Borrowed without Asking, Episode 2

 

By Adebanke Abel 

He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw things.

He didn’t walk out dramatically or post cryptic quotes on WhatsApp. He just stood there, holding his wallet in one hand, and the footage on his phone in the other. Paused. Still. Silent. That silence was louder than any slap.

“You went into my bag, Titi,” he said quietly, "you took ₦15,000. Was it an accident?” I couldn’t speak. My throat was dry. My eyes had betrayed me; tears were forming without permission. “Was it your first time?” he added.

This one… I couldn’t lie. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to paint a prettier version of myself in that moment. But my mouth wouldn’t move.

Instead, I sat down on the floor. Back against the wardrobe. Head on my knees. That was my answer.

He sighed. Sat too. Far from me. Back resting against the bed.

"You need to talk to someone,” he said after a long pause. 

I whispered, “I’ve prayed.”

He looked at me, “Then maybe it’s time to also speak.”

That night, I sat with my journal. The same one I use to write prayers and half-baked poetry.

I opened a fresh page and wrote: “Other times I stole.” There was the time in secondary school when my hostel mistress accused us of stealing her earrings. I hadn’t taken them, but something in me wanted to know what it would feel like to actually do it. To own something that wasn’t mine. I didn’t take the earrings, but two weeks later, I took a classmate’s fancy notepad and hid it under my mattress.

In university, I once took ₦2,000 from a friend’s purse while she was asleep during exam week. I used it to buy shawarma and a new pen. She cried when she couldn’t find her money. I helped her search for it, too. The guilt was a bitter aftertaste, but I buried it. Then there was NYSC. The POS operator gave me extra ₦1,000 by mistake. I walked away fast. My chest was pounding. I told myself it was God blessing me for all my stress in camp.

It was never really about the money. It was that thrill… that weird satisfaction that I had gotten away with something.

But afterward—always—the shame.

Like a whisper in the dark.

“You're not okay.”

“You’re not clean.”

“They’ll all find out one day.”

                                     *********

One day, I confronted my mum. This was after I got my first job and she came to visit. We were eating white rice and garden egg sauce in my self-con. 

I asked her, “Mummy, do you remember when you used to tell me to take daddy’s money?”

She smiled, “Ehn… you were very sharp! I didn’t even need to say it twice. I trained you well.”

She laughed like it was a joke.

But I wasn’t laughing.

“Mummy… I think it did something to me. Something I can’t seem to shake.”

She looked at me, confused.

“You’re an adult now, Titi. All that is in the past. Abi you want to start blaming me for your decisions?” I didn’t reply. I just picked at my fish.

That day I realized even the people who love you can plant seeds they never mean to water and those seeds can grow into trees of shame you have to live under for years.

But I’m tired. I’m tired of acting like I don’t have a problem. I’m tired of hating myself quietly.

I’m tired of dodging conversations about honesty, trust, and integrity. I’m tired of asking God to help me while avoiding the people He may want to use to help me. So I made a decision to tell my boyfriend everything.

Not just about the wallet but about the little girl who never stopped stealing to feel useful.