“A short story is the ultimate close-up magic trick – a couple of thousand words to take you around the universe or break your heart.” – Neil Gaiman
Today’s short story is inspired by a past event in my life that I’ve reimagined.
The real event happened sometime in 2004, I was a tiny 14-year-old on holiday from boarding school. My dad had picked me up from home to go see a friend of his. I was with my diary at the time and a little purse that had nothing but a clear lipgloss in it. After our return from the visit to Dad’s friend, I left my diary in the car and my dad took the liberty to read its contents. I won’t go into the details of the events that happened later but I decided to stop writing into diaries after that time to avoid my secrets being found out.
Today’s short story explores rediscovery; how a single moment, like stumbling upon an old diary entry, can reopen a forgotten chapter in someone’s life. At the heart of this story is Adaora, a character who thought she had moved on from her past until a chance encounter with her younger self, through the pages of her old diary, brings long-buried memories back to the surface.
This story will explore how those memories, once hidden, can shape and transform our present. For Adaora, the discovery stirs a whirlwind of emotions, forcing her to confront the person she once was and the life she now leads. Sometimes, the past has a way of finding us just when we need it most, even if we’re not ready to face it.
I hope you enjoy today’s story.
Faded Ink
It was a slow Saturday morning in Lagos. Adaora paced through her small flat in Surulere, irritated by the dust that clung stubbornly to her furniture. The Harmattan winds had swept in earlier than usual this year, leaving everything in a thin film of dryness. She had just finished her third cup of tea when the urge to clean took over. If there was one thing she could control, it was the state of her apartment.
She opened the wardrobe in her bedroom, intent on sorting out the clutter she had long ignored. Pulling out old clothes, forgotten bags, and shoes she hadn’t worn in years, she worked until she reached the back corner, where a small wooden box lay, hidden under piles of fabric. It was unremarkable, with its once polished surface now dulled by time. But seeing it sent a jolt through her, like touching a live wire.
Adaora hesitated. The box had been a gift from her mother before she passed, one of those things she had carried with her through multiple moves but never really opened. She knelt and brushed off the dust before prying it open. Inside, nestled among old greeting cards and a faded photo or two, was a leather-bound diary. Her diary.
Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen it in years, hadn’t even remembered it existed.
The cover was worn, the once rich brown leather now cracked at the edges. Adaora ran her fingers over the familiar feel of it, and without thinking, she opened to a random page, her own hurried handwriting filling the yellowed paper.
December 14th, 2003
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Chuka says he’s sorry, but the words are starting to feel empty. I told him today that I needed space, that I can’t keep living in this uncertainty, but I know deep down I’m just scared of what that means.”
Adaora froze. Chuka. The name alone stirred something in her chest, a mix of longing and old hurt. She had forgotten about him—or rather, she had buried him deep enough that she never thought of him. Reading that name now was like unlocking a door she had slammed shut years ago.
She turned the page, her eyes moving over the lines faster now.
“Every time I think of leaving, something pulls me back. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Or maybe it’s the memories—the late-night drives to the beach, the plans we made for a future that suddenly feels out of reach. But today, something broke. He didn’t come home last night, and I didn’t ask where he was. For the first time, I didn’t care.”
Adaora sat back, her heart beating faster. She had written these words almost twenty years ago, back when she was a different person—young, idealistic, and hopelessly in love. She could remember it now, the heady rush of being with Chuka, the highs and the lows, how they had swept through her life like a whirlwind, leaving her breathless but unmoored.
Chuka had been everything back then. They met at a party in Lekki, the type of gathering where half the people in attendance were strangers but somehow felt like old friends by the end of the night. He was charming in that effortless way that left her smiling long after they parted ways. They had clicked instantly. He was working in tech, one of the rising stars in Lagos’ emerging digital space, full of big ideas and wild dreams.
They spent the next few years in an on-again, off-again whirlwind that felt more like a storm than a romance. Chuka was exciting, unpredictable, but also unreliable. There were nights of passion and laughter, followed by days of silence and coldness. And through it all, Adaora had convinced herself that love was supposed to be like this—difficult but worth it.
Until one day, it wasn’t.
Adaora flipped to the back of the diary, to an entry she had written months later.
March 23rd, 2004
“It’s over. For real this time. Chuka hasn’t called, hasn’t even tried. I think I knew this was coming, but the finality of it still hurts. I moved my things out of his place today. It felt strange packing up the life we tried to build together, like packing up a dream I had outgrown. I’m not angry, not anymore. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can finally move on. But there’s this nagging voice in my head, the one that keeps asking if I should have fought harder, if I gave up too soon.”
Adaora closed the diary, her fingers trembling. She hadn’t thought of Chuka in years. After they broke up, she threw herself into her career, starting over in Lagos with a single-minded focus on building a life for herself. Relationships took a back seat, replaced by late nights in the office and the steady climb up the corporate ladder. She had told herself she didn’t need anyone else. But now, with the diary in her hands, those old feelings bubbled up to the surface—nostalgia, regret, and an undeniable sadness for what might have been.
She placed the diary back in the box, but her thoughts kept circling. Chuka had been a significant chapter in her life, one that she had chosen to forget, or at least bury. Now, with the weight of years behind her, she wondered if she had ever truly moved on. The city around her had changed so much since the early 2000s, growing, expanding, much like her life had. But some things—some memories—remained the same, unchanged by time.
Her phone buzzed on the table, pulling her back to the present. She picked it up absentmindedly, staring at the screen. The name on the caller ID made her stomach drop.
Chuka.
She blinked, sure she was imagining things, but there it was—his name, as real as the diary in the box.
Heart racing, she debated whether to answer. What could he possibly want after all these years? What would she even say? Her finger hovered over the screen, torn between curiosity and self-preservation.
Before she could decide, the ringing stopped, and her phone fell silent. Adaora let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Chuka had reappeared once again, just like the diary, reopening a chapter she thought she had long since closed.
But this time, she wasn’t the same person. The 20-something Adaora who had once written those words in the diary was gone, replaced by a woman who had learned to live without him, to thrive in her own skin. Still, as she glanced at the box once more, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter wasn’t finished.
Maybe some stories don’t end. Maybe they just wait for the right moment to resurface, nudging you toward the unknown, toward the possibilities of what comes next.
With a sigh, Adaora picked up her phone and, this time dialled his number.
The line rang.
As I bring Adaora’s journey to life, I’m reminded of how powerful our past can be. A forgotten chapter might seem like it’s behind us, but it often holds clues to who we are today. In writing this story, I hope to capture the delicate balance between remembering and moving forward. The power that our pasts hold to serve as both a reminder and a guide. I might have to come back to this story. I’d like to know where Adaora’s rediscovery takes her.
P/s: If you have any questions about creating content, writing, or the story above, please leave a comment below or DM me on Instagram!
