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4585;
Score | 42
Moonchild Nigeria
Student @ Gombe State University
In Content Creators 2 min read
IRETI,AGAIN
<p>The library clock struck midnight, but Ireti did not move. Her notes were scattered across the table, her pen caught between shaking fingers. She had failed before,again and again. The sting never dulled, but tonight, it pressed deeper,whispering that maybe she was not enough.</p><p><br/></p><p>Yet,something within her refused to give in. A soft lustre. A quiet defiance. She thought of her own name—Ireti—hope. Didn't her mother named her that for a reason? Seeds are buried deep, crushed by darkness and drenched by storms, and yet,they push through the soil. They don’t ask if they are strong; they simply rise.</p><p><br/></p><p>Her breath steadied. She picked up her pen. One line, one word, one more effort. She was exhausted, yes, but not defeated.</p><p><br/></p><p>She remembered her younger self —the girl whose dreams were bigger than the world,cradling ambitions that was bound to change the course of history . That girl had nothing but courage and a stubborn belief that tomorrow could be different. How could she abandon her now?</p><p><br/></p><p>So Ireti turned another page. The night was heavy, but within her, dawn stirred quietly. Resilience, she realized, was not the absence of breaking. It was the choice to mend, again and again. It was whispering back at failure: I am still here.</p><p><br/></p><p>When the call to prayer spilled gently into the night, she closed her books at last. Tomorrow might bring another fall,another wound. But tonight, she had chosen to rise.</p>

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