Once upon a coke

A Good Girl’s Guide to Quiet Addiction

They say addiction has a look.

Messy hair. Shaky hands. Skinny legs. Bruises. Homelessness. Lost teeth. Public disgrace.

But me?
I still had good skin.
I still replied emails.
I still said “Good morning ma” with a smile.
I still knew the right Bible verses and the best Instagram captions.
I wasn’t a junkie.
I was just a girl who needed a little something to get through the day.

So no, I didn’t look like I had a problem.

I looked good.
Good enough to fool everyone—including myself.

So if you’re wondering how to keep it together, how to stay addicted without looking like it, how to function while falling apart.

Here are the rules I followed.

Rule 1: Always look like you’re fine.

Smile. That’s the first rule. Always smile. If your pupils are dilated, blame ring light reflection. If your voice is trembling, laugh and say it’s PMS. No one suspects the girl with clear lip gloss, clean nails, and perfect attendance.

You can be high and still say “Yes ma” when your auntie calls. You can snort a line at 3:45PM and still help your cousin with her homework by 4:00. Coke doesn’t turn you into a monster—not right away. At first, it just turns you into a better version of yourself. Or so you think.

I was that girl. The neat one. The girl who never came late. The girl who prayed before meals. Who replied “lol” with full stops and didn’t wear lashes too long. I never gave my mother a reason to check my drawer or question my silence.

But God, I was flying. Every. Single. Week.

They say coke makes you loud. Not me. I was quiet. Polished. Excellent. I could balance a credit alert and a craving in the same breath. One moment I was replying work emails. Next moment, I was crushing leftover residue off an iPhone screen with a debit card and snorting like the rent was due.

But I always showed up on time. In heels. In satin.

That’s what “good girls” do.

Rule 2: Keep it classy. Hide it well.

I never bought in bulk. Never. That’s sloppy. You buy only what you need, when you need it. You don’t keep white powder in random wraps like an amateur. You get a *container*—something cute. I used an empty vitamin C bottle. Nobody checks vitamin bottles.

One time, I carried coke through the airport in a small Christian Dior lotion jar. Even God must have looked away. I was thirty hours high in a conference room, giving a PowerPoint presentation on “digital strategy.” They clapped. I bowed. I hadn’t eaten in two days. My gums were bleeding. But who cares?

I wasn’t a crackhead. I was a consultant.

That’s the beauty of coke. It doesn’t smell. It doesn’t stain. It doesn’t slow you down. It *speeds you up*—until you’re no longer sure whether you're flying or falling.

But either way, you’re off the ground.

Rule 3: Tell yourself it’s not that deep.

“It’s just recreational.”

“I only use when I’m stressed.”

“At least I’m not smoking loud like those other girls.”

“At least I don’t shoot it.”

“At least I’m not broke.”

“At least I’m not begging men for money.”

“At least…”

You build a throne out of “at leasts.” You sit on it like a queen. You laugh at people who think weed is scary. You call them babies because they’ve never tasted God through their nostrils. You judge the girl who drinks vodka before noon—but you, you’re better. You’re clean. You just have an expensive habit.

One that helps you lose weight. Helps you stay awake. Helps you talk fast and think faster. Helps you dance longer, work harder, fuck better. You don’t need therapy. You need a plug that replies on time.

That’s what I told myself.

Until I was shaking in bed one night, unable to blink without hearing voices. My heart was racing like it wanted to escape my body. I opened my Bible at 2AM and started reading Psalms backward because someone told me it helps with paranoia.

That night, I saw my own reflection and didn’t recognize my face because I looked hollow. Like I’d been living through my bones, not my blood.

Still, I snorted the last line I had.

Then I cried.

Rule 4: Never admit you need help.

You can be depressed. You can even say you’re “tired.” But don’t say “addicted.” That word is for other people—white people in movies and Nigerian men who smell like codeine. Not you. Not the girl with neat edges and a full-time job.

But I was addicted. I just didn’t say it.

I’d go 4 days without using and reward myself with a bump. Like, “Well done babe, here’s your gift.” I hid the tremors. Hid the twitching jaw. Hid the hallucinations. Nobody knew. Not even the boy I was fucking. He said I was “intense.” I said thanks.

You become a master at masking.

Until one day, you’re out of coke and Christiana is offline and your chest feels like it’s about to explode. You call six different people, shaking, sweating, begging. But nobody answers. So you scream into a pillow. You pull your braids. You throw your phone. You tear your bedsheet like it’s your skin.

And then it hits you.

You’ve built a life that can’t function without a substance.

And it’s no longer beautiful.

Rule 5: You either stop, or you die. Quietly.

People think coke kills like heroin. Like overdose. Fast. Loud. Dramatic. Nah.

Coke kills slow.

It kills your appetite first. Then your sleep. Then your memory. Then your self-worth. It steals your joy, then tells you you're boring without it. It’s a thief that convinces you it's the prize.

Coke doesn't kill you in one blow. It eats you with a spoon. Until one day, you wake up, and your soul is gone.

---

And so here I am.

Rehab.

Not the kind with pool views or meditation chants. Just plain rehab. Group meetings, cheap chairs, withdrawal sweats. I still hate it here. But I’m staying. Because I got tired of being a beautiful corpse.

I’m learning how to breathe without it. Sleep without it. Feel without it.

It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever done.

But it’s the bravest, too.

I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “You know what? Let me become a cokehead.”

No. That would’ve been easier. Cleaner. At least then I could’ve blamed a decision. But this wasn’t a decision. It was a drift. A slow, slippery slide into a version of myself I thought was just “evolving.”

Improving.

Glowing up.

But really, I was just cracking.

I was 22. Lagos. Fresh out of uni. First real job in PR. They said I was “sharp.” Said I had potential. I wore heels that bit my toes, spoke with fake confidence, and smiled through meetings I didn’t understand. I had a 60k wig on a 100k salary and hunger in my eyes that nobody noticed because I wore lip gloss.

I was surviving.

And everyone called it success.

My days were packed. Wake at 5. Work by 8. Back home at 10. Emails at midnight. I couldn’t breathe, but that was the lifestyle, right? Girl boss shit. I was exhausted. But in Lagos, if you complain, they say “you’re not the only one.”

So I didn’t complain.

I bought energy drinks. Drank cold coffee like water. Chewed gum to stay awake in church. I got thin, and people said I looked “fresh.” I got bags under my eyes, and someone called it “model face.” I started disappearing into myself and people said, “Wow, you’ve matured.”

Nobody knew I was dying. And to be fair, neither did I.

Then came the night.

It was a Friday. End-of-quarter office party, but unofficial. Someone’s cousin knew someone who had an apartment in Lekki Phase 1. Music. LED lights. Jollof nobody touched. Girls in miniskirts. Guys with money they didn’t earn. I didn’t want to go, but everyone else was going, and I didn’t want to be the girl who’s always “tired.”

I wore a halter neck dress I, took a Bolt, told myself it’s just two hours. Just chill.

And I chilled. I drank. I danced a bit. I smiled even when I didn’t want to. That’s when I met her—Christiana. Pretty. Loud. Gold anklet. Long acrylic nails. Said she was in fashion. Said I looked stressed.

“You should try something,” she said, laughing.

Then she brought it out. A key. An actual house key with a tiny line of white powder resting on it like holy communion.

“What is it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Coke, jor. Don’t act brand new.”

I should’ve said no. I wasn’t even curious but my feet hurt. My soul was loud. My mind was tired. And in that moment, nothing felt heavier than being awake inside myself.

So I nodded. “Small.”

I took the key. Bent down. Sniffed.

My throat burned. My eyes watered. My nose stung.

And then… stillness.

My body stilled. My thoughts stilled. The room got sharper. My bones stopped aching. My brain finally—finally—shut the fuck up.

I didn’t feel high. I felt ready. Ready to talk. Ready to dance. Ready to exist. I laughed for real. Ate suya. Called my ex and blocked him five minutes later. My feet stopped hurting. My face felt lighter. I had conversations with strangers like I wasn’t afraid of being judged.

And nobody noticed. That’s the scariest part. Nobody noticed the change.

Not even me.

The next day, I woke up hungry. Not for food—for more. Not even for coke. Just for that feeling. That version of me that felt whole. I told myself it was a one-time thing. I said, “I’m not that type of girl.”

But stress is a doorway. And coke, she waits.

It didn’t take long before I was calling Christiana on a random Wednesday.

“Just a little, abeg. I have a deadline.”

She laughed. “I knew you’d be back.”

It went from parties to weekday use. From keys to wraps. From once a month to twice a week. From “small boost” to “I can’t function without this.” But I was still working. Still eating (barely). Still smiling.

No one suspected the “good girl” was using powder to stay afloat.

That’s the trick. Coke doesn’t destroy you instantly.

She flatters you first. Makes you feel chosen. Special.

Like you’re finally operating at full capacity.

Until one day, you can’t operate at all.

The first time I tried to stop, I lasted three days.

By the fourth day, I was crying in the shower, my skin itching, my jaw clenching like I was being punished. I went to a pharmacy and asked for “something for anxiety.” They gave me vitamins. I left before I could curse them out.

Then I called Christiana

She sent me two wraps.

Free of charge.

“First one’s always on me,” she said.

I snorted them before I even closed the door.

Looking back now, I don’t know what I hate more,

That I tried it in the first place,

or that it worked.

I knew how to look holy.
But by one Wednesday evening, I had coke dust on my fingertips and my head buried on the side-table beside my bed.

It was Bible Study night.
Midweek service.
6:30PM sharp.

I wasn’t planning to go.

I’d already snorted two lines around 4PM and told myself it was just to “wake up small” before I got dressed. I told myself I’d still make it to church. Just shower. Wear that wine-coloured blouse. Pretend I wasn’t flying.

But I didn’t move. I just stayed there.

Back curved over the side-table.
Rizla paper in one hand. Naira notes in the other.
Music playing low on my Bluetooth speaker. Something moody. Something that made me feel like I was main character in a soft tragedy.

I was zoning out, focused, wrapping coke into a neat little fold inside a ₦1000 note when I heard it:

“Chinaza!”

Auntie Rodah’s voice.

You know when someone calls your name with that born-again urgency?

That kind of voice that usually follows up with
“Come and help me download this app on my phone,”
or
“Where is that skirt you wore last week? Bring it for me.”

I didn’t answer.

Next thing I knew, the door creaked open and her brown church shoe peeked into the room.

That’s how it started.

“Ahn ahn… what are you doing?” she asked.

Then silence.

And then:

“JESUS CHRIST OF NAZARETH!!!”

I jumped like I was slapped.

The coke spilled.
The paper scattered.
My heartbeat became a warning bell.

She covered her mouth like she’d seen a dead body.
Eyes wide. Bible clutched under her arm.
Her wig slightly tilted from the force of her own scream.

“AUNTIE STOP!” I hissed, dragging her inside and slamming the door shut.

“What is this?! CHINAZA WHAT IS THIS?!”

Her eyes were darting around. My side-table. My tray. The ₦1000 note with powder still stuck to it. My nose. My lips. My shaking hands.

“It’s not what you think, biko!” I said, already regretting the sentence.
Of course it was exactly what she thought.

“Cocaine?! In this house?! In this house that your mother prays in?! Chai! God! Chineke!”

I stood in front of the table, trying to block it like the sight could be erased.
“I said stop shouting!”
“You’re doing drugs!”
“I SAID STOP SHOUTING!!”

Then came the moment that still makes me want to vomit when I remember:

Mummy walked in.

Deaconess Tabitha Uche
Head of the Women’s Fellowship.
My mother. The one who tithes even on gifts.
The one who anoints our pillows when we’re asleep.
She walked in wearing her navy-blue wrapper and a scarf tied like warfare.

“Rodah,” she said, already frowning. “What is all this shouting for—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She saw me.

Saw my hand.
Saw the note.
Saw the tray.
Saw the powder.
Saw the truth.

Everything in her face dropped. Like something died in her eyes.

She took one step back. Then forward. Then back again.

“Magdalene… what are you… what is…?” I hated it when she called me by my baptism name.

She was blinking. Like she wanted her eyes to lie to her. Like if she blinked hard enough, the image would go away.

“Aunty, tell her not to shout, please,” I whispered.

I don’t know why that’s what I said.
Not “I’m sorry.”
Not “Let me explain.”
Just: don’t shout. Don’t disgrace me fully.

My mother stood still.

Then, with the softest voice I’ve ever heard, she asked:

“Is that cocaine?”

Not “Are you okay?”
Not “How long?”
Not even “Why?”

Just those three words.

I nodded once. That was all I could do.

She sat down on the edge of my bed, very slowly, like her bones were breaking one by one.

Rodah was pacing now, speaking in tongues and tears.

“Jehovah! The devil has entered! You have ruined your destiny! In this house! You think you can hide from God?! What have you done to your life?!”

I couldn’t hear it.

I was high and crashing at the same time. My head felt like a church bell. I sat on the floor, curled up, not crying. Just breathing heavy. Waiting for lightning. For judgment. For the roof to collapse.

Instead, I heard my mother start to pray.

Her voice was trembling. Gentle.

“Lord, have mercy… God of Elijah… I cover this room with the blood of Jesus…”

We didn’t go to Bible Study that night.
Rodah cried the entire time.
Mommy didn’t shout. She didn’t touch me. She didn’t eat dinner.

She just sat in the living room and read Psalm 51 out loud.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God… and renew a right spirit within me…”

I sat in my room and sniffled. The coke was still on the table. I wanted to finish it, just to feel okay again.

But I couldn’t move.

The next day, she told my brother.
The day after that, he booked my rehab.
Three days later, I was gone.

They’ve forgiven me now.
Sort of.

Rodah sends me Bible verses every morning.
Mommy says I should turn my story into a testimony for the youth.
I don’t reply to either of them much.
Not because I’m not grateful. But because I’m still grieving the girl they thought I was.

I buried her the day they saw me.
Powdered fingers and all.

Yeah. So, about the rules.

I wrote them when I still thought I was clever. When I thought I could outsmart addiction with lip gloss and lies. When I believed being “functional” meant I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine. I was drowning quietly. Smiling through it. Snorting through it.

Now I’m sober enough to say:
Those rules?
They didn’t save me.
They almost killed me.

So let’s fix them.

One by one.

Rule 1: Always look like you’re fine.

Let me tell you something.

Looking fine will kill you.

The girl who always looked fine? She nearly died with her lashes on. I smiled my way through withdrawal. Did my makeup before panic attacks. Posted selfies after crying on the floor. “Fine” was my costume. Not my condition.

Looking okay doesn’t mean you are okay.

And sometimes, the messier you look, the more honest you’re being.

Now? I don’t try to look fine anymore.

I try to look real.

That’s harder.

But it’s the only thing that’s ever felt honest.

Rule 2: Keep it classy. Hide it well.

No.

Hide it, and it will grow in the dark.

Hide it, and it will own you.

I once said “I’m not like those addicts.”

But I was exactly like them. I just wore mine in high heels and perfume. I romanticized my addiction. Branded it. Filtered it. I thought if it was packaged beautifully, it wasn’t real.

But coke doesn’t care how cute your stash bag is.

It will wreck you in Dior or in dust.

Now? I don’t hide. I say it with my chest.

“I did coke. I was addicted. I am recovering.”

Rule 3: Tell yourself it’s not that deep.

It was that deep.

It cost me friendships.

It cost me memories.

It almost cost me my life.

There is nothing cute about sniffing powder to survive a Tuesday.

I told myself lies to keep going:

“At least I’m functional.”

“At least I’m not doing crack.”

“At least I’m not begging.”

But “at least” is a cage.

A tiny, gold-plated cage where you rot slowly and call it control.

The truth is: if you have to bargain with your habit, it already owns you.

Rule 4: Never admit you need help.

I kept this one the longest.

Held it tight like a Bible.

And it almost killed me.

Because when you won’t admit it, nobody can help you.

You’ll sit there dying with a clean face and matching shoes, and people will call you strong while you disappear behind your own ego.

I thought asking for help meant weakness.

Now I know it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

When I finally said “I need help,” it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t poetic.

It came out ugly. Slurred. Desperate.

But it was the first true thing I’d said in years.

Rule 5: You either stop, or you die.

This one?

Still true.

You stop.

Or you die.

Period.

Some of us die quickly—overdoses, seizures, arrests.

Some of us die slow—weight loss, paranoia, memory loss, shame.

I watched a girl in this rehab shake through her 19th day clean and whisper, “I don’t think I’ll make it.” She had burn marks on her arms from where she tried to “feel something real.” We sat beside her all night.

She made it to Day 20.

She smiled.

Then she relapsed on Day 21.

Nobody saw her again.

I still see her in my sleep.

So yes.

You stop.

Or you die.

But here’s the part I didn’t know:

Stopping doesn’t mean you’re cured.

It means you fight for yourself, every single day, in ways that don’t always look inspiring.

Some mornings, I wake up and still want to disappear.

But I get up anyway.

I drink water.

I sit in group.

I shake.

I write.

I cry.

I don’t use.

And then I do it all again tomorrow.

They asked me yesterday what I’d say to my younger self.

The girl at that first party.

The girl with the clean smile and empty eyes.

The girl with a halter dress and a cocaine key.

You know what I’d say?

“Don’t do it. Not even once. Because once is all it takes to forget who you are.”