Free

The air hadn’t changed, but Jul had. Sitting across from Han, wearing his shirt and pretending at boundaries, she felt the weight of everything unsaid. When his hand reached for her face, it wasn’t possession that scared her — it was how deeply she needed the touch. Some moments don’t feel like beginnings. They feel like truths you’ve been denying for too long.

The hallway was too quiet for a heart pounding that loudly. Jul stood inside his apartment, the door closed but not locked — the option to leave still intact. She wore his shirt, her silence heavier than any confession. When Han tells her not to speak, she realizes it’s already too late to pretend she came for anything innocent. Some moments don’t ask permission. They only wait for you to stay.

There is a moment when care and control look identical, and you only realize the difference when it is too late. Damon called it safety. Selene called it love. By the second month, her world had quietly folded into his — new locks, shared keys, fewer words of her own. When a friend names the orbit she’s trapped in, Selene begins to sense the invisible walls closing, even as she tightens her grip on the very keys that bind her.

Damon’s attention arrives gently—messages, poems, remembered details. What feels like care begins to shape Selene’s days, warming her silence into something shared. But when devotion sharpens into fear of disappearance, Selene wonders whether love has found her… or whether she has stepped too close to the fire.

In a Lagos café thick with dust and evening light, Selene comes to write herself back into prayer. Instead, a stranger finishes her sentence. He doesn’t smile too easily or ask for rescue—only listens. As memory, fire, and restraint surface, Selene realizes some encounters don’t arrive to save you. They arrive to test what you’re willing to carry home.

Aisha’s smile does more than unsettle Elias—it awakens something inside him. A confidence he hasn’t felt in years slips to the surface, brief but undeniable. That night, the corridor returns, warmer now, and one door finally opens. When Elias wakes, his sketchbook holds a drawing he doesn’t remember making. And a signature that isn’t his.

Elias watches Aisha from across the studio, feeling something stir long before he dares to name it. It isn’t love yet. It’s ache. That quiet tension between noticing and acting. When sleep finally takes him, a corridor of doors appears, each hiding a version of himself he isn’t ready to face. Something inside him has begun to shift.

On the drive home, Michael remembers how it all began. A rainy bookstore, an easy laugh, the first spark that made him believe in us. But even in the memory, imbalance flickers—missed moments, divided attention, quiet waiting. As the past fades and the bridge passes beneath him again, Michael wonders when love stopped feeling mutual.

The backyard fills with cheers as Michael announces his engagement. Smiles, hugs, congratulations. Everything sounds right. Everything feels wrong. As family celebrates and Natasha glows beside him, Michael realizes the joy isn’t reaching him. The ring in his pocket feels heavier than it should, and the future everyone sees so clearly begins to press on his chest.

Rain-polished Abuja watches as Amira steps into a waiting Maybach. No questions. No explanations. The city shifts as convoys form around her, gates opening without signs. Inside a hidden lounge, power gathers quietly and truth is traded like currency. When Amira finally speaks, it isn’t a secret that surprises them — it’s how easily she belongs.

The Transcorp Hilton ballroom glows with rehearsed luxury. Amira Suleiman smiles for cameras she cannot afford to disappoint. This premiere is her return to relevance. Then a man arrives late, silent, and certain. No introduction. No apology. When he speaks, it’s only to her. Minutes later, her phone vibrates with an unknown message. Welcome to the part of Abuja that whispers. Curiosity tightens its grip.

Is today’s tithe still about God or has it become a cloak for greed and manipulation? This bold post strips away the routine and exposes the truth using raw scripture and real-world church failures. No sugarcoating. No apologies. Just the Bible and hard questions about where your money is really going — and whether the heart of giving has been hijacked by empire building.

At 4AM on a Saturday, I woke up unable to breathe—my chest burning, my throat tight, panic rising. But in that terrifying moment, I didn’t pray. I didn’t call on God. Not because I didn’t love Him, but because I didn’t even think to. Now, two days later, I’m left asking: what if that was my last breath? This post isn’t just about a health scare—it’s about the danger of spiritual silence. About living unprepared. And about the mercy I now beg not to forget again.