Title: My Arranged Marriage
Episode 1: The Day My Bride Brought Her Ex to Our Wedding

I always knew my family was chaotic, but I didn’t know they were diabolical until the day I walked into my own wedding and nearly fainted. Not because of cold feet — but because the bride, the woman I was supposed to marry, was sitting on the stage laughing with her ex-boyfriend, whom she brought along like a plus-one.

Yes, her ex. To our wedding.

Let me start from the beginning.

It began two months ago when Mama burst into my room like a hurricane dressed in Ankara and holy anointing.
"Obinna, your bachelorhood is a spiritual attack!"
She clutched her Bible and her phone, scrolling through WhatsApp pictures of potential wives like it was Tinder for African mothers.

I was 29, a civil engineer in Lagos, and deeply single—not because I couldn't find love, but because the last girl I loved used my rent money to buy a Brazilian wig and disappeared with a sugar daddy who sold building materials.

So, when Mama insisted on arranging a marriage, I laughed. Until Papa added his voice.
“If you don’t marry before July, forget your inheritance. We will donate your land to the church!”

July was two months away.

That was how I met Amaka.
Photos first. Then video calls. She was pretty. Soft-spoken. From Enugu. A nurse. And, according to her mother, a virgin. (My cousin Ugochi whispered, “Aunty, check that thing well. These days, even calculators reset.”)

I agreed to meet her. She smiled, giggled, and spoke gently. But something felt... rehearsed. Like she was playing a role.

Still, the wedding date was fixed. Invitations printed. Cow bought. Church booked. DJ paid. Mama danced every night to Flavour’s songs as if the wedding was her own.

And then the big day came.

The hall glittered with decorations. Guests arrived in gele and agbada. My friends teased me “Obinna, you go finally chop life!”

Then I saw her. Amaka. Dressed in white. Gorgeous. Smiling. Until I noticed the man sitting beside her, whispering in her ear and holding her hand.

I frowned.
“Who is that?” I asked my brother.

My brother squinted. “I think he came with the bride.”

“Came with the"

Before I could finish, Mama appeared beside me, all smiles and sweat. “You look handsome, my son. Now go and smile at your bride.”

“I will smile after I know who that guy is.”

Mama hissed and walked off.

So, I marched up to Amaka, heart racing. “Who is this?”

She blinked, calm. “Oh! Meet Chuka. My best friend. He’s like… family.”

Chuka stood, extended his hand, smiling like a goat that just chewed your exam script. “Nice to meet you, bro.”

Bro?

I ignored his hand. “Can we talk privately?”

Amaka sighed, dragged me aside, and said the thing that nearly made me remove my agbada and run home in boxers.

“I invited him because... well... he’s important to me. We dated for six years. He’s the one who taught me how to love. But my parents didn’t approve. So I had to settle for this... arrangement.”

I stood still, blinking.
“Settle?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you’re kind. You’ll understand.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I did not understand.

My uncle, who saw me shaking like a leaf, whispered, “Is it heartbreak or hunger? Should we bring you small jollof rice to calm your nerves?”

I wanted to run, but the hall was full, the gifts were stacked, and the caterers were serving. A pastor was waiting. A crowd was watching.

Then I remembered what my grandmother once said:
“If you must embarrass the devil, do it with boldness.”

So, I climbed the stage, grabbed the mic, and said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming. But I just found out that I am not the main actor in this wedding. I am an extra.”

Gasps.

Chuka choked on his zobo. Amaka’s face turned pale. Mama tried to grab the mic, but I raised my hand dramatically.

“This wedding is cancelled. But don’t worry there’s plenty of food. Eat, drink, and take selfies. Just know that Obinna has left the chat!”

I walked out, head high, heart free. That night, I ate the wedding jollof alone in my boxers and watched Nollywood movies till 2 a.m.

A week later, I met Adaeze, my neighbor who had always lent me pepper without asking for it back. She knocked on my door with a plate of hot rice and a smile.

And guess what?

Unlock phone wahala

t was a peaceful Saturday morning. Birds were singing, the sun was rising until Chike exploded down the street like a stol en okada

His neighbours shouted, Chike, Are you running from ar m*ed ro bb*ers

Breathless, Chike yelled, Worse, I forgot my phone it’s not locked. and it’s beside my wife

Everyone gasped.

One man shouted, Guy, increase your speed o. That woman go scroll to 2018 if you delay
Ehee..men supporting men

Chike didn’t wait for motivation. He jumped gutters like an Olympic athlete. He even ran past the local church choir rehearsing it is well at full speed.

Rumour has it that by the time he reached home, his wife had already opened WhatsApp, scrolled past Good morning beautiful from Amaka, and was just about to open the photo album titled Business Documents which had no business in it

If you love peace, lock your phone or train for a marathon

AI translation from Hausa to English

*BE CAREFUL WHEN TAKING PHOTOS OF NEWBORNS!!*

This morning, I was called to the home of one Alhaji to examine a baby girl who was born three weeks ago.

When I arrived at the house:

They complained to me that the baby girl seems to have trouble seeing. Since the day of her naming ceremony up to the time I'm sharing this message, her parents have noticed that she doesn't respond to light or to hand movements near her eyes or face.

Because of this, I suggested they consult a pediatrician at Nassarawa Hospital. I called a pediatrician and explained the situation, but he said this case should rather be seen by an eye specialist.

The surprising part that made me share this with you is what the eye specialist said when I called him. He asked, "Did they have a naming ceremony at home?" I said, "Yes, they did, and it was well attended."

Then he said that it's now being observed that many babies who had home naming ceremonies, where the husband’s and wife’s relatives took pictures of the newborns with their phones, end up with visual problems. The flash from phone cameras, especially during the early days or first one or two months of life, can damage the retina—the part of the eye that sends visual information to the brain.

This happens because relatives often insist that the baby open their eyes for a photo, and at that moment, the flash from the phone’s camera can harm the baby's retina.

Taking photos of a baby during the naming ceremony can potentially cause permanent blindness.

Please, let’s be careful. And let’s educate parents and relatives about the dangers of insisting that a newborn open their eyes for photos.

Please share this message so others can benefit.

Abubakar I. Ahmad — SNA Nephrology

Isah Abdullahi Isah

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 5
The courtroom was cold.
Grace sat stiffly on the wooden bench, her fingers clutching the edge of the seat as the judge’s voice echoed through the sterile room.
"Divorce granted."
Two words. That was all it took to end eighteen years of marriage.
Beside her, Michael sat with his head bowed, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. Their three children—Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy—were huddled close to him, their faces streaked with silent tears. None of them looked at her.
Grace’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
Outside the courthouse, Michael approached her, his eyes red-rimmed.
"Grace," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "It’s not too late. We can stop this."
She turned away, but he caught her wrist gently.
"Please," he begged. "For the kids. For us."
For a fleeting moment, Grace hesitated. She remembered the way he used to smile at her in the mornings, the way he’d pull her close during cold nights.
But then Pastor Gideon’s voice slithered into her mind:
"He’s trying to trap you again. Don’t fall for it."
She yanked her hand away.
"It’s over, Michael."
His face crumbled.
Despite everything, Michael didn’t fight her.
Out of love—or maybe guilt—he gave her everything:
- 50 million naira
- A fully furnished house in a quiet estate
- A brand-new car
Their lawyer read out the terms, his voice monotone. Grace should have felt victorious. But all she felt was empty.
When it came to the children, the judge asked them one by one:
"Who do you want to live with?"
Sarah, her eldest, didn’t hesitate. "Daddy."
Daniel, her sensitive middle child, wiped his nose and nodded. "Daddy too."
Little Joy, only six years old, clutched her father’s leg and whispered, "I want Daddy."
Grace’s breath left her lungs in a rush, as if she’d been punched.
They didn’t choose me.
Her new house was beautiful.
Spacious. Quiet. Empty.
Grace wandered through the rooms like a ghost, her footsteps echoing off the polished floors. She slept in the middle of the king-sized bed, drowning in the silence.
At night, she cried until her throat was raw, until her pillow was soaked.
She missed Sarah’s laughter. She missed Daniel’s bedtime stories. She missed Joy’s tiny arms around her neck.
Most of all, she missed him.
But it was too late.
Pastor Gideon visited often, his smile wide and reassuring.
"You’ve done the right thing, Sister Grace," he said, patting her hand. "God is testing your faith. Stay strong."
He brought her scriptures about "new beginnings" and "breaking chains." He told her the children would understand one day.
But when he left, the loneliness swallowed her whole.
One evening, as she scrolled through old photos on her phone, Michael called.
Her finger hovered over the answer button.
Pastor Gideon’s warning rang in her ears:
"If you go back, you’ll regret it. He’ll never change."
She let the call go to voicemail.
That night, Grace dreamed of her old life.
She was in the kitchen, cooking while Michael hugged her from behind, his lips brushing her neck. The children were laughing in the living room.
When she woke up, the house was dark.
And she was alone.
The weight of her mistake crashed down on her.
What have I done?
Days bled into weeks.
Grace stopped wearing makeup. Stopped cooking. Stopped caring.
The money, the house, the car—none of it mattered.
One afternoon, she found Sarah’s hair ribbon tucked in her purse. She pressed it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of her daughter’s shampoo, and broke down.
She wanted to call Michael. To beg for forgiveness.
But pride—and the pastor’s voice—held her back.
Pastor Gideon called her to his office.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice dripping with false concern. "I’ve been praying for you. God has shown me your next steps."
He slid a document across the table.
"Donation to the church’s new building project."
The amount: 30 million naira.
Grace stared at it, her stomach churning.
For the first time, she wondered—
Was this his plan all along?
TO BE CONTINUED...

"I lost my mom at 12. A year later, my dad got married. She came with 2 kids, aged 14 a boy & a 16 year-old daughter. We lived together in the house, with me being the youngest.

I wasn't exactly maltreated, but I was being discriminated against by her children, who always got the best of everything. Growing up in that house was complicated. I did all the cooking & chores, which was a relief compared to what could have been worse - physical abuse. I ate daily meals, though not equally portioned like her kids - they got bigger pieces of meat and extra helpings. I convinced myself it was cuz I was the youngest.

However, my stepmom's behavior changed slightly when I started excelling in school. She would: Compare my grades to her daughters', Limit my study time, saying "house chores won't do themselves" Make subtle comments like "You think you're smarter than my girls?"
Despite this, I still respected her as my dad's wife and the mother of my household. Years passed, & my dad retired from his job. In a shocking move, he agreed with my stepmom to stop funding my education, citing "financial constraints. Despite that i was the most brilliant one in the house.

I was 22 & had to drop out of college to support myself & also helping stepmom in her restaurant business. That's when I met my husband - a rich, kind man who asked for my hand in marriage. My stepmom initially rejected him, saying I was "too young" & offered her older daughter instead. But he insisted on marrying me. When he approached dad, he agreed to our union. The day of my wedding, Stepmom called me into a private room & tearfully apologized for how she had treated me.

I forgave her, & we started Afresh. For over a year, we lived happily. She'd visit me often, helping with advice & support, especially when I became pregnant. Later on, after giving birth to my son, my stepmom visited, with the initial plan to stay with me for at least 6 months helping with nighttime feedings & caregiving tips. But 3 days ago something terrifying happened... While holding my 4-week-old b"by, my stepmom claimed she was "extremely sleepy" & accidentally dropped her. My son was rushed to the hospital, where doctors administered: Oxygen therapy, Phenobarbital to prevent any seizures. Thankfully, my baby is fine now...

A week before this incident, I walked into the kitchen to find my stepmom preparing my baby's bath water - it was scalding hot!. But all she could say was she "forgot" to test the temperature with her hand before putting the b"by in. Luckily, & thank God I intervened just in time, & my baby was unharmed. So now I'm really confused & consumed by doubts: If my stepmom's actions are truly accidental, or actually intentional or could it be just an act of carelessness & if i should still allow her to stay & help for the remaining 5 months, or could my bæby's safety be at risk? Please, help! kindly guide me through this.

Photo by

A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 4
The house was too quiet.
Grace sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the rim of her morning coffee cup, the steam long gone. Michael had left early again—another "business meeting." But this time, something felt different. Her stomach twisted in knots, and no matter how hard she tried to shake it off, the feeling clung to her like a shadow.
She picked up her phone, scrolling mindlessly until a message notification popped up.
It was from an unknown number.
Her breath hitched as she opened it.
"Your husband and his secretary look so cozy together at the Silver Spoon Café. Thought you should know."
Attached was a photo—Michael sitting across from his young, beautiful secretary, their heads close together as they smiled over documents.
Grace’s hands trembled.
She didn’t remember driving to Michael’s office.
All she knew was the burning in her chest, the way her pulse roared in her ears. She burst through the doors, ignoring the startled receptionist, and marched straight to his office.
And there they were—Michael and her—standing close, the secretary laughing at something he said.
Grace saw red.
"Grace? What are you—" Michael started, his eyes widening as she stormed in.
"Who is she?!" Grace screamed, pointing at the secretary.
The young woman stepped back, her face paling. "Mrs. Thompson, I—"
"Grace, calm down!" Michael moved between them, his hands raised. "This isn’t what you think!"
"Then what is it?!" Her voice cracked, raw with betrayal. "Another business meeting? Another late night? How long has this been going on?!"
Michael’s jaw tightened. "Nothing is going on! We were just going over contracts!"
Grace let out a bitter laugh. "Contracts? Is that what you call it now?"
She lunged forward, shoving him hard. Michael stumbled back, shock flashing across his face.
"Grace, stop!"
But she couldn’t. The rage, the hurt, the months of loneliness—it all erupted. She grabbed the nearest thing—a glass paperweight—and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, the sound like a gunshot in the tense silence.
The secretary screamed, scrambling out of the room.
Michael grabbed Grace’s wrists, his grip firm. "Grace, enough! You’re acting crazy!"
"*Crazy?!" She wrenched free, tears streaming down her face. "You’ve been lying to me! You’ve been cheating on me!"
"I haven’t!" Michael’s voice broke. "Grace, please—just listen to me!"
But she didn’t want to listen.
She couldn’t.
The ride home was a blur.
Michael followed her, pleading the entire way, but Grace barely heard him. All she could hear was Pastor Gideon’s voice in her head:
"If you stay, you will die."
When they got home, the children were there—their three beautiful babies, their faces filled with confusion and fear as they watched their parents scream at each other.
"Daddy? Mommy?" little Sarah whispered, her eyes wide with tears.
Grace’s heart shattered.
But she couldn’t stop.
She packed her bags that night.
Michael begged on his knees, his voice broken. "Grace, please… Don’t do this. I love you. We love you."
The children cried, clinging to her legs. "Mommy, don’t go!"
Grace closed her eyes, her hands shaking as she zipped up her suitcase.
Pastor Gideon’s words echoed louder.
"God wants you free."
She turned away, walking out the door without looking back.
When she arrived at the church, Pastor Gideon welcomed her with open arms.
"Sister Grace," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "You’ve done the right thing. God is pleased."
He patted her back, his smile wide. "This is your new beginning."
Grace nodded, but deep down, beneath the numbness, a voice whispered:
What have I done?
That night, alone in the small apartment the pastor had arranged for her, Grace sat on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, staring at her phone.
There were 17 missed calls from Michael.
32 messages from the kids.
And one voicemail—Sarah’s tiny, broken voice:
"Mommy… please come home."
Grace pressed a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob.
For the first time, she wondered—had she made the biggest mistake of her life?
TO BE CONTINUED...