Musa’s Wife I used to wonder about Musa’s wife — who she was, if she left him, if she missed her son. How could she just let Musa go away with their child ? Musa and his uncle used to alternate staying in the kiosk shop. It wasn’t theirs — I found out later — it belonged to their landlady. When Musa came back, he had a child, no older than two, maybe just under. I kept asking myself where his mother was. Maybe she didn’t want the child. Maybe she left Musa. Or maybe it was something else entirely. He was taking care of the child, so it had to be one of these things. I never thought much about the young girl I first saw in Musa’s shop. I assumed she lived in the house where Musa worked as a gateman — or maybe she worked for the landlady too. She looked my age, maybe younger, or perhaps older but just youthful. The other day, I was strolling down the street to ease one of my migraines — though I always call them headaches — and I went to Musa’s shop to buy sweets, or maybe to complain about the ones I had bought that were full of ants. And there she was. A woman approached the girl immediately, asking, “Where is your husband ? ” She answered, “He isn’t around.” At first, I thought it was a joke, an inside thing. But it wasn’t. I left the shop in shock, unable to say anything. When I saw her, I wanted to ask if she had given birth to the child. She was my age, maybe younger. I don’t know. I guess I’ll never know, or perhaps I’ll never have the courage to ask. I’ll forever be a coward, just like our society — afraid to confront the truth. All men do is take and take All men do is take and take. They take until there’s nothing left to give. You might think this is just another “woe is me” story, but listen — this is my truth. It started with Ola back in secondary school. He asked me for help with biology, but what began as studying soon became him trying to test boundaries. I let him push, unsure how to react. It didn’t stop there. Over time, I learned that some people assume they can take what isn’t theirs, that boundaries are optional when they want something. I promised myself that I wouldn’t stay silent. I would reclaim my power, my voice, my space. Every encounter taught me something about strength. I realized that taking back — setting limits, saying no, standing tall — isn’t just self-defense; it’s survival. All men do is take and take. And I ? I am learning to give myself back. I miss yous that never get heard I still don’t know how to respond when someone says, “I miss you.” When I came back, a lot of people said it to me — “I missed you,” “Where have you been?” — and each time, I either left it hanging or replied with a hug emoji, a crying emoji, or a simple “me too.” None of those ever felt right. I’ve only ever said “I miss you” back to one person. Maybe I don’t fully process my feelings — maybe I just skip them like songs I’m not ready to hear. The first time I actively remember someone saying “I miss you” was in secondary school. My friend Ogechi said it to me, and I awkwardly said thank you. Later, I started replying “aww” whenever she said it. I had never actively missed someone before. It was a strange, foreign feeling. Life got noisy. My phone stopped working during exams. Suddenly, the silence brought a new kind of loneliness. I had friends — people who kept me going — but for a while, it was just me, alone with my thoughts. A girl in my age grade died. She wasn’t my friend, just a friend of a friend, but her death struck me. It made me realize that the way I missed my friends was nothing compared to how she missed hers. When I miss someone, I know I’ll see them again. She never would. Sometimes, I replay old conversations in my head, imagining different versions. I think of her doing the same, except hers will never end. Until memory fades. I miss my friends with ferocity. But they can still hear me. I’m still bad at saying it — I’ll probably reply with “aww” and change the topic — but know that I mean it, in my own awkward, roundabout way. How I Saved ₦ 80,000 for a New Phone When I lost my phone earlier this year, it felt like losing a piece of myself. No camera, no music, no chats — just silence and panic. A few weeks later, I started taking lessons for my JAMB exams. Every morning, my parents gave me ₦ 1,000 for food or snacks. At first, I spent it like everyone else. Then one random day, I thought, what if I just saved it instead? From January to April, that small idea became a habit. By the end, I had about ₦ 80,000 — the biggest amount I’d ever saved. Here’s how I did it. ⸻ 1. I Treated My Lesson Money Like a Mini Salary I stopped seeing the ₦ 1,000 as “pocket money” and started seeing it as income. My job was simple: go to lessons, save what I could. Every day when I got home, I put the ₦ 1,000 into a small envelope. Some days I took ₦ 200 or ₦ 500 for lunch, but most days, I didn’t touch it. I kept reminding myself that I was paying my future self — the version of me who wanted a new phone badly. ⸻ 2. I Used the Simplest Savings Method Ever: Cash I didn’t have a bank app then, so I used the envelope system. One big envelope in my drawer, and every week I updated the running total on the back. Watching the number grow gave me a strange sense of peace. Proof that I could stay consistent. ⸻ 3. I Avoided My Weak Spot: Viju If you’re Nigerian, you understand how Viju can tempt somebody on a hot afternoon. After classes, the sun would turn the PVC canopy above us into a mini oven. Everyone would rush out to buy cold drinks or snacks. I’d sit there telling myself: “ ₦ 1,000 is not small. Do you want Viju or a new phone ? ” Some days I gave in, I won’t lie. But most days, I held myself. I’d whisper: You’ll still drink Viju — just not today. That tiny mindset shift helped me more than anything. ⸻ 4. I Stayed Focused on What I Wanted Every time I felt tempted, I remembered my broken phone. I imagined holding the new one — one that I bought with my own money. That became my motivation. Suddenly, saying “no” became easier. ⸻ 5. I Watched My Savings Grow Until I Finally Bought My Phone By April, my envelope had ₦ 80,000. When I finally bought my phone, I realised the best part wasn’t the phone itself. The best part was discovering that I could control my spending — one ₦ 1,000 note at a time. ⸻ What I Learned • Small amounts add up faster than you expect. • Saving is easier when the money has a purpose. • The hardest part isn’t earning — it’s resisting impulse spending. If you’re a student living on pocket money, start small. Even ₦ 200 matters. Keep it somewhere safe, watch it grow, and use it for something meaningful. The day you buy something big with your own savings, you’ll understand why every skipped drink and every hot afternoon was worth it. Chicken soup I tell myself I’m making soup because it’s Sunday, not because I miss my father. The tomatoes look too bright in the bowl, the kind of red that feels like they’re pretending. I cut them anyway, slow and uneven, just the way he used to. The knife wobbles through the skin, slides, almost catches my finger. I let it. He’d say, “Cooking is supposed to bite a little.” When I was small, he’d make this same soup every time the sky threatened rain. The house would fill up with steam and pepper, and he’d hum that long, aimless tune he never finished. The whole street could smell it. Neighbors would shout from their windows — “Mr. Nnadozie, save some for us ! ” He’d laugh like he owned the weather. Now the pot feels heavier than it should. I drop the onions in, watch them hiss and curl, listen to their tiny screams. The sound makes me stop. It’s the same sound the pressure cooker made the day he died, when the rice boiled over and nobody turned it off. I didn’t know you could still hear silence after someone left. Turns out you can; it’s just louder. I throw in the tomatoes, the pepper, a fistful of thyme that smells like dust. The radio hums behind me — news, gossip, a gospel song that fades before the second verse. I let the water boil too long. The air thickens. It’s almost like the room is trying to talk. There’s a story people tell about him — how he once put out a kitchen fire with nothing but salt. I didn’t believe it until he showed me the scar on his wrist, pale as chalk. He said it happened because he refused to throw water on what was meant to burn out slow. “Some things,” he told me, “you let them finish burning.” I was ten. I thought he meant fire. The soup starts to smell right around the time the smoke alarm begins its nonsense. I wave a cloth at it, uselessly. The alarm keeps screaming, so I open the window and let the neighbors smell what I’m not saying. I imagine them whispering — She’s making his soup again. Maybe they’re right. I remember how he’d always taste it first with the same spoon, then hand it to me without washing it. It used to disgust me. Now I can’t bring myself to use a different one. It’s still there, bent at the neck, the silver dulled with years. I dip it in and taste. Too salty. Always too salty. I add more water. It doesn’t help. The power flickers. The air smells like onions and rain. I think of him standing by the door, humming, stirring, never saying much but always there. My mother once said he didn’t talk because he was afraid of his own voice. I used to laugh at that. Now I understand. I turn off the gas, but the pot keeps bubbling. I wait. The clock ticks like a stubborn child. Somewhere outside, a car horn shouts three times — our old signal for “I’m home.” My chest reacts before my head does. Then nothing. Just the quiet hiss of the burner cooling. I ladle the soup into a bowl. I don’t eat it. I sit by the window, watch the smoke drift out and fold into the air. Somewhere in it, I think I hear his tune — the one that never finished