Emotional being,

We are with our emotions
Emotions pokes the tip of my nail
Searching for peace, to find nothing relatable,
living within me, and then to find nothing at all.
The sun pumps my smile – a new plum of smoke
straight into the my awareness,
A loud guilt that pierced through and out.

My face spoke volume, my heart dancing,
eyes sweating out the mental lies, all in the name of fear.
The hardcore realization.
This feeling is loud, lines cemented a hard pillar,
Upon this cliff, ill push on.

Love supersedes every emotion,
Peace contains every mess.
A  dream of hope to find check with my emotions,
In the altar of honesty,
A reality of freedom.

My Emotional being

By: Nonny

The post Emotional check~ By Nonny appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

It all started when I was sexually abused when I was 11 years old

I am 28 years old and the firstborn in a family of 5. My life has always been a mystery. It started when I was 11 years old when my late uncle sexually abused me. My Mum brought her young brother with us. At the time, we lived in a two-roomed house. I was sleeping with my uncle in the living room. We never had a bed, but we used sofa cushions as a bed, so my little brother, uncle, and I slept together using the same blankets. Poor culture and ignorance, correct?

My uncle could take advantage of me in the night by playing with my private parts and rubbing his penis on me. I couldn’t say anything. I kept quiet because he threatened that he would beat me when Mum left the house. I was so angry and lost concentration on myself and at school. One day, I refused to sleep in the sitting room and insisted that I sleep with Mum. My Mum asked me why, but I couldn’t say. She refused as she thought I was childishly seeking attention. The next day after school, I went to my grandma’s place and didn’t return home.

While I was staying at my grandma’s place, my cousin and I were sent to get something from granny’s brother, who is far from her place. As we walked, we came across this man who said he knew me through a relative, although I didn’t know him. He greeted me and asked me about a relative, which made me trust that he knew me. He offered to escort my cousin and me, and we accepted. He suggested that my cousin go alone, and I would join her later as he needed help with something. Because I was young and naive, I agreed. I kept asking him where we were going. He kept saying Tifika manje manje (we will get there soon). Soon, we arrived at this unfinished house. He told me he wanted to pee and that I should wait for him by the door, which I did. He showed me a pack of biscuits and told me to take some. As I reached out to take one, he grabbed my hand and showed me a screwdriver, threatening to kill me if I screamed. The man had everything planned. I was raped mercilessly. I couldn’t scream. He took me back to where I had left my cousin with a biscuit in my hand. I was only 11. I was terrified because I had never gone through anything like that, and it shut me down. I never said a word to anyone until now.

Fast forward to when I was 15years old, my neighbour raped me. He was older than me; I think he was 25 by then, and he called me to go and play chess with him. We sat outside, and then he suggested we go inside as it was sunny. He was alone in the house. We went inside, and he locked the door, pulled me to the bedroom and took advantage of me. Afterwards, he released me as if nothing had happened and threatened to beat me if I opened my mouth.

In 2014, I got into a relationship with a guy. Because of the bad experiences I had had with sex, I could not have sex with him. He cheated on me with another girl and got her pregnant. It was okay for me as I despised sex. He told me that he didn’t want to continue with an ugly girl like me and that I embarrassed him in front of his friends. I let him go. This became a trend for some time, that guys, to a total number of 6, left me because of not having sex with them. I told myself not to date again and to concentrate on school.

In 2016, I finished school and decided to take up a job opening at one of the companies in the industrial area (Halla Industries). I met an older woman who became my friend. We went to work together and left the premises together. Her boyfriend was a soldier. One day, he came to pick her up from work to visit his farm in Kafue. My friend asked me to join them. It was a Saturday, and we arrived in Kafue around 3 pm. We started our journey home at about 6 pm and reached Lusaka at around 8 pm.

The man suggested that he drop his girlfriend first and me later. The girl insisted that he drop me first, but he refused. I was terrified because I knew something terrible was going to happen. He stopped to buy beer and cigarettes. When he returned, he asked me to sit in front of the car. I did. While driving, he started touching me. He drove to an abandoned place, stopped his car, dropped his car seats, removed my pants, and for two hours raped me carelessly. I couldn’t scream. He had a gun and told me that he was going to shoot me if I screamed. I just wanted to die as he did whatever he would have wanted to do with a woman. Finally, he decided to take me home, and when we reached my place, he raped me again before releasing me. He gave me k20 for a morning-after pill and warned me not to tell his girlfriend. Pointing a gun at me, he said if I did, he would shoot me and my entire family.

After this, I completely lost all sense of myself and any feelings of self-love. I hated myself and slept with any guy I called my boyfriend. In 2018, I was 22 and I met a guy who wanted to marry me. We had unprotected sex on several occasions, but to our surprise, I couldn’t fall pregnant. He said he was only going to marry me if I had a child with him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall pregnant. I figured my womb was disfigured because of an early exposure to sex. I went to the hospital, explained everything, did tests, and discovered that my intuition was correct. My womb was damaged. They suggested its removal, but I refused. Upon knowing that, the man fled.

In 2022, I met this angel of a man on an online dating site. He was gentle, God-fearing, loyal, caring, honest and all those things that describe a good man. I told him everything that had happened to me in the past and my condition of childbearing. Guess what? He didn’t care about that. He took me as I was, advised, prayed for me, and told me he would do anything to make me happy. He took me to a private hospital for checkups, and he was only a student at CBU. It was like sunrise for me.

I was so thankful to God that finally, he had wiped my tears away, not knowing what was ahead of me.

In November last year, he became ill and was taken to hospital; I went there to nurse him. They operated successfully, and he stayed in the ICU for three days and then succumbed to appendicitis. It has been 5months since he died. I feel useless. I don’t know what to think or do. I cry every night and day, asking God why it should always be me. Still, people from church and my late man’s relatives came on board, providing counseling, Prayers and words of encouragement. It has helped, but I have not recovered. Losing a loved one is so painful.
This is my story

By: Joyce

Joyce Kapapi on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok

Instagram

The post I am 28 years old, firstborn in a family of 5~ By Joyce appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Charlotte Mugabe, and in 2023, I experienced one of the most challenging periods of my life. On the 3rd of June 2023, I was preparing to go out with my girlfriends to celebrate my birthday, little did I know that day was going to be the start of a fight for my life. I glammed up for the day, and I was looking good, and everything was good. My husband went to drop me off at the restaurant to meet up with my friends. My friends and I had dinner, enjoying good conversation, laughing, and doing all the fun and girly stuff. Behold, all of a sudden, I felt hot and I couldn’t breathe and my heart was beating out of my chest. Everyone started to panic; I panicked as well. I thought that was it, I was going to die. My girls began praying for me, and it got a bit better. I then later went to the clinic that night, and they just dismissed me, saying it could have been something I ate that made me feel that way. 2 days passed, I was better, then on the third day I started to feel weird, like every time I ate I would feel food coming back to my throat and be stuck there.

It was horrible; I went from doctor to doctor with them prescribing the same medicine that would not work, all of them telling me it was due to acid reflux. I did everything they asked me to do, but nothing worked. tried Chinese medicine, Indian medicine, our own traditional medicine, was ineffective. At that point, I had lost a lot of weight and was still not getting answers. We prayed, people prayed from my church, other churches as well, I even gave up on myself, that dying would have made it easier. I remember calling my mother and telling her that I was tired and I just wanted to die. The only time I would catch a break was when I would fall asleep at night. It went on from June to November, still with the same pain but no help. It got to a point whenever I would leave the house I would feel like I am dying (my heart beating fast and having difficulty breathing), even when people came to see me or call me I would get the same feeling, could this be witchcraft I would ask myself I mean I am African, or was I going crazy/mad. I recall a Pastor from my church visiting me with a group of friends.

He saw me, and he was terrified. He then went to tell one of the psychiatrists from church, who later saw me and was able to diagnose me differently from all the doctors I had seen. I was so happy to get a different diagnosis, like this could be it. He said Charlotte, you have an anxiety disorder and this was in December 2023, when I started getting sick in June. No one knew what was wrong with me, which could have prevented all of the drama I went through, as some people do not realise it when they have mental disorders. A lot of women go through this in silence because of so many stigmas attached to the ‘mental illnesses’. I started my healing journey right there after the diagnosis, and I am happy to say I am way better with the help of my family, psychiatrist, therapist and my church family. Also, I wouldn’t have done this without prayer. It has been a journey, I am only sharing a glimpse of what I went through, because Hell is the only word that comes to mind when I think of the journey.

To this day, I still wake up at night and cry my eyes out. I am still here by God’s grace!!!

By Charlotte Mugabe 

Social media handles:

Facebook: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

Instagram: charlotte mugabe-mudavanhu

The post My Mental Health Journey by Charlotte Mugabe appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Postnatal care seems to go hand in hand with the familiar scent of Dettol, the warmth of pap, and the soft puff of dusting powder. But once a child is born, not every mother steps into celebration; some step into waiting rooms, where the air is heavy with exhaustion, debt, and quiet sacrifices. I saw a woman. She had just put to bed, I could tell. Her wrapper was a mess, tied halfway across her breasts like it had given up mid-twist. The wrapper was crooked too—one end stopped at her knees while the other trailed the floor behind her. She walked with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other like the pain hadn’t quite left her hips. Her face was stern. Flasks in one hand, a baby bag in the other. But there was no baby in sight. Just her, moving to and fro. Eventually, she sat across from me, untied her wrapper, and let her breasts hang loose, unbothered by who might be watching. From her bag, she brought out a small feeding bottle attached to a manual breast pump.

She clamped the device down hard onto her nipple. If she felt any pain or decided not to show it, I couldn’t even tell. She pressed and squeezed and pumped—each new clamp with a desperation stronger than the last. I saw it in how she constantly shifted on her seat, in how she took different positions—one time hunched over—and in how she flicked a trespassing braid off her chest. All I could do was will a spill of milk to gush into the bottle. Later, I prayed for just a trickle… just something.

It was hard not to look eager because I was unconsciously shifting towards the edge of my seat. I knew my brows were furrowed too. But nothing.

So I quickly ran the physiology of lactation in my head… I know all that is needed for the milk let-down reflex is touch reception; then afferents are passed to the higher centres, and subsequently, there’s a contraction of myoepithelial cells of the mammary alveoli, and milk flows in unforced rhythms.

But here, there’s more than touch reception—there’s pressure, cruel pressure, that I winced with each clamping. Still nothing. She then used both hands to press and knead the full mass of the breast like it owed her something. Still no milk, not even a drop. She switched to the other breast, but it was the same thing. I watched her body go from effort to resignation in minutes. Her face remained unreadable, but her hands told the story.

She tied her wrapper, this time properly, tightly above her breasts. Then she poured herself a cup of hot tea from her flask. I expected her to sip on it since I could see the steam rise furiously from the cup—but she didn’t. She gulped it all in one go. I don’t know what hit me more,
whether it was her silence or her desperation.

There was another woman. I first saw her while she was still pregnant, pacing up and down, hands pressed into the small of her back like she was trying to hold herself together. The next day, her stomach had deflated. I knew she had delivered.

I found her again, flanked by women in mismatched ìró and bùbá; and I caught my first glimpse of her baby—a girl, pink, wriggly cutie, perfect.

A little girl. So beautiful that she didn’t fit into the scenery the shrouding relatives painted. The baby was just in a class of her own, oblivious to the worry set deep in her mother’s eyes, to the endless stream of people passing by, to the mismatching of ìró and bùbá that all the women
donned like aso ebi, totally oblivious to the smell that is particular to the front of the maternity ward.

For the next two days, I saw the mother walk in and out of the maternity ward, baby in tow. But on the fourth day, something had changed. She was sitting on the bare floor near the neonatal unit, chatting with other women, her child at her breast. The baby’s pink had dulled. She still looked heavenly, but she was beginning to settle into the reality of her surroundings. Days passed. Then weeks. I watched them become permanent fixtures of the waiting room. It hit me then: hospital bills hadn’t been paid. She couldn’t remain in the ward anymore. Owó bed—bed fee—was piling.

She now slept on flattened biscuit cartons while the baby slept in a mosquito net cot. That initial worry on her face had hardened into despair. I watched her loneliness. I saw it in the way she walked—her head hung low, her shoulders hunched, footsteps slow, as though trying not to be noticed. I saw it in the three changes of clothes she rotated. In the way she asked a fellow waiting roomer for a sachet of water like it took everything in her to form the request. Also, I didn’t see any visitors around her again since the day after her delivery.

After three weeks, I got to see the baby’s face again. I saw her legs first, covered in reddish streaks and rashes. I was alarmed. Then, her face. She no longer looked like a newborn. Her eyes had already been lined with kohl, her stare jarring. How quickly she blended into the background weighed on my mind. I walked by faster that day—I needed to.

I wondered about the father. Then I got angry. At the situation. At the man. I don’t even know the full story, but in my head, I needed to pin the blame on someone. So I imagined him as a useless man, wasting his meagre earnings on burukutu. But when that made my chest feel too
tight, I changed the script. Maybe he was out there, struggling, trying to raise money. I let myself believe that too. But nothing worked really, so I muttered, “God abeg.”

One day, after five weeks, their corner was empty—they were gone. I missed the celebration and prayers I knew the other waiting roomers must have made at the news of their discharge, but I was relieved nonetheless.

There was another mother. She stood out—not because of herself, but because of her child. For four days, the waiting room had a new kind of brightness, and it was her child. The child was biracial—half Nigerian, half Asian. Her features were unmistakable: the curly long hair, the
small pink lips, the squinty eyes, and the flattened face. She couldn’t have been more than two years old, but she carried herself like someone who knew how much she stood out. She wore joy like it was her birthright, and she didn’t mind showing off her incomplete dentition at every given chance. She bounced around the room like it was a stage she was born for. Everyone gushed looking at her, and she returned the favour by giving high-fives and returning every smile with bigger ones—as if she knew that the waiting room needed lots of comic relief.

But her mother though… she looked like someone trying too hard and barely holding on. She was young—definitely in her twenties. She was bleached fair in complexion—you could tell because her knuckles, knees, and elbows had remained loyal to the essence of melanin. Yet, you
could clearly see that she was a beautiful woman. Her upper arm was tattooed with roses and some words that were already fading out.
The tattoo, though it had lost its shine, had become a different kind of artwork… one caught up in the meshwork of stretch marks that made their way out from her armpit. The sinewy stretch marks crawled across the ink. The bloom looked collapsed, and a rose stalk appeared to have been broken by the trespassing stretch marks.

Though rose tattoos are quite common, I wanted to hear the story behind this particular one. Maybe it’s partly because the tattoo looked like something entirely different or because this woman looked drawn and unkempt—a sharp contrast to her daughter.

Then it dawned on me—she’s trying so hard to keep her biracial kid on the pedestal. It showed in the way the girl was always dressed like she was ready to strut the runway. The fancy blouses, bouncy skirts, her curls styled differently each time, how each day came with different sneakers and crocs. The girl stood out. She didn’t fit the narrative of the room. She stood out too much. Just like a diamond in the rough… yet someone’s treasure.

The mother was making a sacrifice. She didn’t care how she looked. All her effort, all her money, all her attention went into that little girl. She wanted the world to see beauty where it hurt the most.

I never figured out why they were waiting roomers. I never knew their story. But for those four days, I watched a mother pour everything she had into making sure her child looked untouched by the weight of their reality. Maybe that’s what they mean when they talk about the joys of motherhood. But here, in the waiting room, those joys don’t always come wrapped in lullabies or pastel-coloured baby blankets. Sometimes, they look like a woman begging her breast to produce milk, while imploring a device determined to mock her. Sometimes, they look like biscuit
cartons and mosquito nets. And sometimes, they look like broken roses on bleached skin while a daughter spins in sparkly shoes.
Different mothers. Different stories.
Same waiting room. Same ache.
And still, somehow… same love.

By: Adeoluwa Deborah

The post The Joys Of Motherhood By Adeoluwa Deborah appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

To the first man I fell in love with…

We live far apart now,
But in my heart,
You never really left.
Memories of us warm my days,
And though I miss your touch,
I keep you close in my mind.

Years and miles may separate us,
But my love for you stays true.
Every little thing, a song, a scent,
Brings you back to me.
I still dream of your laugh,
Your hands, the way you looked at me.

Late at night, before sleep takes me,
I imagine your voice,
Your arms pulling me near.
And when the sun rises,
I find myself wishing
just once more, to hear you say my name.

We were so young then,
Two hearts full of fire,
Clumsy and brave in love.
Now, time has changed us,
But what we had stays bright.
Even after all this distance,
A part of me is still yours.

So until life brings us together again,
Remember this…
You were my first love,
And that never really fades.
Wherever you are,
Know that somewhere,
I still hold you gently in my heart.

The post To The First Man I Fell In Love With appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

The Awakened: A Call To Those Who Resonate

Was it a crime that we chose the godly route?

Was it a crime that we decided to learn the godly way?

Was it a crime we submitted to spiritual authority?

Was it a crime we were willing to learn?

There were numerous alternatives. Yet, we chose this path. Willingly!

We still questioned whether our choice was right, as it looked like alternatives already.

Who dares question authority? Threats to lay curses when you do! Sigh! I digress!

I asked. Is Christianity slavery? Is Spirituality bondage?

Was it not meant to make destinies, truncates destinies?

Was it not meant to make us bloom?, we met our doom!

Gosh! I digress!

Every day for the thief. One day for the owner.

We can’t stay silent forever.

WE ARE AWAKENED!

And to those we ran to for rescue, that became our worst nightmare. Worse than those we flee.

Plenty things they sum up for this gospel! If this is what your gospel teaches. Then, I’m out. Scratch that. I’ve been out for a long time.

Not religion. Not doctrine. Not denomination. But GOD!

If you want to serve God, serve God. If no alternative, you do. Focus. No they confuse us! Enough of the facades!

GOSH! WE ARE AWAKENED!

#TheAwakened by Oluwa Gbemisola

Brand With Gbemi || Professional Brand Strategist (@real_oluwagbemisola) • Instagram photos and videos

(20+) Facebook

The post The Awakened~ By Oluwa Gbemisola appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

If I knew today was the end of the world,
I wouldn’t have woken up.
I wouldn’t have forgotten to make my bed,
I wouldn’t have rushed out without kneeling to pray.
Instead, I scrolled on my phone till past eight,
I envied those I did not personally know.

If I knew the world was ending today,
I would have eaten more and taken a bath to wash away the buggy eyes on my face.
A result of staying up too late yesterday,
Trying to replace the hours for the job I hate.

If I knew the world was ending today,
I would have called to tell my parents,
“I’m sorry I never said thank you,”
Especially to my father,
Before he passed away.

I would have fulfilled the promise I made to myself ten years ago-
To travel the world and look fear straight in the face.
Because I’ve been so afraid
To live an authentic life,
To do the things I wanted to do.
But now that the day is coming to an end,
And the earth hasn’t shaken,
I haven’t felt any earthquakes,
And there’s a possibility of another day.
If I knew the world wasn’t ending today,
I will wake up early and remember to pray.

Maybe even start that hobby,
I’ve always said I would.
I will make my bed and take a warm shower.
I will eat so much food until I say,
” I thin I’ve had enough for today”
I will call my parents and thank them for all they did-
Maybe if I had done that before hearing the news of my father’s passing,
I would finally be at peace.

If I knew the world wasn’t ending today,
I will quit my job and use the money I’ve saved
To write beautiful poetry,
Then travel the world and visit all the places I’ve always wished to see.

Because I’m tired of saying I would have,
And I want to live a life of ” I will”

By LuSee

The post I Will~ By Lucy appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

Curled up on the floor,
At the corner of my room feeling sour.
Few nights I cried myself to sleep,
Yesterday was day four.

Cascade of emotions and thoughts,
Nostalgia and regret taking the fore.
What should I have done differently?
For this, I have fought with my thoughts.

I’m so angry – sad and angry at love.
Damn angry because love is biased:
It happens to some,
And doesn’t for some.

Love they say is beautiful and awesome,
But to some it is like Faith in Hebrew 11:1
Substance of things hoped for…
They waited. It never comes.

Explain to me:
How some get it on a platter?
How it rains on them like confetti
Rose petals in different colors?

Looking at myself I asked:
Will I ever feel these butterflies?

The answer is YES.
Oh yes, you heard me —
YES.

Because I’m loved by God,
And He loved me first.
Regardless of my obscurity,
He found me perfect.

Yes – because though I tried 99 times,
It doesn’t mean I won’t get 100.
This is a YES to love again,
For God loved me into love.

With this understanding,
I must do some dusting
And change my perspective,

I choose to love me first,
And rightly,
So others may love me right.

And cheers…
To love again.

By Faith Ojochogwu Mathins

Facebook: Faith Matins

The post Yes To Love Again~ By Faith Ojochogwu Mathins appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

“Words unsaid, scenes unfold, secrets untold, in his eyes we behold”.

Partner in crime, you made me.
What a beautiful way to frame it.
With me on the cover page,
In a newspaper? In this time and age?

What use is information written on paper?
Till you went on and made it public!

Now the streets know my name,
I’m on everyone’s lips,
How could a newspaper spread feed go more viral than an Instagram post?

Been caught in an act that you directed,
Only so I can take the fall, pay for the crime,
While you taught the glory of having found me!

One day, your cup shall run over, just like mine did.
Spilling over with the same content you filled mine with.

A parasite’s delicacy, red and beaming, carrying strands of innocence in the
bloodstreams, the very thing you feed on.

I won’t be available then to put on display.
Because you already have me caged in an undersized frame.
You’d make a good model for advertising the precise meaning of

CONDESCENSION.

By: Jessica Nsude

The post Condemnation~ By Jessica Nsude appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

The joy of knowing I didn’t lose you—
The solace of knowing it could have been so much worse.
The pain you carried,
The self-hatred that consumed you,
I felt it.

The feeling of helplessness,
hopelessness, and despair
You tried to cover with your jokes,
I felt that so painfully
When I saw you on the
hospital bed in Maitama.

I saw how frustration and disappointment
Seeped into your body,
Weighing you down.
And yet, through the hurt,
You did everything to shield me.

You always made sure there was food on the table,
Clothes on my back, shoes on my feet.
You gave love,
Even when it meant sacrificing your own needs and reputation.

I remember you standing tall,
When someone wanted to harass me,
You were not going to have any of it.
You fought to protect me,
Even if it meant putting
Yourself through the fire.

Now, I wish I could go back—
To be the little girl holding your hand,
Sitting close to you in church,
Running to you for comfort.

I wish I could relive the days
When you wrapped wedding gifts on Saturdays; our duo weekend out,
Or let me model Kampala gowns for your customers.

I wish I could sleep beside you

At night I have nightmares about horror movies I watched during the day.
I wish we could go back to our kitchen in Kubwa
Time when I was learning how to cook Jollof rice a
And it always ended up under- cooked or overcooked.

But,
Now, I need to be your grown daughter.
I want to release you from your guilt,
The guilt that whispers you didn’t do enough,
The pain that convinces you of failure.
You gave everything,
And I see that now.

I want to hold your hands,
Like you once held mine when I was a child.
I want to look into your eyes and tell you,
“It’s going to be okay,”
Not just to comfort you,
But because I truly believe it will.

I want to shield you from hurt,
The way you shielded me.
But how can I protect you,
When I can’t even protect myself?

Poem and portrait by Mercy aka Itohan Ekle

By Mercy @vien_aout

The post YOUR GROWN DAUGHTER appeared first on Sheevolves.world.