The story I never told (in details)

I opened YouTube to search for a tutorial video when a suggested video caught my attention: “My Aileyipada Story” by Abbey Ojomu. I’ll link the video here it’s something everyone should see. Especially because it inspired me to finally write this story, one I’ve never really shared in detail.

You know how people have those “...and that was when I knew that God is real” stories? I have a few, but this one stands out.

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In my first year at the university, I fell seriously ill. A terrible sickness—one I will never forget.

I was rushed to the hospital on November 19th. Leading up to that day, I had been sick for weeks. I’d gone for treatment, but I wasn’t treated properly. It was negligence on the part of the school’s health center.

My condition gradually worsened until things took a dangerous turn. That Saturday, I woke up and knew something had to be done urgently. I couldn’t walk anymore. I was helped out of bed and started throwing up. I hadn’t eaten the day before, so all I was vomiting was water. I knew I couldn’t go back to the school health center. I didn’t want to die there.

I called my aunt, who lives in the same city as my school, and told her I was coming home. She asked if I could wait until evening because she had a wedding to attend and her daughter was the flower girl. But when my friend explained how serious it was, she asked me to come immediately.

My friend ordered a Bolt, and we left together. I was carried from my room to the hostel gate and had to stop at least twice to throw up. Still just water. At that point, my strength was almost gone. I didn’t even have the energy to vomit anymore. Each time I retched, I felt it deep in my stomach. I’d have to pause to stabilize myself because the vomiting drained what little strength I had left.

I was in so much pain that I cried until I didn’t have the strength to cry anymore.

When we got to my aunt’s house, they were getting dressed for the wedding. But when they saw my condition, they hurried. Before long, we were speeding to the hospital. Don’t forget their daughter was meant to be the flower girl.

At the hospital, I was carried to the ward and placed on admission immediately. My aunt and her kids stayed with me until I stabilized, then they rushed off to the wedding but she made sure someone stayed behind with me. I was placed on saline and given various injections. At some point, they said I needed to eat since I hadn’t had anything in a few days. The only thing I could manage was a drink, and I threw it up shortly after.

By evening, I was stable enough to go home. I was far from okay, but I didn’t want to spend the night in the hospital.

We had to return for two more days to complete the injection dosage. But something was wrong. I wasn’t getting better. In fact, I was getting worse. My body couldn’t retain food. I kept throwing up every time and everywhere. It was confusing.

I’d go to the hospital for my injection and throw up right outside. The doctor thought things would improve after I completed the dosage. But they didn’t, they got worse.

Each day, I tried to act like I was improving. It didn’t make sense that “just malaria” would leave me so weak. I’d force myself to pretend I was better so my family wouldn’t panic. But inside, I could feel my strength slipping away. I could barely walk on my own. I stayed in bed all day. The only times I sat up were when my aunt brought me food or drugs, and the only times I stood up was to go and throw up not long after.

This routine became terrifying. And all of this happened within just a week. My phone would ring constantly—my roommates, classmates, family members checking in.

I’d just stare at the phone as it rang, and tears would start falling. How could I be so weak that I couldn’t even answer a call? Couldn’t talk? Couldn’t even cry?

I’d only answer my mom’s calls so she wouldn’t worry. And that was just a few times. Other times, she called my aunt.

After the fifth day, my mom was so worried, she asked my brother to travel down from his school, pick me up, and bring me home. It was understandable. It was her child, hundreds of miles away, and she couldn’t be there physically.

But the thing was—I had a test coming up. My first semester. My first year. Tests were starting the following week. In fact, I had one on Friday that week.

I knew that if I went home, that would be the end of the academic year for me. I’d have to defer till the next year.

For one, I’d miss the tests and be left with just 60% of the grading.
And more importantly, I wasn’t getting better.
Who was to say I’d even survive this sickness? What was the guarantee that I’d recover?

I lost almost 10kg in one week. And there was no sign of recovery.

In that moment, school became unimportant. I truly thought it was the end for me.

I had to return to the hospital again, still dealing with weakness and constant vomiting. And—as usual—as soon as I got to the hospital gate, I threw up again.

In the doctor’s office, he looked very confused. He saw no reason why I should still be feeling that way. He looked up at me and asked, “Miss Titilayo, are you pregnant?”

I smiled and shook my head. I wasn’t even angry. It was his job to ask. But I was just... tired. He had tried every treatment he could think of, and I was still not getting better.

He prescribed a drug to stop the vomiting.

I went home, ate, and took the drug. And I kid you not—less than five minutes later, I vomited again.

That day, I was done. I was angry. I was tired. I had given up. I wanted to go home to my mom. Forget school.

I didn’t think I’d die—but I had no idea how long the sickness would last. Or how much worse it could get.

Was this how I’d keep throwing up and losing weight? What exactly was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I recovering?

But the next day, Thursday, I mustered all the strength I had and got up, and in my frustration, I prayed.

It was like the sickness had made me forget I could even pray. I was too weak to speak most times. I had people praying for me, which maybe made me feel comfortable, secure.

But that day, I was alone. My aunt had gone out. I had been lying down for five hours, staring at the room, doing absolutely nothing. Then I decided to get up.

In my heart, I said,
God, this is the last strength I have. If I pass out now, no one is around. It’s just you and me—and we need to talk.

I prayed with everything I had left. It was pretty much 90% crying and 10% reminding God of who He is.
How He parted the sea, raised a man who had been dead for four days, told the sun to stand still, cured cancer, performed surgeries through prayer on people who had lost all hope…

I just kept going. It was prayer, but really, it was a desperate cry for mercy. For help. I was telling God that He was my last hope. I stayed there for about two hours.

I don’t know if I’ve ever shared this part before, but after I prayed, something in me knew that that was the end of the sickness.

I was filled with a joy I didn’t understand.

My brother was supposed to come the next day, but I called my mom and told her to stall him. I told her I would feel better the next day, and I had a test I was supposed to write in school by 2 p.m. on Friday and I would write the test.

That night, I still vomited when I ate, but I was sure that was the end of the sickness still.

I had already mentally started packing my things.

And when I woke up the next day, I felt much better. Still weak, and definitely not fully recovered, but I was going to school that day. My mind was made up.

You know what’s funny? Earlier the previous day, I could barely get myself to stand, and the next day, I’m returning to school. No longer deferring a session. No longer going home. I can now walk by myself. No longer throwing up (I did throw up once when I got back to school, but who cares?).

See, it was a beautiful experience for me.

I really walked through the valley of the shadow of death, but God rescued me.

I have probably mentioned to a couple of people that I fell really sick in my first year in school, but I’ve never shared this much detail because I hate sharing details with just anyone—let alone random people who would come across my newsletter.

But it’s not just details; it’s a testimony. It’s probably something that someone needs to hear. I got really inspired by Abbey Ojomu’s story and decided maybe it’s time to share mine. (You should definitely check out Jbum’s video as well. It’s beautiful)

If you have a similar story or something you’d like to share, please leave it in the comments—we would love to read it. And I would love to have a collection of your testimonies. Maybe publish them even.

And if you would prefer to share it with me personally, write me at lettersfromtitilayo@gmail.com.

I’m looking forward to reading your testimonies and experiences.

Until next week,
Titilayo