Dear Diary,

Let me introduce myself to you because from now on, you will be my confidant and companion. Mine is a family of five; my younger brother and sister and my parents. I am the first born and the first girl (you know what that means). My family lives in one of the choicest part of Lagos, and we seem to be a happy family, but, anytime I’m home, happiness is an holy grail. You’ll get to know why later.

I’d be sharing with you some things that make me unhappy and the things I’m not bold enough to tell my parents. I actually have no one to talk to, so I chose to let you into the secret of my heart so I do not choke on my pains and hurts. I hope I can trust you with my secrets.

By the way, I am Boluwatife Amao, I am 14 years, and I am your new friend. This is just an introduction. When I come visiting again, you’ll know more about me.

Heart Aches.

Dear Diary,

I have come to tell you of my heart aches and the sorrows of my heart. I never thought it possible that you could be all happy when you’re hanging out with friends or you go to pursue a passion and when you get back to the place you call home, you become morose and mum as though you were in the midst of strangers.

I love coding and programming and I often attend the girls coding class I enrolled for to occupy my time during the holiday. That seems to be my only form of happiness and you will often see me in my elements when I’m together with my fellow girls.

This ought not to be the norm and it really makes my heart to bleed. Your family should be a part of you and make you happy, but in my case, we seem to be familiar strangers and mere co-habitants under the same roof. My heart is heavy day and night as to how the relationship between my family and I in particular degenerates. I can count the number of words we speak to each other, and it usually doesn’t go beyond the perfunctory ‘good morning’, ‘what are we eating?’ and ‘goodnight’.

There is no form of deep communication where we share about how our day went and bond over games or activities. As a result of this, I’ve resigned into solitude and it keeps getting my parents mad as to why I do not relate with other members of the family. Little do they know that their words, actions and inactions daily drives me into my shell and I find solace in coding.

At this point in my life it seems the only thing keeping me in this house is a place for the daughter of Amao to lay her head and food to keep her belly, as well as the necessary financial support. Many times I’ve pondered in my heart, but I’m yet to summon up courage to ask my father if truly I am his child. I would have had reasons to doubt him if it was positive had it been that I could not be mistaken as his daughter.

This is all I have to say about my heart aches. Till I come your way again, make sure no third ear knows of this.


Dear Diary,

I thought parents are the ones responsible for feeding their kids emotional life, but why is my case different. Why do my family members add to my emotional instability. Pardon my manners, I’m meant to say a hello at least. I trust you’re good.

I’m such an emotional kid and I often crave attention. At least if not from anyone, from my family members, particularly my parents. However, the atmosphere in my home doesn’t speak of affection. It looks to me that I am the bad egg of the family and the recluse who doesn’t know how to socialise.

I guess my parents are not aware that when their kids begin to get outside, the attention that is supposed to be given inside, then a problem is brewing in the kettle. I’m sure that they are not aware the child becomes vulnerable and becomes susceptible to outside influence.

I can count the number of times I’ve had a good belly laugh with my family and anytime they see a frown on my face (my custom look at home) they begin to talk at me, pointing out the reasons I have to change so I can be a good example to my siblings. Well, though I’m bothered about my emotional wellbeing which has long been neglected, I do not seem to appreciate any overture of goodness to me from them because it looks to me that that part of me has become numb as a result of constant injury. I can only thank God because I have found a Sympathetic Lover who understands all my pains and still loves me despite my shortcomings though I find myself doubting His love. Well, it is not entirely my fault. I do not see the expression of love around me and I do not know how to express it.

I have to go now, best friend. My attention is needed in the gathering room. I just hope I come out fine.


Dear Diary,

Silently they trickle down, having been stockpiled for days and just one touch makes it burst out with the only eye witness being my pillow. My many heartaches, internal emotional struggle only me can relate with. No one to share it with save my Father, and at some other time, I drown my pain with the sounds of music.

I make a lot of sacrifices, but not sufficient to the ones closest to me. With the words they spew from their mouths, my heart bleeds and the fountain of tears from my heart is let loose. The tears only me can understand are the tears I shed, and when I’m done weeping, I speak to God without uttering words because my mouth is quite heavy. I do not know when this will end, but I know it will end someday. Either in death or in rapture, I cannot tell. All the pain, all the hurts and the anguish of my hearts I’ll kiss goodbye someday.

From the depth of my heart I write this, I’ll never want this for my kids. A point at which I do not know the state of their affairs, but talk at them for their shortcoming or misgivings. It may happen to me, but it must never happen to them. At this point, all I can say is “it will be well. I’ll understand it better by and by. Till then, I know I’ll come out better and stronger.”

Dear Diary,

Don’t mind me if the last one sounded poetic. You know good poems are sometimes birthed through pain.Thanks for being a good confidant and friend. I just want to inform you that I’ll be asking miss Kemi to help me publish it on her blog so that my experience can change people for good.

Till I come your way again, I am Boluwatife Amao. I love you.

This is a true story shared with permission of the person involved. Names and some other details have been changed to protect the identity of the person.