ADURAGBEMI - WHEN THE STORMS SETTLED IN.

There were days I sat alone, staring at the ceiling, asking myself questions no one had answers to. Would it really be so bad if I gave in? If I just slept with those men, collected the money, and finally lived without this constant hunger gnawing at my stomach?No stress. Steady cash. Just like Ngozi. Sometimes I’d laugh bitterly and ask myself, “Shey mo ni covenant pelu talaka ni?” (Do I have a blood oath with poverty or what?)Why was I holding on so tightly to suffering? But in those darkest moments, my mother’s words would echo in my mind—“Patience is a virtue. Work hard. Stay focused. It will pay off, Adura.” Maybe it was hunger that sparked the fire in me.Maybe it was her voice, soft but firm in my memory.Either way, I made a vow to myself—I would never give up.I would make something out of my life. Not just for me, but for the woman who believed in me when all I had was a dream and empty pockets. Then two years into my university journey—just when I started to find my feet—I got the most devastating news of my life: "Iya Adura ti kú."Adura’s mother is dead. My world shattered. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.The woman who had carried me through life with prayers and pain... was gone. I remember the scream that tore out of my throat—raw, broken.I kept asking God, over and over again, “Why do bad things keep happening to me?”First my father. Now my mother. I looked at the people who came to console me—friends, course mates, well-meaning classmates. They meant well, but I couldn't help but think...Do they really understand what it means to lose both parents?To carry your grief alone, to be the only one left who remembers the sound of your father’s laughter or the rhythm of your mother’s evening prayer? I wasn’t just mourning a parent.I was mourning every dream we dreamt together.Every promise she made me.Every hope she carried in her tired bones for my future. There were days I would lock myself indoors, away from everyone and everything, and just cry for hours—deep, silent sobs that left my chest heavy and my eyes swollen. The kind of crying that no one hears, no one sees. The kind that leaves your soul aching. Who would assure me now that everything would be fine? Who would I run to when I had a problem? Who would call me late at night just to check in and pray over me? My best friend—my mother—was gone.And along with her went my security, my comfort, and my direction. The question that haunted me the most wasn’t even about the pain. It was practical. Who would pay my school fees? Who would help me survive? I didn’t want to drop out—not after coming this far. Not after my mother sacrificed everything just to get me here. That evening, as I sat staring into space, lost in my whirlwind of pain and fear, Ngozi came to visit me. She tried to console me in her own way, though her words were casual, almost careless. She placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Adura, you need fresh air. This your sorrow go kill you if you no comot house.” She looked at me pitifully. “Oya na, change your cloth. Make we go out small. You need to clear your head.” Something in me hoped that stepping out would change something. I didn’t expect a miracle—I just didn’t want to drown. So, I followed her. It was my first time ever entering a club. The lights were wild, the music deafening, and the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and smoke. Everything about it was loud, fast, and dizzying. But Ngozi? She fit right in. She moved with confidence and familiarity, hugging people, greeting bouncers, laughing with DJs. She wasn’t a stranger here—she was home. She introduced me to a few of her friends—men mostly. Older men. Well-dressed, flashy, the kind whose money walked ahead of them before they even spoke. She laughed freely, leaned into their whispers, and called them “daddy” or “honey” like it was second nature. As the night went on, several men approached me—smiling, suave, asking for my number, offering me drinks, whispering compliments in my ear. But I didn’t feel the need to respond. I smiled politely and declined. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t belong here. Ngozi saw my hesitation and shouted through the music, “You go just dey dull yourself like this, Adura!” She laughed and rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated that I wasn’t playing along. But she didn’t understand. This wasn’t just about poverty or pain. I was grieving. I was scared. And more than anything, I was trying so hard not to lose myself in a world that seemed so ready to swallow me whole. I sat there, surrounded by glittering lights, loud laughter, and clinking glasses, wondering if this was what survival looked like now.Wondering if I had to let go of every value I held dear just to make it in life.Wondering if this was the only way. A tall handsome man approached me, drink in hand and a smirk on his face. His gold chain glinted under the flashing club lights, and the smell of expensive cologne mixed with alcohol filled the space around him. He leaned in close, his voice cutting through the loud music like a whisper soaked in arrogance."Fine girl can I get to know you"..........

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