Muhammad sufyan
Stories (3)
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Her mother's Enemy . AI-Generated.
Chika had never believed in love at first sight until she met Raymond. They bumped into each other at a book launch in Enugu. He was confident, eloquent, and surprisingly humble for someone who came from a wealthy family. Chika was a final-year literature student, living modestly with her widowed mother, Mma Ngozi. Raymond was pursuing his MBA and had just returned from London. They had nothing in common on the surface, yet their souls found connection over poetry and palm wine. He loved how grounded she was. She adored his discipline and vision. Within three months, they were inseparable. But they kept their relationship quiet. Chika wasn’t ready to tell her mother just yet. Mma Ngozi was fiercely protective and often reminded Chika never to "trust the children of men who wear polished shoes and speak sweet English." Eventually, Chika insisted they take the next step. She invited Raymond home for Sunday lunch. As Raymond stepped into the compound, Mma Ngozi froze at the sight of him. Her hands trembled. Chika was confused. Raymond respectfully greeted her, but Mma Ngozi ignored him. She looked at Chika and said coldly, “That boy cannot step inside my house.” After much begging and pleading, the truth came out: Raymond’s father was Chief Damian Obasi—a man who, decades ago, had falsely accused Mma Ngozi of theft when she worked as a secretary in his company. She was jailed for two years. Her fiancé left her. Her life was ruined. Chief Obasi rose in wealth and fame. Mma Ngozi fell into poverty and shame. Raymond was shocked. He had never heard that story. His father, he said, was “a man of integrity.” Chika was torn. Could she continue to love the son of her mother’s destroyer? That night, Raymond went home and confronted his father. At first, Chief Obasi denied it. But when pressed, he finally admitted: “Yes, I did it. She knew too much. She caught me diverting company funds. It was her word against mine. I protected myself. That was business.” Raymond couldn’t believe it. His father showed no remorse. Meanwhile, Mma Ngozi begged Chika to end the relationship. “Love is not stronger than betrayal,” she warned. “If you marry him, you marry my pain.” But Chika loved Raymond—and she had her own mind. The Truth Runs Deeper One week later, Chika received a call from Raymond. “I need you to meet someone,” he said. They met at a quiet café outside town. To Chika’s surprise, Raymond arrived with a woman—his mother. Not Chief Obasi’s wife. The woman introduced herself as Grace. Raymond’s biological mother. She explained she had been Chief Obasi’s secretary... the very same time Mma Ngozi worked there. Grace revealed that she and Mma Ngozi were close friends. When Ngozi was accused, Grace tried to testify but was threatened. Out of fear and silence, she left the country. She later gave birth to Raymond in the UK—after Chief Obasi raped her during that same period. Raymond was not raised by Chief Obasi. He only reconnected with his father in adulthood after returning to Nigeria. Chika broke down in tears. Her mother’s enemy had never truly been Raymond. The real enemy was silence and shame passed through generations. She begged her mother to meet Grace—and they did. For the first time in 30 years, Mma Ngozi found closure. Two women, both victims of the same man, finally stood side by side as survivors. Chika and Raymond decided to marry—but not in grandeur. They held a small village ceremony, with both mothers present, standing united. Chief Obasi was not invited. When he heard of the wedding, he tried to send a gift. Chika sent it back… unopened. Love doesn’t conquer all—but truth, when faced with courage, can heal even the deepest generational wounds.
By Muhammad sufyan6 months ago in Families
The woman who wrote through silence . AI-Generated.
Do you see this woman? She was mocked, dismissed, humiliated, and cast aside… simply because she was born a woman. Her name was Grazia Deledda. Born in the rugged hills of Nuoro, Sardinia — a land where girls were taught to sew, not to dream.
By Muhammad sufyan6 months ago in Writers
Books: The Silent Companions of Life. AI-Generated.
*The Boy Who Found His Voice in Books* In a quiet village nestled between green hills and flowing rivers, lived a boy named Arman. He was shy, always the quiet one in the classroom, the kind that teachers forgot to call on and classmates barely noticed. While others played cricket in the sun or shouted answers in class, Arman sat silently, scribbling in his notebook or gazing out the window. He wasn't dumb — far from it. But the world moved too fast, and his thoughts too deep. Speaking out loud made his throat tighten, and his voice barely left his lips. He feared being wrong, laughed at, or simply unheard. So, he withdrew into himself. One rainy afternoon, while seeking shelter, Arman entered the village library for the first time. The air was filled with the scent of old pages and polished wood. The librarian, an old man named Mr. Raza, looked up and gave him a kind smile. “First time?” he asked. Arman nodded. Mr. Raza pointed to a shelf. “Start wherever your heart tells you.” He picked a worn-out book titled *“The Adventures of Taimur”* — a tale of a boy who, like him, felt invisible but discovered his courage through incredible journeys. As Arman turned the pages, something awakened in him. It was as if the words reached into the places no one else could. He read the entire book by sunset. From that day, the library became his second home. Every day after school, he’d dive into stories — of warriors, thinkers, travelers, and dreamers. With each book, he gained not only knowledge but bits of confidence. The characters became his friends, their struggles his lessons, their triumphs his hope. One day, Mr. Raza noticed the spark in his eyes. “Why don’t you write your own story?” he asked. Arman was startled. “Me? I’m no writer.” Mr. Raza chuckled. “You’re already a reader. That’s how it starts.” Taking the advice seriously, Arman began to write. His first story was rough. The second, a little better. He kept going. In his quiet world, he now had a voice — through ink and paper. Months passed. Then came the annual school competition: *“Voices of Tomorrow”*, where students could share essays, poems, or stories. For the first time, Arman signed up. His classmates were shocked. “You? You’re entering?” one of them whispered. He nodded, heart pounding but steady. That night, he barely slept. Not because of fear — but because he knew this story mattered. On stage, his hands trembled holding the paper. But as he read, the words flowed. His voice was soft but sure. The hall, once full of noise, was silent — listening. When he finished, a few students clapped. Then more. Then all. Arman didn’t win first prize. But he won something far greater: respect, courage, and the realization that *his voice mattered*. Later, Mr. Raza gifted him a leather notebook. “Fill it,” he said. “The world needs your words.” Years went by. Arman became a writer. His books weren’t just stories — they were *lifelines* for kids like him, who felt small and silent. And in every author’s note, he wrote the same line: *“Books were my voice before I found my own.”*
By Muhammad sufyan6 months ago in BookClub
