Weekend Titbits by Boma Nwuke
In every generation, there is always an Ifeoma.
Not necessarily by name, but by circumstance and disposition—brilliant, beautiful, ambitious, and tragically impatient with the slow rhythm of life. The Ifeoma of this story was not a village girl with limited exposure. She was a student of law, one of the brightest minds in her faculty, housed in a bustling female hostel where dreams, secrets, and survival instincts cohabited under one leaking roof.
She was everything society applauds—intelligent, eloquent, and physically stunning. Her beauty was the sort that commanded attention without pleading for it. Tall, well-proportioned, with a confident carriage that made heads turn on campus pathways. But Ifeoma wanted more than admiration. She wanted dominance over outcomes, over people, over destiny itself.
Law school is not for the faint-hearted. Competition is fierce, pressure unrelenting, and success often appears selective. As semesters passed, Ifeoma watched classmates gain favour—lecturers smiled at some more than others, opportunities seemed unevenly distributed, and relationships bloomed effortlessly around her while hers stalled. Somewhere between ambition and frustration, she became convinced that effort alone was not enough.
That was when the fetish powder entered her life.
It did not arrive dramatically. It came quietly, through whispered assurances and coded conversations. A contact, who knew someone who knew someone, spoke of an “aid”—a powder not meant for harm, but for attraction. Not charms, not incantations, just something to “enhance presence.” Sprinkle it subtly, rub it lightly, and doors would open. People would notice you. Favour would follow.
To Ifeoma, this was not superstition; it was strategy.
She kept the powder hidden meticulously—wrapped, sealed, and tucked away like contraband. Unknown to her hostel mates, she used it sparingly, always careful, always secretive. And for a while, it seemed to work. People paid attention. Compliments came easier. She felt seen, validated, powerful.
But borrowed power is always impatient and careless.
One afternoon, she received an urgent phone call. Flustered and distracted, she rushed out of the hostel, forgetting to hide the powder in its usual secret place. It lay innocently on her bed, looking exactly like what it was not—ordinary.
Imeh, her roommate, returned shortly after.
Imeh was the kind of girl campuses are filled with—quiet, modest, largely invisible. Not unattractive, but never noticed. The sort that walked through corridors without stirring interest. As she tidied the room, her eyes fell on the small container. Curious, she opened it. Powder. No smell. No label.
Assuming it was cosmetic, Imeh dabbed a little before heading out.
What followed felt like a dream.
At the supermarket, men paid her bills without solicitation. Compliments flowed freely. Smiles lingered. Conversations sparked effortlessly. For the first time in her life, she was the centre of attention. She returned to the hostel floating, confused but exhilarated.
Meanwhile, Ifeoma’s day went disastrously.
She noticed something was wrong. No one looked twice at her. No compliments. No admiring glances. Even her presence felt muted. That was when panic set in. She remembered the powder.
She rushed back to the hostel, tore through her belongings, overturned boxes, searched under the bed. Nothing. She was still ransacking her things when Imeh walked in.
“What are you looking for?” Imeh asked casually.
Before Ifeoma could respond, Imeh excitedly began recounting her day—the attention, the generosity, the strange luck. As she spoke, realization dawned violently on Ifeoma.
She lunged.
Grabbing Imeh by the collar, she screamed, “So you took my powder! Do you think that powder is ordinary? Why can’t you ever mind your business?”
Shocked and frightened, Imeh stammered an apology and asked, “What did you put in it?”
The slap came swiftly.
“Mind your business!” Ifeoma barked. “It is my secret power.”
The commotion drew other roommates. Questions were asked. Voices rose. Imeh narrated everything. The room fell silent as the implications sank in.
They turned to Ifeoma.
At first, she denied it—bold-faced, defiant. But when they threatened to report her to the Student Union Government and the school authorities, her composure collapsed. She begged. Pleaded. Promised never to repeat it.
But trust, once fractured, rarely heals overnight.
They told her plainly: pack and leave, or they would pack her out themselves. None of them wanted to share space with someone who manipulated destinies with hidden powders.
Ifeoma left the hostel that evening.
She returned to class the next day, her beauty intact but her aura altered. Whispers followed her. Clusters formed wherever she passed. Eyes watched, not with admiration, but with curiosity and judgment. She could feel it—the weight of collective scrutiny.
She left for her hometown shortly after.
She never returned to school.
Years on, Ifeoma story resurfaced,, A former classmate of hers, Chioma sited her at a wedding in Awka. The once pretty lady had deteriorated in health and size. They exchanged pleasantries and entertained talks on relationships and wellbeing. . Chioma introduced her husband Emeka,a clearing and forwarding businessman to Ifeoma but for Ifeoma, there were only sour stones to tell.
Ifeoma who left school ashamedly on account of her fetish powder refused to part with it . She refused to learn the first lesson.
She neither confessed to her mother, nor consulted the aunties who had seen life twist and turn. She did not pray, nor pause. She believed as before and—as many do—that control was better than faith, and manipulation faster than merit.
Her aim for dominance seemed to work again.
She began to attract attention effortlessly. Invitations came. Gifts followed. A well-connected businessman took interest in her, and whispers of marriage floated through the neighbourhood like incense. Those who once pitied her now envied her. The same tongues that gossiped before now praised her “star.”
But as folklore and life consistently teach us, borrowed power always comes with hidden interest.
The man who promised marriage became possessive. Her sleep grew restless. Nightmares replaced dreams. Her laughter faded into forced smiles. And the powder—once carefully hidden—began to feel heavier, like a burden she could no longer carry.
Soon, relationships soured mysteriously. Opportunities collapsed without explanation. Friends withdrew. Her health declined. The village, ever observant, began to murmur again—this time with suspicion that she might be a witch.. The villagers deployed the town tier to summon Ifeoma and her family to confess before their family shrine and knowing that the implications are usually very dire, Ifeoma fled her hometown and went to a bigger city cautiously denying herself privileges to attend high society programmes until that event she caught up with Chioma.
Ifeoma’s story is not just about fetish powder. In modern terms, the powder is anything we use secretly to manipulate outcomes—dishonesty, fake credentials, immoral connections, unethical shortcuts. It is the illusion that success can be hacked without consequence.
But life has a stubborn way of exposing borrowed power.
The tragedy of Ifeoma is not that she failed. It is that she did not trust her own brilliance. A law student with intellect and beauty, undone not by lack, but by impatience.
The lesson is timeless: what you cannot own openly will eventually disgrace you publicly. Power that thrives in secrecy is already decaying. And shortcuts, no matter how smooth, often lead straight to dead ends.
As we enjoy this weekend, may we resist the urge to tamper with destiny. The slow road may be tiring, but it is safer. There are no powders—fetish or metaphorical hat can replace integrity, patience, and grace.
And that, dear reader, is today’s titbit.
Weekend Titbits is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the Managing Editor
