Author: Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

I live to write; I write for a living. Because I breath words in and out, everything I pen down must be epic!

Categories
Love, Deep Emotions, Thoughts, Life, Questions

In My Lowest, You Saw Me and Stayed


For the woman who stayed when I was nothing but broken.

I didn’t have to say a word
You saw the storm in my eyes before I ever spoke.
When my world was falling apart piece by painful piece,
You didn’t run.
You pulled up a chair,
And sat with me in the rubble.

I was tired…
Not just of life—but of myself.
The mirror showed a man I didn’t recognize,
Worn out, washed up,
Too numb to cry, too ashamed to scream.
But you didn’t flinch.
You just… stayed.

When there was no money,
No promises, no plans,
Just the weight of depression and the echo of failure
You stayed.

You watched me break
Not once, but over and over again
And still called me whole.
You held my face in your hands when I couldn’t lift it,
And whispered, “I see you. I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t love me for what I gave.
I had nothing left to offer.
You loved me for who I was
Even when I couldn’t love myself.

I remember the nights
When darkness wrapped itself around me like a second skin,
And all I wanted was to disappear
But your voice, your arms,
Your quiet strength…
It tethered me back to life.

They say real love is proven in fire.
Well, we walked through hell.
And you didn’t just survive with me
You carried me.

Now, as I stand
Not perfect, but healing,
Not rich, but hopeful
I need the world to know:

You were my safe place.
My anchor.
My answered prayer.
My miracle in skin and soul.

And if there’s a book in Heaven
Where sacrifices are written in gold
Your name is engraved on the brightest page.

This isn’t just a thank-you.
It’s a vow.
That as long as I live
You will never stand alone.
Because in my lowest…
You saw me.
And you stayed.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Guilt, Confession, Murder

“Tell Them What You Did That Night at the Green House”


I am not well.
Not since that night.
Not since the screams buried themselves
in the hollow of my ears
and started growing roots in my soul.

And now…
I’m done shaking in silence.
I’m done swallowing the truth
while you walk free
with blood on your shadow.

Tell them.
Tell them what you did that night at the green house.
Or I will.
Even if my voice breaks.
Even if the memory tears me limb from limb.

You thought the darkness hid you.
You thought the leaves were deaf,
that the wind would carry your secrets away.

But I was there.
God help me—I was there.
Behind the cracked flowerpots,
watching through trembling fingers,
eyes wide, mouth shut,
heart beating so loud
I thought it would give me away.

She called your name.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Then screaming.

You didn’t stop.

I saw her stumble.
I saw you grab her.
I saw the panic bloom in her chest
like a rose gasping for air,
her legs kicking against damp soil
as you dragged her into the glass cage of the green house.
The air—it changed.
Like something holy had just been desecrated.

She begged.
Didn’t she?

She clutched your wrist
the same one you now raise in fake worship—
and you shook her off
like she was dirt.
Not a girl.
Not a life.
Just something to be… finished.

Do you remember how the glass fogged with her breath?
How her blood painted petals on the greenhouse floor?
Do you remember the last sound she made?
That choked, rattling sob
that still echoes in my skull like a scream inside a jar?

You left her there
Face down,
arms twisted like broken stems,
her mouth half open
as if still pleading for mercy
you never gave.

And now you walk among us,
smiling, laughing,
like you didn’t destroy an entire world that night.
But I see you.
I hear her.
She visits me in dreams,
her face pale with truth,
her hands reaching,
not to haunt me—
but to demand justice.

You think no one knows.
But the flowers remember.
The soil remembers.
I remember.

And my silence has run out.

So this is your last chance
before I tear the sky with her story,
before I vomit the truth at their feet.

Tell them.
Tell them what you did that night at the green house
before your sin grows vines
and chokes the breath from your lungs.
Before the ghosts
you buried
come knocking on your chest.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Father's Day Fathers, Love, Appreciation, Strength, Gratitude

Faith of Our Fathers: A Father’s Day Tribute

I remember the way you’d come home
dust on your shoes, silence in your eyes,
but somehow, love in your tired smile.
You never said much…
but your life spoke louder than words ever could.

You were the man who gave up new shirts
so we could wear uniforms with pride.
The man who fixed broken doors
and sometimes broke inside too
but we never saw that part, did we?

You taught us faith,
not just the kind we read in the Bible,
but the kind you lived
when the bills piled up
and you still made sure we never lacked.
When the world mocked your simplicity,
but you stayed true, stayed kind, stayed strong.

Your hands—rough, steady, sure
held everything together.
Held us when we were small.
Held prayers in the night
when no one else heard your quiet “Amen.”

You taught us that real men cry
not always with tears,
but in the way they forgive,
in the way they stay,
in the way they love without needing applause.

And now, as we stand taller,
it’s because we stood on your shoulders.
As we walk straighter,
it’s because you bent so we could rise.

Dad, Papa, Baba, Padre, Père, Father
whatever we called you,
you were always more than the name.
You were our quiet hero.
Our earthly echo of a heavenly Father.

Today, we don’t just say “Happy Father’s Day.”
We say thank you.
We say we see you.
We say—because of you,
we know what love looks like in real life.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Becoming olyssiah, New name, Loving me, Unbreakable

Becoming Olyssiah: The Woman Who Refused to Break

Becoming Olyssiah: The Woman Who Refused to Break

This name wasn’t adopted.
It was birthed—through pain, process, and purpose.
Olyssiah is the woman I became when the old shell no longer fit.
When God rewrote my story—not by erasing my past, but by revealing the power hidden in it.

So what does it mean to be Olyssiah?

It means I don’t wear my wounds as shame—I wear them as wisdom.
It means I’ve learned how to rise without bitterness, love without fear, and speak without apology.
It means I now walk with a confidence rooted in grace, not perfection.

This is more than rebranding.
It’s resurrection.
It’s restoration.
It’s reclaiming every piece of my identity that pain tried to silence.

To every woman reading this…

Maybe you, too, feel the stirring of a new name.
Maybe life has knocked you down more times than you care to admit.
But hear me clearly:
You are not broken. You are becoming.
There is a version of you that’s rising from the ashes with a name only heaven knows.

Until now.

I am Ifedolapo.

I am Olyssiah.
And I am Unbreakable.

This is my name.
This is my power.
This is my story.

And I’ll wear it boldly.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Uncategorized

OLYSSIAH🔥

If you had to change your name, what would your new name be?

Coincidentally you know I thought of this today and smiled. Now I retired to my laptop to update my blog and this came up again. I think no name in this world suits me so I created mine with my own meaning which you can never find in a dictionary .

You wanna know? Before I tell you,remember that I originated this beautiful name. 😃😃😃

Olyssiah – meaning (mine)- unbreakable

I look at my life, the many hurdles I have crossed, the betrayal, the pains, agony, sadness, countless attempted suicides …and yay,ni am still standing.

When next you see me, call me OLYSSIAH🔥

Categories
Love, Deep Emotions, Thoughts, Life, Questions

The Beauty of Waiting

She stares at the wall, counting the grooves,
Fingers drumming softly against her thigh.
The kettle whistles, then quiets again—
Another minute, another breath held high.

Waiting is the ache between footsteps,
The hush before a message that never comes.
It’s scrolling through photos just to feel,
Fighting the urge to numb what numbs.

She checks the time, again, again,
Re-reading old words like a sacred script.
The silence wraps her, not as peace,
But as a blanket woven with what-ifs.

The room holds stories she dares not speak,
Memories tucked behind half-closed doors.
She waits not just for something to happen,
But for meaning to form from before.

Waiting teaches in whispers, not roars
That not all stillness is void or vain.
That growth often hides in uneventful days,
Where longing and learning intertwine with pain.

She is not idle, though unmoving she seems.
She is gathering strength in her very still state.
Like a seed tucked deep in the stubborn earth,
Becoming, slowly, what only time can create.

There’s beauty in not knowing just yet,
In sitting through silence without a map.
Because even in pause, life is still speaking—
And her heart learns to listen… and clap.

Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Love, Deep Emotions, Thoughts, Life, Questions Love, Self Awareness, Breaking Free, Freedom

Every Tear, Every Scar, I Showed Up

I showed up still…

Every tear that kissed my cheek in the night,
A silent scream drowned out of sight,
Still, I rose with trembling hands,
Facing storms I didn’t understand.

Every scar etched deep in skin and soul,
Whispers of battles that took their toll
Yet here I stand, not broken but bold,
Bearing stories that never got told.

I showed up—when silence felt like a weight,
When hope was late, and love came too late.
When mirrors cracked and lies looked true,
I showed up, even when I barely knew who.

Through betrayal’s bite and sorrow’s sting,
I danced in ashes and learned to sing.
Faith became my final thread,
When all else failed, and dreams lay dead.

Every bruise, every wound unspoken,
I wore them like armor, never broken.
For in my pain, I found my crown
I never stayed down; I never stayed down.

I showed up—not flawless, not whole,
But with fire smoldering in my soul.
Every tear, every scar, a sacred sign
That healing, too, can be divine.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Categories
Uncategorized

Who do you spend the most time with?

Myself really. I love my own company a lot. After then is God and Family

Categories
Uncategorized

GRUDGE

Grudge is a fire that never goes out,
It crackles in silence, it festers in doubt.
A smile on the lips, but a storm in the chest,
It buries forgiveness, denies any rest.

It’s poison served from a silver plate,
Fed cold and slow with a twist of hate.
It builds high walls where bridges could be,
A jail of the soul, but the jailer is me.

It wears a mask – proud, calm, and still,
Yet whispers revenge with a venomous will.
It’s dancing with shadows, stuck in the past,
Chaining the heart to moments that last.

It clings like cobwebs to memory’s frame,
Insisting on justice but burning in shame.
A thief in the night, it steals peace away
Grudge is a ghost that refuses to pray.

Let it go, or it grows, like roots in the bone,
Till bitterness blooms and love dies alone.
For holding a grudge is digging a grave
One for the hated…
and one for the brave.

© http://www.ifedolapoogunniyi.com

Categories
Uncategorized

Who would you like to talk to soon?

Myself . I miss ME

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