📚 A Debt He Never Owed

They say money talks — but in this part of Lagos, it only whispers behind your back, laughing at your empty pockets. I sit by the window of my single room, where the walls sweat in the night and my thoughts sweat on my head.

I’m tired. Tired of promises that never pay. Tired of advice that sounds rich but lives poor. Tired of this vanity — this hungry ghost called money that eats my sleep and spits out shame.

Tonight, though, I refuse to kneel for it.

I grab my pen, my battered phone flickering under the weak bulb. If I must bleed, I’ll bleed ink. I’ll confess stories they dare not whisper in daylight. I’ll turn secrets into paragraphs, confessions into currency. Maybe nobody will pay me today, but someone will read — and that’s how it starts.

They took my pride, my peace, my nights — but they won’t take my words.

This is the debt I never owed — and yet I’ll pay it back, word by word, until I’m free.