Scholastica

“ So, Kator, ” I said gently, “ just tell me a bit about her. Quest .” He rubbed his palms together. “ She’s a student.” I blinked '' A student?'' “ Yes. Dentistry and Dental Surgery, Ebonyi State University. ” I nodded slowly. Not because it explained everything — but because it explained something. '' so, you entered something serious with someone who's literally buried between preclinicals & clinicals, struggling to survive dental school stress? Probably thinking of surviving tomorrow's test, not some unknown future."   He didn't reply. I wasn’t judging. I just knew what pressure felt like. And sometimes, people don’t walk away from love — they walk away from timing. That was when the professional in me kicked in, I knew I had to speak to her-- not as Kator's friend or ghostwriter, but as someone who understood pressure, detachment, and emotional timing... I needed to hear Quest’s side — not for gossip… for balance. Thats why I'm ...

Nobody calls him by his real name anymore — even he sometimes forgets it. He goes by Kator now. A name his guy gave him after they watched that Nigerian film “A Lagos Love Story.” Mad film, by the way. 10/10 recommend if your heart still beats for woman matter. But this isn't one of those motivational stories where a guy gets heartbroken, starts going to the gym, builds six-packs, and becomes a millionaire in six months. Omo, forget that Instagram nonsense ( you didn't hear that from me) This one is real. This one is Kator’s story. Born and raised in the hood somewhere deep in Delta State. The kind of place where NEPA light is a blessing, and gunshots don’t always mean it's Christmas. Kator is in his early twenties, working a 9–5 in Lagos. Corporate job, yes, but salary? E go shock you. After tax, he dey look his account like, “Is this life or life support?” But he has dreams, real ones......Multiple streams of income, peace of mind, and one day — to be the kind of father ...

I read an article last week that said,                                                                                                                   " The walls of the hospital have heard more sincere prayers than the walls of the church."               At first, it struck me as strange — almost irreverent. But the more I thought about it, the more truth I found in that simple, powerful line. Hospitals are not just places of medicine and surgery. They are sacred grounds where human beings — stripped of all pretense — face the rawest parts of themselves. Here, there is no pretending. No performance. Only the trembling heart meeting the mystery of life and ...

 Dear Diary--- or whoever is reading this, My name is Olanma.  It means a beautiful thing- born in Imo state-where girls are raised to walk with grace, speak with fire, and glow without asking. ABU M NWAANYI IGBO , first daughter of a mother who swore I looked like a poetry in motion. funny, right? Named after beauty itself.... but I've spent most of my life trying to feel like I deserved it. A name like mine should be a crown, right? But sometimes, names are promises you grow into later OR never at all. Because the truth is, I didn't tick the boxes. Not the skin --mine was more than canvas. Not the perfect waistline or the flawless hairline. Not the smooth face people expected from a girl with a name like ''OLANMA". They said I was beautiful, but only in parts.                Beautiful, if only.              Beautiful, almost.             Beautiful, but not quite.  ...

  I am Mycobacterium, cloaked in disguise, A cunning rod, too small for eyes. I ride the breath, I seek the deep, Where warmth and blood are mine to keep. I settle soft in silent lobes, A phantom seed in crimson robes, Macrophages rise, engulf in vain. I weave in cells, I build my throne, Necrotic halls of death and bone. A hollowed space, a breathless tomb, Where air dissolves and caverns bloom. I do not strike with haste or roar, I linger, fester—claiming more. At stealthy dawn, I am nothing more than a sigh, A tired yawn, a passing chill, A cough brushed away with a careless hand-- Nothing to fear, nothing to my name. Quiet descent latter, I take more than I give,  Breaths turn shallow, brittle and unsure  The nights are drenched in fever’s grip. Ribs protrude, frame turns light, As hunger fades like waning flame. Each meal untouched, no taste remains, Yet none can see, none call my name. Unbeknownst to them, I am not just sickness—I am silence. I steal voices, not ju...

** Years of virtue, love and light                                           …. IN THIS FLEETING MOMENT..     tainted by heartache, love did stray                         **Faithful heart, once & always full of cheer                                   …. AT THIS TENDER HOUR... wronged and brought to tears **Love's pure flame, that once shone bright                                       .... IN THIS SACRED SPACE.... flickered dim, in endless nights **Shadows truly fell on love's sweet way                                     .... AS T...