Ruth Writes

They tell you, “You’re of marriageable age now.”
Like it’s a promotion. Like you’ve unlocked some sacred level of life.

But then you step outside and watch.
You see wives at home, holding down entire worlds on their backs—children, bills, dignity—while the men who stood before God and family drift through life like vows were just background music.

You see “good men” with secret phones.
You see loyalty turned into a joke, and commitment treated like a temporary subscription.

And suddenly, marriage doesn’t look like a dream.
It looks like a gamble.
You start to wonder—
Is it love, or is it endurance?
Is it partnership, or is it quiet suffering dressed in tradition?

Because nobody prepares you for this part—
The disillusionment.
The moment when what you were taught clashes violently with what you see.
So you laugh. Not because it’s funny.
But because it’s absurd.
Absurd that something so sacred can be handled so carelessly.

Absurd that the same society that pressures you to marry is the same one full of examples that make you hesitate.

And deep down, you’re not against love.
You’re not against marriage.

You’re just against entering something blindly
—when you’ve already seen how easily it can lose its meaning.

I’ve seen it happen too many times.
A woman, full of life—
loud laughter, sharp mind, soft glow you can’t ignore.
She walks into marriage like she’s stepping into something beautiful, something mutual, something alive.
And then… something shifts.
It’s not immediate, not loud.
It’s subtle.
Her laughter gets quieter.
Her opinions get softer.
Her presence—smaller.
Like she’s folding herself, piece by piece,
to fit into a space that was never built to hold all of her.
And the strangest part?
She’ll still sit across from you and sell you the dream.
Tell you, “Marriage is sweet.”
Encourage you, almost urgently, to join her.
And you find yourself wondering—
Does she not see it?
Does she not feel the dimming?
Or did she feel it once… and learn to call it peace?
Because sometimes, it’s not that the light goes out.
It’s that it’s been trained to flicker quietly.
Taught that being less is being good.
Conditioned to believe that shrinking is maturity.
And maybe she believes what she’s saying.
Maybe that’s how she survives it—
by renaming the loss into something noble.
But from the outside, you remember her.
The way she used to take up space without apology.
The way her energy filled a room before she even spoke.
And you can’t help but question—
If becoming a wife means becoming less of yourself,
is that really a glow…
or just a well-decorated dimming?

THE ALBUM THAT PLAYS IN MY HEAD.

Anytime I fail at something,
Anytime things don’t go exactly as I planned.
That voice creeps in.
Tiny at first.
But loud enough to echo.
Persistent enough to convince me it is mine.
For so long, I believed it.
I called it my inner voice, “self-reflection.”
But it is not.
It is external.
Learned.
Imprinted into my nervous system.
A soundtrack written by someone else’s judgment,
someone else’s cruelty,
someone else’s idea of what I am worth.
It has been playing for years.
Ten years old, twenty years old —
the same refrain repeating:
“You are not enough.
You are worthless.”
Now it sits in my subconscious,
like an album on repeat,
title etched in all caps: WORTHLESS.
And the girl I was at ten,
the one who first heard it,
still recognizes it.
Still flinches when it plays.
Still tries to reason with it,
even though she knows —
this voice is not her own.
I hear it in my chest.
I feel it in my shoulders.
I sense it in my breath before I speak,
in every small mistake, every unmet expectation.
But here’s the truth:
I am learning to skip the track.
To eject the album entirely.
To recognize the voice for what it is —
not a reflection of me,
but the residue of someone else’s control,
their cruelty, their unearned judgment.
I am teaching that ten-year-old girl —
the one who still flinches —
that mistakes do not define us.
Plans that fail do not erase us.
Being human is not proof of worthlessness.
It is proof of trying, surviving, living.
I am reclaiming my inner soundtrack.
Writing new tracks in the key of resilience,
choruses that say:
I am enough.
I am worthy.
I am alive, whole, unashamed.
And the girl I once silenced?
She is learning to laugh again.
To speak again.
To trust that her voice matters most.

The WORTHLESS album still exists.
But it no longer controls the speakers.
I am the DJ now.
I choose what plays.
I choose what echoes.
I choose what nourishes the girl I protected
by shrinking herself,
and the woman I am building
out of every track they tried to force on me.
And she — the ten-year-old me —
finally feels safe enough to dance.

Ruth Writes

That stage is the refusal.

It’s the moment tolerance curdles into clarity.
When what you once “let slide” starts feeling like an insult to your own spine.
It’s called:

Boundary activation — when your nervous system stops cooperating with disrespect
Post-self-abandonment awareness — when you realize how much of yourself you gave away to keep others comfortable

The self-respect threshold — the line you cross and can’t uncross

It’s the stage where:

Sarcasm stops being funny and starts sounding like contempt

“That’s just how they are” turns into “That’s not how you treat me”

Silence feels heavier than conflict.

Shrinking becomes more painful than being labeled “difficult”

You start calling things by their real names.
Not because you want drama —

but because peace built on erasure finally costs too much.
People who benefited from your tolerance will call you changed.
They always do.
But you’re not angry.
You’re done participating in your own disrespect.

That’s the stage where survival ends
and self-respect begins.

And there’s no going back from it.

Ruth Writes.

What I Mistook for Love

I mistook silence for peace.
I mistook patience for strength.
I mistook their control for care,
their lies for truth,
their manipulation for intimacy.
I gave myself away in fragments,
thinking love required smaller versions of me.
I bent until I cracked,
smiled until it hurt,
stayed quiet until my voice disappeared entirely.
I blamed myself for their cruelty.
I justified their words.
I cataloged every excuse,
every “I didn’t mean it,”
every “you’re too sensitive.”
I mistook survival for submission,
and submission for love.
But I remember now.
I remember the fear they taught me to swallow.
I remember the moments my instincts screamed
and I silenced them.
I remember the cost:
my body, my mind, my joy.
And now I am learning the opposite.
Now, I hear my voice before it’s stolen again.
I feel my body before it flinches.
I recognize the lies before I forgive them.
I am learning that love never hides in fear,
never hides in sarcasm,
never leaves you smaller than you came.
I am learning that the version of me they wanted
— quiet, pliable, disappearing —
was never me at all.
So I will not shrink anymore.
I will not negotiate with disrespect.
I will not mistake control for affection.
I am reclaiming every fragment
I gave away,
and I am putting myself back together
in a shape that refuses to be erased.

Ruth Writes

Self-Blame After Leaving an Abuser

Leaving an abuser is an act of courage.
But strangely, freedom doesn’t always arrive quietly.
Sometimes it comes carrying guilt.
After you leave, the mind begins to rewind: Why

did I stay so long?
Why didn’t I see it sooner?
Why did I allow this?

This is where self-blame tries to move in.
But abuse is designed to confuse.
It erodes clarity, not intelligence.

It slowly rewrites reality until survival feels like consent and endurance feels like love.
You didn’t stay because you were weak.
You stayed because you were human — because you hoped, adapted, tried, and believed things could improve.
Those are not flaws. Those are qualities that were exploited.
Self-blame after escape is the nervous system’s last echo of control.
For a long time, blaming yourself may have felt safer than confronting the truth:
that someone chose to hurt you, manipulate you, or diminish you.
But responsibility does not belong to the one who endured.
It belongs to the one who abused.
Leaving proves something important: Your clarity returned.
Your strength resurfaced.
Your instinct to protect yourself survived.
Healing is not punishing yourself for the past.
Healing is honoring the part of you that finally said, “Enough.”

You are not late.
You are not stupid.
You are not complicit.

You are free — and learning how to stand in that freedom without turning against yourself.
Be gentle.
You already did the hardest part.

When love is Impossible, we say it was just a crush!

IMPOSSIBLE LOVE.

The rain had been falling since morning, turning the dusty streets of Ilorin into slow rivers of red clay. Ayo didn’t mind the walk home — not when he knew he’d pass by the big white house at the end of the lane.
Mrs. Adesina lived there — the mother of his best friend, Tunde. She wasn’t like the other parents. Where they barked orders, she spoke softly. Where they complained, she listened. Ayo never understood how a woman could carry so much sadness in her eyes and still smile so kindly.
He first noticed her one hot afternoon after school, when she came to pick Tunde up from school, She had looked tired, sitting in her sleek car, the kind of vehicle Ayo only saw in magazines. Ayo and Tunde walked to the car.
Good afternoon Mrs Adesina. Ayo greeted.
Tunde who's your friend? She asked. Mom, this is Ayo my best friend, he responded!
The one down the street? She asked! Yes Mrs Adesina. Ayo responded.
Okay! Come on Boys let's go, Tunde gesture Ayo to get in the car, and they drove off.
On the drive home, Tunde and his mother talked about the day they both had for what seemed like forever, it was possible they had forgotten there was a third party, before Mrs Adesina caught Ayo's gaze from the rear view mirror🪞.
So Ayo, how are your parents? She asked.
My mom is fine, should probably be at the shop right now! Ayo responded!
And your dad? She asked again!
My dad died when I was little. Ayo responded!

That is sad, she paused,what does your mum do? She added
Ehhh! She's ehhh! Ayo stuttered.
Mom the lady we bought grapefruits from last night at the junction before the expressway, that's Ayo's mom.Tunde explained.

Oh! She does fruit business. She said while pulling into her drive way.
Ayo do you mind joining us for lunch? She asked.
something inside him shifted — a question he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
From then on, he found excuses to visit — borrowing books, helping with errands, fixing small things around the house. Each visit was a test of restraint. He could feel the weight of the distance between who he was — a 17 years old boy from a one-room apartment — and who she was, a woman born into privilege, now cloaked in quiet grief.
Sometimes, when she watched him talk, he caught a flicker in her gaze — part curiosity, part loneliness. But she never let it stay long. Her walls were built with elegance and regret.
One evening, after helping her carry groceries inside, the generator failed and the lights went out. The silence was thick. He could hear the rain outside and the soft rhythm of her breathing nearby. He took a leap of faith, he reached out and held her hands.
“Ayo,” she said finally, her voice low. “You shouldn’t keep coming here so often.”
He nodded, though his heart clenched. “I know.”
“People will talk,” she continued. Then, after a pause, “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

He swallowed, unsure how to respond. The air between them felt charged — a mixture of longing, fear, and the truth they couldn’t speak aloud.
When the lights returned, her expression had changed — composed again, untouchable. She thanked him, pressed a few naira notes into his hand, and turned away.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Ayo stood for a moment, watching the house glow softly against the dark sky. He knew he would still come back — not for money, not even for friendship, but because something in that house mirrored the emptiness inside him.
And maybe, he thought, that was love — the kind that never got a chance to be pure.

The following week, Tunde stopped talking as much.
He wasn’t angry, not at first. But Ayo could tell something had shifted. The jokes that used to echo down the school corridor now died halfway through. When they walked home together, Tunde no longer invited him inside.
Ayo didn’t ask why. He already knew.
Rumors had a way of spreading faster than harmattan fire. Someone had seen him leaving the Adesina compound late one evening. By morning, whispers had turned into stories — stories that grew teeth.
At school, a few classmates laughed behind his back. “Ayo the rich man’s servant,” one sneered. “Or maybe something else.”
He tried to ignore them, but the words bit deeper than he let on.
That weekend, he decided to stay away. He spent the evening by the stream, tossing stones, watching the reflection of the moon dance across the water. But when he looked up, he saw her — Mrs. Adesina — standing across the bank, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale in the moonlight.
“Ayo,” she called softly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He almost smiled. “You shouldn’t be either.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The night felt too still, too fragile. She looked tired again — the same quiet sadness he had noticed the first day he met her.
“People are talking,” she said. “And Tunde… he’s hurt. He doesn’t understand.”
Ayo lowered his gaze. “Neither do I,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
She stepped closer, her voice trembling. “You remind me of who I used to be — before all this. Before my husband left. Before I started living in a house that feels too big and too empty.”
He wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Then maybe it’s not me you’re seeing. Maybe it’s your past.”
That made her flinch. The silence between them thickened. Finally, she turned away.
“Go home, Ayo. Please.”
When she walked back toward the dim lights of her estate, Ayo stayed by the water, listening to the crickets hum. The distance between them wasn’t just class, or age, or circumstance — it was something deeper, carved by loneliness and the cruel timing of life.
By Monday, he and Tunde spoke again — brief, careful words that pretended nothing had changed. But every time Ayo saw Mrs. Adesina’s car outside the school gate, he felt that quiet ache in his chest again.
Some loves, he realized, are not meant to be lived — only survived.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon, the kind of day when the air felt too heavy to breathe.
Tunde hadn’t come to school. No one said why, but Ayo knew. A sinking feeling sat in his stomach all day, like the calm before a storm.
When he finally walked home, he saw the familiar black car parked outside his house — Mrs. Adesina’s.
His mother was at the shop. The compound was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. She was standing by the gate, still in her office clothes, her face hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He hesitated, then nodded and led her inside.
The small room looked even smaller with her in it — her perfume clashing with the scent of palm oil and soap. She didn’t sit. She just stood there, hands trembling slightly, her voice low.
“Tunde knows,” she said. “He found the letters.”
Ayo froze. He had written those letters — unsent, hidden in a notebook. Words he never meant for anyone to see. Somehow, they had found their way to Tunde.
“He came home angry,” she continued. “He said he never wanted to see you again. He thinks…” Her voice cracked. “He thinks something happened between us.”
Ayo turned away, his chest tightening. “Nothing did.”
“I know.” She stepped closer, searching his eyes. “But sometimes the truth doesn’t matter when a heart feels betrayed.”
He could see the pain in her face — not just guilt, but fear. The fear of losing the only People who made her life feel less empty.
“I’m sorry,” Ayo whispered.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said softly. “You were kind. That’s all.”
Then she did something unexpected — she reached out and touched his cheek, her hand trembling. It wasn’t romantic. It was something sadder — a goodbye between two people who had met in the wrong life.
When she left, the air in the room felt thinner.
That evening, Tunde showed up at Ayo’s door. His eyes were red, his voice hoarse. “You could’ve told me,” he said quietly.
Ayo looked at him, unable to speak.
For a long time, they just stood there — two boys divided by silence, class, and a woman they both loved in different ways.
Finally, Tunde said, “My mum’s leaving. She got a job in Abuja. We’re moving next week.”
Ayo nodded. He didn’t try to stop him. There was nothing left to say.
When the car finally drove away days later, Ayo stood by the road and watched until the dust cleared. The white house at the end of the lane would stay, but it would never mean the same thing again.
And in that stillness, he understood:
Some love stories don’t end in fire or betrayal.
They just fade — quietly — leaving behind a shadow that never quite lets go.

Five years later, Ayo stood at the edge of the university campus, watching the rain fall the same way it had that first day outside her gate.
He was taller now, leaner, with calloused hands and the calm of someone who had learned to carry silence like a second skin. He was studying literature — something few from his neighborhood ever dreamed of. His professors said he had a gift for stories that ached.
Sometimes, in the middle of writing, he’d catch himself thinking of her — Mrs. Adesina — though he no longer dared to say her name aloud.
He had heard that Tunde was abroad now, studying business in London. That the house in Ilorin had been sold. That she had never remarried.
He never tried to find her. Some people, he realized, live inside you long after they’re gone, like a song you can’t stop humming even when you’ve forgotten the words.
One evening, while reading under a leaking roof, a letter arrived. The envelope was plain, no return address. Inside was a single line written in familiar handwriting:
“I hope you’ve found peace, Ayo — the kind neither of us had the courage to hold.”
He sat there for a long time, the paper trembling in his hand. The rain outside softened into a mist, and in its rhythm, he thought he heard her voice again — gentle, distant, and full of unspoken things.
When he finally folded the letter and placed it inside his notebook, he didn’t feel the ache anymore — only gratitude.
Because some loves, he now understood, are not meant to last a lifetime.
They’re meant to teach you how to live one.

Ruth Writes

FOLLOW FOR MORE!

My sister and I, pregnant by the same man

LOVE ON A LAVA EPISODE 4: The ghost 👻 in my memory

For days after seeing Lydia and David, my mind refused to rest.
Every time I closed my eyes, flashes of that night came back — pieces, sounds, half-finished thoughts.
A door slamming.
A voice whispering my name.
The faint metallic clink of that bracelet.
But no matter how hard I tried to stitch the memories together, they slipped away like smoke.

The pregnancy made everything worse.
The nausea, the fatigue, the dizzy spells — they blurred the line between reality and dream.
I started keeping a journal, hoping that writing might anchor my thoughts.
Day 1: “I keep hearing the same sound — like something metallic dropping. Bracelet? Key? Can’t tell.”
Day 3: “Dreamt of someone’s hand on my face, saying, ‘It’s okay. Don’t fight it.’”
Day 5: “The smell — whiskey, and something else. Medicine?”
Each entry was a little more frantic, a little more desperate.
Until one night, I received another envelope under my door.
No note this time. Just a small flash drive.
Inside it was a single folder labeled EVIDENCE_02.
My heart hammered as I opened it.
Inside were medical reports. Mine. From a different hospital.
The date: one week after the night at the bar.
I didn’t remember ever going to another hospital.

The report showed sedatives detected in bloodstream.
High levels of Midazolam — a drug used to induce memory loss.
The world seemed to tilt.
Someone had drugged me that night.
I scrolled further — the report included the name of the doctor who handled the case: Dr. Benjamin Olawale.
My own doctor.
The same man who told me I was six weeks pregnant.

My hands shook so badly the laptop nearly slipped from my lap.
Why would he hide this? Why hadn’t he mentioned any of it?
The next morning, I went to the hospital.
I didn’t make an appointment. I didn’t knock. I just walked straight into his office.
Dr. Ben looked startled when he saw me. “Miss Anna? What are you doing here?”
I dropped the printed report on his desk. “You tell me.”

He froze. His gaze darted from the paper to my face, calculating.
“Where did you get this?”
“That doesn’t matter. You told me I was pregnant, but you never said anything about the drugs in my system. Why?”
He sighed, removing his glasses, his tone measured. “You were in no condition to handle that information. You had been through trauma.”

“Trauma?” I snapped. “You mean I was assaulted?”

His silence was louder than any answer.
I stepped closer, my voice trembling. “Who brought me in that night?”
He hesitated. “A man. He didn’t give a name. Said he found you unconscious outside a club. He paid in cash.”

“Did he leave any record?”
“No. And when I tried to contact you later, your number had been disconnected.”
That didn’t make sense. I’d never changed my number.
I took a deep breath, feeling something inside me snap. “You covered it up.”
He looked genuinely pained. “Anna, listen to me—”

“No. You listen,” I said, voice breaking. “Someone drugged me, violated me, and then made sure I’d forget it. And now I’m carrying the proof inside me.”
I left the hospital trembling.
The air outside felt too bright, too loud.
The truth had finally begun to take shape, and it was uglier than I could have imagined.
There were only three people who had both access and motive:
David, the man who’d betrayed me.
Lydia, my sister, whose bracelet appeared in the footage.
Dr. Ben, who’d hidden the medical report.
And one man who didn’t fit — Ethan, who’d saved me that night.
Or had he?
That night, I confronted Ethan again.
He looked older, more tired than before. When he opened the door, he didn’t even act surprised. “You found the reports,” he said quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded.
“Because I wasn’t sure you were ready to hear the whole truth.”
My voice rose. “Then tell me now.”
He hesitated, then nodded and motioned for me to sit. “You were right. That night wasn’t an accident. Someone spiked your drink. The men who followed you into the restroom were hired to make it look like you were with someone willingly.”
My blood went cold.
“Why?”

“Because David needed to discredit you. He had embezzled money from your business, and you were about to find out. If you were publicly humiliated—pregnant, drunk, and disgraced—no one would believe you.”
I could barely breathe. “So Lydia helped him?”
Ethan’s eyes flicked to the floor. “Yes. She was in on it. But something went wrong. One of the men panicked when you started screaming. I was already in the hallway when it happened. I heard you.”
I swallowed hard. “You stopped them.”
He nodded slowly. “I tried. I got you out before the worst could happen. But someone else followed us — one of David’s men. He hit me. When I woke up, you were gone.”
My mind was spinning.
The pieces were falling into place, but one question burned louder than the rest.
“If you weren’t there when it happened,” I said softly, “then who…?”
He looked at me, guilt clouding his eyes. “Anna, I’ve gone over that footage a hundred times. The faces were blurred. But whoever did it… they wanted you to forget. And now, they want to make sure you never remember.”
Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and paled.
“What is it?” I asked.
He turned the phone to me.
It was a message. No sender ID.
Stop digging, Anna. Some truths are better buried.
The room felt suddenly colder.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew this wasn’t over.

The past wasn’t done with me yet.
And the ghost hiding in my memory was getting ready to show its face.

Episode 5 coming soon!

Follow

Ruth Writes

God is all forgiving, if it was in the time of the Law Of Moses, those days wey God be Tinubu, if you lie, you die, you chop offering money you die🤣🤣, now wey Jesus don pay our debt and God don comot hand for our neck, but Una they try very hard to Provoke the Gentleman!
God I no follow ooo😂😂😂