He noticed her voice first. It was calm, assured and unhurried, a voice that did not ask for attention because it expected it. Only then did he see her. Yvonne sat at the head of the table, composed and immaculate, her gaze resting on the group as if she were already familiar with each of them. “Welcome,” she said. “This is a professional space. We work seriously here.” Kenny felt the words settle inside him like a hand placed firmly on the back of his neck. When it was his turn to speak, she watched him closely. She did not smile or frown. She simply measured him. “You have something,” she said. “It's raw, but promising. With guidance, it could become publishable.” The word guidance stayed with him. Later that evening, he stopped at a pub nearby and ordered a Kilkenny. The beer was dark and smooth, bitter at first and then unexpectedly sweet. He liked the name. Kilkenny. It sounded final. Yvonne filled the room week after week. She spoke of discipline, market expectations and correct structure. She insisted that talent meant nothing without control. “Freedom is overrated,” she said once, smiling faintly. “Most writers sabotage themselves with it.” Her feedback was precise, almost intimate. She praised his dialogue and then suggested changes that shifted the story away from him and closer to her way of seeing. “You're too attached to your perspective,” she told him. “Let me show you how it should breathe.” He followed her advice. Soon there were checklists, then private sessions and paid programs. She framed them as opportunities and privileges. He did not resist. Around her, his body reacted in ways he did not fully question. His chest tightened, a low heat settled in his stomach, and he felt the stillness of prey that does not run. He was aware of the danger and yet suspended in a strange, aching pleasure. He stopped noticing other women. In cafés, on the street, in reflections of shop windows, faces passed without leaving a trace. Desire narrowed until it focused entirely on one point, on Yvonne's voice, her approval and her measured disapproval. The sensation aroused him, and it frightened him. At night, while working on his script, he felt both drained and alert. His sexuality no longer felt like his own. It seemed to belong somewhere else. That was when something began to feel wrong. Then it happened. After class, they discussed his script alone. When he said goodbye, he misjudged the distance between them and leaned in to kiss her. She pushed him away sharply. “What do you think you're doing?” she snapped. Shame flooded him, hot and immediate. He did not sleep that night. The feeling was old and familiar, something he had buried and hoped never to encounter again. He understood then that with Yvonne he had returned to an old attachment, the same hunger, wearing a different face. The script had shifted without his noticing. The protagonist was a man involved with a powerful woman, a mentor and a gatekeeper. He earned affection through obedience. She promised access, success and validation, and slowly she rewrote him along with his work. Kenny stared at the screen. The man in the script felt alive only under her gaze and empty without it. He mistook surrender for intimacy and control for desire. He remembered his first love, older and dominant, and how she had taught him to want what erased him. Leaving her had nearly destroyed him, and it had saved him. Different country. Different woman. The same pattern. Something loosened in his chest, as if a long held tension were finally releasing. It was not mysticism, only the body recognising safety for the first time in years. He could no longer adapt, and he no longer wanted to. At the next session, he spoke. “I want to keep the script as it is.” Silence filled the room. Yvonne looked at him with calm curiosity. “Kenny,” she announced, frowning slightly, as if he were a careless teenager, “you're resisting growth. That usually means fear.” “No,” he replied. “It means recognition.” After a short pause he added, “I see it for what it is.” Her smile tightened. “Without my framework,” she said, “there will be no publication and no agent. I can't support work that refuses direction.” He felt the familiar pull and the tightening in his body. Then relief followed. “I understand,” he said. That night, he returned to the pub and ordered a Kilkenny. As the foam settled, he watched the dark liquid steady itself in the glass and thought of the name again. Kilkenny. It was not just a drink. It was a warning. She had not wanted to shape his script. She had wanted to kill Kenny. The cycle had run its course. He drank slowly. The future remained uncertain. The script was unfinished and the path unclear. But desire had returned to his body, and his voice had returned to his hands. That was enough.

The lake spread out endlessly before me, containing a serenity which I envied as I sank into the sand at the small lake town beach. Water rushed up to greet my feet, leaving my skin with a refreshed feeling as the wave raced back towards the endless shimmering mirror of the lake. Our lives are just like waves, I thought. One moment, we're rushing higher and higher until we think we're about to hit the stars, and then the next moment life falls into the depths of the ocean. A ripple of laughter broke through my thoughts and echoed across the beach from where a couple of kids were playing in the sand. The sounds tugged me back to my childhood when my two older sisters and I would build sandcastles, jump over waves, and return to the campground with sunburnt noses and inerasable smiles. I warmed at the fond memory, wishing I could jump back to those careless days. A black splotch of a bug puttered over my leg, drawing my attention. As its miniscule legs took small, determined steps across my skin, I fought the urge to swat it away. Watching it, I wondered what life might feel like if it were as brief as this tiny insect's lifespan. We would probably have a completely different perspective on life and how we wanted to use our preciously few moments. My mind began to wander again as I watched the sun slowly set. The faint energetic sounds of a long-forgotten song intruded upon my mental reflection, and I was carried back once more in time to church camp years ago as a kid, learning the steps to a dance and joyfully messing up each step. I could still hear the music, see the dance steps, and feel the joy of messing up as if I were in that moment again. Then it hit me. An overwhelming feeling of loss swept over me. It came to me that childhood was now a word of the past. I could never go back to those golden days, ones which I had not even noticed were so priceless in the moment. The song faded and was replaced by another song, but my mind was still a whirlpool of thoughts. When I think of the word childhood, images of me and my sisters innocently swinging on our beaten-up swing set, a sharp but comforting feeling of scraped knees, the cold, slippery taste of orange popsicles, and the smell of fluffily golden pancakes greeting my nose in the morning come to mind. These were all things that I could view as if watching a movie, or looking at old photos, but could never step into or recreate. I was hit with a tidal wave of grief, realizing I had never known the true significance of how irretrievable childhood really was. Another cold, clear wave drowned my feet, bringing me back from the undertow of forgotten moments. As all the streams of my thoughts connected, I contemplated again of how our lives went up and down like a wave, and it occurred to me that even though I could never return to that carefree world, I could still keep those memories close and use them as a stepping stool, so when the wave of life recedes, I'll stand a little taller, lifted by the memories which shaped me.

THE NOSTALGIA OF CHILDHOOD: The Shift from Childhood to Teenage hood OH! how fast we grew from the little child we were who once lived a carefree, stress free and fun filled life to becoming a teenager within the blink of an eye. Oh, how time files. A time when joy came from cartoons, playgrounds, and our imaginations. We ran barefoot on dusty roads, laughed till our stomach ached, and cried only when our toys were taken away. Those were the days the world felt safe. Back then, all we had to do was eat and play, we never had to worry about bills, responsibilities, or expectations. Sometimes, I wish I could stay a child forever, but sadly, teenage hood has dawned on us, ushering us into the kaleidoscope of life. Little did we know that this new phase would bring along so much confusion, growth, pressure, and self discovery. Oh, how I miss those nostalgic moments of childhood, when we played in dirt without a care, came home messy and smiling,watching cartoons without understanding much of it, and still laughed like it made perfect sense. Back then, joy beamed from our hearts, and smiles never left our faces. We didn't care about how we looked,what people thought, what the society expected or tried to compare ourselves. The times where jealousy didn't cloud our hearts, times where we were all like one big family. No hatred, no gossip, no betrayal; just pure friendship and oneness. Even when our parents warned us not to play with the neighbor's children or even someone else's child because they were bad kids, we still went anyways because, in our little minds, connection mattered more than caution. No emotional stress, no pressure, just freedom. Childhood made me feel effervescent and garrulous, full of life. Truly, childhood memories are priceless. Now as we stand on the edge of teenage hood, we find ourselves looking back missing that innocence. Now, I find myself wondering what this new phase holds. As I go to places, I experience sonder, the sudden realization that everyone has a story. I look at other young people like me and ask myself, "What's going on in their minds too?", because this new phase has brought more than we expected; emotion, peer pressure, silent battles and the need to find ourselves. The shift is sudden, one day you're chasing butterflies, the next you're chasing purpose. WELCOME TO TEENAGEHOOD

Development and growth in any society hinge upon the establishment of an orderly framework of behavior that accommodates everyone. This includes creating effective systems for resolving disputes, addressing crimes, and fostering a collective understanding of the need to obey rules and regulations. These rules form the very foundation upon which a better society is built. To illustrate this, I will share a story that encapsulates the essence of what I wish to convey. The Story of Mr. Adamu Mr. Adamu was a retired civil servant who dedicated forty years of his life to working in the Ministry of Information. During his tenure, he rose to the position of director. However, despite his influential role, Mr. Adamu consistently ignored opportunities to engage in community sensitization programs. These programs could have educated citizens and security operatives about the importance of lawful behavior and the role of regulations in ensuring societal harmony. His focus was instead confined to bureaucratic tasks, leaving broader societal concerns unaddressed. Time, as always, took its course. After four decades of service, Mr. Adamu's career came to an end, and he retired to a quiet life in his estate, known as PPPN Platform. As a respected elder and former public servant, he often took morning walks along the estate's serene streets. Despite his position and status, he remained indifferent to the activities around him. He neither intervened in nor raised awareness about issues concerning societal growth and development. The Setting A major route in the estate served as Mr. Adamu's regular walking path. Along this route was a checkpoint manned by a group of security operatives notorious for extorting money from motorists. This daily extortion had become an accepted norm, a symptom of systemic decay ignored by many, including Mr. Adamu. Interestingly, the head of the security operatives at this checkpoint was Mr. Adamu's former classmate. This connection offered Mr. Adamu a unique immunity. The head of the unit had instructed his subordinates to always show respect to Mr. Adamu whenever they saw him. Thus, Mr. Adamu walked past the checkpoint daily, unconcerned about the corrupt practices occurring right before his eyes. The Incident One fateful day, tragedy struck. Mr. Okoya, a tricycle rider and neighbor of an army officer, returned home to find the officer's pregnant wife lying unconscious on the floor. Alarmed, he and his wife hurriedly carried the woman into their tricycle, intending to rush her to the nearest hospital. As they approached the main road, Mr. Okoya switched on the tricycle's hazard lights to signal the urgency of their mission. Unfortunately, the security operatives were already stationed ahead, preoccupied with their routine of extorting money from motorists. Mr. Adamu and his former classmate were standing nearby, reminiscing about their school days and oblivious to the unfolding drama. When the security operatives spotted Mr. Okoya's tricycle, they interpreted his haste as an attempt to evade their checkpoint without paying the usual bribe. Despite the visible distress signals and his wife's frantic shouting from inside the tricycle, the operatives decided to act. As Mr. Okoya accelerated to bypass the checkpoint, one of the operatives struck the tricycle's windshield with a heavy stick. The loud crash startled Mr. Okoya, causing him to lose control of the tricycle. In the ensuing chaos, the tricycle veered off the road and crashed into the barricade erected by the operatives. The aftermath was catastrophic. Mr. Adamu, his former classmate, and the pregnant woman all lost their lives in the incident. Mr. Okoya and his wife sustained severe injuries but survived. The question arose: who was to blame for this tragedy? Reflections This story is a stark reminder of the societal decay that stems from negligence, corruption, and indifference. Mr. Adamu's apathy toward societal issues during his career and retirement exemplifies how ignoring small acts of misconduct can snowball into larger, more devastating consequences. The security operatives, blinded by greed, failed to recognize the urgency of Mr. Okoya's situation. Their abuse of power and disregard for human life were the immediate catalysts for the tragedy. Yet, their actions were symptomatic of a broader societal failure—a failure to instill discipline, enforce the rule of law, and prioritize the common good over selfish interests. Conclusion The question, “Who killed the man?” is not merely rhetorical. The blame lies with a system that tolerates corruption, a society that prioritizes personal connections over accountability, and individuals who choose complacency over action. If we are to prevent such tragedies, we must embrace a collective responsibility to address societal flaws. It begins with each individual understanding the importance of their role in upholding justice, fairness, and humanity.

He lies outstretched in the sun, glassy eyes watching the shadows of leaves flicker on the wall, faintly recalling the cold of last winter, penetrating beneath his skin as he huddled close to family against the back wall of the construction site. He wouldn't have made it out there on his own. We're informed he's half blind, cross eyed, schizophrenic, deaf, or maybe just a little confused. But still he stumbles to the door every time its opened. He wishes he could leap and pounce like his sister, run like her or remember like her. Maybe if his back legs were stronger or his instincts slightly sharper, he would have made it out that door by now. Maybe he would be able to climb up on the windowsill and watch the birds fly by. One day he runs to the door just in time. The brief escape window is elongated by a foot in the door and he finally sees the outside world, a fleeting vision of those long winter months brought back. His curiosity is satisfied and he finds a new interest. He now runs along the hall and watches the light grow orange against the wall. He realizes the value of warmth and comfort, of steady meals and love.

He never talked. He never moved in a weird way. He only stared. He spent hours and hours looking at everyone in that mysterious way. At that old bench. Dressed all black. Just looking. I didn't have any reasons, but he scared me. A lot. I don't know why. Don´t ask me. In the way from school to my house I need to walk across the park where he sat. I just didn´t look at him. Period. I just walk away as quickly as I could. But one day all was different. One day he did not just look. That was the day when I nearly die. It was a normal day, bad stuff at school, nothing else. The moon and, with her, the night were starting to appear. I was very concentrated and focused on what I was doing. That day I was not paying so much attention on everyone else. And he noticed it. I was looking at my book when I walked across the park, a bit slower than other times. He was there, as always, just staring. I did not notice that, for the first time in probably ages, he stood up. He moved and started walking behind me, very calmly. I was not noticing at all. I walked through one and even two main streets, but in my way home I needed to cross a little and lonely passage. It has only closed shops and no one can look at it without being physically in it. That was when he decided to act. He stopped walking and he moved his mouth. -Hey- he said. I stopped my way, cold as ice, and, in a very slowly way, I turned around. It was him. Again. And he was not in the bench, his was walking to me. I froze, couldn´t move. I started to run, but it was too late. He reached me with his big arms and brutally pushed me to the wall. A very cold wall. He then decided to take out his clothing, one by one, while with one hand was grabbing my neck. I tried to shout, but, for this time, my mouth was shut, it was impossible to me. I just couldn't do it. I had to see a very unpleasant vision of an adult man without any clothing. And it was my turn. I tried, somehow, to resist, but it was impossible. I was without any clothing. My brain was trying to react, but I stood still. Then I did shout. Damn, of course I did. It was the mixed feeling of the beginning of a trauma and the unpleasant experience that I was being forced to have. All of a sudden, everything finished. He dressed up and he vanished. I was devastated. Then, I just cried. I threw all the tension and fear I had been feeling the last ten minutes and, don't ask me why, I ran back home. After that, everything changed. I, one way or another, turned out to be more mature and, also, more suspicious about everything, and everyone. That day, I began a new life, I was a new version of myself. Just ten years after the first had started. That was the day, when I died.

It all started when my dad had a dream — not the poetic kind, but the “you two will take the toughest exam in India” kind. The JEE. An exam taken by almost 12 lakh students every year. Me and my twin sister? We decided to prepare for it on our own, with no coaching, no teachers, nothing except YouTube, fear, and a lot of audacity. We studied till 3 AM almost every night, and during the day we helped our father, who is a farmer. Four hours of field work, cattle work, housework — because we are the daughters of the house, and apparently also the “perfect cousins” of the family. Somehow, preparation went well. The January 2025 attempt felt good. We both wrote the exam on the same day. Then came the results. My sister got 42 percentile, a classmate with two years of coaching got 80 , and I got… 22 percentile. I cried. Not because of the score, but because I started doubting myself. In 10th grade, both of us had scored 96%, so failing suddenly felt like breaking into pieces you didn't know you could break into. But I still had a second attempt. So while preparing for the April exam, I also had to prepare for my final board exams. Two big weddings came in between too — yes, we attended them (priorities change when you live in reality, not in textbooks). After the January attempt — sorry, Attempt 1, not failure — I became quiet. Very unlike my usual “chaotic-silly” personality. I thought maybe I wasn't good enough. But then I looked at my parents, my sister, and myself. I couldn't continue like that. So we planned again, studied again, cried less and worked more. Boards came first; JEE had to pause. Boards are conceptual, JEE is practical — both pulling in opposite directions. After boards, we resumed JEE prep and wrote the second attempt. My sister got 51 percentile. I got 61 percentile. Still not enough to qualify because of category cutoffs. Still disappointing. But that night, when I compared 22 → 61, I felt something I hadn't felt in months: Proud. Then our board results came — 91%. After failing two JEE attempts, that felt like a small but meaningful victory. Then came the future. JEE wasn't happening. We gave CUET — decent marks, but not enough. We gave NDA — and reached the exam center two minutes late. Worst feeling ever. At that point, it felt like there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I genuinely thought, “Bro, just disappear.” But instead of disappearing, we changed our direction. We prepared for IELTS at a small local institute, and within 9 days, both of us scored 7 bands. People take two months for that. This was our BIGGEST win of the year. Now came the country. Everyone suggested the US or UK, but we thought about our parents. We wanted something good but affordable. And then — while listening to BTS (yes, I'm not denying it) — we found out Korean currency is cheaper than Indian currency and the education is brilliant there . So South Korea entered the chat. Most people in our village didn't even know if that country existed. Our parents thought we just wanted to go because of BTS (okay, 30% true). Convincing them was the hardest part, but we did it. We applied to one university — got rejected due to a missing document that even our teachers didn't know existed. Another failure. We found a travel agent. Applied to another university. Got shortlisted for a scholarship interview. Meanwhile, we still did all the field work — we have 16 cattle, and for years we've been helping our father. People in the village criticized him for letting girls do “boys' work.” But now they praise us, and sometimes even feel jealous seeing my father relax. (Also, I make tea so good it could enlighten someone.) Then… Results came. We BOTH got a 70% scholarship — the highest scholarship offered for undergraduates by that university. The purpose of telling this story isn't to brag. It's to show that everything happens for a reason. If we hadn't been rejected, failed, or cried, maybe we would've never researched so deeply, become hardworking, or turned into village girls who can outshine men in farming. Never expect life to be good or bad — it will happen anyway. If something bad happens, it means you need to change. If something good happens, it means you're on the right path. Follow your passion. Once you find direction, you will never be lost. Either you will reach your destination, or you will become an excellent traveler — a quote from one of my favorite teachers. Now, with all these lessons, me and my sister are going to South Korea for our bachelor's degrees. This year changed our lives — and I'm grateful for every part of it.

“Will we make it? Why does everyone look so worried?” My little sister had no idea what impact her words made, but they touched each of our family deeply. They poked at my consciousness like a pebble causing ripples on a still pond's surface. My backpack weighed heavily on my shoulders, yet I barely registered it as my mind wandered. The sounds of the airport became muted as I reentered the past. The past year had been a trial. My parents had decided to adopt and into my life came three teenage sisters. This particular choice led to a much larger trial than any of us had envisioned. Though being missionaries in Zimbabwe was already challenging, now strife laced our home's atmosphere. I would walk into the room, gauging the occupants' emotions based on their faces. A frown—I'll come back later. Silence—the new norm. Joy—what's that? I didn't know what caused the anger and grudges, but they existed anyway. Brick by brick, stone by stone, I felt walls being built around each family member. I did not blame anyone; the situation was simply there. Loneliness often threatened. Some of my closest friends had left, and living over an hour from the closest town left little opportunities. It is strange how cold wind often feels so much colder when one faces it alone. We lived in a hot town in the middle of nowhere, but to me it often resembled a frozen wasteland. “Sign here please.” The voice startled me out of my stupor. I stirred and stared at the customs agent. Her stone-like visage had barely shifted since we were halted in front of her desk an hour ago. Covid. Oh, covid. It was the root of everyone's problems recently. Right now, we had been given an incorrect covid test for my brother. It showed that he had tested positive, though that was a much earlier test. I could see the sweat on my dad's forehead. I loved Zimbabwe, but they were not known for their punctuality. If we had the wrong test, it was next to impossible to receive the right one within the hour. That would be too good to be true. And yet here we were, being ushered to our gate! Wow. Miracles still happen. It's not like we could afford to pay for another ticket. We started running, doing our best to catch our plane, but my mind wandered again. From physical injuries to a river of severe emotional strain, the pillar of my heart was slowly eroded. I lived on, unconsciously adjusting the the new norm of my life. Sadness and disappointment seemed all to eager to be my companions. When we were scheduled to go on furlough in 2019, Covid cancelled it. Already numb, I had taken it in. Why expect that something would go right for once? Time after time, it seemed as if the long-promised dawn of hope would be yet again delayed. Only an instinct deep inside of my refused the company of despair. I knew of little alternative; life had done its best to kill all the other options. Yet I knew that the dawn had to arrive; I knew it like I knew it takes oxygen to breathe. I just hope the dawn arrives soon. I cannot remain standing much longer. The plane was still boarding. We all got on and settled ourselves into our seats. It was not a minute too late. We had barely buckled before the pilot spoke from the cockpit and the plane took off. We reached cruising altitude, and I looked out of the window. The sun was rising, spreading its smiling rays of red and orange over the canvas of clouds and sky. The view was stunning, but to me it spoke of much more than simple beauty. “Never surrender,” it seemed to say to me. “Never give up. Hope always has a chance. Though the night be blacker than you have ever seen, though it seem as if the sun will never rise, hope will break through! True beauty and victory are found like gold once it has passed through the fire, removing the impurities. Hope will always prevail.” I looked at the clouds and smiled. My perseverant belief and paid off. Hope will always prevail.

'Clear your mind.' What a strange concept. As if I have the ability to throw a switch and all my thoughts can be shut off. Like I should just turn a faucet and the continuous flow of distracting memories will dry up. Precious memories… like those of my unlettered Indian mother who emigrated to South Africa, and managed to raise seven children all on her own, with minimal help from my father. Relived moments of seeing her always busy and hardly ever resting – cooking dishes whose mouth-watering aromas continue to haunt me; frying off samosas and rotis that made the house smell like the best restaurant in the world. Or quickly baking a plain cake which she decorated with a jam spread topped with desiccated coconut. Painful memories of her beloved face saddened by some thoughtless thing I had said in anger; unbidden reminders of her tears flowing unhindered after receiving a few punches from my changed father; moments of grief at recalling her sitting up in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbearable pain brought on by her failing heart. Fearful memories of seeing her lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a million contraptions, pipes going into her mouth, others snaking out from under the thin blanket covering her aging body after her triple heart bypass operation. Paralyzing thoughts that freeze me once again in that moment when I had visited her in hospital, crying silently at seeing her incapacitated, witnessing this woman who used to be such a tiny dynamo spinning with energy. My heart breaks anew. How can I ‘clear my head' of these, scatter the clutter like unwanted baggage? These thoughts are ingrained within my psyche; they have shaped my perception of life and people. These memories are the scaffolding that bolsters this house that is me. Pain is part of joy; gain is inseparable from loss. I turn on rainbow thoughts, rejoice in the colorful music of memory that spills over me like a deluge. Her generosity, kindness, forgiving nature, selfless attitude, patience, faith… these now remind me of the qualities that had defined her. A snatch of her mischievous laughter tickles my inner ear, brightens my soul like an exploding star. Memory speaks of her positive reaction to life, whispers of how even in her most grueling moments of pain she had not complained. My heart softens at remembering her unstinting love for all of us; constricts at the memory of her stern visage whenever any of us got into trouble. But most of all, my disorderly mind recalls two unforgettable things about my mother. How wonderfully beautiful she had looked whenever she had dressed up for an occasion. How fearlessly she had faced every uncertain day, filled with unabashed faith that all will be well. And it always was, and still is… For her spirit resides within me, within the atmosphere, and within the realm of dreams. Whenever life hurls nearly insurmountable challenges at me, her face swims into my consciousness. When I think I've reached the end of my fragile tether-hold on life, her courage and strength sustain me. If I feel overwhelmed by the world's sorrow, or become despondent because of rejections and life's myriad little disappointments, I envision her offering me the rolled up, hot, very first flaky, delicious roti she had fried. It was filled with sugar and the taste of this simple treat still serves as a healing balm. My mind may be cluttered, but this is one mess I'm not ashamed of. 'Clear your mind,' you say. Why should I do this, when clarity springs from the very disorder of my thoughts.

He opened his closet. It's already like the fridge, although he doesn't like to eat very much last month. What he'll be wearing for today's adventure that was exactly like yesterday's? He's not sure. All skins are worn out. He craves for something new. He decides to take whatever is comfier most. He's read a lot of self-improvement material. Your self-comfort is in the first place. Always. That's what you've been told of. Yes, he likes to never let them know his next move. He moves like oil in the pan. Gently and slippery, always prepared. But for what? Last time he really spoke with himself within was when his father appeared. The father left long time ago, and he left him with a deep hole that won't ever be fulfilled. So he decides to check the closet again. Just like you do with the fridge, I told you. Time's already come, it's 7 p.m. He tried very hard this time: Perfect opening, good follow-up and even sharing some his real personality through very well organized alphabet letter (funny we pay that much for books, as they're just same letters, but organized differently enough). But suddenly he receives “Sry, today I ain't gonna be there”. He knew she found someone better, so he quits Tinder. He opens another better book, so tomorrow he'll be better at it.

"When the world falls silent at night, my mind and I begin to make noise. The night knows me more than people do, for it is the one who sees my face without masks, and the one who hears my thoughts and contradictions without me ever speaking them." Let me take you with me on a short journey inside my cursed mind .. At first, I lie on my bed thinking that I will fall asleep quickly because I'm exhausted and my energy has run out, but the truth is completely the opposite .. At that very moment when I start closing my eyes thinking that I'll soon fall into a deep sleep “or so I imagine”, my mind begins to take me to its world, full of darkness and painful memories. Sometimes I feel it says to me: “Look at those who promised to stay and left, look at those whom you trusted with your heart and they betrayed it, look at me; I'm here suffering every day because of you and your foolish actions.” When everything overflows inside me and I see that no place suits me — not even my bed .. I rise to drown in the moonlight, in its calmness that looks nothing like my noise and inner chaos. I look at it and wonder: Are you really as peaceful as you seem, O moon? Are you truly this calm and still? Don't you have something you're trying to hide behind that calm and quiet mask, just like we humans do? Sometimes I used to feel that the night was my enemy, the thing I feared the most in my life .. but the truth showed the opposite. I discovered that the night is the one who holds me in my weakness, the one who stands beside me when no one else does. The night always understands me without words, the night knows me more than I do, the night resembles me a lot; it seems from the outside very calm, but behind that mask there are so many things hidden deep inside things that only we understand. The night is the best friend, but only for the one who needs it and knows its value. The night is a hidden treasure beneath a quiet black cloak. On one of those silent nights .. my thoughts betrayed me and lit inside me the longing for memories of the past, I remembered then that I still keep some things from that time. I started flipping through this, opening that, until my eyes fell upon two small papers, One carried a confession of jealousy, and the other an admission of attachment that grew day after day. When I read them, I remembered what once was, I remembered a promise of staying, of sacrifice, of fighting wars for me if needed. My eyes overflowed with tears, my heart cried, every inch of my body cried. I realized then that what passes never returns, I realized that I held on to things that were never mine from the beginning, I realized that nothing will stay by my side and comfort me through every hardship — except the night and its moon. Since that night, I realized that the darkness of night is the mirror where I see myself more clearly. I made peace with the night, and it became closer to me than myself. I started waiting for the day to end so I could escape into the night and its stillness. I became the moon that lights my night without needing anyone to keep me company. The night taught me not to run from my pain, but to hold it until it calms. The night .. my closest friend. 🌙

“Fool me once, you fool yourself. Fool me twice, and you've made me a fool.” This wise saying, rooted in African cultural philosophy, reflects a painful reality in our contemporary society. It brings to mind the poignant story of a young National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member posted from southern Nigeria to Jos in the North Central region. Determined not to remain idle, he decided to take up farming. He wasn't looking for charity—he paid for the ground rent and land clearing out of his hard-earned savings. But to his shock, he later discovered it was all a well-orchestrated scam by a local family. What he thought was a productive venture turned into betrayal and exploitation. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated case. It echoes a broader national concern: the erosion of values, the exploitation of good intentions, and the lack of commitment to nation building. A former Inspector General of Police once lamented that Nigeria, with a population of over 230 million, is policed by only about 450,000 personnel. Alarmingly, over 250,000 of those officers are assigned to VIPs and politicians. That leaves the majority of citizens vulnerable. So, one might ask—are we truly interested in national growth, or are we simply rehearsing the motions of progress without substance? The rot goes even deeper. Consider the disturbing trend among some NGOs in Abuja who feed off the hard work of grassroots organizations in other states. These urban-based groups claim credit before donors, receiving recognition and funding meant for those truly doing the work. This betrayal of effort and integrity is another example of the systemic dysfunction that hampers genuine progress. These interlinked acts of injustice have, over time, distorted our societal values. We now live in a society where some people value animals' more than human lives. Our cultural diversity should not be a hindrance to empathy. Humanity must always come first. If we continue to close our eyes and ears to today's evil, we may wake up tomorrow trapped in the consequences of our silence. Take the story of an elder statesman who refused to caution a fellow politician about neglecting the people's welfare. He dismissed it as none of his business—until tragedy struck. His grandchild fell into a well while trying to fetch water. The news caused his wife such distress that she suffered a hypertensive crisis. Due to poor healthcare and bad roads, she couldn't be saved. In a short period, he lost two loved ones. Only then did he realize that the evil men do doesn't just live after them—it often lives with them. So the question remains: what values are we embracing as a people? Are they driven by conscience, or by material gains and fleeting accolades? What legacy will we leave behind? What impact are we making in our communities? We often say Rome wasn't built in a day. But as we talk about building a better Nigeria, what role are we playing? Are we supplying the blocks, the sand, the water—or the blueprint? Or are we merely sitting on the fence, waiting to criticize or hoping for disaster if things don't go our way? Nation building is not the job of a select few. It is a shared responsibility. Once upon a time, people proudly traveled abroad to give birth so their children could claim citizenship of more developed nations. But those societies were not miracles—they were built by people who believed in progress, who were guided by values, and who sacrificed for the future. Let us be guided too—not by greed or selfish ambition, but by a true desire to see our nation thrive, even in the face of hardship. The call today is clear: we must return to values that prioritize integrity, responsibility, and collective growth. Only then can we hope to rewrite our story—and give the next generation a country worth calling home.

Hospitals are strange places. They hold both joy and sorrow, beginnings and endings, first breaths and last. As a pediatrician, I have witnessed moments that tested my faith and hope. Yet one story remains—a fragile cry that reminded me of the miracle of life. It was an ordinary morning in the maternity ward. The corridors smelled of antiseptic, and newborn cries echoed. But a case arrived none of us would forget. A young mother, pale and trembling, was in preterm labor. Her baby was coming weeks too soon: fragile lungs, fragile heart, fragile chances. The room grew tense. Nurses prepared quickly, the incubator hummed, and my heart pounded. Experience never removes the weight of such moments. And then, he came. A tiny boy, so small it seemed the world could crush him. His skin was translucent, his chest uneven. For a moment, silence. Too silent. His mother whispered, “Is my baby alive?” We rushed into action. His breaths were shallow, flickering like a candle. For an instant, I feared he would not survive. Inside, I prayed: Please breathe. Please cry. Then it came—a soft, raspy cry. Not loud, but enough to bring tears to our eyes. That cry was hope made audible. His mother sobbed with relief. We placed him in the incubator, wires and tubes surrounding him. Beyond machines, there was something greater: the astonishing design of the human body. His lungs struggled but learned. His heart kept beating. Every cell seemed to whisper, I want to live. Days turned into weeks. I visited often, listening to the monitors, watching his tiny fingers curl. His mother stood by, whispering lullabies through the glass. Slowly, he grew stronger. Weeks later, I entered the ward and froze. The incubator was empty. He was in his mother's arms, no tubes, no wires, only life. His wide eyes and faint smile were victory itself. Months later, I almost didn't recognize him. The fragile infant was now a chubby, bright-eyed baby, cooing and grasping at his mother's necklace. His laughter filled the room. I remembered that first cry—how close we came to losing him, and how miraculous his life now was. That day, I was reminded how extraordinary human beings are. We often take life for granted—the beating of a heart, the instinct of a newborn curling its fingers. But when life nearly slips away, every detail shines like a miracle. Every child born healthy is not “ordinary.” It is a wonder, repeated millions of times yet never losing its beauty. A premature baby growing into a thriving child shows how humans are created with resilience and grace. I often think of that boy. When I see children running in the park, laughing freely, I think of him and others like him. I think of mothers waiting anxiously, fathers hiding tears, grandparents praying in hospital corridors. Each child is a living testament to creation's brilliance. The world may be full of noise—wars, fears, uncertainty. But then there is the quiet cry of a newborn, reminding us that life continues, that miracles happen every day. That fragile cry taught me more than textbooks. It taught me that humans are wonderfully made, and that every child carries a spark of divine perfection. And that is why I continue my work. Not just to heal, but to witness life's miracle again and again. Because every cry matters, every breath counts, and every child is proof that even in a fragile world, hope endures

I had to admit something. That my world, somewhere along the line, had lost its color. It wasn't a sudden thing. More like a slow fade, the kind you don't notice until you wake up one day and realize you're living in a black-and-white movie from the 1940s. My apartment, 4B, was the entire set of that movie. The window looked out onto a city that was just… gray. Gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray cars filled with gray people. The sounds were gray, too. A dull, constant hum that was the background track of my life, which mostly consisted of coding for a company that probably thought I was a bot, and getting everything from groceries to toothpaste delivered to my door. The door was the edge of my world. Then came the knock. It wasn't the usual tap-and-run of a delivery. This was a frantic, messy rhythm. A 'human' knock. My heart did a kickflip against my ribs. I tried to ignore the sound. But It came again, louder this time, punctuated by a shaky voice. "Hello? Please? Anyone's here?" I cracked the door, my body hidden behind it, leaving a gap just wide enough for one of my eyes. It was Mrs. Henderson from 4A, a woman I'd only ever seen as a blur of floral print and white hairs. Now, her face was crumpled with panic, her eyes wide and wet, looking pitiful. "It's Jasper," she said, her voice thin and choked. "My cat. He must have slipped out. I can't find him anywhere." My brain, my very logical and anxious brain, had a simple response: 'Not your problem. Close the door.' But Mrs. Henderson had come even at my almost always closed door for her cat. And now her wrinkled eyes were looking at me. And her panic, it was so… colorful. Yes. A vibrant, terrifying red in my muted gray world. "I'll… keep an eye out," I mumbled, which was a lie ofcourse as my logical brain had won. "Could you just help me check the stairwell?" she pleaded. "My knees aren't what they used to be, dear." The stairwell. The concrete monster in which I hadn't set foot for six months. 'No, I can't do that.' I thought. But the look on her face….was really something. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was her panic. Or maybe I was just tired of the gray. I nodded. The hallway felt like a mile-long tunnel. Every creak of the floorboards was a cannon blast. But Mrs. Henderson was there, shuffling beside me, her face filled with worry was somehow affecting me. We checked the stairwell. Top to bottom. No Jasper. I felt a genuine pang of disappointment. And something else, too. A weird, shaky sense of pride. I had left my apartment. I had faced my monster. Back in 4B, the gray seemed… less gray. But I still couldn't settle. I kept picturing that little ginger cat, lost and scared. Then I found myself at the window, but I wasn't just staring at the city. I was scanning. Searching for a tiny patch of orange. Mrs. Henderson had mentioned he loved sunning himself by the big green dumpster in the alley. The alley. That meant the lobby. The main entrance. 'Outside'. My hands started to tremble. It was one thing to face the stairwell with a guide. It was another to walk out into the whole world. Alone. But the image of Mrs. Henderson's face wouldn't leave me. So, I put on my shoes. The journey to the front door was an epic saga. My heart hammered out a frantic drum solo. But I did it. I pushed the heavy glass door open. And the sound hit me. It wasn't the gray hum I had expected. It was… everything. A car horn blared, sharp and yellow. A kid shrieked with laughter, a splash of pink. A bus hissed its brakes, a deep, rumbling blue. I'd forgotten the world had so many different noises. And there, behind the dumpster, was a flash of orange. Jasper. He was tangled in some old kite string, looking very sorry for himself. Carrying him back, I felt like a soldier returning after victory. Mrs. Henderson's sob of relief when she saw him was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. She hugged me, a real, solid hug that smelled like cinnamon and tea. It was the first time someone had touched me in almost a year. "You have to come in," she insisted. "I've just made tea." The old me, the gray me, would have made an excuse. But the me standing in the colorful, noisy hallway, with cat hair on his shirt? She said yes. Sitting in her cluttered, cozy apartment, with a purring cat on my lap and a warm mug in my hands, I looked out her window. It was the same view as mine. But from here, the city wasn't gray at all. It was a thousand different colors, all shimmering under the afternoon sun. I knew my apartment was still there, waiting for me. But for the first time in a long while, I truly felt at home.

My sister, my grandma, and I spent our holidays in the village, like a little world of our own. Mornings were filled with sunlight on the fields, the smell of baking bread, and the gentle hum of our conversations. Everything felt simple, calm, and safe, until my uncle arrived. He was not harsh to me or my sister, but when he spoke, it was with sharp authority. If we did not do as he said, his anger flared. and my grandmother... she would shrink to herself, quiet and tense, as if trying not to breath too loudly. The happiness of our little world trembled the moment, he stopped through the door. My sister and I hugged him as though we had missed him, but the truth was different. Having known him for years, we had become good at pretending -and that was what I hated most. Pretending felt like a mask I couldn't take off. I smiled and laughed, because if he grew angry, his harsh words would almost always fall on my grandmother. Sometimes I wished I could run away, take a long walks , and spend less time inside the house. But I could never leave her alone. I did not know, what might have happened, if they argued again, and the thought of my grandmother's heart breaking under her son's words kept me by her side. The days in the village would pass slowly, almost painfully. I tried to avoid him in the large house, but somehow, he was everywhere: working in the garden, preparing two plates of food only for himself, or sitting with his friends who were just like him. Each corner of the house seemed to carry his presence. Being there no longer felt like living. It was only existing, waiting for more time to move forward, waiting for the silence to end. At night, when he was drunk, he would come to us, and begin long lectures about life. My sister and I would sit there, listening, smiling, nodding our heads at the right times, waiting for it to be over. Sometimes it lasted for hours. When he finally left, I would glance at my grandmother. She sat quietly, her face -unreadable, but her eyes told the story, her lips never did. In them, I saw exhaustion, sorrow, and something deeper: something unspoken that I could never forget. My uncle was not always this way. As a child, he had been kind, gentle, even a joy to be around. But when he grew older and fell in with wrong friends, something changed. He became sharper, harsher, almost unrecognizable. He began mocking his own mother, blaming her for every smallest disappointment and failure in his life. Every harsh word, he threw at her, left wounds that I could not see, but knew were deeper than any physical pain. My grandmother never answered back, but her silence carried the weight of it all. Not all words are spoken out loud. Some stay hidden in the pauses between sentences. Growing up, I learned to listen to those unspoken words. They taught me more than the loudest voices ever could, and they continue to remind me that kindness matters most, especially when silence is the only language, someone has left.