cisca stories

Title: The Last Tear She Shed

Ella had just become a mother. She should have been resting, healing, and surrounded by love. But instead, her home was filled with tension, pain, and rejection.

From the moment she gave birth, her husband, Daniel, made it clear—her mother, Margaret, was not welcome in their house.
Not to help. Not to carry the baby. Not even to visit.
He said he hated her. He claimed Margaret’s cheerful nature was fake and insisted that people who laughed too much carried wickedness in their hearts.

Instead, Daniel's mother, Evelyn, moved in.

But Evelyn didn’t come to help.
She came to control.

She refused to lift a finger while Ella, just two weeks after childbirth, cleaned, cooked, and washed for everyone—including Evelyn. When Ella begged Daniel to buy a washing machine, Evelyn called her lazy. Daniel sided with his mother and warned Ella that if she kept complaining, he would throw her out of the house and take the child.

One day, Ella fainted from sheer exhaustion. When she told Evelyn, the older woman mocked her, reminding her she had given birth to nine children without ever falling down.

The emotional abuse continued.

Margaret, worried about her daughter, sent some hot pepper soup to help her heal. But Evelyn threw it away. She accused Margaret of trying to bewitch the child. Ella didn’t tell her mother—she didn’t want to make her cry again.

Even when Ella tried to please Evelyn by cooking her favorite soup, the older woman refused it and demanded she cook something else. When Ella reached out to Daniel again, he told her not to challenge his mother and to do as she was told.

That night, because Ella hadn’t washed Evelyn’s clothes early enough, Evelyn stormed into her room and poured cold water on her while she was trying to sleep.

Her body was still healing. Her stitches were infected. She was weak, and her spirit was fading.

When she asked Daniel if she could go stay with her mother and recover, his response shattered her completely.

“If you leave,” he said, “don’t take my child. I don’t want your wicked mother touching him. And if you go, I’ll bring in another woman.”

Ella didn’t cry this time.

She had cried enough.

That night, something in her changed. She stopped begging. She stopped explaining. She started planning.

With quiet strength, Ella gathered evidence—photos of her wounds, recordings of the insults, copies of messages. She reached out to a lawyer through an old friend and waited.

When Daniel traveled for a short business trip, Ella made her move.

With help from a women’s support center, she packed her baby and left the house. She went straight to the hospital. The doctors confirmed she needed urgent treatment.

She filed for custody and damages. With solid proof and a clear medical report, the court ruled in her favor. Daniel lost custody rights and was forced to pay compensation.

Some weeks later, Ella returned—not to beg, but to face Evelyn.
She stood at the door holding her healthy baby, calm and confident.

“You said I was weak,” she said quietly. “But I used my silence to win. I didn’t need to shout—I needed to survive.”

Then she turned and walked away, leaving behind the house that once buried her voice.

Now, Ella lives with her mother in peace. She is healing, stronger than ever, and finally free.

---

Moral Lessons:

Not all wounds bleed on the outside—some tear the soul.

A woman’s silence should never be mistaken for weakness.

Real revenge is not in shouting, it’s in rising quietly.

Every mother deserves love, care, and respect after childbirth.

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cisca stories

“She Died Thinking I Didn’t Love Her

It was just a normal evening.

John came back home from work, tired and moody. His wife, Ada, met him at the door with a smile, holding up her phone.

“Look at this funny video,” she said, laughing.

But John wasn’t in the mood. He brushed past her, saying, “Please, Ada… not now.”

Her smile slowly faded.

She quietly followed him into the kitchen and served his food. He didn’t say thank you.
She tried to ask about his day, but he only gave short answers. He barely looked at her.

She still sat beside him… hoping the mood would change. But it didn’t.

That night, Ada came close to John in bed and whispered, “I love you.”

John said nothing.

He wasn’t angry. He just thought—“I’ll tell her tomorrow. She knows I love her.”

But tomorrow never came.

---

The next morning, Ada left home early. She was going to see her friend. She kissed John’s forehead while he was still asleep.

He didn’t wake up.
Didn’t feel it.
Didn’t know it was the last kiss he would ever get.

A few hours later, John got a phone call.
A car accident.
A drunk driver.
Ada was gone.

Just like that.

---

He dropped the phone.
Fell to his knees.
Tears poured from his eyes as he screamed her name.

He rushed to the hospital, hoping… praying… it was a mistake.

But there she was.
Lying still.
Cold.
Silent.

John broke down completely.

He remembered her smile from the night before…
Her voice saying, “I love you.”
And how he said nothing.

---

Now, every night, John sleeps on her side of the bed.
He holds her pillow.
He talks to her picture.
He cries into the silence.

Because the woman who loved him most…
Died thinking he didn’t feel the same.

---

Moral lessons

🎙️ Dear husbands, wives, lovers…

Please… don’t wait.

Don’t wait to say “I love you.”
Don’t wait to hold their hand.
Don’t wait to forgive… or smile… or be kind.

Life is short.
And we don’t always get a second chance.

Say it now.
Show it now.
Before it’s too late.

Because tomorrow… might never come

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Cisca stories

.
I knew I wasn’t crazy… at least not at first.

The first voice note came on a Wednesday. I was stuck in traffic, bored out of my mind, when my WhatsApp buzzed. It was from Uncle Kalu.

Which would’ve been perfectly normal… if he hadn’t died six months ago.

I stared at the screen so long the guy behind me started honking. "Move joor!" he shouted.

But I couldn’t.
Because right there, under his name:
🎤 0:36 — "Play Voice Note"

Now, curiosity is a devil on its own. I tapped it.

> "Obinna... you’re not safe. They know. Check the green Bible in my wardrobe. Burn it. Don’t trust the woman with the limp."

I nearly flung the phone out the window.
My name is Obinna.
And my uncle did, in fact, have a small green Bible.
Which my mother had locked in his old wardrobe.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I went to my mother’s house. She was frying plantain like everything was normal. I walked past her, straight to the room.

The wardrobe was locked.
She hadn’t touched it in months.

I broke the padlock.
Opened it.
There it was—the green Bible. Small, old, the corners eaten by dust and cockroach teeth.

Inside the Bible?

A SIM card.
And a photo.
Of me… standing with a woman I had never met.
She had a limp.

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Title: “AUNTY MAGGI AND THE GENERATOR WAR”

So for our compound, we get one woman — we dey call her Aunty Maggi.
Nobody sabi her real name. Even NEPA no know am.

This woman dey cook with Maggi like say she dey use am brush teeth. Na only her soup dey smell from Oshodi reach Ikorodu. But na her wahala pass everybody own.

So one Saturday like this, NEPA off light, as usual.

Aunty Maggi come on her generator.
“Greeeennnnnnnnn...!!!”
The thing loud pass church crusade.

Everybody vex. Especially Baba Tunde, our landlord.
He come outside with wrapper and big Bible for hand.

Landlord: "Aunty Maggi! Off that your coffin wey dey shout!"
Aunty Maggi: "No be your fuel I dey use! Mind your holiness oh!"

Before we fit say "Amen", the generator cough twice and off by itself.

Aunty Maggi shout,
"Blood of Jesus! Them don do me! Village people don block my carburetor!"

She carry anointing oil, pour am on top generator.

We just dey watch from window like African Magic.

She try on am again — Greeeeenrrnnnn!!! — the gen explode small, blow her scarf commot from head.

Aunty Maggi run enter house shout:
"Jesus! Na spiritual fire! I dey go fast and pray!"

Since that day, Aunty Maggi no dey cook loud stew again. She now use candle and whisper “Holy Soup” for prayer before cooking.