The reply came at 2:17 a.m.
Amara had not expected it so soon—or at all, really. She had posted and then immediately regretted it, the cursor blinking like an accusing eye before she slammed the laptop shut and tried to sleep. But sleep had been a stranger for years, so she lay in the dark listening to the generator humming two streets away, the occasional okada roaring past, the distant call of a night watchman. When her phone vibrated on the nightstand, she reached for it without thinking.
The forum was international, mostly American and British users from what she could tell, usernames like "QuietStream76" and "HiddenFlow87." Her post had been simple, almost clinical in its brevity, but the response was anything but.
**User: EchoInTheStall**
**Posted 2 hours ago**
Hi. I'm 41F, UK. Read your words and felt like someone finally spoke mine out loud. 18 years for me. Started after a horrible school trip—girls laughing outside the cubicle while I stood frozen. Now I map every outing like a military operation. Work is the worst. I once held it 14 hours and ended up with a UTI that landed me in hospital. Doctor asked why I waited so long. I lied. Said I didn't notice.
You're not broken. We're just wired wrong in this one small, stupid way.
Message me if you want. No pressure.
—Echo
Amara stared at the screen until her eyes burned. Someone had seen her. Not just read—seen. The words blurred. She typed back with trembling thumbs.
**AmaraN (anonymous)**
Thank you. I don't know what to say. 7 months at work without using their toilet. Drive home every lunch. People think I'm dedicated or something. They don't know I'm dying inside every day.
How do you cope? Does it ever get better?
She hit send before doubt could stop her.
The next message came twenty minutes later.
**EchoInTheStall**
Cope? Poorly most days. But I found a women's thread buried deep in this forum. Mostly lurkers, but a few of us talk. One woman in Canada started graduated exposure on her own—started with home bathroom door open, then friend in hallway, then public with someone waiting outside. Slow. Painful. But she says she's down to only mild anxiety now.
Another in Australia uses noise apps—running water sounds, fan noise—to drown out everything. Helps sometimes.
But honestly? The biggest thing is realizing shame is the real prison, not the bladder. Shame keeps us silent. Talking—even typing—chips at it.
You're in Nigeria? That must add layers. Privacy is different there, yeah?
Amara exhaled slowly. Layers. That was one way to put it.
She thought of her mother in the village, the outhouse behind the compound, thin zinc sheets barely shielding from view. Women walked there in pairs sometimes, chatting, laughing, as if the act itself was communal gossip. But Amara had always gone alone, even as a girl, waiting until dusk when shadows hid more. Her mother had noticed. "You dey shame for body? God make am, no be you make am." The scolding had stung more than the wait.
In the city it was worse. Public toilets in markets charged per use, doors hanging off hinges, floors slick. Women queued, children crying, conversations flowing over partitions like water. No one seemed to care about sound or time. Except Amara. She cared about every drop, every second, every potential listener judging the silence.
She typed.
**AmaraN**
Yes. Layers. Here, women talk through everything. Birth. Death. Money problems. Toilet too. If you quiet too long they ask if you're sick. Or worse—they tease. "Abi you dey do style?" I can't bear it. So I hold. And hold. Until pain becomes normal.
The chat continued until dawn grayed the curtains. Echo shared links to articles, a PDF of graduated exposure steps from some American association, stories of small wins. Amara read until her battery died, then plugged in and kept going.
By morning she felt lighter. Not fixed—God no—but less alone.
Work that day was torture.
The pressure started early. She had drunk too much water the night before, trying to flush out the remnants of yesterday's ordeal. By 9:30 a.m. her abdomen felt like a water balloon stretched too thin.
She avoided the fifth-floor restroom. Instead she took the stairs to the second floor—fewer people, older building section, quieter. The door creaked. Empty.
She chose the handicapped stall—larger, lock more solid. Sat.
Breathed.
In through nose. Out through mouth.
Nothing.
She pictured the river like the old therapist had said. Nothing.
Footsteps outside. Someone entered the adjacent stall. A phone rang. The woman answered in rapid Pidgin, laughing at something. Amara's body clamped tighter.
The woman left. Silence returned.
Still nothing.
Amara stood, angry tears pricking. She washed her hands anyway, stared at her reflection. "You are stronger than this," she whispered. The mirror didn't answer.
Back at her desk she opened the forum again during a lull. Echo had sent another message.
**EchoInTheStall**
Try this today: don't aim for success. Aim for presence. Go into the stall. Sit. Stay five minutes even if nothing happens. Leave. That's the win. The body learns you're not running anymore.
Amara read it twice.
Presence.
Not performance.
She bookmarked it.
Lunch came. Instead of driving home she stayed. Ate her rice at her desk, sipped water slowly. The pressure built to a sharp edge, like a knife twisting slowly.
At 1:45 she stood.
This time she went to the ground floor—public area, always busy, cleaners mopping, visitors waiting. The restroom there had six stalls, constant traffic.
She walked in.
Noise hit her: flushing, talking, heels, doors banging.
She took the middle stall—riskier, more exposed.
Locked.
Sat.
Her heart slammed against ribs.
She closed her eyes. Counted breaths. One... two... three...
A woman in the next stall hummed a gospel song. Amara focused on the melody, not her body.
Four minutes.
Five.
Nothing came, but she stayed.
Six minutes.
The humming woman left.
Amara exhaled. Stood. Pulled up trousers. Left without washing—hands shaking too much.
Back upstairs she sat at her desk and cried quietly into a tissue, head down as if reading emails.
Not from failure. From survival.
She had stayed. In the noise. In the fear.
That was something.
The afternoon dragged. Meetings. Reports. Colleagues asking why she looked tired. "Just headache," she said. Standard lie.
By 5 p.m. the ache was unbearable again. She left early, claimed a migraine.
Home. Bathroom. Relief so sharp it bordered pain.
She showered long, hot water pounding shoulders. Then sat on the bed in her wrapper, laptop open.
New post.
**AmaraN**
Tried today. Sat in busy restroom. Middle stall. Stayed 6 minutes. Nothing happened. But I didn't run. First time in months I didn't flee.
Feels small. But feels like victory.
Replies came slowly at first, then faster.
**QuietStream76** (M, US): That's huge. Celebrate it.
**RiverWoman44** (F, Canada): Proud of you, sister. That's step one. Presence before flow.
**EchoInTheStall**: Told you. You're doing it. Message if you want voice chat sometime. No pressure.
Amara smiled—small, tentative.
She messaged Echo privately.
**AmaraN**
Voice? Maybe. Not yet. But thank you. Really.
The evening unfolded quietly. She cooked egusi soup, more for routine than hunger. Ate while watching a Nollywood film—something light, full of dramatic music and predictable twists. Laughed once, surprised at the sound.
Bed at 11 p.m. Phone beside her.
Another message from Echo.
**EchoInTheStall**
One more thing before sleep. Write down three things you're proud of today. Not related to bathroom if you want. Anything. Builds self outside the problem.
Amara thought.
1. Finished quarterly compliance report ahead of deadline.
2. Helped new intern understand the environmental audit form without making her feel stupid.
3. Stayed in the stall six minutes.
She wrote them in Notes app. Read them back. Tears again—soft this time.
Sleep came eventually, shallow but present.
The next week blurred into experiment.
She tried the presence technique every day.
Tuesday: third-floor restroom again. Eight minutes. A cleaner knocked once—"Madam, you okay?" Amara's voice cracked saying yes. Nothing flowed. But she stayed.
Wednesday: fifth floor during lunch rush. Ten minutes. Two colleagues outside chatting about weekend jollof parties. Amara focused on their laughter, not her failure. Left dizzy but intact.
Thursday: ground floor again. Twelve minutes. A child cried in another stall; mother soothed. Amara whispered to herself, "You're safe. You're allowed." A tiny trickle started—barely anything—but real. She almost laughed from shock. Then it stopped. Still, proof.
Friday: she pushed. Went during peak, right after a staff meeting. Stall next to door. Fifteen minutes. Voices everywhere. Nothing. But she breathed through panic attack—chest tight, vision spotting. Counted to one hundred. Left shaking but upright.
Weekend arrived like mercy.
She drove to the village Saturday—two hours, bad roads, checkpoints. Her sister Chioma was home from university, braiding hair in the compound.
They hugged long.
"You look tired, Ada," Chioma said, using the pet name.
"Work," Amara replied.
They sat under the mango tree, peeling oranges, talking about everything except bathrooms. But Chioma noticed.
"You dey hold body again?"
Amara froze.
"How you know?"
"You cross leg like say na life depend on am. And you no drink water since you land."
Amara looked away. The village outhouse waited behind the house—same zinc, same thin door.
"I... struggle," she admitted. Voice small.
Chioma didn't laugh. Didn't scold. Just took her hand.
"Since when?"
"Long time. Since Lagos days."
They talked until dusk. Chioma shared her own anxieties—exams, boys, fear of failing family. Amara listened, then spoke. Not everything. But enough.
That night, after everyone slept, Amara went to the outhouse alone.
Door closed. Stars above through gaps.
She sat.
Waited.
The night sounds—crickets, distant generator, wind in palms—wrapped around her.
Nothing came easily. But she didn't force. Didn't hate herself.
Twenty minutes later, a slow stream. Quiet. Private.
She cried there in the dark, not from pain. From recognition.
Her body remembered trust.
Sunday she returned to Port Harcourt lighter.
Monday she tried again at work.
This time, with a new tool: noise-cancelling earbuds Echo had recommended. Played rain sounds. Sat in the fifth-floor stall.
Eighteen minutes.
Flow started halfway. Not full. But enough to empty some pressure.
She emerged, face flushed, but head high.
Colleague Bisi saw her. "You look better today. Headache gone?"
Amara smiled—real this time.
"Yes. Gone."
The forum became daily ritual.
She read success stories late at night. Women who traveled again. Women who dated without mapping bathrooms. Women who told partners.
One story from a woman in Ghana—close enough culturally—hit hardest.
**AmaTheSilent**
Grew up in Accra. Family compound toilet shared by twelve. Everyone knew everyone's business. I learned to hold from age 9. Married at 25. Husband thought I was modest. Until honeymoon—hotel bathroom, thin walls. I couldn't. Cried every night. He left after two years. Said I was too closed.
Now 38. Alone. But trying. Started with mirror work—looking at myself while going at home. Sounds silly. But helped me see body as mine, not shame.
Amara tried it that night.
Stood before bathroom mirror. Lifted wrapper. Watched.
No audience. No judgment.
Flow came easier.
She laughed—shocked, relieved.
Progress was uneven.
Some days she regressed. Tuesday next week: full panic in stall, ran out before trying. Cried in car park. Drove home shaking.
But she posted about it.
Replies flooded support.
She kept going.
Weeks turned.
She met Echo on voice call finally—one Sunday evening, both in wrappers, tea steaming.
Echo's voice was warm, Midlands accent soft.
"You're doing brilliantly," she said. "Most people quit after first week."
"I'm scared every time," Amara admitted.
"Good. Means you're feeling. Means you're alive in it."
They talked two hours.
About shame. Culture. Men who didn't understand. Bodies that betrayed.
When call ended Amara felt seen—deeply, wholly.
She started a private journal.
Entries long. Raw.
"Today I stayed 22 minutes. Trickled a bit. Felt human."
"Colleague asked why I always leave early. Lied again. Hate lying."
"Miss my mother. Wish I could tell her. But how?"
One entry broke her open.
"Remember when Chidi said 'simple thing'? It wasn't simple. It was everything. Privacy. Dignity. Control. I lost them all. But maybe I'm finding pieces back."
Tears stained the page.
She didn't wipe them.
Let them dry like evidence.
Months would come—more tries, more setbacks, more tiny wins.
But in this chapter, the second stretch of her story, Amara began threading light through the dark.
Not a cure.
Not yet.
But connection.
Presence.
Proof she wasn't alone.
And that, for now, was enough to keep walking forward—one careful, trembling step at a time.