Tag Archives: real-story

Trouble Walked Up To Me

A young boy collapsed at my doorstep!

I loved corn pudding dearly and he was a corn pudding hawker. I couldn’t resist the urge to call him when he was passing by my building shouting, “Buy your hot agidi jelof! Buy your hot agidi jelof! Hundred hundred naira!”

He was a secondary school aged boy and the first thing that came to my mind was, this boy should be in school. Why is he hawking while other children are in school learning?

I studied him as he got closer with his tray loaded with many wraps of agidi and his neck looking so short under the weight.

He looked tired and worn out and… sad. And I was still thinking of how unfit he looked to hawk under the blazing sun when he toppled and collapsed on the ground  before me, with my toe too close to his lifeless looking body.

I took two steps nackward and looked around as if I knocked him off and making sure no else saw me doing it. The hunger for agidi vanished and those delicious agidi now looked like gravel to me.

“What happened to him?” My neighbour asked from her balcony.

“I dont know.” I said and shove the boy and called since I did not know what else to do.

My concern was this, if anything happened to this boy at my doorstep, people would gather and ask me what happened. And how would I explain to them that I called him to buy agidi only for him collapse before me. How easily would they believe that I did not do anything to him? And who would be my witness when the police would come?

“Take him out of there madam before people go gather on top of your head.” My neighbour said in pidgin English. And she was right. They would gather and ask what happened, and I better have a good answer.

“Come and help me, ma!”

Who? Me? No be me and you. I no wan trouble on top the one wey I don get for my hand.’ I stared at her with my palm hinged on my waist and back at the boy.

The boy turned to lie on his back.

“Please ma, give me water to drink,”  he murmured, his breathing was fast and shallow. I got the water and he drank it.

“What is your name?”

“Ekene,” I stressed my ears to hear him.

“Ekene, are you sick?” He nodded and  roamed his eyes as if he just realised he was in the middle of nowhere. My neighbour joined us. People began to drop one after another asking, what happened to him? Is he sick? And it was my duty to say the same thing over and over again, “I dont know, he collapsed before me.”

“Is he sick?” They kept asking. To this I said nothing. How would I know?

“Are you asthmatic?”  My neighbour asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Who sent you to hawk?” One man asked.

“Please take me to the hospital. If you take me to the hospital, I will be fine.”

“I need to call your parents first. To let them know were taking you to the hospital.” I need a number to call.”

“I dont have parents. Call my madam.”

“Oooooooh! No wonder.” people murmured. “This woman is over-using this boy for her selfish gain. Look at him! Tired and worn out and yet she had the mind to send him out to hawk in his state. If he was her son, would she do this to him? And why didn’t she put him in school like his fellow children?

I listened to their rant as I dialled the number he gave me. A woman answered and I told her what happened. When she said I should put her on a cab to bring him home, I said no. “Come here madam,” I said, ” it’s a matter of life and death.”

“I’m coming,” she said and the line went dead.

People began to disperse, leaving me and him.

“Auntie!” I turned towards him and he said, please I want to ask you for something. I’m sick with malaria but that’s not why I fainted. I fainted because I want money to register for my Senior WAEC. I want you to help me.”


He told me the story of his life. How he dropped from SS3 because no one could help him pay WAEC fees. He had no relative to help him and his little sister. He was the one fending for both of them.

“Who do you live with presently?”

“My employer,” he said.

“She employed you to hawk agidi?”

“Yes, ma. It’s not her fault. I chose to do this to make money for my WAEC, but its hard to save.” At this point I thought I knew what happened. He feigned the whole thing to get me pay his WAEC fee. And he was telling me to my face that he feigned fainting.

I was about to scream his head off when he said, “Ma I didn’t mean you should pay for me. Take me to the hospital and leave me there. I want the doctor to help me get some money from my employer.

I got it. If I took him to the hospital, he would tell the doctor to extort his WAEC fee from his employer by adding some extra cash on his hospital bill..

How amateur his plans! How did he think a responsible doctor could consent to scam his employer?

“Do not do it. I know how much you need this but please stay away from scamming.

He kept quiet. Then he said after a while, “Ma , please when my auntie comes, do not tell her what I discussed with you,. Please.”

I nodded. “But I would if you carried on with your plans.”

“I have changed my mind, ma. I won”t do it. I’ve changed my mind about going to the hospital.

‘You’re not sick anymore?’ He kept quiet. And when his employer arrived, he got up and staggered home by her side. All that I wanted to do was take him in as my child and take care of his need and I wished I had all it took to do that. I wished I could help make his life easy.

I wondered why he could not tell his madam to pay him upfront, instead of using tricks.

Two weeks later I saw him happy, still with his tray of agidi balanced on his head. I asked about his health. He was okay and he did not go to the hospital that day. His madam bought him malaria medicine from a pharmacy. And he sat for his WAEC and the papers were easy.

In the end, I could not help but admired his determination to further his education and how he worked hard to achieve his dream on his own.

I see so many children hawking in the streets. Some of these children have no parents and some have single parents who are disabled or too poor to fend for them.

I like that some African countries have criminalized child Labour but I hope they have something in place to help these children.

More on real stories

Storeal – School Bullies And I

I was bullied for three years as a primary schooler.

It all started when my teachers started assigning me the task of writing the names of noise makers in the classroom. I got beaten after school by macho kids, mostly boys, who got punished because I wrote their names.

We lived in an area surrounded by trees, shrubs and bushes. Some of the pathways to my area were such that one couldn’t see the pathway all through from a viewpoint. There were many sharp bends and corners. It’s at these bends where an adult would likely not come through in time that they did hit me one or two blows and hastened away. They left me only when I cried. And I cried to make them stop. I cried from just one blow.

This part leads to my elementary school

And the funny thing ( not funny at the time) was that each time I reported to the teachers that they hit me, they got punished again and I got hit again.

One of them got reported to the headmaster and he was suspended and the hell was let loose. He became an external terror to everyone from the school because he hid in the bushes and terrified the teachers and the pupils. He threw poop at teachers and used whip on pupils. When he was expelled from the school, it took the village vigilante group to put him in his proper place.

I remember two of them who also beat the “vulnerable” teachers if they failed to give them good scores ( scores they never merited) in any of the subjects. There was one of the teachers, a female teacher in her mid forties who was obviously scared of these troublesome kids. She would push them to success with fake marks and even praise them on the assembly ground. Her plan ( we later learned) was to graduate them so they would leave the school in peace.

There was a time I reported my bullies to my dad and he said I should fight them back.


Fight those macho boys.

I couldn’t even scratch them. My father believed his children should be able to stand up for themselves anywhere and before anyone. In the real world, people stood up for themselves.

In a way that helped to solve this problem because his words made me fearless. Since I’m the one to save myself, I’d better start fighting.

That was how I began to fight them in defence. I was not their match but I used a strategy that scared them away. I stopped being afraid of them. I stopped shrinking when they made a fist. I looked them in the eye without wavering. It took the to overcame my fear though. I made a fist when they made theirs. I kicked when they kicked and I got up immediately I fell from their hitting. And I didn’t cry!!

In the past, they left me when I fell and started crying even though it was a touch of a finger. They would leave me.

From the day I stood up to them and tried to fight them ( even though I was a wimp), they stopped hitting me. They employed verbal bullying and I also stood up to them and matched their words with mine. That’s when they resorted to growling and empty threats.

Why Am I Telling This?

When it comes to defending ourselves, we don’t need to become a lion to fight a lion, or an elephant to fight an elephant. When running away is not an option, and when all help fail to save us, we have to learn a defense mechanism, a defense skill to fight back and save our precious lives. Even if we’re not going to match the strength of our terror, we need to face our fears.

Storreal | Kindness Gone Wrong

A young man got arrested and imprisoned for nine years for a crime he knew nothing about. His only crime was that he accepted to accommodate a friend who he didn’t know was at large for committing a murder.
The young man was a commercial bus driver, doing well in that capacity. Igbo people say that if one cannot get himself into trouble, his garment will do so for him. That was the case with this young man. He was a man who lived a decent life, but he went to jail despite his and decency.         

When his friend came to his house from another state and pleaded with him to allow him to stay in his house for a while, murder was the farthest in his mind. He only saw a friend in need, a desperate friend, and vowed not to cast him away into the cold, dangerous street without a place to lay his head. He didn’t bother to ask questions, for who interrogates a friend in need? So he welcomed him with all his heart.                  
A few days later, he returned home from work only to find out that his friend had vanished. He was still wondering where he could be when heavily armed police officers surrounded his house and ordered him to hand over the criminal he hid in his house to them. That was confusing. The friend he knew wasn’t a criminal. He was a good friend, a well-behaved friend. There must be a mistake somewhere.          
He told them they were at the wrong house. Before he could finish his words, they handcuffed him. They promised to release him when he provides the criminal he had housed. 
They detained him for weeks as they waited for the offender to come and take his place but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t provide a person who was nowhere to be found. The case was taken to court and the case ended thus; since you kept a criminal in your house and helped him to escape going to prison, you are going to face his punishment.                            

In that country, a convicted killer is jailed for life and the fate of this young man became life imprisonment. There was nothing anyone could do about it because the family of the victim was strongly demanding for justice.      
The young man was transferred to a maximum security prison. At that particular prison, inmates smell, see and touch their deaths before they finally die. That’s was the prison this young man was taken to. His family was denied access to him.                                          
For nine years, he spent his life in the prison yard with hard labour. He prayed and cried to God every passing day acquit him. That very year, after nine years closer to his end, the prison door opened for him He was set free. How did it happen? Who engineered his release? He coudn’’t tell. It was a miracle and like a dream.      He is free but traumatised for life.       
Till this moment, the young man who put him in trouble is still, nowhere to be found. He is probably in hiding away somewhere in the world.

Before you agree to do anything, think about it. Before you bring someone you call a friend into your home, know what they are capable of. Some friends have hidden characters. Make sure they are not dangerous.


Storreal is a name for real stories only on Fiez-writer.

Storreal | A Smile Or A “Thank You” Is All She Ever Needed

She was a beautiful girl, kind and in her early twenties. She was standing under a tree on a sunny afternoon.

She wore a blue jean and a white t-shirt. Part of her long hair was held at the crown while the other was left hanging on her upper back. (Not that this description mattered in this story but she’s indelible in my mind)

She was over the phone when this woman in her early fifties came along. I couldn’t help but notice the vivid contrast between the two generations of women.

The woman wore a serious look – with no expression except a little impatient frwon every now and then.

She was well dressed and looked like a high class middle aged worker.

Everything on her body might have tumbled from the collections of the best future designers because to be honest with you, they looked so beautiful and were of high quality. I was admiring her well groomed outlook when she spoke.

“Hi!” She greeted the girl as her eyes moved from her hair to her toe probably measuring her appearance and worth.

‘Good afternoon ma’am.” She said and gave her the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen – straight from the heart.

“I’m lost,” she snapped without returning her greetings as our culture demanded. Her lips was tight – firm.

“Okay– I’m here to help you,” she said jokingly but the woman frowned and I wondered if frowning was her laughter. “Where do you want to go?” The girl moved closer to her.

“I’m looking for the National Library. Do you know where it is?”

“Oh, yes.” She said in a friendly way beaming with smiles but the woman’s face discouraged her from smiling and I noticed she didn’t smile again. “It’s close by – not far from here.”

“You have your car?” The girl asked.

“No?” She snapped.

“Ma’am, at that traffic light, take your right. At another traffic, take your right. Then keep your attention on the left side of the road, you will see the National Library. It’s not hidden.”

“Is it trek-able from here?”

“Yes ma’am but it will be hard to do so on your shoes. You can use a bus. It’s just N30 from the bus stop.”

The woman nodded and walked away. The girl went back to her phone.

End Of The Real Story

But My feeling Is Hurt Here – On behalf Of the Girl.

This is how I think the story should have ended if ever everyone lacked a conscience. If everyone had a cold heart.

By the way the story title should read;

A Thank You Saves You Many Troubles!

As she looked at her phone briefly, the thought hit her; the woman didn’t thank her for taking her time to explain the direction to her.

She quickly put her phone in her hip pocket and hastened up to the woman. She was about to board a bus and her right feet was already on the bus when the girl called.

“Ma’am, it’s not in that direction. It’s in the other direction.” The woman stepped down.

“Why didn’t you call me back before now? Why have you allowed me to get to this extent before calling me back?” She said and the girl remained calm.

‘I’m sorry ma’am. I’m so sorry.’

“Which direction?”

“Go back, pass that tree where I was standing and cross to the other side. Enter the bus there, ” she said feeling excited.

“Follow the traffic right, another traffic right, then keep looking on your left, you’ll see where you’re looking for. I’m sorry ma’am.”

The woman nodded and the girl disappeared.

The woman walked past the tree and crossed to the bus station. Her right foot was on the bus when it occurred to her to ask the bus driver where the National Liberary was.

“Madam, go down there and enter the bus. Tell the driver to stop you at the National Library.”

The woman became frustrated.

“But someone told me it’s in this direction! She yelled at the driver. I’m just coming from that side. What is wrong with all of you in this town? I’ve been misdirected for over an hour now.”

“Madam, I’m not your map, so don’t yell at me! Please step down so I don’t hurt you.”

She grudgingly stepped down and stood there. One man came along and asked her where she was going to but she was sick and tired and refused to talk.

“It seemed as if people here claim they know the direction when they don’t. This is unfair. If you don’t know direction to somewhere and someone is asking you for it, say you don’t know and save the person some inconvenience,” she talked to no one in particular before waving a keke tricycle to a stop.

“Do you know where the National Library is?”

“Yes, ma, but it’s far from here. It’ll cost you not less than N500 to get there.”

“Are you sure you know the place? Why is it that expensive?”

“Yes madam” she entered and the driver took the long route to her destination.

“This is the national library ma’am” she paid him and stepped down.

The End

Storreal – The Broken Ribs Hallucination

I woke up in the dead of the night with the feeling that two of my right ribs had broken off.😄

It’s funny now but it wasn’t that very night – early morning of 2nd February. For me that night, it was a real incident.

When I woke up, all that occupied my mind was that my ribs had broken. I waited for the pain to start and when I didn’t feel the pain, I turned carefully to lie on my back. I raised my head to check at my chest.

I pressed my chest area to feel which rib got broke off and I discovered that two of my lower right ribs were no more.🤭

To confirm it, I tried to align the left and the right ribs, by pressing them at the lower part of the cage to find out the left contained more two ribs and was longer in length than the right rib cage.

I kept feeling the place where the ribs had broken off and it felt soft. I was afraid the fallen ribs were squashing the delicate internal organs.

I thought about the organs that could be relying on the rib cage for protection and recalled the chest cavity, the lungs and the heart from my biology lessons.

Overwhelmed with fear, I wondered what state these organs could be in at that damned moment.

I also wondered if there were internal bleeding and wether I would be able to make it.

I was absorbed in my thought when I felt pain at the spot where the ribs broke off.😞 I felt sharp pain coming from my chest cavity and I knew my condition had began to worsen.

One thing I didn’t do was get up and alert anyone of my condition and request to be taken to the hospital. It could have been a false alarm.

Instead, I kept blaming myself for lying carelessly that night. I blamed myself for breaking my ribs!

I began to worry about so many things.

I recalled one man I knew while growing up. He was a brick-layer from my town. He fell from the top of a building one day and broke his ribs.

We had listened to him talk about what the surgeon who handled his case said- that he must not get involved in any form of physical activity for three years since the ribs takes time to heal.

It hit me that even if I survived the surgery to fix my ribs, I could be confined to my bed or a wheel chair for a long time.

I began to think about my career. What would become of it?

I thought about writing and thought if I could be able to use my hands after the surgery.

I thought about my responsibilities as , spouse, mother, daughter, sister and all.

All these worries took over my peace and I forgot myself and the broken ribs in the worry.

Sleep came to my rescue.

When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did was remember my night and what happened to me and about my broken ribs.

I felt my ribs and noticed they’re there, complete.

They’re not broken off.

They’re there. I’m healthy and strong and the pain which I felt there was no more.

But it felt so real!

I thanked God my ribs weren’t broken after all

Now I know what hallucination is all about. Or do I call it nightmare?🤔.

Whatever it is, I’m glad I didn’t wake anyone up to talk about it.😁

🙏🙏I remember those who are ill in their homes and in the hospital that they soon recover❤❤🙏🙏.


Storreal is not an English word but a word I made up for ‘real story’ used only on this website for real stories. Do not go looking for the word in the dictionary, it won’t be there.🙃