A Psychopath’s Diary

 Written by

Precious-Gold Orieukwu

Precious-Gold Orieukwu, author of A Psychopath’s Diary

Chapter One

The night dragged endlessly, stretching like a shadow that refused to fade. I lay on my bed, my eyes fixed on the high ceiling. The air felt heavy, and my body was restless. I prayed for morning to come, but it stayed hidden behind the heavy rain that poured hard against the roof.

I turned from one side of the bed to the other, wrapped in the sheets, my heart thudding faster than the rain on the roof.

With a frustrated sigh, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The silence pressed in. I slipped my feet into my slippers and pushed myself off the bed. The floor was cold. As I stepped into the hallway, I ran my palm along the wall to guide myself through the darkness.

At last, I reached my sister’s room. Without knocking, I slipped inside. Her light was on, bright, sharp, and unwelcome. Jadine always slept with her light on; I couldn’t stand mine that way.

I flicked the switch, plunging the room into darkness, then kicked off my slippers and climbed into her bed. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, hoping it would bring sleep. But my mind refused to rest.

 I stared at nothing, the way one stares into emptiness and sees too much. Then an idea came to me to count. I began to count quietly, hoping the numbers would drown the noise in my head. I couldn’t remember where I stopped before sleep finally took me.

***

The next morning, soft light filtered through the curtains. I felt something shift beside me and realised Jadine was already awake, her brows furrowed in irritation as she looked at me.

Jadine’s brow furrowed as she crossed her arms. ‘Can’t you sleep in your own room? Are you a nocturnal animal or what?’ Why do you always turn off the light before sleeping?’ she hissed.

Her voice yanked me fully awake. I blinked and sat up. Words gathered in my throat but dissolved before I could speak. Without a word, I stood and walked out, leaving my slippers behind.

‘Take your slippers, oh!’ Jadine called.

I turned back, slipped them on, and paused by the door. ‘Thanks, Jadine.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, her tone sharp and mocking.

I smiled faintly and left the room.

***

Back in my room, I bathed, brushed my teeth, and dressed. I slipped into a pink, flowery flare gown, pulled on a black sweater, and wore my socks. The scent of rain still lingered outside.

It was a Saturday morning. I sat at my study desk, staring at the pages of my notebook, when two warm hands suddenly covered my eyes. I caught the familiar scent of Jewel’s perfume and smiled.

‘I know it’s you,’ I said quietly.

He didn’t reply; he just waited, perhaps hoping I’d guess wrong. When I stayed silent, he gave up and sat on my bed, glancing around the room.

‘I find it difficult to sleep in my room,’ I said at last.

‘Do you see monsters? Or have nightmares?’ Jewel asked, half teasing, half concerned.

‘No oh!’ I blurted, rolling my eyes.

‘Then it might be insomnia,’ he said, showing his palms dramatically.

‘I slept in Jadine’s room,’ I replied, pretending to be angry.

‘Sorry oh, angry bird.’ He grinned. ‘Speaking of Jadine, I haven’t seen her today. Anyway, breakfast is ready. Come downstairs before Mum and Dad come looking for you.’

He took my hand, and we headed downstairs. Yet even as I followed Jewel, a shadow clung to my chest, the night refusing to let go.

Mum and Dad were already seated with Jadine and Joel. The long dining table gleamed under the soft light, with a jug of chilled zobo and a large bowl of steaming white rice placed at the centre. Beside it sat a pot of red stew, still hot and glistening with oil. The spicy scent of pepper and tomatoes filled the air, making my stomach growl.

‘How was everyone’s night?’ Mum asked, smiling. Then she turned to me. ‘And you, Jade, you finally decided to wake up.’

We all chuckled lightly as Jewel and I took our seats. No one had started eating yet; the food waited, hot and inviting. We bowed our heads in prayer, and Mum began to serve. The stew was thick and rich, the meat soft and juicy, and the rice fluffy and warm. Soon, the gentle sound of spoons against plates filled the room as we ate. Jewel poured the zobo into our glasses, the deep red drink glistening under the light, its sweet, tangy flavour cooling our tongues after each bite.

When breakfast was over, chairs scraped softly against the tiled floor as everyone rose from the table. Jewel slung his arm around Joel’s shoulder, both laughing as they headed for the stairs. Jadine trailed behind, humming under her breath. The plates and glasses stayed on the table, waiting to be cleared later.

I was about to follow them, stepping past my chair, when Mum’s voice stopped me.

‘Jade, sit back down.’

My stomach tightened. I froze mid-step and slowly sank back into the chair as the others disappeared up the stairs. The dining room felt suddenly too quiet.

Then my father’s voice cut through the silence. ‘Chimkaanyima Jade Okorie!’

A shiver ran through me. My full name. That was never a good sign. As I watched my siblings climb the stairs, Jewel turned and gave me a thumbs-up. I managed a small, tense smile.

‘Yes… da… sir,’ I stammered. I wanted to say Daddy, but the word stuck in my throat.

‘What did we hear about you not sleeping in your room last night?’ he asked sternly.

 ‘I… I…’ The words tangled in my throat.

‘When I was your age, I never had my own room,’ he continued, his tone rising. ‘But I worked hard so that my children could have theirs, yet you’re ungrateful.’

Each word struck like a whip. He stood up from his chair, moving closer, his face hardening. Then he switched to Igbo, the sound of anger in a language I barely understood.

‘I nwere ike gawa…’ That was all I caught. His words turned sharp and fast, heavy with meaning I couldn’t grasp, but the anger in his tone said it all. My chest tightened, and tears rolled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

‘Gawa! Get up and leave this place. Rubbish!’ he shouted.

I bolted upstairs, the sting of his voice chasing me. I slammed the door to my room, hurried into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and wiped it dry. That was my little cure for anger, water, silence, and solitude.

I collapsed onto my bed, and finally, my body gave in. I drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.

***

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t alone. My siblings were gathered around me, their faces etched with worry. Jewel sat beside me, holding a bowl of cold water and a wet towel. Jadine perched on a chair behind him, and Joel stood near the bed, his hands nervously fidgeting.

‘Thank God!’ they all shouted at once.

‘We thought you were going to meet your Creator today,’ Jewel said.

‘You were struggling in your sleep, as if you were fighting,’ Jadine added, her voice shaky.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered, forcing a smile. But deep inside, something felt off, as if I was floating far away. My vision blurred, and my siblings’ voices grew distant, fading like echoes down a tunnel.

Then everything went dark again.

That afternoon, something in me shifted quietly inside. I never imagined that one day, I would depend on drugs just to find sleep.

 

Chapter Two

My name is Chimkaanyima Jade Okorie. I was born on the 25th of September, 2011, just two minutes after my twin sister, Chimkaanyiso Jadine Okorie. We were the second set of twins and the last children of our parents.

Our elder brothers, Soromtochukwu Joel Okorie and Soromfechukwu Jewel Okorie, were born in December 2008. Jewel and I were the closest, my favourite sibling and my greatest support.

We were all chocolate in complexion and shared the same playful smile that made people say, ‘Ah, these Okorie twins again!’ We loved one another with a fierce and unshakable bond and were lucky to be born into a wealthy Nigerian family.

Although we were born in America, we moved back to Nigeria nine years ago, when I was five. My mother, a Black American, met my father while he was studying abroad. Because of her, people sometimes called us ‘mixed’ or ‘coloured,’ though, honestly, I never knew what to call us.

My first trip to Nigeria was when I was three. We came for my father’s brother’s burial in December. We only stayed for two days because Mum kept complaining about mosquitoes. I still remember how she used one hand to fan herself and the other to slap her arm every few seconds. My father is from Owerri, Imo State, in the eastern part of Nigeria.

He was the last child in his family and travelled abroad at twenty. Three years later, at twenty-three, he married my mother, who was twenty at the time. They tied the knot in January 2008 and had my brothers that same December.

Mum’s father was Black, and her mother was White. When we were still abroad, we visited them almost every week. Grandma’s house always smelled of cinnamon and baked cookies, while Grandpa’s favourite smell was coffee.

Now, my father works as a doctor, and my mother is a lawyer. They’re both principled and hardworking, always striving to do their best. They often come home late but try to make up for it by spending weekends with us.

When we lived in the States, Dad often spoke our dialect, Igbo. He called us by our native names and made us repeat words until we got them right. Sometimes I giggled when I mispronounced them, and he’d shake his head, smiling. Other times he’d frown seriously, and I’d repeat after him like it was a school test. But ever since we returned to Nigeria, he speaks mostly English, switching to Igbo only when he’s very angry. That’s when you know trouble has landed.

At first, I struggled to cope in Nigeria. The heat, the noise, the mosquitoes, everything felt strange and harsh. But with time, I adjusted. Our house sits in the heart of Lagos Island, surrounded by other tall buildings. Father bought it before we returned, and while we were living abroad, a housekeeper and a maid looked after it.

Life here was strange at first, but slowly the house and its daily flow became familiar, even comforting.

The house was massive, a two-storey mansion with five rooms upstairs and three downstairs, plus two parlours, a dining room, and a large kitchen. Each bedroom had its own bathroom, air conditioner, and washing machine. I loved my purple room, with its soft walls and cosy corners, often curling up by the window to listen to the rain patter on the roof and imagine the world beyond our walls. Jadine’s pink room looked cheerful and bright, Joel’s green room felt calm, and Jewel’s blue one was cool and soothing. Our parents’ room, downstairs, was painted white, calm and spotless like Mum liked it. The exterior of the house was green and white, matching the colours of the Nigerian flag.

The compound was wide and open. I remember swinging high on the swing set, feeling the wind rush past my face, while Jadine spun on the merry-go-round, squealing with laughter. There was even a small storage house just for keeping drinks, which always fascinated us. On quiet evenings, we would sit on the swings together, watching the sky change colours, sharing secrets and dreams.

Back then, before everything changed, we were a happy family. Laughter filled the mornings, music floated through the evenings, and I felt safe, loved, and part of something wonderful.

But now, things feel different. Sometimes we’re happy, but other times the house echoes with raised voices, Mum complaining about ‘greedy Nigerians’ or Dad pacing the floor, muttering about whether to send her and us back to the States.

Those moments made me want to hate Nigeria. I tried not to say it aloud, but sometimes the words slipped out before I could stop them. When I complained too much, Jadine would look at me with that serious twin-sister face and say,

‘No matter what, Jade, you’re still a Nigerian.’

Maybe she was right. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure I belonged anywhere anymore, not in Nigeria, and not even in America.

 

 

 Chapter Three

When I was five, something happened that changed everything. It was soon after we came back to Nigeria. I was playing alone in the compound when a small rodent ran past. Without thinking, I caught it, drove a nail into its belly, and watched the blood spill out. A strange feeling rushed through me, sharp, bright, and thrilling, like I had just won something. I laughed.

After that it became a game. Small creatures were my targets. The thrill held until the day I tried it on the family dog. I did not get to finish. They caught me.

Father’s face went white with shock. For a moment there was only silence, then he said in a clinical, cold tone, ‘Anti-social personality disorder.’ His words hit me like a punch. I didn’t understand it fully, but I knew he saw me differently now.

I started hurting animals more deliberately, and slowly I came to hurt people as well. Once, when Jadine refused me something, I swung a plank and hit her head. Blood ran down her forehead. I stood stunned by the sight, then ran to my room. I washed my face, dried it and lay down. At first a mischievous smile curled my lips. It hardened into a brittle laugh that surprised me with how dark it sounded.

When I was six, I brought a frog into the parlour where Mum was sitting. I took a razor and mutilated it. Mum had had enough. She took the razor from me and cut my hand. I screamed and lunged for her neck. She held me tightly; I scratched at her hands. It hurt a lot.

‘If you cut a frog, I’ll cut you,’ she hissed, her voice trembling with anger and fear. ‘If you hurt a person, I’ll hurt you. Remember this: whatever you do to anything or anybody, that is what I will do to you so you know how it feels.’

After that, I started therapy. The therapist watched me and told Mum the worrying truth: I didn’t feel sorry when I did something wrong. Therapy stopped and medicine began. The tablets softened my feelings, but they didn’t get rid of the urges. Once, Father found me with an axe. He took it from me, turned it this way and that and, with a grim sort of playfulness, drew numbers and letters in the air as if to teach me shapes instead of showing danger. On another visit to the village, my grandmother caught me with a kitchen knife just as I felt the pull to hurt the fowl. She made me chop onions with it until my hands learned work instead of violence.

Everyone in the family tried to help. Jewel came to my room every morning to make sure I took my medication; he would sit with me until the pills had settled. When he left, Jadine would come in and read ridiculous, cheerful stories until my mouth twitched with a laugh, however forced. Joel would then come later and sit quietly until sleep took me. They tiptoed around the house like a little army of care.

One afternoon the three of them crept into my room on a mission. I pretended to be asleep and listened while they searched my things. Their whispering reached me like distant thunder.

‘Since we started searching this room, we haven’t found anything dangerous… at least nothing I recognise,’ Jadine said, pushing a pillow aside.

‘Yes, it’s true. Besides, Joel, why are we doing this whole ‘search and flush’ operation when there’s nothing to flush?’ Jewel muttered, shaking his head.

‘You guys don’t know,’ Joel said, his voice low. ‘Jade is not the Jade we used to know; she’s…’ He paused, as if the word hurt him to say. ‘…a psychopath. She might hurt herself.’

Jadine’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying we’re looking for anything she might hide that could be harmful? Like… to herself?’ Her voice was small, uncertain.

‘Exactly,’ Joel whispered. ‘She may even try to commit suicide. Nobody knows.’ His shoulders slumped; fear flickered in his gaze.

‘I don’t think she would do that,’ Jewel snapped, clearly irritated by the suggestion.

‘Jade does not know what we will go through if she dies. We will be the ones left crying, while she lies in the grave, at peace and untouched,’ Joel said, trying to reason with him.

Jewel’s face darkened. He turned away. ‘Whatever,’ he muttered, storming out of the room.

‘Why, Jade?’ Jadine cried, her eyes shining with tears. She pressed a hand to her face and tried to blink them away. Joel sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, murmuring soothing words. They were, as ever, good siblings, gentle and steady like pillars, just like Jewel and me.

My siblings taught me little tricks to keep me safe. One was placing a wristwatch by my ear so the ticking became a metronome for my breath. The small, steady sound anchored something inside me. The watch became part of me. I wore it always, tugging at it whenever the world felt slippery. All four of us wore glasses because we were short-sighted.

When they finally left the room that day, I sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to the empty air. The words felt strange and heavy in my mouth.

‘So I’m a psychopath now,’ I said, laughing, a noisy, incredulous sound that quickly slid into a small, shocked sob. The laughter and the crying mixed until I couldn’t tell which came first.

They came back at once. ‘What’s the matter, Jade?’ Jewel asked, wrapping me in a hug.

‘Nothing,’ I whispered, gently pushing him away. I pressed the watch to my ear. The ticking filled me. The world slowed. My chest eased. For a little while, nothing interrupted me.

 

 

 Chapter Four

Seconds slid into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months. Before I knew it, six years had passed since I was first labelled with anti-social personality disorder. Time had a way of smoothing edges and sharpening them at the same moment. I kept my mother’s warning like a talisman: don’t hurt yourself, and don’t hurt others; but the rule was a fragile thing, easily frayed.

Books became my companions. I devoured stories that tasted of cold logic and violence. American Psycho was my favourite; I read it like a manual, my eyes tracing each line in the dim light. One rainy night, while the wind hissed and raindrops rattled the window, Father caught me bent over a page. He scolded me and told me to return the book. Instead, I slid it under my bed. Later, that space became a secret chest, filled with knives, broken bottles, scissors, and needles, an armoury that made me feel dangerously alive.

Every morning began the same. ‘Open your mouth,’ Mum would say, watching until the tablets slid down my throat. The ritual steadied the household; my family saw my obedience as if it were proof I might be saved. At school, nobody knew about my diagnosis, so taking my medication there was unusual and had to be done in secret. During break, Jadine, my twin and my shield, would quietly give me my pills. She either slipped them into my hand or hid them in a spoonful of food so I could swallow them without any teacher or classmate noticing. Once the pills were taken, we would walk away together as if nothing unusual had happened.

But one day, something happened. Jadine was in the staff room on an errand when three girls approached me, their voices soft but filled with malice. Normally, I was a calm person, but as they drew closer, that calm fractured. I sat at my desk, trying to count the minutes until she returned, bracing myself for what was coming.

‘I’ve noticed you in class,’ the first said, chin tilted. ‘You act like you’re better than everyone.’

I kept my head down, pen scratching on the paper. My mind kept repeating: Wait for Jadine. Wait for the pills. But one of the girls leaned over and shoved my hand aside, yanking at my braids. The sudden jolt shattered the fragile bubble of calm I had built around myself.

‘Is it because your mother is from wherever she says she comes from? A lawyer? You think you can get away with anything,’ the second girl sneered.

Something hot rose in me. I snapped, the words sharp as glass. Don’t you dare mention her with that filthy mouth of yours. If you’re jealous, go and change your own story, rubbish.’

The third girl laughed, cruel and light. ‘Miss Quiet doesn’t like people talking about her family. Look, why are all your siblings wearing glasses? Are you blind?’

‘No, not my family!’ I screamed. I pressed the watch to my ear, but the ticking did nothing to steady me. The room seemed to shrink and the girls’ faces grew larger, as if they were closing in. A cold, sharp feeling rushed through me. My heart hammered so loudly it filled my head, and I pushed up from my seat and stormed out of the classroom, furious and shaking. I wanted to lure them outside and hurt them.

They followed. I crouched in the backyard, holding my breath until they passed, then sprang up and struck each of them from behind with a plank I had grabbed on impulse. Blood spattered, hot and sudden; the red felt like proof of what I had done.

‘You messed with the wrong person,’ I said, but when I saw the blood gushing I ran to the toilet. I washed my hands until the water ran pink and kept scrubbing until it ran clear. I scrubbed at my uniform to remove the stains and bit my palms until the pain convinced my head it had been attacked.

When I returned to class, I burst into tears, loud enough for everyone to hear. I pressed my nails against my arms until faint red lines appeared, just enough to look like I’d been beaten. Jadine rushed over, eyes wide. She wrapped her arms around me, whispering, ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now,’ before going back to her notes.

I tried to focus, but the memory of what happened clawed at me. My body began to shake. I pressed my wrist to my ear, trying to block out the sound of my thoughts. Jadine noticed and quietly slipped me the pills. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I couldn’t speak. I just stood up and walked out. She followed.

Out in the backyard, the girls were still lying there, groaning. Jadine knelt beside them, trying to lift them, but they couldn’t move. ‘Go get Jewel and Joel,’ she said quickly.

I ran to their class, tears blurring my sight. Jewel saw me first. He was on his feet before I could speak, Joel right behind him. When they saw what had happened, Joel pulled out his phone. He always sneaks it to class for emergencies.

Within twenty minutes Dad’s car appeared at the back gate. We guided the girls along a narrow, shadowed path to stay out of sight of the busy courtyard. They could not stand, so we lifted them one by one and eased them into the back seat, careful not to make a sound.

Before he pulled away, I opened the passenger door and slid in, buckling my seatbelt. I could not bear to stay at school until dismissal, so I followed him to the hospital. His hands were steady on the wheel as he drove straight to the hospital where he worked. He admitted the girls immediately and took care of the bills. Once they were settled and he was sure they were out of danger, he drove me home.

When we got home, I went straight to my room. I washed my face, dried it with a towel, locked the door, and lay on my bed. My body felt clean, but my hands still remembered the blood.

By the time my siblings returned from school, I could hear their chatter through the walls, though I tried my best to ignore it. A few minutes later, there were gentle taps at my door: Jadine first, then Joel, and then Father. I stayed on the bed, pressing my back against the headboard, refusing to move. I sobbed so hard that Mum had to press her ear to the door to hear me.

‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ I cried. ‘I didn’t mean to break the rule.’

She spoke from the other side of the door. ‘No, darling. I won’t hurt you. Just open the door.’

I refused. Then Jewel knocked, warm and certain, and something in me finally yielded. I swung my legs off the bed and opened the door, letting him in.

‘Shut it behind you,’ I whispered.

‘I know,’ he said. He sat beside me on the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around me. ‘You have a reason, Jade. Tell me.’

The memory of the girls’ voices trembled through me, and I began to shake. Jewel hummed a quiet tune and rubbed my back until the tremours slowed. I told him nothing at first, then haltingly explained that I had missed my medication. He nodded as if that explained everything. He stayed until I slept, watching the watch on my wrist as if it might steady him.

That night, before the house finally went quiet, I slid to the floor and looked under my bed. My stash lay there in the dark, a little collection that was completely mine. I smiled a small, soft smile, feeling like I could always decide who I wanted to be.

 

 

 Chapter Five

Two years passed, and life seemed to return to normal. Everyone thought I had recovered; even I began to believe it. Sometimes my family forgot to give me my medication, so I started taking it myself. It had become part of me.

It was during this period that we travelled to the village. I acted as if everything was fine. Two days later, my parents left us there because of work, according to them. The four of us were left to care for our grandmother.

Our stay in the village had been peaceful until that afternoon. The air was still, heavy with the smell of roasting corn from the roadside. I wanted to go watch football with the boys, to feel the noise and movement around me. Jadine stood in the doorway, blocking my way.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she said, folding her arms.

‘I just want to watch. Grandma won’t mind.’

‘You always get your way, Jade. Always. Because of your ‘condition’.’ Her voice was sharp, a whip of irritation.

I froze. ‘Don’t start, Jadine.’

‘Why not?’ she asked, her lips twisting into a smirk. ‘You think sickness gives you a crown?’

My chest tightened. ‘Stop it. You’re getting on my nerves.’

‘Or what?’ she shot back. ‘You’ll hit me with a plank again?’ She laughed, clapping her hands together, mocking me.

‘You know I don’t like that kind of talk,’ I said quietly.

‘Because it’s true, and the truth burns, doesn’t it?’ she taunted.

I turned to leave, but she caught my arm. The grip was rough.

‘We’re not done talking.’

‘If I recall,’ I said, pulling free, ‘we never started talking.’

She laughed again, mean and loud. ‘Are you mad? Oh wait, you already are.’

My hands trembled. I pressed one against my wrist, counting the seconds before the heat in my chest exploded. ‘For the last time, stop it, Jadine,’ I warned. ‘If you touch me again, you’ll regret it.’

Then I walked away, my pulse pounding in my ears. Downstairs, I turned on the television, letting the noise drown everything else.

When my brothers were ready to leave, they were surprised to see me still sitting on the sofa.

‘What’s up? Aren’t you coming with us?’ Jewel asked.

‘I’m mad. I’m not supposed to be among normal people. Yes, I’m a disaster; I hurt everyone around me...’ I stopped when tears began to roll down my cheeks.

Jewel’s eyes flashed with anger as he saw Jadine coming down the stairs. ‘Why do you keep picking on her? Haven’t you done enough?’

Jadine scoffed but said nothing, her expression unreadable as she joined us.

Even as anger simmered inside me, I followed my siblings, trying to mask the storm within. The four of us went straight to watch the match, and I said little, holding Jewel’s hand tightly.

When we reached the field, it wasn’t even fifteen minutes before Joel was sent off the pitch. He grew angry and began picking on everyone around him. I never knew he had that kind of temper. Later, I went to tease him.

‘It didn’t even reach fifteen minutes, and you were already kicked out,’ I said with a smile.

But he snapped, telling me to mind my business before he beat the hell out of me.

Whenever someone mentioned beating me, I became afraid. I ran back home, greeted Grandma on my way to my room, and began packing my bags. I called Dad and lied that my medication had finished. He promised to come the next day and booked a flight from Lagos to Owerri as soon as he heard me.

I locked myself inside and refused to talk to anyone. The next morning, I bathed early and waited for him. He arrived around noon. I said goodbye to Jewel, who wanted to follow me, but I told her I needed some space.

We left the village soon after, taking the flight back to Lagos. By late afternoon, we were back at the mansion. I hugged Mum tightly, told her how much I had missed her, and went upstairs. After freshening up, I came down to eat. We laughed over the meal, and I told them how fun the village had been, though I didn’t mention the quarrel with Jadine.

The next day, Mum began taking me to her office often because it wasn’t safe for me to be left alone at home. One afternoon, a woman came to plead not guilty to murder. When she left, I followed her outside, curious, almost disturbingly curious, about how it had happened and whether it had felt like anything at all. But Mum called me back before I could say much.

My siblings returned home on a Saturday, two weeks later. I refused to speak to Joel and Jadine, but I was forced to sleep in Jadine’s room because of the restlessness I felt in mine.

I began having dark and mysterious dreams that kept me awake night after night, until one afternoon my body finally gave out.

 

 

 

 Chapter Six

When I woke up, the world felt thin and bright, as if someone had peeled away the edges. I was lying in a hospital bed, the sheets cool against my skin. Mum was beside me, a paper clutched in her trembling hands. She handed it to me, and I took it, my fingers brushing hers.

I squinted at the words: Diagnosis: Insomnia. The rest of the notes were full of medical terms, but the word ‘Insomnia’ stood out, heavy and sharp.

‘Insomnia…?’ I whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it disappear. How? When? Where? Questions tumbled out, scattered and useless.

Mum’s phone rang sharply on the bedside table. She picked it up, her voice small as she answered, ‘Hello…’

‘She’s gone,’ my father said, his voice strained and heavy. ‘My mother, your mother-in-law in Owerri, has passed away.’

The words landed like a stone. My grandmother, my father’s mother in Owerri, was dead.

The next few days passed slowly, heavy and quiet. We went back to the village for the funeral. At the graveside, I could barely focus on the people around me. Neighbours, cousins, and aunts stood nearby, all dressed in black and speaking in low, hushed tones. Their quiet voices, soft and respectful, seemed to float around me, distant and muffled. I wanted nothing more than to be with Grandma; I wished I could lie down in the still, quiet earth beside her. When we returned to Lagos, a heavy, hollow pain sat in my chest, pressing down with every breath.

After the funeral, my insomnia deepened. Sleep became a threat rather than a refuge. I started taking sleeping tablets because the nights had twisted into landscapes of horror. On nights when I missed a dose, nightmares rose like tidewater, my hands slick with blood, my mouth dry and tasting iron. Sometimes I became a creature of the dark, a vampire stalking silent corridors while voices reverberated in my skull: ‘Kill… kill more…’ The commands echoed until they felt like my own.

Once, waking from one of those dreams, I rose from bed without meaning to and ran, as if my feet remembered where to go. I slammed into my parents’ bedroom, heat and panic searing my skin.

‘Jade, breathe,’ Mum said, steadying me with her arms. Dad’s hand pressed into my back, firm and certain. Their voices were ordinary, the kind of sound that could smooth edges. ‘You’re not alone,’ Dad told me, low and steady. ‘We’re here.’

Those words, repeated in patient tones, became a rope I could grip. Their love didn’t wipe away the darkness, but it gave me a way to face it. Little by little, with their hands on my shoulders and a watch ticking at my ear, the nightmares lost some of their power.

One evening, when the house had settled and the street outside whispered itself to sleep, I took a pen and opened my diary. I wrote the nights down, the images, the panic, the hollow left by Grandma. Putting the darkness onto paper made it less like a living thing and more like a thing I could look at, name, and keep beside me.

I still suffer from insomnia. Some nights the pills don’t help, and the shadows press close. But I have found something that balances the weight of it all: my family. Their love is not perfect or magical; it is patient, imperfect, sometimes chaotic, and real. Even when they make mistakes or things feel messy, their care holds me steady. Because of them, I can face tomorrow. Because of them, I am not completely alone.

And so I keep writing, not because the words heal everything, but because they hold a map of the road I have been on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeds of Home

 By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

The day Adaeze planted the mango seed, the sky glowed softly, warm and gentle after the morning rain. She was only ten, barefoot and full of laughter, wearing a white summer dress and a butterfly clip that held her hair together. Her grandmother, Nnenna, sat on a low stool nearby, smiling as Adaeze dug the soil beside the dusty road.

‘Are you sure it will grow here, Adaeze?’ Nnenna asked, squinting at the roadside where goats, chickens and sheep wandered freely.

‘Yes, Mama,’ Adaeze said proudly, her fingers brown with wet earth. ‘It will grow fast, and people will stop here to rest under its shade. It will also give succulent fruits to the hungry soul. You will like it one day that I did this, Grandma.’

Nnenna chuckled, her eyes bright like oil lamps. ‘You have a big dream for such a small seed.’

Every morning, Adaeze went to the roadside before school to check on her seed. She carried an old tin cup filled with water, careful not to spill. Sometimes neighbours laughed. ‘This one thinks she’s farming the road!’ they said. But Adaeze didn’t mind. She talked to the soil as if it were a friend, whispering, ‘Grow, my mango, grow strong. Become a shield to everyone. Become food to hungry souls. Bring relief to all who pass by.’

Soon, a tiny shoot appeared. Adaeze screamed with joy, running to call her grandmother. ‘It’s alive, Mama!’ she shouted. Together they stood over the fragile plant as if guarding treasure.

Years passed. The tree grew slowly, stretching its green arms wider each season. By the time Adaeze entered secondary school, it had become a young tree, tall enough to give shade but not yet bearing fruit. Travellers rested under it, traders tied their goats nearby, and children played around its roots. People began calling it Adaeze’s Tree.

Even as school life grew busier, Adaeze still visited every morning. The tree had become her diary, the one that listened but never spoke. Whenever she was sad, she would rest her head on its trunk and feel its calmness steady her heart.

But life was changing. Her grandmother’s health began to fail. Her mother sold firewood to pay hospital bills, but the money was never enough.

One afternoon, a man stopped near the tree. He was tall, dressed in clean white, and drove a shiny car that looked out of place in their village. He spoke to Adaeze’s mother.

‘Madam, I want to buy this land. I’m planning to build a small shop and a resting place for travellers. I’ll pay well.’

The amount he mentioned could cover all their debts. Adaeze’s mother was overjoyed. But Adaeze stood still, her eyes on the tree.

‘Can’t he buy another land?’ she asked quietly.

Her mother sighed. ‘My daughter, sometimes we must sell what we love to save who we love.’

That night, Adaeze sat under the mango tree until the stars came out. The wind moved softly through the leaves, and she imagined the tree was whispering to her. ‘It’s all right, Adaeze. You planted me with love; I’ll remain even if things change.’

When the man returned the next morning, Adaeze faced him with courage. ‘You can buy the land,’ she said, ‘but please don’t cut down the tree.’

He smiled gently. ‘I promise, I’ll build around it. It’s too beautiful to destroy.’

True to his word, he built a small wooden shop behind the tree. Adaeze’s mother used the money to care for Nnenna, who soon recovered enough to smile again. Months later, the tree bore fruit for the first time, golden mangoes that hung like drops of sunlight.

Travellers passing by often stopped to buy mangoes or rest under its shade. Some said the fruits were sweeter than any they had ever tasted.

Years passed, and Adaeze left Orodo village for the city. She gained admission into the university to study Environmental Science, a course that made her think of her mango tree even more. The city was full of noise, cars, and tall buildings that blocked the sun. She missed the sound of birds that perched on her tree’s branches and the smell of wet soil after rain.

Every Sunday, she called home to speak with her mother and grandmother. Her grandmother’s voice always came soft and cheerful. ‘Your mango tree is growing well, my Adaeze,’ she would say. ‘People still rest under it, and the man who bought the land keeps it clean.’

That comforted her. In her heart, she believed that the tree carried a part of her soul, the part that never forgot home.

During her third year at the university, Adaeze joined a student environmental club. They planted trees, cleaned gutters, and taught children how to care for nature. That was where she met Emeka, a quiet young man who always carried a camera around his neck.

One evening, after a tree-planting event, Emeka showed her the photos he had taken. One picture caught her eye, a small seedling pushing through dry soil with a drop of water on its leaf. Adaeze smiled, remembering how she had knelt earlier that day to pour water at its roots, hoping it would live.

‘It looks alive,’ Adaeze said softly.

Emeka smiled. ‘That’s because you watered it.’

They talked for hours, sharing stories about their childhoods. Adaeze told him about her mango tree, how she planted it as a little girl, and how it became part of her life. Emeka listened with a gentle smile. ‘You must be proud,’ he said. ‘Not everyone plants something that lasts that long.’

From that day, they grew closer. They studied together, visited parks, and sometimes sat under trees, sharing bread and laughter. Adaeze found peace in his calm presence, the same kind of peace she once felt sitting under her mango tree.

After graduation, Adaeze got a job with an environmental agency in Abuja. The work was demanding but fulfilling. She often travelled to different states to lead tree-planting projects. Whenever she saw a healthy young tree, she thought of the one she had left behind in Orodo.

One December, her grandmother passed away peacefully. Adaeze travelled home for the burial. The moment she arrived in the village, she went straight to the mango tree. It had grown taller, its branches wide and strong. Beneath it stood a simple wooden bench. Someone had carved into it: For Adaeze’s Tree.

Tears filled her eyes as she touched the trunk. She whispered, ‘Mama is gone, but I’m here.’

As she sat there, she heard a familiar voice behind her. ‘You weren’t easy to find.’

She turned. It was Emeka. He smiled shyly, holding a small bag. ‘I came to see where it all began.’

Adaeze’s heart softened. ‘You came all this way?’

He nodded. ‘I wanted to see your tree.’

They sat under it, talking as the afternoon breeze brushed their faces. Emeka plucked a mango and handed it to her. ‘It’s sweet,’ he said after taking a bite. ‘Just like the story you told me.’

Adaeze laughed through her tears. ‘Maybe it’s sweeter now because it’s home.’

A few months later, Adaeze decided to honour Nnenna’s memory and the mango tree that had stood through time. She and Emeka met with the man who had bought the land years ago. His hair was now grey, and his shop, though small, was still neat and busy.

When Adaeze told him her plan, he smiled warmly. ‘I remember when you planted that seed,’ he said. ‘It would be an honour to let you have this land back.’

He sold it to her at a modest price, saying it was his way of thanking her for keeping beauty alive in Orodo.

With Emeka’s help, Adaeze cleared the area, added wooden benches, flower beds, and a small signboard that read Nnenna’s Rest: A Place to Breathe, Reflect, and Grow.

Years later, Adaeze and Emeka turned the place into a small green park. They called it Nnenna’s Rest in honour of her grandmother. Travellers still stopped to eat mangoes, children still played around the roots, and the old tree still whispered in the wind.

***

One sunny afternoon, Adaeze gathered some children under the mango tree. Each child held a small seedling. She knelt beside them and said,

‘These trees are gifts. When you plant one, you give the earth a little breath.’

The children listened quietly.

‘Trees clean the air, give us shade, and bring rain,’ she continued. ‘If we plant more trees, our world becomes cooler and greener. That’s how we fight climate change and care for our home.’

The children smiled, excited. ‘We will plant them, Aunty Adaeze!’ they said.

Emeka watched from the bench, his heart full of pride. He saw the same spark in the children’s eyes that Adaeze had carried since she was ten, the same love for life, soil, and growth.

After the children had gone, a little girl lingered behind and approached Adaeze. ‘Aunty, is it true you planted this tree?’

Adaeze smiled. ‘Yes, a long time ago.’

‘I want to plant mine too,’ the girl said eagerly.

Adaeze nodded and touched her shoulder. ‘Then plant it with love. Because whatever you plant with love will always grow beautifully.’

The girl ran off, and Adaeze watched her disappear into the sunlight. She turned to Emeka and smiled. ‘Looks like our story has begun again,’ she said softly.

Emeka looked at her curiously. ‘Our story?’

‘Yes,’ she said, touching the mango tree’s trunk. ‘The story of love, of roots, of things that grow and last. It began with my grandmother and me, and now it begins again with that little girl.’

Emeka took her hand gently. ‘And it will keep growing, just like your mango tree.’

The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying their laughter into the open sky.

***

As the sun began to set, painting the sky orange and pink, Adaeze and Emeka sat quietly under the mango tree. The children had gone home, and only the soft rustling of leaves filled the air. Adaeze ran her fingers over the rough bark, thinking about all the years the tree had grown and all the people it had sheltered.

‘You know,’ she said softly, ‘I never thought this small seed would grow into something so big. It’s not just a tree. It is hope, love, and home.’

Emeka nodded. ‘It shows that even small actions, like planting a seed, can grow into something that touches many lives.’

Adaeze smiled, remembering her grandmother’s words: “You have a big dream for such a small seed.” Back then, she thought it was only about the tree. Now she knew it was about more than that. It was about helping the community, spreading love, and leaving something behind that others could care for.

Just then, the little girl from earlier came back, with a few other children. Each child carried a small bundle of seedlings.

‘Aunty Adaeze,’ she said excitedly, ‘we want to plant more trees like yours!’

Adaeze’s heart filled with joy. ‘Then let’s do it together,’ she said.

Under the evening sky, Adaeze, Emeka, and the children planted the seedlings along the edge of the park. Emeka took pictures while the children pressed the soil gently over each seed. Adaeze showed them how to water the plants and talk to them kindly, just like she had done with her mango tree long ago.

When the last seedling was planted, Adaeze stood back and looked at the small green trees. They were young now, but one day they would grow tall and strong. She felt her grandmother’s presence in the breeze and in the scent of the soil, and she smiled.

‘One day,’ Adaeze said softly to Emeka, ‘these trees will be big and strong. Maybe someone in the future will sit under them and feel the same peace I feel today.’

Emeka took her hand. ‘What you’ve done is more than planting a tree. You have started something that will last a long time.’

They watched the sun disappear behind the horizon. The mango tree, tall and proud, seemed to bend its branches like a blessing. Deep in the soil, the tiny seeds would one day grow into more trees, ready for the next generation to care for them.

Adaeze looked at Emeka and whispered, ‘Our story is not just about us. It is about everyone, the children, the villagers, and the travelers who will find shade and hope under these trees.’

Emeka smiled and held her hand. ‘Then let’s keep planting and dreaming together.’

The stars began to shine above, and the breeze moved through the leaves as if whispering promises of tomorrow. Adaeze felt happy and at peace, knowing that love and care, like the roots of her mango tree, would always grow and touch many lives.

***

A Year Later, one bright morning, Adaeze returned to Nnenna’s Rest. She walked slowly along the paths, noticing how the seedlings planted the year before had grown into strong young trees. Their green leaves shone in the sunlight, and tiny birds perched happily among the branches.

A group of children ran past her, laughing. They carried watering cans and buckets, ready to care for the trees. Adaeze watched them, her heart swelling with joy.

'Good morning, Aunty Adaeze!' the children shouted.

'Good morning, my little gardeners!' she replied, smiling.

Emeka, standing nearby with his camera, captured every moment. He had been following Adaeze’s work with the children, documenting how one small act of planting had grown into a whole community of care and love.

Adaeze knelt to water one of the young trees. She felt the soil between her fingers, soft and damp. 'This is how we grow,' she whispered to herself, 'one seed, one heart at a time.'

Later that day, a woman approached her. She was a traveller who had stopped under the mango tree years ago. 'I remember this tree,' the woman said softly, touching its trunk. 'I sat here when I was tired and hungry. Your tree gave me shade and hope. Now, I see what you have done, an entire garden of hope.'

Adaeze smiled, tears filling her eyes. 'It is not just my tree. It belongs to everyone who loves it and cares for it.'

As the sun began to set again, painting the sky with colours of orange, pink, and purple, Adaeze and Emeka sat under the old mango tree, surrounded by the new trees and the laughter of children.

'Do you remember when we first worked on this park together?' Emeka asked, squeezing her hand gently.

'Yes,' Adaeze replied. 'It all began with the seedlings we planted last year.'

'And now look at what we have,' Emeka said, glancing around the growing park. 'A whole forest of hope.'

Adaeze leaned her head on his shoulder, looking up at the branches of the mango tree. She could see sunlight flickering through the leaves, and in that light, she felt her grandmother’s love surrounding her.

'Let's promise to keep planting,' she whispered.

'We will,' Emeka said softly. 'For every seed we plant, a new story begins.'

And there, under the mango tree, with the stars starting to twinkle above, Adaeze knew that her grandmother’s dream had truly come to life. Love, care, and hope were now rooted in the soil, ready to grow for generations to come.

 

Plant a seed, grow a future. Every small act counts. plant trees!

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My Role Model

 By Chibuihe Chikere

 A young girl named Favour Chibuihe Chikere wrote this heartfelt piece about her mother. Through her simple but powerful words, she paints a picture of love, respect, and gratitude. Her story shows the strength and care that mothers give and how deeply they shape their children’s lives.

 

Favour Chibuihe Chikere with her beloved mum.

The person I cherish and admire the most is none other than my God-gifted mother. Her name is Mrs. Judith Chimuanya Chikere. She is fair in complexion and of average height. She is both a trader and a housewife. She is 35 years old.

I admire her because she possesses most of the qualities we need to succeed in life. One thing that makes her unique among others is that she is caring, loving, and understanding. There is a saying that behind every successful man, there is a woman. My mother truly supports my father. She knows when my dad has money and when he doesn’t. She understands my feelings and those of my siblings. She knows when we are sick and when we are healthy.

One of her most endearing qualities is her genuineness. She has always been my source of inspiration and pillar of strength. She is endowed with great wisdom and is often called upon to speak about community problems. Everyone in my community knows her as the women’s leader.

She is a good cook and prepares meals for the family without complaint. She is truly a role model and an example to other women. She is a peacemaker who never likes to see people quarrelling.

She attended her primary and secondary education at Ambassador International School, Ifakala. She stopped schooling because of a lack of money and the sudden death of her father. Yet, she remains a woman of great wisdom and knowledge.

She supports me, gives me confidence, makes me laugh, cheers me up, and wipes my tears. She is my joy-giver, a mother as precious and lasting as a diamond. She is the most protective person I have ever met, and she has an amiable personality. She is always there for me and my siblings, like a flawless diamond shining with love and care.

Her hobbies are telling stories and watching movies. She also enjoys resolving disputes and finds joy in making peace. Her favourite sport is table tennis. She loves going to church and never likes missing service. She always advises us to take part in the things of God.

She will always be the one I admire and love the most.

Favour Chibuihe Chikere's beloved mother

This touching essay was written by Favour Chibuihe Chikere, a bright young student, in honour of her mother. Her words reflect love, gratitude, and the strength of women who nurture families and inspire their children to dream. It is published here to celebrate her voice and encourage young writers to express themselves boldly.

Favour Chibuihe Chikere

If this essay touched your heart, please leave a kind comment below to encourage Favour. Every word of support can inspire a young writer to keep believing in her dreams.