The first thing you should know about me is that my name is Chimbuikem Obiajunwa — a name that, in my mother tongue, carries a prayer: "God is my strength." It was a name spoken over me at birth, but I did not fully understand its weight until life itself pressed me into corners where strength was the only currency I had left.
If I close my eyes now, I can still feel the warmth of Warri — my childhood home in Delta State, Nigeria. The air was often heavy with the smell of rain-soaked earth, mixed with the faint scent of diesel from the small generator that hummed through most nights. Ours was not the kind of childhood filled with gold and riches, but neither was it bare of joy. Life, in those early years, was an unsteady balance — a see-saw between moments of laughter and moments of hardship. Yet even as a boy, I had a quietness about me. People often said I was calm, almost too calm, as though I carried a secret peace in my chest.
That calmness wasn't passivity. It was resolved.
From as far back as I can remember, I hated injustice. Not in the casual, "That's not fair" way children protest when they lose a game — but in a deep, soul-level way. I could not stand to see people bullied, cheated, or silenced. My heart would ache watching older boys take advantage of younger ones in the neighborhood. I remember intervening once, stepping between a boy twice my size and a smaller child he was harassing. My voice shook, but I stood there anyway. I was maybe ten years old. Looking back now, I realize that was my first real taste of what it meant to take a stand — to feel fear in your bones but still refuse to step aside.
Warri had its own rhythm — noisy marketplaces where women's voices rose in bargaining, children running barefoot on dusty roads, and the occasional burst of political debates between men in roadside beer parlors. I would sit quietly nearby, soaking in their conversations, hearing words like "corruption," "government theft," and "truth." I didn't yet know how deeply those words would shape my future, but they planted a seed. I began to dream — not just about my own success, but about what it would take to fight the wrongs I saw around me.
My parents were my first teachers in resilience. My father worked hard, moving between business ventures with the kind of determination only a man providing for his family can know. My mother, ever patient, carried a wisdom that kept our home from collapsing under the weight of life's unpredictable storms. Together, they taught me that dignity wasn't in wealth, but in standing for what was right.
But life has a way of testing the values it teaches you.
I didn't know then that the greatest test of my life would come not in the streets of Warri, not in a heated political debate, but in the most unexpected — and most unjust — way possible.
In secondary school, I began to notice something unsettling: the way truth could be twisted when it suited people's desires. I saw teachers play favorites, local leaders make promises they never intended to keep, and neighbors turn a blind eye to wrongdoing if it benefited them. It was frustrating, but I believed — perhaps naively — that education was the answer. If people knew better, surely they would do better.
That belief carried me to the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where I studied Mass Communication. I wanted to learn how to tell stories that could change minds, expose lies, and shine light into the darkest corners of society. The campus was a world of its own — buzzing with students from every part of Nigeria, each carrying their own ambitions, fears, and secrets.
Life in Nsukka wasn't perfect, but it was a chapter of growth. I met people who challenged my thinking, learned skills that sharpened my voice, and began to see just how powerful words could be. I imagined myself someday hosting a show, writing books, producing films — all aimed at confronting corruption and giving a voice to those who had none.
After graduation, I stepped into my National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) year with hope. I thought the journey ahead would be hard work, yes, but purposeful. I was ready to serve, ready to use my skills, ready to contribute something meaningful.
I did not know that service year would break something inside me.
It was an ordinary day when the first blow landed. The sun was bright — the kind of heat that clings to your skin — when I was called into a small office. There, with a coldness in their eyes, people I barely knew told me I had been accused of something unspeakable: defiling a six-year-old girl.
I remember the moment with horrifying clarity — my ears ringing, my body numb, my mind struggling to process the words. It felt like being plunged into icy water without warning. The accusation was not just false — it was impossible. I had done nothing, yet here I was, being painted as a monster.
Later, I would learn the truth — how a teacher, in conspiracy with the girl's parents, had orchestrated the accusation to extort my father. They knew the law often placed unquestioned faith in the testimony of a child. They knew fear and shame could make a family pay to "make it go away." And that's exactly what happened: my father, desperate to shield me from the brutality of the Nigerian justice system, paid ₦1.5 million.
I wish I could tell you that payment ended the nightmare. It didn't. It only deepened the wound. I walked away free, but something inside me was shattered. The knowledge that people could fabricate such evil, and that the system would believe them without question, changed me forever.
From that day on, my trust in people shrank to the size of a clenched fist. I became selective with friendships, keeping only those who were straightforward, those whose words matched their actions. I learned to listen more than I spoke, to study people's motives before stepping too close.
But I also learned something else: pain can be fuel.
The experience could have broken me entirely, leaving me bitter and withdrawn. And for a time, I hovered close to that edge. But slowly, I began to see another possibility. If false accusations and corruption could nearly destroy my life, then my voice — my writing, my videos, my work — could be the weapon to fight back.
I began pouring myself into creative work. I wrote about injustice, about the dangers of blind trust, about the quiet battles so many people face but never speak of. I baked, I cooked, I edited videos, I recorded podcasts. Each creation was a small act of resistance, a way of reclaiming my story from the lies that had been told about me.
Looking back now, I realize my life has been a slow build-up to this fight. The calm boy in Warri, the curious student in Nsukka, the broken but unbowed corps member — all of them were preparing me for the work I now do.
This is not just my story. It is the story of anyone who has been falsely accused, silenced, or betrayed by the very systems meant to protect them. It is a story about finding the courage to keep going when the truth seems powerless.
My name is Chimbuikem Obiajunwa. I was accused of a crime I did not commit. I lost my trust in many people, but I did not lose my fight. And if you follow me through these pages, you will see why — and how — I chose to turn my deepest wound into my loudest weapon.
Because the battle against corruption and injustice is not a choice for me anymore. It is my life.
And it all began here.