Shebi Heartbreak doesn’t Kill?

Heartbreak will humble you. It will show you shege. It will show you pepper. And if you’re not careful, it will show you the way  to Yaba Left.

But no qualms.

Because my own wasn’t just heartbreak. I was juggling emotional damage, a dying CGPA, and a professional exam that my mother paid heavy money for.

Let’s start from the beginning.

It started at 100 level. I met this boy—tall, fair, and now that I’ve healed, honestly not even that fine. Back then, though? He had that “mysterious guy with deep thoughts” aura. You know the ones that walk slowly like they’re carrying heavy purpose? Turns out it was just confusion. But I fell sha.

The red flags were red-flagging from the start. But my eyes were seeing Orange and my coconut head said, “Let’s see how it goes”

He was emotionally unavailable, controlling, dramatic—always trying to micromanage my entire existence. He didn’t like me going out, didn’t like my friends, and always found a way to make me feel like I was too much or not enough. 

But I stayed. You know how those Nollywood movie make you believe nonsense to be love, it’s like that. 

Can I just say—Nollywood needs to stop packaging abuse as romance. All those “bad boy with trauma and deep voice” movies? Y’all ruined us.

As someone that grew up in a home where I was genuinely loved and cared for, I should have known better. But at the time, I thought the chaos was part of the romance.

To make matters worse, there was this girl who liked him too, and I—I must confess—hated her for it. Looking back, I wonder how I was beefing someone over a boy who couldn’t even text with punctuation. Shame dey catch me small.

By 200 level, I wasn’t myself anymore. I was constantly anxious. My skin started breaking out, my appetite disappeared, and I cried more times than I can count. My emotional battery was drained. I’d cry in the bathroom, wash my face, and go sit in class like nothing happened. All because of one very useless boy.

Eventually, I gathered the scraps of strength I had left and ended it. I broke up with him. But guess what? I was still the one carrying heartbreak like a cross. Me, that ended it, was crying like I just got divorced with three kids. 

My CGPA dropped like crypto. I was mentally exhausted, emotionally numb, and on top of everything, I had a professional exam around the corner. The same one my mum had been saving for, praying over, and reminding me to pass like her entire destiny was tied to it.

The pressure that year was wild. My brain couldn’t rest. Everything felt like too much. But one day I looked at myself in the mirror, puffy-eyed, broken, and said, “You better get up. Nobody is coming to save you.” 

So I did.

I started praying. I cried most times into my pillow, wiped my tears, then created a reading schedule. I cut off distractions, stopped checking his WhatsApp story, and started focusing on the only thing I could control: my comeback.

That semester, I gave school everything I had. I poured myself into my books like they were therapy. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to him. I just wanted to save myself from falling apart.

The results came back: 7 A’s, 2 B’s. And I got a  literal “Letter of Commendation” from the Vice Chancellor himself. 

Can you believe that? Happiness wants to finish me. That was my best result in undergrad.

And guess what? I still failed that professional exam. And honestly? I didn’t even care anymore. Because I made it through.

I survived the kind of heartbreak that was trying to finish me on all fronts. I didn’t just survive it—I found pieces of myself in the process. I realized I didn’t need anyone to validate my worth. I didn’t need chaos to feel like I was in love. I didn’t need to shrink myself to be chosen.

Looking back now, I’m grateful for that heartbreak. Because it broke something that needed to go. It exposed how easily I abandon myself when I want to be loved. And it reminded me that no boy or no situation is worth losing myself over.

So yeah, heartbreak showed me shege. But it also showed me who I could become when I chose myself—again and again.

And to the boy — wherever he is — I hope he’s still trying to figure out how to use sense.