million there, Cynthia whispered. "Pay the hospital bill, buy things for the babies, rent a better apartment. And Promise..." she grabbed his hand, "...take care of my daughter. Love her the way you've been loving her. I was wrong about you. You may not have money, but you have something more valuable—a pure heart. That is rare in this world."

"Thank you, ma," Promise said, tears streaming down his face. Thank you so much, I will never forget this. Never.

"Go!" Cynthia urged. Go quickly before my husband wakes up and spoils everything.

Promise ran back to the taxi, clutching the bag like his life depended on it. "Back to the hospital! Fast! Fast!"

As the taxi sped back through the night, Promise looked up at the sky through the car window.

"God, you're real," he whispered. You're really real, you heard my cry. You made a way where there was no way. Thank you. Thank you."

Ah, my people, Episode Five is going to be EXPLOSIVE! 🔥 Make sure you're here when it drops, because what happens next will make you cry.

To be continued...

03/10/2025

💔 WHEN BEAUTY MEETS POVERTY – Episode Three

🌹 Written by ©️ TALES BY ONYI Studio 🌹

They say a man's true character is revealed not in moments of comfort, but in moments of crisis. Tonight, Promise would discover just how far love could push him beyond his limits.

Promise sat on his keke in the middle of an empty street, his phone pressed against his ear, listening to the hospital nurse's voice which grow more urgent with each passing second. "Mr. Promise, your wife is asking for you, she keeps calling your name, her blood pressure is dropping. Please, where are you? Do you have the money?" I'm... I'm coming, Promise whispered, his voice hollow. Please, just... just tell her I'm coming. He ended the call and stared at his phone screen. His bank balance mocked him: ₦100,000. The same amount that couldn't save the woman he loved more than his own life. His mind raced through possibilities like a drowning man grasping for air. Who else could he call? His parents were dead. His elder brother was a struggling teacher in the village who sent him ₦5,000 every Christmas as a gift. His friends? The other keke riders he worked with were just as poor as him, some even poorer.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck him.

"My keke, I can sell my keke." It was his only source of income, his lifeline. The vehicle that put food on their table, paid their rent, bought Helen's prenatal vitamins. But what good was income if Helen wasn't alive to enjoy it? He started the engine and headed straight for Ojo Spare Parts Market. Even at 11:47 PM, he knew some of the dealers would still be around. These were men who never slept when there was money to be made.

The market was dimly lit, with only a few generator-powered bulbs illuminating the rows of shops. Promise parked his keke and rushed towards Alhaji Musa's shop; the biggest spare parts dealer in the area. Everyone called him "Alhaji No Mercy" because of how he squeezed every deal in his favor.

"Alhaji! Alhaji Musa!" Promise called out, banging on the metal shutter. A light came on inside, and the shutter rolled up halfway. Alhaji Musa's large frame appeared, looking annoyed. "Wetin? Who dey disturb my sleep by this time? Promise? Na you?" Alhaji, please, I need your help. I want to sell my keke, tonight, even right now.

Alhaji's eyes lit up immediately. The annoyance vanished, replaced by the sharp calculating look of a businessman who smelled desperation. "Sell your keke? The one wey you dey use work? Wetin happen?" My wife is in labor with twins. The hospital is asking for one million naira before they operate her, I need the money now, Alhaji. Please, I'm begging you.

Alhaji scratched his beard thoughtfully, already doing calculations in his head. Hmm, na serious matter be this. Okay, bring the keke make I check am. Promise quickly rode the keke into the shop. Alhaji walked around it slowly, kicking the tires, checking the engine, shaking his head periodically like a doctor examining a dying patient.

"How much you buy this keke?" Alhaji asked.

₦650,000, I finished paying for it eight months ago. It's in perfect condition, Alhaji. The engine is strong, no wahala at all.

"Hmm." Alhaji sucked his teeth. But e don old now. The seat don tear small, the paint don fade. You don use am well well. He paused dramatically. "I fit give you ₦80,000 for am."

Promise's heart dropped to his stomach. Alhaji, ₦80,000? That's too small, this keke is worth at least ₦400,000. Please, my wife is dying, have mercy my brother. My brother, business na business. If I buy am ₦400,000, how I wan sell am? Where I go see customer for midnight? I go use my money lock up for keke wey I no know when I go sell. ₦80,000 na my final price. Take it or leave it.

Promise felt like the ground was swallowing him whole. He knew Alhaji was cheating him, but what choice did he have? Time was slipping away like sand through his fingers. "Okay, Alhaji. Give me ₦150,000. Please, I'm begging you. My wife and my children will die if I don't get this money."

Alhaji pretended to think about it, but Promise could see the greed dancing in his eyes. Okay, because na you and I know say your matter serious, make I do ₦100,000. That's the highest I fit go, final price." Promise wanted to scream, he wanted to grab Alhaji by his flowing agbada and shake him. But instead, tears filled his eyes.

"Alhaji, God will judge you for this. You're taking advantage of my pain. You know this keke is worth more, but because I'm desperate, you're treating me like a fool." Alhaji shrugged. "Business na business. If you no wan sell, carry your keke go another place." But there was no other place, no other time, no other option.

"Give me the money," Promise said quietly, his voice dead. Alhaji counted out ₦100,000 in dirty ₦500 notes and handed them to Promise. Sign here say you don sell me the keke. Promise signed the paper with shaking hands. As he walked out of that shop on foot, the same keke he had worked three years to buy now belonging to another man, something inside him broke. But he couldn't break down now, not yet.

He flagged down an okada and headed to their apartment. When he got there, the door was unlocked just as he had left it. He rushed inside and grabbed their small 32-inch TV; the one Helen had been so excited about when they bought it on her birthday. It cost them ₦55,000, and they had eaten rice and egg for two weeks straight to afford it. He tucked it under his arm and headed back out. By now, it was past midnight, but he knew a guy—Emeka—who bought and sold electronics from a container shop in the neighborhood. Emeka was a night õwl who dealt in everything from stolen phones to second-hand generators.

"Emeka! Emeka, open up!" Promise banged on the container. Emeka poked his head out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Guy, which kind desperation be this? You wan wake the whole street? Please, I need to sell this TV. My wife is in the hospital, I need money urgently. Emeka took the TV and examined it under the fluorescent light of his shop. Hmm, 32 inches, second-hand. The screen don get small scratch for corner. He looked up at Promise, I fit give you ₦15,000.

"Jesus Christ😱😱!" Promise exclaimed. Emeka, this TV is barely eight months old I bought it for ₦55,000. Please, give me at least ₦35,000. I'm begging you na. My guy, na midnight. You think say na daytime when customer plenty? Who I go sell am to now? ₦15,000 or nothing. You know wetin be midnight economy.

Promise closed his eyes. He was being robbed in broad... well, in dark moonlight. But Helen was dying, his babies were dying. Pride had no place in this moment. "Give me ₦20,000 please, last price. Emeka sucked his teeth and counted out ₦18,000. "Na because we be guys, take am go."

Promise collected the money and ran. He didn't even have money for transport anymore, so he ran through dark streets, past sleeping houses, through his own tears until he reached the hospital. He burst through the doors, gasping for air, sweat and tears mixing on his face. The reception area was empty except for one nurse on night duty.

"My wife, Helen Promise, where is she now?" he panted. The nurse looked at him with something like pity. "Room 7, the doctor is still refusing to attend to her until you pay. Promise rushed to Room 7. What he saw almost brought him to his knees. Helen was still on the floor where he had left her. No bed, no pillow. Just cold tiles. Her wrapper was soaked with blood and water. Her face was pale, her lips dry and cracked. But her eyes; oh God, her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Promise..." she whispered, reaching out a weak hand. He collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms. Baby, I'm here, I'm here. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I left you like this.

Did you... did you get the money? Her voice was so weak he had to strain to hear her. I got some, not all, but I got some. I sold the keke, I sold the TV. I have ₦218,000 now. Baby, I tried. God knows I tried. Your parents, they refused. They just sat there and— "Shhh," Helen placed a finger on his lips, using strength she didn't have. I knew they would. It's okay, you tried your best. You've always been enough for me, Promise. Always.

You're still defending me even now? Tears streamed down his face. Look at what I've put you through; you married a poor man and now you're dying on a hospital floor like... like… "Like I'm loved," Helen interrupted, tears sliding down her own cheeks. I'm dying on this floor, yes. But I'm loved. I chose you, Promise. And I would choose you again, even now, even here."

Promise buried his face in her neck and sobbed like a child. This woman, this incredible, stubborn, beautiful woman was slipping away from him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A contraction hit Helen hard, and she screamed a sound that would haunt Promise for the rest of his life. "Doctor! Nurse! Somebody help her! Please!" Promise screamed, running into the corridor.

Dr. Adeyemi appeared from his office, looking irritated at being disturbed. "Mr. Promise, I told you—" I have money here. Promise threw all the cash at the doctor's feet, a pile of wrinkled, dirty notes. That's ₦218,000, please take it and start! I'll find the balance, I swear to God, I'll find it, just don't let her die, don't let my children die.

Dr. Adeyemi looked at the money on the floor, then at Promise's desperate face, then towards Room 7 where Helen's screams echoed. For a moment; just a brief moment, something flickered in the doctor's eyes. Was it compassion? Conscience? Or just calculation? "Mr. Promise," the doctor said slowly, this is not even a third of what we need. How do you expect me to— Helen's scream cut through the air again, longer this time, more agonizing. And in that moment, as Promise stood there with nothing left to sell, nowhere left to run, and no more tears left to cry, he realized something terrifying: Money wasn't just power in this country.

Money was life itself.

And without it, even love, pure, sacrificial, till-death-do-us-part; love meant absolutely nothing.

Chai! 😭 This thing pain me sotey I no fit even type straight. How can people be so wicked? How can a doctor just watch someone die because of money? But this is Nigeria we are talking about. This is the reality for millions of people every single day. In Episode Four, we go see whether this doctor get human heart at all, or whether e don turn to stone. And as for those parents... ah ah, Chief Benedict and Cynthia, I no wan talk yet. Hold your heart tight, because what is about to happen next will leave you speechless!

Why not give me my flowers by following and pushing our stories so that more people will see them? Follow TALES BY ONYI Studio please 🙏🙏

To be continued...🌹🌹🌹

03/10/2025

💔 WHEN BEAUTY MEETS POVERTY – Episode Two

🌹 Written by ©️ TALES BY ONYI Studio 🌹

Sometimes, the people who brought you into this world can become the same ones who watch you leave it without lifting a finger.

Promise's keke screeched to a halt outside Chief Benedict's mansion. The rain had stopped, but his clothes were soaked through, not just from the downpour, but from the cold sweat of fear. His hands trembled as he banged on the massive iron gate. "Please! Open up! It's Promise! Please!" His voice cracked with desperation.

Inside the gateman's post, Musa hesitated. He had received strict instructions months ago: "If that poor rat ever shows his face here, don't let him in." But the desperation in Promise's voice made him uncomfortable. Still, work is work, and Chief Benedict doesn't forgive disobedience.

Promise banged harder. "Musa, I know you're in there. Please, in the name of God, open this gate! Helen is dying, your madam's daughter is dying."

Five agonizing minutes passed. Each second felt like an eternity. Promise could see Helen's face in his mind; her eyes rolling back, her lips turning pale, her hand going cold in his. He slammed his fist against the gate one more time, so hard that his knuckles split and bled.

Finally, the small side gate creaked open. Musa stood there, avoiding eye contact. "Oga said he no wan see you here, he said. Promise didn't let him finish. He pushed past the gateman and sprinted towards the main house. His wet slippers slapped against the perfectly paved driveway; the same driveway where Helen used to play as a child, where expensive cars used to park during her birthday parties, where he had once been chased away like a thief.

He burst through the main door without knocking.

Chief Benedict was seated in his favorite leather chair, a glass of cognac in his hand, watching the late-night news. Cynthia, Helen's mother, was beside him, painting her nails a bright red. The smell of wealth filled the room; expensive perfume, polished wood, fresh flowers in crystal vases.

They both looked up slowly, as if Promise was an annoying fly that had entered their space. "Please, sir... Ma..." Promise fell to his knees immediately, gasping for breath. Helen is in labor, she's dying. The babies are dying, I need your help, I'm begging you. Chief Benedict took a slow sip of his drink, he didn't even blink.

Sir, please! Promise's voice shattered into a sob. The doctor said she needs a cesarean section urgently. They're asking for one million naira before they can operate. I only have one hundred thousand. I've begged them, I've cried, but they won't touch her without full payment. She's your daughter, sir, your only child. Please, I'm begging you with everything in me. Cynthia continued painting her nails, blowing gently on them as if Promise wasn't even there.

Promise crawled closer on his knees, his voice breaking completely now. Ma, you carried her for nine months, you gave birth to her, you know what it means to be a mother. How can you sit here while your daughter is bleeding out on a hospital bed? She's calling for you, ma. She's crying for you! That was a lie, Helen was barely conscious. But Promise was willing to say anything, and to do anything just to save them.

Chief Benedict finally spoke, his voice cold and measured. "How much did you say they're asking for?" One million naira, sir.

"And how much do you have?" One hundred thousand, sir. I've been saving it for months, it's everything I have. Please, sir, I just need nine hundred thousand more, I'll pay you back. I swear on my life, I'll work day and night. I'll give you every kobo I make from my keke. Even if it takes me ten years, I'll pay you back. Just please, save your daughter.

Chief Benedict chuckled a dark, bitter sound that made Promise's blood run cold. "You saved one hundred thousand naira in nine months of pregnancy?" The chief leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. Do you know how much I spend on my dog's monthly grooming? Three hundred thousand. My dog is worth more than your entire life savings, this boy. Promise felt like he had been slapped.

"I warned Helen," Chief Benedict continued, swirling his cognac. I told her that poverty is not a joke, I told her that love doesn't pay hospital bills. I told her that when the chips are down, her poor husband would come running back to us like a beggar. And look at you now, on your knees, just as I predicted.

"Sir, please—" Do you know what hurts me the most? Cynthia interrupted, finally looking up from her nails. Her voice was sharp, cutting. It's not that she married you, it's that she threw away everything we gave her: education, comfort, respect, for what? For this moment? To be stranded in a cheap hospital, her life in the hands of a man who can't even afford to save her?

Promise's tears flowed freely now, mixing with the sweat and rain on his face. His nose was running, but he didn't care. Ma, I know I'm not rich, I know I'm not the son-in-law you wanted. But I love Helen with everything in me. I've treated her like a queen even in our one room. I've never raised my hand on her, I've never cheated on her, I've given her peace. Please, don't let her die because of my poverty. Punish me if you want, but save her!

Chief Benedict stood up, towering over Promise's kneeling figure. "You want to know something? I actually have the money. In fact, I have ten million naira sitting in my drawer upstairs. I could write you a check right now and this whole thing would be over."

Promise's heart leaped with hope. "Please, sir! Please!"

But I won't!!! The words landed like a death sentence.

"Let her feel what poverty truly means," Chief Benedict said coldly. Let her understand that her father was right all along. Maybe if she survives this, she'll come back home where she belongs. And if she doesn't... He paused, taking another sip. Well, I warned her, didn't I? Ehn, Cynthia? We both warned this stubborn girl. No be by force to born pikin. Poverty will humble her. Dead or alive, she'll learn her lesson. Cynthia nodded slowly, examining her freshly painted nails under the chandelier light.

Promise couldn't believe what he was hearing. These people, these parents were willing to let their own daughter die just to prove a point?

"You people are wicked," Promise whispered, his voice hollow. You're heartless, she's your blood, your own flesh. How can you just sit here and be spilling all these? "And you're a fool," Chief Benedict shot back. A fool who thought love could feed a family. Now get out of my house before I call the police and tell them you came here to rob me. In your desperation, I won't be surprised if you've stolen something already. People like you, poverty turns you into criminals.

Promise staggered to his feet, his legs felt weak, his vision blurred from tears. He had one last card to play. "If Helen dies tonight," Promise said quietly, looking Chief Benedict straight in the eye, I will make sure the whole world knows that her father refused to save her. I'll go to every radio station, every blog, every newspaper. I'll tell them that Chief Benedict, the so-called philanthropist, the man who donates to churches and orphanages, let his own daughter bleed to death because she married a poor man. Your name will be rubbish, your reputation will be finished.

For the first time, Chief Benedict's expression shifted, just slightly. But then he smiled. "Go ahead. Who will believe a poor keke rider over me? I'll simply tell them you never came here. It will be your word against mine. Now get out.

Promise turned and walked out of that mansion like a dead man walking. His phone buzzed in his pocket, it was the hospital calling. His hands shook so badly he almost dropped the phone.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice barely a whisper.

Mr. Promise, your wife... she's losing a lot of blood. If you're not back here in the next thirty minutes with that money, I cannot guarantee we can save her or the babies. Where are you?

Promise looked back at the mansion one last time. Every light was on, every room glowed with warmth and wealth. Yet inside those walls lived the coldest hearts he had ever encountered. He climbed onto his keke and started the engine.

Where was he going? He didn't know. Who else could he run to? He had no idea. But as he rode through the dark, empty streets, Promise made a decision: He would not let Helen die. Even if he had to rob a bank, sell his kidney, or make a deal with the devil himself, he would find that money.

Because love, real love, doesn't give up.

Not tonight, not ever!

But time was running out, and somewhere in a cold hospital room, Helen's grip on life was slipping away.

Omo, this episode pain me sha 😭. I cannot even imagine someone treating their own child like this. But that's the thing about pride and stubbornness; it can turn parents into monsters.

Can Promise find the money in time? Will Helen survive? Abeg, hold your heart tight for Episode Three, because what is about to happen will shock you! 🔥

To be continued🌹…

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