The Written

With Seema G Nair – I just got recognised as one of their top fans! 🎉

THE STORY OUR WORDS
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

There was once a boy named Ayọ̀.
He was gentle, full of questions, full of dreams.
But every morning, he woke to voices that cut deeper than knives:

“You are lazy.”
“You are slow.”
“You will never become anything.”

At first, they were just sounds in the air.
But words are never just sounds —
They are seeds.
And when you hear them again and again,
They take root.

Soon, Ayọ̀ began to see himself through their voices.
He stopped running with the other children.
He stopped raising his hand in class.
Because the mirror he looked into was made of words…
And all it showed him was “nothing.”

One day, tired and broken, he sat under the old tree in the village square.
He whispered to himself:
“Maybe this is who I am… maybe they are right.”

But God never leaves a story unfinished.
That day, an old woman selling oranges walked by.
She looked at him and said,
“My son, I don’t know you… but I see greatness in your eyes.
Don’t you know? Ahọn l’ọba ara — the tongue rules the body.
Don’t let their tongue rule you.
Find your own tongue, and speak your own truth.”

At first, Ayọ̀ laughed bitterly.
How could words change what felt so heavy?
But that night, he remembered her voice.
And he whispered to himself before sleeping:
“I am not nothing. I am loved. I am chosen.”

The next day, he said it again.
The next week, again.
Soon, the whisper became a voice,
And the voice became a roar.
And as he spoke, his heart began to believe.

That is the mystery of the mouth.
It feeds the stomach with food, yes…
But it also feeds the soul with declarations.
Curses enter through it.
Blessings flow from it.
Life and death are hidden in its power.

We are more than flesh and bone —
We are the echoes of everything spoken into us,
And the sum of what we choose to believe.

“Ahọn ni ń pa ènìyàn run, kì í ṣe idà.”
(It is the tongue that destroys a man, not the sword.)
“Ahọn rere dá ilé sile, ahọn burúkú sì lè pa ìdílé run.”
(A good tongue builds a home, a bad tongue ruins it.)

Ayọ̀ learned this truth slowly.
He began to remember the words of God above the words of men.
When they said, “You cannot,” he said, “With Christ, I can.”
When they said, “You are nothing,” he declared, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
When fear whispered, “You are finished,”
He answered with faith: “This is only the beginning.”

And his life changed.
Not because the village stopped speaking,
But because Ayọ̀ chose to believe a louder voice.
He refused to eat the fruit of curses,
And chose instead the fruit of blessings.

For what we declare with our mouth becomes who we are.
We are stories written by sentences.
We are gardens watered by words.
We are temples shaped by truth or torn down by lies.

So I ask you —
What do you believe about yourself?
What do you whisper when no one is listening?
What words are building your tomorrow?

As for me…
I will no longer be the prisoner of their curses.
I will not let bitterness be the harvest of my tongue.
I will not allow fear to write my story.

Instead… I will declare:
“I am loved.”
“I am chosen.”
“I am redeemed.”
“I am more than enough.”

I am the child of the King.
I am the echo of Heaven’s blessing.
I am not what they called me —
I am what God calls me.

So let my mouth be a fountain, not a fire.
Let my words be blessings, not curses.
Let my declarations be light in the dark.
For every word I speak is a seed,
And one day, I will eat the fruit of what I’ve spoken.

This is my truth:
I am the sum of words spoken, yes…
But I choose which ones take root.
And with my mouth,
I will write a story of hope,
A song of life,
A testimony of grace.

MY CUP OF TEA — A TASTE OF LIFE
Ayobami Ayefele Abraham

Life is like my cup of tea.
It begins in the garden of the unseen — small, green, tender.
Every leaf starts soft, full of dreams,
But to release its fragrance, it must be plucked, crushed, and dried.
So before we taste our purpose, we too must pass through pressure.
Pain does not come to destroy; it comes to prepare.
Every leaf that survives the sun learns the beauty of surrender.

Then comes the water — calm, clear, waiting.
It knows nothing of bitterness, yet it carries destiny in silence.
Like some people, it mirrors everything around it,
Taking the shape of every vessel it finds itself in.
Water teaches me that life flows — not always straight, but true,
And that peace is not the absence of movement,
But the grace to flow without breaking.

But no leaf becomes tea without fire.
Ah, fire — the great revealer.
It burns, yes. But it also brings out aroma.
Without the heat, there is no taste.
Without trials, there is no transformation.
Some people run from the flame,
But I have learned that sometimes, God hides blessings in the boiling point.
It is in the burning that bitterness becomes depth,
And fragrance is born out of what could have been forgotten.

Then, there is the cup —
That silent vessel that holds everything together.
It bears the heat, it holds the storm,
And never complains that the world is too hot to handle.
The cup reminds me of people who carry others quietly —
Mothers, fathers, friends who hold the broken without spilling.
The strength of the cup is not in its size,
But in its willingness to contain.
To be steady even when everything inside it trembles.

The spoon comes next — simple, gentle, yet purposeful.
It stirs, not to destroy, but to unite.
Because even sweetness must meet bitterness halfway.
Sometimes life stirs us —
Loss, love, delay, rejection —
All spinning us round and round until everything we hide mixes with who we are.
And when the stirring stops, we taste what we’ve become.
Some call it wisdom. Some call it weariness.
But it is all part of the brew.

Then, the sugar —
That small mercy that reminds me grace still exists.
Some take much — drowning truth in sweetness,
Living in denial of life’s flavor.
Some take none — embracing pain too deeply,
Believing bitterness proves strength.
But balance…
Balance is the beauty of discernment.
Knowing when to add a little joy to the sorrow,
A little hope to the heaviness,
And a little gratitude to every gulp.

And then, the steam.
Ah, the steam — that rising, fleeting spirit that dances above the cup.
It never stays long, but it makes its presence known.
It reminds me of how people come and go —
How some blessings only visit,
And how some memories fade yet remain fragrant.
Even what disappears still teaches us something.
Not every goodbye is grief; some are grace wearing a veil.

Then finally — the sip.
Different tongues, different tastes.
Some say it’s too hot,
Some say too cold,
Some say too bitter,
Some call it perfect.
The tea doesn’t change — only the tongue does.
So I’ve learned that what we taste in life
Often says more about our heart than our circumstance.
For two people can live the same story,
And one will call it curse,
While the other calls it calling.

So I sip slowly.
I let time steep my soul.
I let the heat reveal what’s real.
I let patience draw out what rushing would waste.
And as I hold the cup,
I realize life is not about avoiding the burn —
It’s about embracing the warmth.
It’s not about escaping the bitterness —
It’s about learning what sweetness truly means.

We all have a cup.
Some cracked, some polished, some borrowed, some broken.
But the miracle is not in the porcelain —
It’s in the pouring.
And though my cup may not look like yours,
The steam still rises the same.
The leaf still sings when it meets the water.
And grace still tastes like peace at the bottom of it all.

So yes, life is my cup of tea.
Sometimes sweet, sometimes silent, sometimes steeped in struggle.
But always — always — worth sipping slowly.
Because when you drink it with gratitude,
Every swallow becomes a song,
And even the bitter notes
Become a kind of worship.

There was a time I thought it was over…
When silence became louder than prayer,
When my dreams, once bright,
Fell like dry leaves in harmattan wind.

I tried…
I pushed…
But every step ended at a locked door.
And I said to myself, “Maybe this is it… maybe Grace forgot my name.”

But then… in the stillness of that night,
I heard a whisper that broke the darkness —
“Ọmọ mi, rise again… Grace still speaks "

Grace found me where reason failed,
Where prayers felt empty and tears felt dry.
It wasn’t loud —
It was gentle,
Like a drop of rain on thirsty ground.

Grace didn’t ask if I was worthy,
Grace came because He is faithful.

When man said “It’s finished,”
God smiled and said, “Mo ń bẹ̀rẹ̀ nísinsin yìí — I’m just beginning.”
That’s how Grace works —
It starts at the grave,
And brings resurrection to dead dreams.

Grace —
The river that never runs dry,
Flowing through deserts,
Washing away shame,
Restoring color to faded lives.

Grace steps in when effort fails,
Grace speaks when strength is gone,
And suddenly — the impossible bows.

If Sarah could laugh and still conceive,
If Joseph could rise from prison to palace,
If David could move from the field to the throne,
Then tell me… who says your story is over?

Because Grace — Grace changes everything.

He turned my pain into purpose,
My delay into divine display,
My fear into fuel for faith.
He took my “not enough” and made it overflow.

Ọ̀fé… àánú tí kò ní ètò ayé…
Grace unearned, mercy undeserved.
You picked me up when all was lost,
You called me Yours… when I called myself nothing.

Sometimes Grace hides in closed doors,
Because God knows what’s behind them.
Sometimes He delays,
Not to deny, but to prepare.
For what Grace builds takes time —
And Heaven’s timing never fails

I’ve seen Him turn tears into testimonies,
Failures into foundations,
And fear into fire for revival.

Where logic ends,
Faith begins,
And Grace writes stories that leave the world speechless.

When Grace enters the battlefield,
Mountains melt,
Chains fall,
And destiny awakens.

Ọlọ́run mi ní àṣẹ — My God has the final say.
The Potter is not done with the clay.

He molds broken pieces into beauty,
He paints purpose with pain,
He writes new beginnings from old endings.

I am a living proof of Grace.
I shouldn’t be standing… but I am.
I shouldn’t be singing… but I am.
Because Grace —
Grace carried me.

Every breath I breathe is borrowed mercy,
Every step I take is guided by love.
Even when I doubted,
Grace believed in me.

Grace —
The bridge between my weakness and His wonder,
Between my past and His promise,
Between who I was and who I am becoming.

So when the world says, “There is no way,”
I will lift my hands and say,

“My God makes a way where there is none.”

For this is not a story of my effort,
But a testimony of His endless possibilities.

Grace made a nobody a vessel.
Grace made a mistake a message.
Grace made death bow to life.
And Grace… is still writing my story

Grace found me…
Grace kept me…
Grace is still working in me.

And because of Grace —
I will never be the same again.