MY HUSBAND KILLED ME TO REPLACE HIS LIFE BUT MY GHOST WILL HUNT HIM TO DEATH Episode 1 #walexstories FOLLOW ME Walex's Stories BEFORE YOU MISS ANOTHER EPISODE My name was Chinyere, and I came from a small, peaceful village called Umueze. Life in the village was not rich in money, but we were rich in laughter, songs, and stories. I was raised by my grandmother who taught me how to cook, farm, and pray. Everyone knew me as the girl who smiled even when the rain fell too hard on her cassava farm. When I turned twenty-three, I married Obinna, the man who had stolen my heart with his words and good looks. He was tall, muscular, and charming. He could talk like a preacher and sing like a bird. My friends were jealous. They said, “Chinyere, you have found a husband from heaven.” At first, I believed them. Obinna treated me like gold. He helped me in the farm, bought me wrappers, and called me sweet names like my queen, my sunshine, the air I breathe. I felt like the happiest woman in the whole world. But after a few months, everything began to change. The man who once smiled at me every morning now looked at me with cold eyes. He no longer called me sweet names. He would come home late and sleep facing the wall. I would ask, “Obinna, are you okay?” and he would say, “I’m tired.” That was just the beginning. One night, I woke up to drink water. As I passed by the window, I saw a strange light behind our hut. I looked closely and saw Obinna kneeling beside a small fire. He was holding something in his hand and talking to himself. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard him say: “Spirits of the dark... I have kept my promise. Just wait, she will be ready soon.” My heart nearly stopped. Who was he talking to? What promise? I quickly returned to the bed and pretended to sleep. My mind was racing like a drum at a village festival. That whole night, I did not close my eyes again. The next day, I tried to act normal. I cooked his food, greeted him kindly, and washed his clothes. But fear had already moved into my heart like a thief in the night. The next strange thing happened three days later. While sweeping the backyard, I noticed a patch of loose soil behind our hut. Something told me to dig it. I used a stick and carefully removed the sand. What I saw made my blood turn to ice. Inside a small clay pot, wrapped in red cloth, I found: A piece of my wrapper My old comb A dried lizard And a red feather soaked in something like blood I screamed and threw the pot away. My hands were shaking. My knees became weak. What kind of wickedness was this? What kind of evil charm used my belongings? That night, I confronted Obinna. “Obinna, what is going on? Why is my wrapper and comb buried in a pot behind our house?” He looked at me for a long time—too long—and then smiled. But it wasn’t a smile of love. It was a cold, dry smile like someone who knew something I didn’t. “Chinyere,” he said, “You ask too many questions. Some things are better left alone.” I stepped back. My heart was pounding. I wanted to run, but I was too scared. I couldn’t believe this was the man I married. For the next few days, Obinna changed completely. He hardly spoke. He would stay up at night walking around the house, talking to himself in a strange language I didn’t understand. Then, the stranger came. It was a stormy evening. Thunder was cracking the sky open. Obinna told me to stay inside while he went outside to meet someone. Through the window, I saw the man. He had one eye, a long scar across his neck, and wore a black cloak. He didn’t even look human. The man handed Obinna something small, and they both whispered. I could hear only one thing clearly: “Tonight is the night. Make sure she eats it all.” Eat what? My body began to shake. I locked myself in the kitchen and prayed. Something terrible was coming. That evening, Obinna acted sweet again—for the first time in weeks. He brought home my favorite food: pounded yam and bitterleaf soup. He even brought me palm wine and said, “My queen, eat. You deserve to rest tonight.” But the moment I tasted the soup, I knew something was wrong. It had a strange bitter taste, not like normal bitterleaf. I dropped the spoon and looked into his eyes. They were shining—too shiny, like someone hiding a deep secret. He smiled. “Eat more, Chinyere. You need strength.” I stood up and said I was full. He frowned but said nothing. Later that night, I felt dizzy. My head was spinning. My legs were weak. I tried to call for help, but no sound came out. Everything went dark. --- When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my body. I was floating above it. Below me, I saw my lifeless body lying on the bed, and Obinna kneeling beside it with a small red knife in his hand. He was not crying. He was smiling. He kissed my forehead and whispered: “Thank you, Chinyere. Your spirit has given me.

*The Air India plane crash.* To some, just another breaking news story. To me, it was a soul-stirring reminder of how fragile and unpredictable life really is. Four lives. Four stories. Four powerful lessons that changed how I see time, purpose, and the grace of each moment. First: A family who had waited years to fulfill their dream of migrating to the UK. Life kept getting in the way, responsibilities, delays, decisions. They finally made it onto the plane… but never reached their destination And I realized: We carry so many plans for “someday.” But if we keep waiting, someday becomes never. Second: A woman who was supposed to be on that flight. She arrived late. Missed the check-in. Pleaded to get on board but was denied. She was frustrated, angry, defeated. Only to later realize: that delay was divine protection. We don’t always get what we want, because God sees what we cannot. Sometimes, His “no” is what keeps us alive. Third: A man who survived. The plane split in half and he happened to be in the section that didn’t catch fire. He walked away, dazed and alive, from something no one thought survivable. It wasn’t luck. It was purpose. And I was reminded of the verse: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1 It simply wasn’t his time. Fourth: And then those who didn’t make it. People with dreams. People with families. People with unfinished stories. They kissed someone goodbye that morning… not knowing it was the last time. Their lives remind us that time is not guaranteed. We’re not promised old age. We’re not promised later. What we have is now. A breath. A heartbeat. A chance. So while you still have today.. While you’re still breathing, still strong, still able, don’t waste it. Don’t wait for the “perfect” moment. Love now. Apologize now. Forgive now. Dream now. Speak now. Because life doesn’t always come with warnings. And sometimes… “next time” never comes.

He never told me he was getting married to another woman—not until his wedding day, after I slept over at his house. He never once said he didn’t see me as his future wife, not even subtly. Instead, he kept using me, and in the end, he broke my heart and walked away. Charles has been my boyfriend for four months now. He has been sweet, consistent, and never gave me any red flags or reason to doubt his intentions. I visited his house often. We did everything together—cooked, watched movies, talked late into the night. Slept together. Not once did I ever run into the woman he was preparing to say “I do” to. She never visited, maybe because he didn’t want her to. Or maybe he was just that good at hiding his double life. I kept giving my all, thinking we were growing stronger as a couple. I invested my mind, body, and soul. That Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of movement—his friends, both familiar and unfamiliar, were rushing through the house like they were preparing for something big. They were all dressed in matching blue senator suits, looking sharp and excited. Charles, my Charles, wore a suit that made him look like a model. I was confused. What were they all dressed up for? Then I overheard one of his friends whisper, “Tell her now…” Tell me what? Charles turned to him and said, “I didn’t ask her to come over last night.” What? Not after we spent the whole night together? Not after we made love? He didn't want me here? I was still confused. Then he threw a bundle of money at me and told me to leave before he got back. I was too stunned to speak. My voice failed me. I wanted to scream, but the shock silenced me. “Is that what you think of me now?” I finally managed to speak, broken. “You sleep with me and pay me?” He looked at me—his face almost remorseful—but his words stung worse than a slap. “You’re not wife material. I’m sorry, but I can’t end up with you. That’s why. Just go. Let’s end this in peace.” I didn’t understand. Why didn’t he go to the hotel he was supposed to have his bachelor’s party at last night? Why did he decide to spend it with me the way he wanted? Why didn’t his bride call to ask where he was? It felt like his friends knew everything and had been covering up for him. Until that morning. After he left, I broke down. I cried for an hour straight until the tears dried up, and anger took over. A burning, bitter rage. I dressed up quickly and searched the whole house for any clue about the wedding location. I was desperate. Then, thanks to fate, I found a souvenir with the location on it. I took a commercial bus straight to the cathedral. By the time I arrived, they were exchanging their vows. My heart was pounding. I didn’t take a seat. I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to the altar, stepped between him and his bride, and grabbed the microphone from the priest. Anger had taken over my sanity. I told everyone the truth—everything that had happened. I dropped the bundle of money at his feet as a proof that he had tried to pay me off. The church erupted in chaos. His bride collapsed right there at the altar. And I walked out. I left them in the mess he created. I left when I was sure I had done enough damage to match the pain he caused me. That Saturday morning changed me. I left town and stayed with my sister for a while to clear my head. The heartbreak was too heavy to carry alone. People said I went too far by crashing the wedding. But what about everything I invested in that relationship? What about the betrayal? He thought he could use me and pay me off like I meant nothing. Why didn’t he just tell me he couldn’t marry me? Why pretend? Why lie? Why let me give so much while he was planning a future with someone else? I heard the wedding was called off, and his bride blocked him completely. His family calls me day and night, hurling insults and blaming me for the disgrace. But now, their hatred sounds like music to my ears. I smile when I remember that I crashed that wedding right—I didn’t make a mistake. I have no regrets. I’ve moved on. Just be sure the person you’re dating isn’t secretly planning a wedding with someone else. These days, men will string you along, take your love for granted, and tell you you’re not "wife material." Then marry someone else. This is from a true life story. #fictionwriter #storywriter #weaverofwords Iwuji Amarachi Judith

‪We all make mistakes. Don’t give up just because you made a mistake. The Almighty knew the mistake way before it ever happened. Instead of feeling miserable and depressed, pray. Ask Him to ease your affairs. Stop focusing on the past and keep moving forward.‬

THE NEW CEO He never looked up. He just polished and returned them." Her father never knew his name. But she never forgot his hands. Until the day the company he once stood outside… Became the one he walked into — as the boss. 1996. Lagos Island. Baba Dauda was a cobbler stationed outside the Afolabi & Sons Corporation — a big construction firm where luxury cars pulled up daily, and security guards barely let him near the building. But every week, a wealthy man — Chief Afolabi — sent his driver with three pairs of Italian leather shoes. Dauda would shine, stitch, clean, and polish them until they looked brand new. He was never invited in. Never tipped. Never acknowledged. But someone noticed. Little Adesewa, Chief’s 9-year-old daughter, used to sit in the back of the car watching him work. She once asked, “Why does he never come inside?” Her father replied: "Because people like that don’t belong in boardrooms." But Dauda looked up and said: “Small madam… maybe one day, I’ll fix more than shoes.” Adesewa smiled. He winked. Then life happened. The Afolabis moved abroad. Dauda lost his spot outside the building when the area was demolished. Nobody knew where he went. Nobody looked for him. 2024. Victoria Island. The same company — now renamed Afolabi Global — had fallen into crisis. Stocks plummeted. Leadership changed. They were awaiting their new CEO — a private appointee brought in by international investors to restructure the entire business. Boardroom filled. Cameras ready. Staff nervous. Then the doors opened… And Mr. Dauda Adekunle walked in — polished suit, grey hair, briefcase in hand. Silence. Gasps. He nodded slowly and said: “28 years ago, I fixed shoes outside this building. Today, I’m here to rebuild what was broken inside it.” The crowd froze. And from the corner, Adesewa — now head of PR — stood in tears. She walked over, hugged him, and whispered: “You didn’t just fix shoes, Baba. You fixed my view of the world.” He didn’t beg. He didn’t fight. He just worked. And while others built offices… He built himself. Now the same hands that once held polish and thread… Hold contracts, power, and legacy. Because sometimes, the person outside the gate… Was just waiting to own the entire building.

DAUGHTERS OF JEZEBEL 💀 (Campus war 🔥) Episode 15 Boss here is the boy they said while they were already forcing Dominic Bawa to go down on his knees. Blind folded him. Guys I told you people that I need money like m@d!!! I don't think the money they are going to pay us for this job will be enough. Let's use one stone to keel two birds. Collect hid phone let's call his family member for a ransom and after they send it then we can kpai him.Where is your phone!!! they shouted at him. In.... In ..... Inside my bag !! please don't keel me Dominic begged for his life. They brought out his phone and dial the recent contact which is his poor widow mother 🥹. Hello Dominic how are you doing? Now listen to me!!! this is not Dominic Bawa but he is in our custody. Say hello!! Say hello!! he shouted at Dominic while putting the phone on his ear. ( Remember he is not seeing 🥹 ). Hello mu....mmy he said stammering. Dominic what is happening to you his mother said this time she was already crying 😭😭. Now you listen to me you this old woman. I will send you an account number right now and you have just ten minutes to transfer the sum of five hundred thousand into it else you will come to the campus and carry your son's d ea d body. Aaaaaaaah his mother shouted. Dominic could hear his mother crying on phone and him too was crying. The most painful part wasn't him being kid n a p e d but hearing his mother cry. Please don't keel my son for me!!! I don't have money... I'm just a poor widow and that boy doesn't have a father!!! He is only lucky to get into that university by God's miraculous work... He is on scholarship please don't cut short his life for me... His father left me in this world and loosing him I don't think I can't survive it please have mercy on a poor widow 😭😭. As tears were rushing down his mother's eyes over there on phone so likewise Dominic was crying 😭😭😭. But he was also praying in his mind. It seems the voice of your son is not enough right?? I will snap his picture of him I have here with me and send it to you on through his Whatsapp and the next thing you will hear is g u n shot. Heeeeeeeeeeey God please save my son!!! that was the last thing his mother said before the phone was hang up. Where is the picture??? their leader demanded and it was given to him. Is there any need??? Please waste him let's get out of here. Wait!!!!!! he shouted. He beckon on the guy that wanted to pull the trigger to come closer. Are you sure is the person on this picture that is this??? Yes boss. Shit!!!!!! he exclaimed. He actually look at the clothes Dominic was wearing and shouted aaaaah it's true!!!!!!. What happened boss and what is true??? We can't keel him! What??? why ??? No harm must come to him not now, nor ever. He dialed Dominic mother's number again. Hello mummy I am very sorry ma! I was playing with your son. Your son is fine and I sorry the shock this must have caused you. Please can I talk to my son??? He will speak to you in few minutes time he said and hang up the phone. Take him and returned him back to where you carried him he commanded. That was how Dominic Bawa was delivered. Now Donatus the leader of this g an g was the same young man that Dominic gave his loaf of bread to when he was going to lecturer earlier in the morning. The very one who was holding his stomach in pain. When he was told that it was the same person that was on the picture, he actually look at Dominic and realized that was exactly the clothes he was putting on earlier today. You remember when David was the king of Israel, when the enemies encamp them at zigla and took away all their belongings including their wives. And God said run after, overtake and recover. You remember it was one of the enemy soldier who fainted on the way and was abandoned that David and his army met, give him bread and water to drink and when he was revived, he showed them how they can conquer and recover all. Just a little help today, just a little act of kindness today might save you tomorrow. Donatus went straight to lecturer. Nothing! I repeat absolutely nothing must happen to this boy in this campus else you will have me to contend with he said and threw the picture back to her and left in great anger.. indeed his word say in proverbs chapter 16 vs 7 that when a man's way pleases the Lord, he make even his enemy to be at peace with him".. Hahaha hahaha hahaha lecturer Mariwa laugh. We shall see about that. DOMINIC MUST DYE!!!! 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 To be continued ✍️✍️ For proper understanding, visit my page to read episodes before this and the ones ahead this. Follow the page to always get notifications on your news feed any time I drop new episode .

I remember standing there... just outside the church. The music had started. People were already seated. And inside, my brother... was waiting to marry the woman I thought I’d spend my life with. My hands were shaking. But not from fear. From rage. See... I had nothing left to lose. They’d already taken everything. My home. My business. My future. And now... they were walking down the aisle to dance on the grave of what used to be my life. So I walked in. Straight down the center aisle. Past the gasps... the whispers... the stares. I looked my brother in the eye. Then I turned to her. She was dressed in white, like a queen about to ascend her throne. And I smiled. That kind of smile you give when the final piece of a long, brutal chess game finally clicks into place. “You forgot one thing,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. They froze. “You forgot... I always finish what I start.” And then... I handed him the small black envelope. “Enjoy the honeymoon,” I whispered. I turned around... and walked out. But the silence behind me? That said everything. Now... I know what you’re thinking. What the hell happened? Why would my own brother marry my fiancée? Why did I lose everything? And what the hell was in that envelope? Well... to understand all that... You have to go back. Back to where it all began. Before the betrayal. Before the fall. Before I learned what family really means. And trust me... It gets worse before it gets better. Way worse. It started like all tragedies do... With everything going right. I had just turned 30. My business was finally taking off. I ran a boutique renovation company—nothing fancy, but we had loyal clients, steady referrals, and a crew that felt like family. I was engaged to the kind of woman you plan your whole future around. Her name was Nadia. She was smart. Gorgeous. The kind of presence that could light up a room without even trying. We met at a charity event—funny enough, hosted by my younger brother, Marcus. He was the “golden boy” of the family. The one who never failed. The one who got the praise, even when he didn’t deserve it. But I didn’t mind back then. I thought we were different. I worked hard. He worked crowds. He was charm. I was grit. Nadia and I had been together for three years when I proposed. She said yes with tears in her eyes. Everything felt solid. Real. I was building a house for us—literally. It was supposed to be our dream home. Custom everything. Her design input was everywhere—from the tiles to the walk-in closet she made me stretch the budget for. And that? That was fine. Because I thought we were building a life. But here's the thing about building. You can’t always see the cracks right away. Sometimes... you don’t even know you’re living inside a structure that’s already collapsing... until the day the whole damn thing comes down on top of you. The first crack? It was small. Barely even noticeable. Marcus started showing up more often. At first, it made sense—he said he wanted to invest in real estate. Asked questions about the renovation business. Wanted to “learn.” I was flattered, honestly. He was the high-flyer—finance, PR, the whole deal. For him to take interest in my little company? It felt like respect. And Nadia? She encouraged it. She said it was good for us to have more family involved. Said Marcus had “great instincts.” Said he was “such a people person.” I didn’t think anything of it... Not yet. But looking back? That was the first move on a chessboard I didn’t even realize I was standing on. Because what came next... Was the slow, surgical dismantling of everything I loved. It started with a client. A simple kitchen remodel in the suburbs. The kind of job we’d done a dozen times before. Only this time... something felt off. The client—Mrs. Greene—called me directly. She was upset. Said my crew had walked off the job halfway through the week. Said she hadn’t seen anyone in days. Now, that didn’t make sense. We ran a tight schedule. My foreman, Luis, was meticulous. So I drove down to the site myself. And what I found? Nothing. No crew. No tools. No materials. It looked abandoned. So I called Luis. Straight to voicemail. I called the supplier. He told me the last two invoices—both for that site—had been canceled. Canceled. By someone named... Marcus. I felt the air punch out of my lungs. Why would Marcus be touching supplier accounts?.... Continue to story on the comment section

My Husband's Wife Is His Mother (EPISODE 1) If someone had told me that I wouldn’t get to spend my wedding night alone with my husband, I would have laughed in disbelief. But that night—my wedding night—was the first time I realized something was very wrong. And it all started with the sound of her slippers. Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop. I was in the bathroom, changing into my silk nightgown. I had planned this night down to the details. Candles. Perfume. The perfect playlist. After all the stress of wedding planning, I just wanted to hold the man I loved and breathe in the beginning of forever. But the knock came. It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then the voice. “Oya open the door jare, make I lie down small. My waist is paining me.” My husband laughed. Laughed. “Shey I told you my mama doesn’t like hard beds,” he said, already heading for the door. I peeked out from behind the bathroom door, confused. “What do you mean lie down?” “She’ll just rest a bit. Don’t worry,” he said, brushing it off like it was normal. “She does this when she travels. The bed in the guest room is too small.” “But... this is our wedding night,” I whispered, heart sinking. He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Babe, it’s just for a bit. You know she’s old.” Old? His mother was barely 60. Active. Loud. Controlling. She ran a shop, led the women’s group in church, and made sure to remind everyone that she raised her son "without a single coin from any useless man." Still in disbelief, I watched as he opened the door and let her in. She entered like she owned the room. Like she built it with her hands. She didn’t even look at me. Just removed her wrapper, fluffed a pillow, and slid into the middle of our bed. My side. “Put off that candle abeg,” she said, fanning herself. “You want to burn this house?” I stood there frozen. My chest tightened. I looked at my husband, silently begging for support. He sat beside her and smiled. “She’s just tired. Tomorrow, everything will be normal.” But it wasn’t. I barely slept that night. The three of us lay in that bed like sardines in a can. Every time I shifted, her leg brushed mine. At one point, she even snored. Loudly. I turned to face the wall, hot tears forming in my eyes. This wasn’t what I signed up for. --- The next morning, she woke before us and clapped her hands loudly. “Wake up, wake up! This is not honeymoon o, this is my son’s house. I want to boil water.” I sat up, dazed. My husband stretched lazily and gave her the same smile he gave me during our vows. “Mama, you want me to carry the pot?” “Ehen, now you’re talking.” And just like that, they left me in the room. Alone. In my own marriage. --- Later that day, I tried to talk to him. “Why did she sleep in our room?” I asked gently, not wanting to seem disrespectful. He sighed. “Babe, you know how close I am to my mom. It’s just for a while. She said she wants to be around until you're strong enough to manage things.” “I’m not sick,” I replied, trying to control my voice. “And we just got married. Shouldn’t we be alone?” He shrugged. “Just give her time. She’s adjusting too.” Adjusting? She was adjusting? What about me? --- That evening, it happened again. She brought her wrapper, pillow, and blanket. No questions asked. She even had the audacity to say, “Ah, I like this mattress. Very firm. Good for my back.” I stood by the bed, still in my wrapper, and didn’t know what to do. “Mama,” I tried to speak, “maybe you can try the guest room again? We just—” She turned her head sharply. “You want to chase me away from my son’s room? Is it now a sin for a mother to sleep beside her child?” My husband kept quiet. Dead silence. I looked at him, pleading with my eyes. He avoided my gaze and said, “Let’s not make this a big issue tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” But tomorrow never came. --- I started noticing little things. How she always sat between us when we watched TV. How she would call him to come lie down beside her during the day and rub her back. How she took over my kitchen and rearranged everything without asking. How she spoke to me like I was the house girl. I wanted to be respectful. I was raised to honor elders. But this? This was not honor. This was intrusion. This was something else entirely. A twisted triangle. A marriage with three corners. And somehow, I was the outsider. --- That night, I called my elder sister. “Sis, she sleeps between us. Every night. She won’t leave.” She paused. “What does your husband say?” “Nothing. He acts like it’s normal. Like I’m overreacting.” She hissed. “That’s witchcraft. Or madness. Or both.” I laughed bitterly. “It’s not funny.” “No, I know. But you need to take control before it gets worse.” “How?” I whispered. “How do I fight a mother-in-law on her son’s bed?” There was silence. And then her voice was firm. “You’re the wife. Start acting like it. Don’t let her settle.” But it was already too late. She had settled. She had brought her pillow. Her slippers. Her authority. And on the first night of my marriage, I learned that love is not always a fairytale. Sometimes, it’s a bed with three people—and one of them isn’t going anywhere. End of Episode 1 To Be Continue in Episode 2 ©️ Mummy Moreni

The Rat Who Wanted to Eat the Sky ⸻ In the lowlands of Uvoko, where millet grew tall and fruit trees leaned with sweetness, lived a rat named Diga. He was small, fast, and full of wild ideas. But of all his dreams, one was the strangest: He wanted to eat the sky. “I will nibble the clouds,” he said. “I will chew the stars like maize.” “I will swallow the moon and save the sun for dessert.” The other animals laughed. “The sky is not food,” said the tortoise. “You barely reach the mango branch!” cackled the parrot. “Dream smaller,” sighed his cousin. But Diga didn’t care. He believed hunger wasn’t just for the stomach—it was for wonder. So he built. He gathered bamboo and vines, old calabash shells and woven baskets. He stacked and tied, climbed and fell, mended and rose. Soon, a towering pillar spiraled into the clouds, shaking with every breeze. The animals watched from below, jaws open. “He’s going to do it,” they whispered. “He’s going to bite the sky.” Diga climbed for days. He passed birds. Surprised bats. Even caught a glimpse of the moon, who blinked nervously. At last, he reached the top—and opened his mouth. But as he bit into the sky, something strange happened. It didn’t taste like anything. It didn’t break. It didn’t fear him. Instead, the sky whispered, “You have come far, but not for food.” Diga blinked. “Then… why did I come?” “To remember that some hungers are not for filling—but for feeling,” the sky answered. And in that moment, Diga understood. He didn’t want to eat the sky. He wanted to touch it. To know it. To believe he could reach something no one thought he could. He smiled, turned around, and began his descent. When he reached the ground, the animals waited. “Did you eat it?” they asked. “No,” he said. “I tasted something better.” “Like what?” “Like belief.” From that day on, Diga didn’t climb the sky. He taught others to dream instead. And whenever a young animal doubted themselves, they were told the tale of the rat who almost swallowed the heavens—but chose wonder instead. ⸻ 3 Moral Lessons: 1. Not all dreams are meant to be achieved—some are meant to stretch you. Diga’s climb wasn’t about conquering, but growing. 2. It’s okay to dream big, even if others laugh. Diga’s boldness inspired a forest that once mocked him. 3. What you seek may not be the answer—but the journey to it is. Diga’s hunger led him not to food, but to faith. ⸻

Some people still believe my real name is Osuofia because of the movie Osuofia in London. I can’t talk about the good things that have happened in my life without mentioning that film. In 2003, the director Kingsley Ogoro called and offered me the role. I didn’t waste time — I quickly said yes because I was excited about the chance to travel to London. At that time, I had never been outside Nigeria before. We didn’t expect the movie to become such a big success. Back then, it was not common to shoot Nollywood movies abroad. But the film surprised everyone and became popular all over the world. After the movie came out, many people forgot my real name and started calling me Osuofia. I don’t mind at all because that name reminds me of the year my life changed. — Nkem Owoh

💔The Man Who Loved Deeply: Arjunbhai’s Story Arjunbhai Manubhai Patoliya was a devoted husband, a caring father, and a hardworking man originally from Vadiya, a village in Gujarat, India. In search of a better life, he moved to London, where he built a home with his beloved wife, Bharatiben, and their two young daughters. Life in London wasn’t always easy, but Arjunbhai was known among friends as someone who smiled through struggles. He worked hard, loved harder, and kept his roots close. But fate had other plans. --- In early June 2025, tragedy struck—Bharatiben passed away, leaving behind a grieving husband and two heartbroken daughters. Her dying wish was simple, yet sacred: she wanted her ashes immersed in her hometown river in Gujarat. Arjunbhai, despite his own grief, honored that wish. He traveled thousands of miles back to Vadiya with her ashes, leaving his daughters temporarily in the care of relatives in London. Back in his homeland, surrounded by mourning relatives, he carried out her besnu and other final rituals with a heavy heart. Every step was a tribute to the love they had shared. --- On 12 June 2025, having fulfilled his wife’s last wishes, Arjunbhai boarded Air India Flight AI171 in Ahmedabad, bound for London. He was eager to reunite with his daughters—to hold them, to grieve with them, to begin rebuilding their lives. But fate, once again, was cruel. Just 30 seconds after takeoff, the aircraft crashed into a building near B.J. Medical College in Ahmedabad. 241 people died that day. Only one person survived. Among the victims was Arjunbhai Patoliya. --- His two daughters in London—already mourning their mother—were now orphaned. Friends and family were shattered. One friend said, “He was a pillar of strength for his daughters. He lived for his family. What happened is beyond cruel.” His story spread across India and the UK, not just as a statistic, but as a reminder of the human cost of tragedy. --- Arjunbhai’s life was one of devotion, responsibility, and quiet strength. He didn’t just bury his wife—he buried a part of himself, only to unknowingly walk into the arms of fate. Now, his story is remembered as a heartbreaking symbol of love and loss—a man who honored every promise he made, until the very end.🕊️ #ArjunbhaiPatoliya #GoneTooSoon #InLovingMemory #RestInPeace #FamilyMan #DevotedHusband #LovingFather #ForeverInOurHearts #TrueLoveStory #TragicLoss #AirIndiaAI171 #FlightAI171 #AhmedabadCrash #PlaneCrashVictims #NeverForgotten #HumanCostOfTragedy #RealLifeHero #HonorHisLegacy #LoveBeyondLife #HeDidItForHisFamily #FathersLove #FamilyFirstAlways #WidowedFather #DaughtersOfStrength

BEAUTY FROM THE ASHES Episode 6 The women’s conference stretched across the week like a divine unfolding, each evening a sacred appointment that Amara hadn’t even known her soul had been craving. It wasn’t just a program; it was an invitation. An invitation to heal, to awaken and to breathe again. The first night had left her in tears. The speaker, a soft-spoken woman with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand stories, had shared her journey from despair to deliverance. Amara sat quietly in the third row, tears slipping down her cheeks as the words struck something deep, something raw within her. She wasn’t alone. Not in her pain. Not in her confusion. Not even in her silence. Every session after that peeled back another layer of pain, of pride, of fear. Like an onion shedding its skin, Amara found herself slowly unraveling. The masks she had worn for years...the brave wife, the silent sufferer, the spiritual martyr, began to fall. With every worship session, with every testimony, the walls she had so carefully constructed began to crack. Each night, she came home lighter. And each morning, she woke with a little more clarity. It was as if her heart was remembering how to feel again, how to hope. By Thursday, something inside her had shifted. That night’s message felt like it was delivered straight from the throne room of heaven to her wounded heart. The speaker, a fiery preacher with a voice that could calm storms or rouse an army, stood with authority and grace. She read from Isaiah 61:3: “…to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…” The words echoed through the hall, soaking into the atmosphere like rain on dry soil. Amara closed her eyes and let them wash over her. Beauty for ashes. Joy for mourning. Praise for heaviness. She didn’t know when the tears had started, but they came in quiet streams, not of sorrow, but of release. For the first time in a long time, Amara allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, her story wasn’t over. That perhaps God hadn’t abandoned her in the wreckage of her marriage, but had been waiting in the wings for her to find the strength to choose. Later that evening, Amara sat in Chinwe’s cozy living room, cradling a warm mug of ginger tea. The lights were dim, the air fragrant with the scent of cinnamon and honey. Chinwe sat across from her, legs tucked under her on the couch, listening intently. “I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking for years,” Amara began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was so sure I was doing God’s will by marrying Eddy. Everyone said I was. And when things turned ugly, I thought... maybe this was my cross. Maybe I was supposed to endure it.” Chinwe reached out and gently took her hand. “Amara,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, “God never asks us to stay in darkness and call it faith. He’s not glorified by your suffering. He’s glorified by your healing, your wholeness, your courage.” Amara looked down, tears pooling again. “But how do I just walk away? I made vows. I kept hoping he’d change. I didn’t want to give up.” “Walking away from abuse isn’t giving up,” Chinwe replied. “It’s waking up. It’s choosing life. God is not a taskmaster. He’s your Father. And He loves you far too much to watch you slowly die in a house where your soul can’t breathe.” A long silence passed between them. “So what do I do now?” Amara finally asked, her voice cracking. Chinwe squeezed her hand. “You choose,” she said softly. “You choose light. You choose life. You choose you.” That night, Amara didn’t sleep much. She lay in her room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the moments she had silenced herself for the sake of peace, all the prayers she had whispered in the darkness, asking God to change Eddy, to save their home. But something had shifted. She realized she had been praying for resurrection in a grave she was never meant to lie in. The next morning, the storm arrived. Eddy came home with a man and started raining abuses on Amara; " See this idiot! You think you can come from African part of Nigeria to outsmart me that came from American part of Nigeria? It's either you hand over the school to me, channel all income to my account or I make sure the school is closed down completely." Her children, all came out to watch helplessly as usual. As Amara was trying to explain to the man he came home with, Eddy rushed Amara and started pounding her, targeting her face and bragging that he must make sure Amara becomes useless to any other man in this life; "By the time I'm done with you, people would spit on you at sight" Eddy continued hitting Amara until she collapsed on the floor. The poor man that came to ask for money to feed his family couldn't help the situation. When Amara regained consciousness, she saw only her children crying and waking her up. She sent for Chinwe. Chinwe immediately and secretly arranged for a drop that took them to Divine Mercy Hospital. The doctor was furious and demanded for his presence. When he arrived, he pleaded with the doctor that it's devil's handwork. As soon as he sighted Amara's brother, he begged Amara not to tell her brother but mocked her immediately her brother left. It's already few days Amara returned from hospital. Pastor Dickson visited their house. Bro Eddy pls kindly tell your wife what you shared with me. Eddy hesitated. "Sister Amara, your husband impregnated a lady called Jacinta and asked her to keep the baby. Although the lady insisted he must furnish a flat for her otherwise she will terminate the pregnancy. He was mad against you because he was having a showdown financially and couldn't meet the lady's demands and you refused to hand your income over to him." Pastor Dickson explained. Amara was lost in thought...so this man wanted me dead because of women. She remembered how he was bashed by one of his customers when she visited at the hospital. "Eddy, were you not the one that that told me this woman gave up her 12month salaries for you to have an English machine? Why are you treating this woman as if she worths nothing?" Mrs Aleme queried "How dare her say no to my order, a woman that bends to urinate? She must hand over the school to me. My account must be used for all income!" he thundered. But she has left the factory for you. The woman reminded And then? Eddy persisted. To Be Continued 🙏 What do you think that happened next? Find out in the next episode 🤔 Pls encourage me with like, follow, comment and share. God bless you 👏 ©️Grace Amarachi #teacherwritersingerlover #BeautyFromTheAshes #ChristianFiction #FaithAndResilience