Femi Gabriel Adesipe

EPISODE FIVE : THE THAT NAME CAURSE
The Name Becomes a Blessing
(Destiny Confirmed by Action)
The rainy season returned.
The same heavy clouds.
The same restless wind.
The same kind of night he was born.
But this time, the storm did not come with memory.
It came with crisis.
The Collapse
In the middle of the night, a loud crack split the village.
One of the old huts near the stream had collapsed under the rain. Inside were a mother and her little daughter.
Panic spread quickly.
Men shouted. Women cried. Children huddled under shelters.
“The water is rising!” someone yelled.
The stream had overflowed, rushing dangerously close to the fallen hut.
No one moved immediately.
The rain was fierce.
The current was strong.
The night was dark.
And then someone said it.
“Malomo! Stay back!”
The name rang through the storm.
Old instinct tried to rise —
Be careful. Protect him. He is fragile.
But something had changed.
The Choice
Malomo was now older, stronger. He had trained himself quietly — running daily, helping with heavy farm work, refusing to live cautiously.
He looked at the rushing water.
He heard the faint cry of the little girl trapped inside.
His heart pounded.
Fear was there.
But it was no longer his master.
He stepped forward.
“I can fit through the broken side,” he shouted over the rain.
“Don’t!” someone cried.
“Malomo!”
He turned briefly.
“When you call my name,” he said firmly,
“Call it with faith.”
And before anyone could stop him, he ran.
The Rescue
The water reached his knees, then his waist. The mud sucked at his feet.
The broken wall of the hut leaned dangerously.
He squeezed through a narrow opening.
Inside, the little girl was crying beside her injured mother.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice steady though his body shook.
“I’m here.”
He carried the girl first, fighting the current on the way out. Two men grabbed her from his arms.
Then he went back.
The second trip was harder.
A wooden beam shifted. The water rose higher.
But this time, he did not hear “Don’t die again” in his mind.
He heard something different.
You will live fully.
He lifted the woman carefully and staggered toward the opening. The villagers rushed forward and pulled them to safety.
The crowd erupted — not in fear.
In awe.
A New Meaning
Later, under a calmer sky, the elders gathered.
Baba Jide stood.
“Tonight,” he said slowly,
“We witnessed something.”
He looked at Malomo.
“A name born from fear… has produced courage.”
The father stepped forward, his voice breaking.
“When I named him, I was afraid to lose another child. I never imagined he would be the one to save others.”
He turned to his son.
“Malomo no longer means ‘Don’t die again.’”
He paused.
“It means ‘Life that refuses to disappear.’”
The village murmured agreement.
From that day, when his name was called, it carried power — not panic.
Destiny Is Lived, Not Given
Malomo never changed the letters of his name.
He changed the story attached to it.
He proved something greater than tradition, greater than fear:
A name may be given in weakness,
but destiny is confirmed in action.
Final Reflection
Words are seeds.
Names are declarations.
But agreement determines outcome.
You may have been called:
Failure.
Stubborn.
Trouble.
Unlucky.
Not enough.
But like Malomo, you can decide what your name will mean from this day forward.
Because destiny is not chained to the fear that introduced you to the world.
It is unlocked by the courage you choose to live with.
THE End. Femi Taiye REV.A A NDAKO Facebook for Creators Adesipe Gabriel Femi

EPISODE FOUR: THE NAME OF CAURSE
When the Village Whispered
(Resistance to a New Identity)

After the speech, nothing looked different.
The huts still stood.
The market still bustled.
The same sun rose over the same red earth.
But something invisible had shifted.
And not everyone liked it.
The Whispers Begin
At the village well, two women spoke in low tones.
“That boy talks too much now.”
“He should be careful. Names are not toys.”
“He is challenging tradition.”
Near the elders’ square, a few old men shook their heads.
“In our time, children did not redefine what their fathers gave them.”
“It is pride.”
Word travels fast in small places.
Soon, Malomo began to feel eyes on him.
Not the gentle eyes of protection.
But measuring eyes.
Testing eyes.
The Test
One evening, as the sun sank low, an elder called him.
It was Baba Jide — respected, feared, and known for guarding tradition.
“Come here, Malomo.”
The name sounded heavier again.
He walked forward carefully.
“I heard your speech,” Baba Jide said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You speak well. Too well.”
A pause.
“Do you think you are wiser than your father?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you think you understand spiritual matters better than your elders?”
Malomo felt the old fear rise like smoke in his chest.
This was the moment.
The old version of him would shrink.
But he remembered the square. The applause. His father’s hand on his shoulder.
“I do not think I am wiser,” he said respectfully.
“But I believe words can grow.”
The elder’s eyebrows tightened.
“Explain.”
“My father named me from fear,” Malomo continued softly.
“But fear is not a curse. It is protection. I only chose to let the protection become strength.”
The old man stared long at him.
The air felt thick.
Finally, Baba Jide exhaled.
“You are walking a dangerous road,” he said.
“When a child begins to reinterpret things, others may follow.”
Malomo lowered his head.
“I do not want rebellion, sir. I only want freedom.”
The Inner Battle
That night, doubt returned.
What if they are right?
What if I am being proud?
What if something bad happens now?
Fear always fights hardest when it feels replaced.
He lay awake, listening to the insects outside.
Then he heard something else.
His father’s voice from the other room.
“He spoke well,” his father was saying to his mother.
“I did not know he carried such thoughts.”
Silence.
Then softly:
“Maybe I have been holding him too tightly.”
Those words healed more than the applause ever could.
Growth Threatens Control
The truth is simple:
When one person breaks free from a limiting story,
it forces others to question theirs.
Some people celebrate your growth.
Others feel exposed by it.
Malomo was not fighting spirits.
He was confronting mindset.
And mindset resists change.
A Quiet Confirmation
The next morning at school, the teacher handed back their essays.
On his paper, she had written:
“Your voice is becoming clear. Guard it. Grow it. Use it wisely.”
Underneath, she added:
“Living fully requires courage daily.”
He folded the paper carefully.
This was not about one speech anymore.
It was about consistency.
Identity is not proven once.
It is lived repeatedly.
The village is watching now.
Some are waiting for him to fail.
Some are secretly hoping he succeeds.

And in Episode Five, Malomo will face a moment that will either confirm his transformation — or pull him back into the shadow of his old name.
TO BE CONTINUE.............. Femi Taiye REV.A A NDAKO Adesipe Gabriel Femi

EPISODE THREE : THE CHILD NAME CAURSE
The Day He Spoke Back to His Name
(Breaking the Agreement)

The village gathered for the annual Cultural Day.
There would be dances. Drumming. Storytelling. Recitations by the schoolchildren.
And this year, something new —
a speech competition.
Topic: “Who Am I?”
When the announcement was made, the class buzzed with excitement.
Malomo felt something rise inside him.
Not fear this time.
Something else.
A pull.
The teacher noticed his eyes.
“You should enter,” she said quietly.
He almost laughed.
Me? Stand before the whole village?
But the question from the previous week still lived inside him:
What if I am more than what they feared?
That night, he could not sleep.
He sat outside under the moonlight and whispered his name into the darkness.
“Malomo.”
Don’t die again.
For the first time, he did not feel small saying it.
He felt… angry.
The Agreement
He began to understand something.
A name can be given.
But meaning can be accepted.
Without knowing it, he had agreed with the fear attached to his name.
He had cooperated with it.
Protected it.
Lived inside it.
But agreements can be broken.
And silence can be challenged.
The Speech
On Cultural Day, the village square was full. Elders sat in front. Parents stood behind. Children crowded everywhere.
His name was called.
“Malomo!”
A few people chuckled softly, as they always did when the meaning crossed their minds.
He walked forward.
His legs trembled.
He looked at the crowd — at his father, at his mother, at the elders.
Then he began.
“My name is Malomo.”
The square quieted.
“It means ‘Don’t die again.’”
Murmurs.
He swallowed.
“But today, I want to tell you who I am.”
A pause.
“I am not the child who almost left.
I am the child who stayed.”
Silence deepened.
“I am not fear.
I am strength.
I am not a warning.
I am a witness.”
Some elders shifted in their seats.
He continued, stronger now.
“My name was given from pain. I understand that. My parents were afraid to lose me.”
He turned slightly toward his father.
“But I am not their fear. I am their future.”
The teacher’s eyes filled with tears.
“And from today,” he said, voice steady,
“When you call me Malomo, I will hear something different.
Not ‘Don’t die again.’
But ‘You will live fully.’”
The last words echoed.
“I choose what my name means.”
A Shift in the Air
No one clapped immediately.
The words were too heavy.
Then slowly, one clap.
Then another.
Then the entire square erupted.
His father did not clap at first.
He was staring.
Something was breaking inside him too.
The old fear.
The old guilt.
The old memory of lost children.
And then — he stood.
Walked forward.
Placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“My son,” he said quietly, but loud enough for many to hear,
“You will live fully.”
For the first time, the name sounded like a blessing.
The Power of Redefinition
A name does not control destiny.
Agreement does.
And on that day, Malomo withdrew his agreement with fear.
He did not change his name.
He changed its meaning.
And that is more powerful.
Because destiny shifts the moment identity shifts.
But growth always invites resistance.
Not everyone in the village is comfortable with this new boldness.
TO BE CONTINUE...................... Femi Taiye Facebook for Creators Adesipe Gabriel Femi REV.A A NDAKO

EPISODE TWO :
When Fear Becomes Identity
(The Invisible Script)
Malomo was not beaten.
He was not abandoned.
He was not cursed publicly.
But something quieter was happening.
Every time he climbed a tree too high, someone shouted,
“Malomo! Be careful!”
Every time he coughed, his mother’s eyes filled with terror.
Every time he tried to join rough games with other boys, an elder would say,
“Leave him. You know his story.”
His story.
He began to notice something — the other children were allowed to fall.
He was not.
They were allowed to fight.
He was pulled back.
They were allowed to dream loudly.
He was told, “Just thank God you are alive.”
At first, it felt like love.
But love mixed with fear can quietly build a cage.
The Invisible Script
There are words spoken over a child.
And there are words spoken around a child.
Malomo heard both.
“He is the one that almost left us.”
“Handle him gently.”
“That name is powerful.”
No one said he was weak.
But everyone treated him like he was fragile.
And when a child is treated as fragile long enough, he begins to live carefully.
Malomo stopped running as fast as he could.
He stopped arguing even when he was right.
He stopped raising his hand in class.
Not because he could not.
But because deep down, a quiet script had formed:
I am not here to win.
I am here to survive.
The Day of the Race
One hot afternoon, the school announced a running competition.
The winner would represent the village at the inter-school sports day.
The boys trained after class. Dust rose behind their feet as they sprinted across the field.
Malomo was fast.
Very fast.
Even he was surprised.
One of his friends whispered,
“You can win this.”
But when he told his mother about the race, her face tightened.
“Running like that? What if you fall? What if something happens?”
The old fear returned.
That night he lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
If he ran with all his strength, he might win.
If he fell… what then?
The name echoed in his mind.
Don’t die again.
The next day, when the whistle blew, Malomo ran.
But not fully.
He held back.
And he came second.
Everyone clapped.
“Good boy,” they said. “That is enough.”
Enough.
But inside, something hurt.
Because for the first time, he knew:
He did not lose because he lacked ability.
He lost because he was afraid to outgrow his name.
Identity Is Repetition
Identity is not formed in one moment.
It is formed in repetition.
Repeated fear.
Repeated caution.
Repeated reminders of “who you are.”
The most dangerous prisons are not built with walls.
They are built with words.
Malomo was not fighting sickness anymore.
He was fighting expectation.
A Question Begins
Later that week, the new teacher called him aside.
“I watched you,” she said.
“You slowed down.”
He said nothing.
She continued softly,
“Who told you that you must always hold back?”
He had no answer.
But for the first time, a question was born inside him:
What if I am more than what they feared?
And questions are powerful.
Because questions are the beginning of freedom.
Malomo is starting to wake up.
But awakening is uncomfortable.
TO BE CONTINUE............... Femi Taiye REV.A A NDAKO Facebook for Creators Adesipe Gabriel Femi

EPISODE ONE : THE CHILD NAMED AFTER A CURSE.

(Words, Naming, and Destiny)

The rain fell the night he was born.
Not the gentle rain that sings on rooftops, but the hard rain that beats the earth like it is angry. Inside the small mud house at the edge of the village, a woman screamed in labour while thunder rolled across the sky.
When the baby finally came, he did not cry immediately.

The midwife slapped him gently.
Still silence.
She slapped him again, harder.
Then at last, a thin cry escaped his lips — weak, almost reluctant, as if he was unsure he wanted to enter the world.
Outside, an old woman shook her head.
“This child,” she muttered, “has come with a heavy spirit.”
The father stood in the corner, restless. This was his fourth child. The first two had died before they were five. The third was constantly sick. Fear had already built a house in his heart.
When the baby was cleaned and wrapped, the midwife handed him over.
“It is a boy,” she said.
But instead of joy, the father felt anger. Anger at poverty. Anger at loss. Anger at fate.
Three days later, the naming ceremony was held. Relatives gathered. Neighbours whispered. The air carried tension more than celebration.
In their culture, names were not just labels. Names were prophecies. Names were declarations. Names were spiritual signatures.
The grandfather cleared his throat.
“What shall the child be called?”
Silence.
Then the father spoke, his voice tight.
“Call him Malomo.”
The room shifted.
Malomo.
‘Don’t go again.’
‘Do not die again.’
It was not a blessing.
It was a plea born from fear.
Some nodded in understanding. Others felt uncomfortable. But no one objected.
And so the child was named — not from hope, but from anxiety.
The Weight of a Word
From that day, every time his name was called, it carried memory. It carried grief. It carried expectation.
“Malomo!”
Don’t die again.
When he fell sick at age three, the name was shouted with desperation.
When he ran too far from home, the name was screamed in panic.
When he failed in school, whispers followed:
“Maybe the name is fighting him.”
Malomo grew up hearing his name like a warning. Like something fragile. Like he was always on the edge of disappearing.
He began to believe something about himself:
I am the one who almost didn’t stay.
Words as Seeds
Words are not empty sounds. They are seeds.
When planted repeatedly, they grow roots in the mind.
A child named “Failure” will hear defeat before he tries.
A child named “Trouble” may begin to act like one.
A child named “Blessing” often walks differently.
Malomo did not understand why he felt smaller than others. Why fear followed him. Why he avoided risks.
But deep inside, the message was clear:
Survive. Just survive. Do not attempt too much. Do not shine too brightly. Just stay alive.
His name had quietly shaped his destiny.
The Turning Point
One afternoon, when he was twelve, a new teacher arrived in the village school. She was not from there. She did not know the story behind the names.
During roll call she paused.
“Malomo,” she read slowly.
“What does your name mean?”
The class laughed.
He lowered his head.
She waited.
Finally, he whispered, “It means… don’t die again.”
The room fell silent.
The teacher looked at him for a long moment.
“That is not your destiny,” she said gently.
“That is your father’s fear.”
Something shifted.
For the first time, someone separated him from the word.
She continued,
“You are not ‘don’t die again.’ You are ‘you will live.’ There is a difference.”
That day, a crack formed in the wall the name had built around him.
Reflection
Who named you?
What was spoken over you before you understood language?
Many destinies are quietly shaped long before choices are made.
Because words are not just sounds.
They are directions.
Malomo’s story is only beginning.
And every destiny can be renamed.

TO BE CONTINUED IN EPISODE TWO ........ Femi Taiye REV.A A NDAKO Facebook for Creators Adesipe Gabriel Femi

CAURSE OF FAVORITISM
FINAL SAGA.
EPISODE FIVE: THE NEW BEGINNING
THE GIFT OF EQUALITY
Months had passed since the Adeyemi family in Olode began their journey of healing. Slowly, the wounds from years of favoritism began to fade, not through denial or avoidance, but through hard work, patience, and love.
The change was subtle at first. The Adeyemis started practicing something they had never done before: listening.
Daniel was no longer expected to be the perfect child. He was allowed to fail, to make mistakes, and to express his fears without feeling like it was a betrayal. His parents understood that their pride in him should not come at the expense of his peace.
Tobi, who once felt invisible, now felt heard. His art was no longer an afterthought, but something his family celebrated. He was no longer just “the second child,” but Tobi — a unique person with dreams of his own. His bond with his siblings grew stronger as they shared their own passions and struggles without fear of comparison.
Sade, the youngest, finally felt the freedom to be herself. Her rebelliousness, which had once been an outlet for her pain, began to transform into confidence. No longer needing to compete, she found her voice in the choir, her studies, and even her relationship with her parents.
One Sunday afternoon, Brother Adeyemi called the family together in the living room. He had a special announcement to make.
“We’ve been through a lot,” he said, looking at each of his children, his voice full of emotion. “And I am proud of all of you. I want you to know that I see each of you — not as someone to compare, but as someone to love, exactly as you are.”
Sade smiled.
Tobi nodded.
Daniel’s heart felt lighter than it had in years.
There was something powerful in those words. The weight of the years of expectations was lifting. In its place was a new sense of equality.
The changes in the Adeyemi family were not perfect. They still had moments of misunderstanding, times when old habits crept back in, but they no longer defined the family. The focus was no longer on who was first or second, but on who could support one another through the journey of life.
That evening, after family devotion, they gathered around the table, each child sharing their dreams.
Tobi talked about a scholarship to study art.
Sade shared her desire to go into law.
Daniel spoke about his plans to help the community, not just through academic success, but through service and love.
They no longer fought for their parents’ attention. They had each other’s attention.
In the months that followed, the changes in their family were noticed by others in Olode. The Adeyemis, once seen as a perfect family with invisible wounds, became an example of what true love and equality could look like.
One day, a neighbor who had known the family for years came to visit. She had seen the differences in the children, the strain between husband and wife. But when she saw them now, together and joyful, she smiled.
“There’s something different about this house,” she said. “There’s peace here now. True peace.”
Brother Adeyemi smiled back. “The peace is not in perfection. It’s in understanding each other. And that’s what we’re learning to do every day.”
Lesson from Episode Five:
True healing is not a destination, but a continuous journey.
It is in the everyday decisions to value one another, to listen, and to support each other — not in the pursuit of perfection, but in the celebration of equality and love.
The Adeyemi family had learned that love does not pick favorites. It simply loves — unconditionally, equally, and without comparison.
The End of the Saga: The Curse of Favoritism.
But the story of the Adeyemi family continues... as they walk hand in hand into a future built on love, understanding, and the shared strength of one another. Femi Taiye Facebook for Creators REV.A A NDAKO Adesipe Gabriel Femi Comfort Yakubu

THE COURSE OF FAVORISM
EPISODE FOUR: THE ROAD TO HEALING
Mending the Broken Pieces
In Olode, the Adeyemi family had reached a turning point. The cracks that had formed in the years of favoritism were now evident. But in the silence that followed Tobi’s brief escape to Baba Sola’s workshop, the family began to understand something they had long ignored.
It had been three weeks since that fateful night when Tobi had walked away. For those three weeks, Brother Adeyemi and Sister Adeyemi had tried to go back to the normal routines, but it wasn’t the same. There was a distance, a coldness that settled in the air, like the lingering humidity before a storm.
Daniel, for the first time, questioned the weight of the achievements he had been praised for. He had always been the “perfect child,” the one everyone looked up to. But after seeing Tobi’s tears, he realized that his success had come at the cost of his siblings’ peace. He was no longer sure if his father’s pride was genuine, or if it was just the result of constant comparison.
One morning, Tobi returned home. His clothes were still stained with the grease from the workshop, but his eyes were different. He wasn’t the quiet, withdrawn boy anymore. He had come to realize something during those three weeks of distance: that his family didn’t just need his success. They needed his voice. They needed him to speak up, not just for himself, but for all of them.
The family gathered together that evening, the air still heavy with unspoken truths. Tobi stood up first, breaking the silence.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I know I disappointed you. I should have tried harder. I wanted to show you that I am good too.”
Brother Adeyemi looked at his son, his face softened with the weight of his own guilt.
“Tobi, I... I am sorry too,” he began, his voice shaky. “I never saw it from your side. I thought I was helping, but I was only hurting you.”
Sister Adeyemi wiped her eyes. “We all made mistakes, but we can’t change what we’ve done. What matters is what we do next. We need to build each other up, not tear each other down.”
Daniel stood up slowly, his heart full of remorse.
“Papa… I never asked you to be proud of me. I just wanted to be enough for you, but I see now that I wasn’t the only one trying. I should have noticed.”
In that moment, for the first time, there was a real conversation. A true exchange of feelings, not just orders and expectations. It was not perfect. It was raw and painful, but it was real.
The Adeyemi family had started down the road to healing, but the road was not straight. It was full of detours, lessons, and growing pains. There would be days when the wounds would reopen, but there would also be days of understanding and progress.
Brother Adeyemi looked at each of his children. “We all have strengths, and we all have weaknesses. No one is more valuable than the other. Let’s try to see each other, not as competitors, but as family.”
The days that followed were filled with conversations — not just about achievements, but about dreams, frustrations, and desires. They learned to sit at the table and listen, not just speak.
The curse of favoritism had begun to break, not because of grand gestures, but because of the small acts of listening and understanding.
Lesson from Episode Four:
True healing begins when we acknowledge our mistakes, listen to one another, and rebuild on the foundation of love and equality.
It is not enough to simply fix what was broken. We must change the way we see and value each other. Femi Taiye Facebook for Creators Adesipe Gabriel Femi

CAURSE OF FAVORISTM

EPISODE THREE: THE BREAKING POINT

: When Silence Turns Into Separation

The tension in the Adeyemi house in Olode no longer hid behind polite greetings.
It had become visible.
Meals were quieter.
Family devotion felt forced.
Laughter had disappeared.
Brother Adeyemi tried to restore order by becoming stricter. In his mind, discipline would fix everything. But discipline without understanding only deepens distance.
Daniel received admission into a prestigious secondary school in a nearby town. The whole church celebrated. During Sunday service, Brother Adeyemi testified proudly:
“My son has made us proud again!”
Applause filled the sanctuary.
Tobi sat in the pew, staring at the floor.
Sade clapped slowly, without expression.
No one asked how they felt.
At home, preparations for Daniel’s departure began. New clothes were bought. A suitcase was purchased. Special prayers were organized.
Then came the moment that broke everything.
Tobi returned from school with a drawing he had submitted for a local art competition in Olode. He had won second place. It was the first time his name had ever been announced publicly.
He entered the sitting room carefully.
“Daddy… I won something.”
Brother Adeyemi was busy checking Daniel’s admission letter.
“What is it?” he asked without looking up.
“I came second in an art competition.”
There was a brief pause.
“Second?” his father replied. “Why not first? You see, that is the difference. Excellence matters.”
The paper in Tobi’s hand trembled.
It was not about first or second.
It was about being seen.
Sade stood up angrily.
“You didn’t even ask what he drew!”
Daniel felt shame crawl over him. He looked at his brother and realized something painful:
He had been celebrated for effort.
Tobi was criticized for achievement.
That night, Tobi packed a small bag.
He did not run far — only to Baba Sola’s mechanic shop — but it was far enough to send fear into the house.
When his parents discovered he was missing, panic replaced pride.
They searched the streets of Olode until someone mentioned seeing him near the workshop.
When Brother Adeyemi found his son sitting quietly beside an unfinished engine, the image pierced his heart.
Grease on his hands.
Tears dried on his cheeks.
Silence heavier than anger.
“Why did you leave?” his father asked, his voice no longer strong.
Tobi answered softly:
“I am tired of being second in my own house.”
Those words broke something inside his father.
For the first time, Brother Adeyemi saw clearly:
Favoritism had not produced excellence.
It had produced division.
It had not strengthened his family.
It had fractured it.
Daniel’s success suddenly felt incomplete.
Sade’s rebellion now made sense.
Tobi’s withdrawal was no longer laziness — it was pain.
On the walk back home, Brother Adeyemi did not speak much.
Because sometimes, the breaking point is not when a child shouts…
It is when a child quietly leaves.
Lesson from Episode Three:
When one child is consistently elevated above others, the home becomes a battlefield of comparison.
TO BE CONTINUE.................