It started with heartbreak and a Facebook ad:

“Heal your heart with aura in 7 days.”

Aura? Heart? I scoffed and swiped.

Then I swiped back.

It had been three months since she texted me the breakup.
A TEXT, bro.
And ever since, I’d been chasing her with a cutlass in my dreams.

Me. A whole Yoruba man. With a weapon. In my subconscious.

Is this how generational curses start?
She texted “I can’t do this anymore,” and now I can’t sleep in peace. Na wa.

Wanting to commit dream murder on your ex isn’t healing. I tried everything — deleted her pictures, blocked her on everything, stopped listening to Giveon (that one hurt deep), and even let go of the hoodies she stole. That was my rock bottom.

I briefly considered calling the police. But what’s the charge — emotional 419?

So I signed up.

I messaged the man behind the ad. His name?
Mr. F*ck Love.

Don’t judge me. At the time, it made spiritual sense. It sounded like exactly what I needed — a man who had survived heartbreak and chosen violence.

He replied immediately. Sent voice notes. Deep baritone. He sounded like a reformed cultist who now hosts wellness retreats in Badagry. Kept talking about his “Breaking the Yoke of Love Hymns.”

He said I needed a mystical vibrational reset.
That sounded made-up.
But heartbreak humbles you. At that point, my third eye was begging for Bluetooth pairing.

Then he sent me the list:

  • 15 scented candles
  • 1 red cloth
  • 1 piece of white chalk
  • 1 koboko whip
  • A prayer mat
  • A cap with three feathers
  • And… a mirror “to face my inner demon”

The list looked like something a herbalist would give a Nollywood villain.

I was still living with my parents, broke and emotionally unstable. But I got everything. I even borrowed the feather cap from my cousin who dances at cultural weddings. At this point, dignity was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

3:00 AM sharp, I followed the instructions.

Candles in a circle. Red cloth tied around my waist. White chalk smeared under my left eye like war paint. Cap on. Mirror placed in front. Koboko positioned like an ancestral relic.

I lit the candles. Sat cross-legged. Played the Hymns on Bluetooth speaker. Hummed along like a possessed monk.

And I forgot to lock my door.

Five minutes in, I heard screaming.

I opened my eyes. My mother was in the doorway, hands on her head, mouth open, wrapper halfway off. Vibrating like a Nokia 3310 on a tiled floor.

Her scream summoned my father. He rushed in, surveyed the scene — candles, chalk, red cloth, whip, feathers — and responded with the instinct of every Nigerian parent since 1960.

He grabbed the koboko and flogged me across the chest.

The whip cracked like NEPA taking light.

I screamed. He swung again.

I dodged. My mom started shouting “JESUS!! JESUS!!” like a spiritual panic button.

Dad wasn’t hearing any explanations. Whether he believed I was possessed or just wanted to show initiative, he kept swinging.

I kept dodging. Sweating. Ashy knees on the prayer mat. Chalk in my eye.

Then my mom raised her hand to slap me.
And I—
I caught her wrist.

Time froze.

Even the Bluetooth speaker paused.

I held my Nigerian mother’s hand mid-slap.

They both stared at me like I’d grown horns.

My father dropped the koboko. My mother backed away slowly, like I was transforming into a goat before her very eyes.

She gave me one final Nollywood stare — the kind just before thunder starts and camera zooms in four times.

Then they both turned and walked out.
No words. Just retreat.

I cleaned up my spiritual debris and went to bed.

⸻

The next morning, my dad said we were going to church.

8 AM. Wednesday.
Midweek service, he said.
No one spoke during the drive.

We arrived at a white garment church. Soft drumming. People in white, already praying in tongues. My mom usually goes here. But today, it was Dad leading the charge.

We sat on a wooden bench for about 30 minutes. Then someone came out and called my name.

They led me into the main hall.

Three people were waiting.

One held a broom.
One held a cane.
One held a Bible.

And standing at the front, leading the entire setup…

Mr. F*ck Love.

My heartbreak mentor. My ritual coach. My Facebook therapist.

Wearing white. Holding anointing oil.

My body froze. My healing consultant was now my spiritual executioner.

I tried to explain. “He’s the one who—”

Someone screamed, “The demon is manifesting!”

Before I could defend myself, they descended.

Three people flogged me like I was being sponsored. Each time I opened my mouth to scream, someone would yell “Out! Out!” like heartbreak was a literal spirit.

Eventually, I faked my own deliverance.
Dropped to the floor. Twitched. Spoke gibberish.
Then screamed:

“I release her! I release her hoodie! I forgive Giveon!”

They paused.

I lay there in silence, hoping they’d believe it.

I woke up in the hospital.
Fractured rib. Sprained ego.
Heart still very much broken.

And now?

Now it’s her chasing me with a cutlass in my dreams.

I’ve started listening to Giveon again.
Still haven’t asked for my hoodies. Baby steps.

But I think I’m healing.

I’ve seen the light.
And the light was holding koboko.

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Therapy But Make It Funny