Richlyd Diet Clinic, Bénin (2025)

30/08/2025

🌟 Another successful session on Health Matters , and my heart is full of joy 💕. Thank you so much, Peace, for the kind invitation, it was truly an honor to speak on “Nutrition for Women’s Health; Special Dietary Needs During Menstruation, Pregnancy, and Menopause.”

✨ Women are superheroes. We carry life, nurture families, and keep moving even when our bodies are going through changes like menstruation, pregnancy, and menopause. But here’s the truth: behind that strength, our bodies have unique nutritional needs. 💡

What you eat in these seasons of womanhood can either:
✅ Fuel your strength
✅ Balance your hormones
✅ Protect your health
…or leave you drained, weak, and at risk of complications.

That’s why nutrition must be every woman’s best friend at each stage of life. 🥗✨

Every day, I’m proud of the woman I’m becoming; bold, passionate, and unstoppable in making nutrition simple, relatable, and life changing. 💪

💡 Are you an organization, church, school, NGO, or group looking to empower your people with practical nutrition insights? I’m open for invitations, collaborations, and speaking engagements, because together, we can build healthier families and stronger communities. 🌍❤️

📢 Your health is your wealth, and sometimes, all it takes is the right knowledge to change everything. 💫

16/07/2025

Story Timeeee 💃💃💃💃 EPISODE 30 (FINAL): I AM NOT AFRAID TO BE SEEN

The message haunted me for days.

“You’re not safe. Someone from your past is planning to leak something big.”

I couldn’t sleep.

Ireoluwa sensed the tension. He’d cry at night. I’d hold him and hum lullabies my grandmother once sang.

But the fear remained.

Then it happened.

The leak.

A blog post, anonymously submitted.

The headline read:

“THE REAL ADORA OKONKWO: Fake Pregnancy, Sugar Daddies, and the Book She Stole.”

It spread like wildfire.

WhatsApp groups. Twitter. Instagram.

Even bloggers I trusted reposted the gossip.

They claimed I was never pregnant.
That the child was borrowed.
That “4 Star Food Fix” was plagiarized.
That I had slept my way into the speaking gigs.

They even attached an old photo of me crying in front of a pharmacy.
They said I was begging for pills to stage a miscarriage.

I couldn’t breathe.

📖 Written by: Lydia Ayankoso
📞 Ready to start your own healing journey? Message 07032261611 for a personalized meal plan.

For the first time in a long time,
I wanted to hide.

Mama said, “Ignore them.”
Tosin said, “I’ll handle it legally.”
Sam said, “Let me speak up.”

But I said nothing.

Until Ireoluwa found the old diary again.

Grandma Ezinne’s diary.

He opened the page and pointed at a line I never noticed before:

“Let them shame you in public. But rise in public too. You’re not their secret. You are your own light.”

I wept.

The next morning, I did something radical.

I went live.

On Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. YouTube.

Unfiltered. Unedited. Unafraid.

“My name is Adora Okonkwo. And this is not a defense. It’s a declaration.”

“Yes, I was pregnant.
Yes, I bled in a guesthouse.
Yes, I was abandoned.
Yes, I begged. Yes, I crawled.
But I never faked my pain.”

“My book was written in tears. My child was born in truth.
And my story? It’s mine.
You can’t cancel what you didn’t create.”

“To every woman who has been called names, dragged for her choices, doubted because she chose survival
This live is for you.”

“We are not perfect.
But we are powerful.
And we will no longer whisper in shame.
We will heal LOUD.”

The live went viral.
Over 1 million views in 24 hours.

Celebrities reposted it.
Survivors from across Africa stitched it.
A major TV station requested to air it as a documentary.

Then came the real twist.

📩 A message from a woman named Ngozi.

“I was the blog editor.
I was paid to run that story.
But I found the truth after watching your live.
Here is the name of the person behind the smear campaign: Chioma from the sisterhood group.”

Chioma.

The one who once prayed with me at midnight.

The one I trusted with the first draft of my book.

The one who wanted the speaking slot I got.

I confronted her privately.

She cried. Denied it. Then confessed.

“I thought if I ruined you, they’d see me. I was tired of being your shadow.”

I looked her in the eye and said,

“You were never my shadow. You were my sister. But you chose betrayal.”

I didn’t sue her.

I didn’t drag her.

I did something more dangerous:

I forgave her.

Weeks later…

I got an invitation letter.

From A*o Rock.

You’ve been selected for the “Woman of Courage” National Award.

For using food, story, and faith to rebuild your life and inspire a generation.

I stood in my kitchen, holding Ireoluwa,
as I read the letter.

Tears rolled down.

But this time, they weren’t from pain.

They were from power.

🎉 The award night was electric.
Tosin escorted me, dressed in white.
Mama wore coral beads.
Sam stood respectfully at the back with Ireoluwa on his lap.

When I climbed the stage, the hall went silent.

I took the mic. And said:

“There was a time I begged to be loved.
Now, I teach women how to love themselves first.”

“There was a time I sat in shame.
Now, I sit at tables I built myself.”

“There was a time I was just Adora.
Now, I am a mother, author, warrior, woman.”

“And if you’re watching this, know that healing isn’t soft.
It’s hard. It’s holy. And it’s yours.”

As they handed me the award, I saw Grandma Ezinne’s diary in Mama’s hand.

We locked eyes.

I mouthed, We made it.

📘 The next morning, I posted the final entry in my story series:

“We are not our mistakes. We are our rebirths.
Feed yourself. Find your voice.
Tell your story. LOUDLY.
And then teach others to do the same.”

✨ Adora’s story ends here.
But your story? It’s just beginning.

📞 Ready for your own healing journey? Message 07032261611 for your meal plan.

❤️ Thank you, healthy family. For reading. For crying. For sharing. For growing.

Let’s turn this story into a MOVEMENT.

Signed,
Lydia Ayankoso
The woman who made healing a headline.

15/07/2025

Story Timeeee 💃💃💃💃 Episode 29
WHEN THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE STOOD IN ONE ROOM

When I said I wanted peace,
I didn’t know it would come like this,
loud, public, and with three pairs of eyes staring at me:

1. Tosin, on one knee, holding a ring that glowed with promise.

2. Sam, holding a child that looked like my past.

3. Myself, frozen in the middle… carrying the weight of every woman watching me.

📖 Written by: Lydia Ayankoso
📞 Want healing that starts from your plate? Message 07032261611

Let’s rewind 6 minutes.

After the standing ovation in London, after the cameras, after I gave a speech that turned tears into thunder, I thought I was walking into a celebration.

Instead…

I walked into a choice.

“Tosin,” I whispered, my throat tight.

He looked up, his voice trembling.

“Adora, I don’t care about the cameras. I don’t care about your past. I want the woman I see now. Say yes, and I’ll carry your story like it’s gold.”

But then,

Sam stepped forward.

The child in his arms blinked at me.

“Adora, meet Ireoluwa,” he said. “He’s yours.”

My heart fell out of my chest.

He continued.

“You thought I didn’t believe you.
You thought I left because I didn’t want responsibility.
But Adora… I didn’t leave. I was pushed.”

My lips trembled.

He turned to the crowd, unbothered by the cameras.

“Her mother made me sign a document saying I wasn’t the father. She said Adora was going through too much. She said I’d ruin her life if I stayed.”

Gasps from backstage.

He faced me again.

“I left because I was lied to. But when I saw your story going viral, when I saw your name trending with my son’s face in the comments… I came.”

“I want to be part of his life. Even if I’m not part of yours.”

Ireoluwa.

That was the name I wrote in my journal at 7 months pregnant but never told anyone.

Tosin’s hand was still outstretched.
The ring still shone.
But I was crumbling inside.

The conference moderator whispered, “Adora, do you want us to pause the livestream?”

I shook my head.

“No. Let it roll. Let the world see real life. Not filters. Not fantasy. Just… truth.”

I turned to Tosin.

“You were the one who picked my calls.
You fed me when I couldn’t eat.
You held my hand in the hospital.
And you asked nothing in return.”

He smiled, eyes moist. “I did it all because I love you.”

Then I turned to Sam.

“You gave me a name I couldn’t forget.
You gave me a child I couldn’t deny.
You gave me pain… and purpose.”

He lowered his head.

I took the microphone again.

The audience leaned in.

“I’ve spent the last year trying to find my voice.
And now that I have it, I refuse to use it just to say ‘yes’ to a man.”

Gasps. Applause.

“This is not about love triangles.
This is about a woman becoming whole.
I don’t need rescuing. I don’t need permission.
What I need… is space to grow, and food to fuel it.”

Tosin slowly stood.

“So… is that a no?”

I stepped closer. Held his hand.

“It’s a ‘not yet.’ I love you, Tosin. But let me choose me first completely.”

I turned to Sam.

“Ireoluwa will know you. But I’ll decide how. And if you ever disappear again… you’ll answer to me and every woman watching right now.”

Sam nodded, ashamed… but respectful.

Later that night…

I walked into my hotel room with my son in my arms.
He smelled like powder and possibilities.

I boiled water.
Made pap with soymilk and fish powder.

He ate. Giggled.
And in that moment… I knew:

I am no longer the woman waiting to be chosen.
I am the one setting the table.

The next morning, I posted on Facebook:

“Last night wasn’t a proposal. It was a rebirth.
I don’t owe the world a happy ending.
I owe myself a powerful beginning.”

Thousands shared it.
trended again.

But just when I thought I could rest…

I got a text.

From an unknown number.

“You’re not safe.
Someone from your past is planning to leak something big.
Delete nothing. Stay strong.
You’ll need to tell your truth… again.”

I froze.

And just like that…

The real battle began.

📘 To be continued in Episode 30…

14/07/2025

Story Timeeee 💃💃💃💃 Episode 28
WHEN THE WORLD CAME CALLING

The airport was quiet at 5:42 a.m.

Foggy glass. Rolling suitcases. Slow yawns. Distant announcements.
But my mind? Loud. Scattered. Spinning like a blender of emotions.

I wasn’t running.
I wasn’t escaping.
I was… answering.

Answering the call I had waited for my whole life.

The invitation came just 5 days after the award.

A blue ticked DM from Dr. Margo Wells, Director of Global Women’s Wellness Initiative (GWWI), London.

“Adora, I read your story. All 27 episodes. I wept. I learned. I healed.
We’d love to have you speak at our International Women’s Healing Summit this August.
We’ll cover all expenses. You deserve to be heard beyond borders.”

I dropped the phone.
Tosin caught it mid air.

He stared at me, wide eyed.

“Adora, the world is watching.”

But not everyone was clapping.

Two days before the flight…

Ngozi posted a video.

Face tear streaked. Voice cracking.

“I’ve been misunderstood. But this isn’t over. I will not sit and watch someone ride on what I birthed.”

It went viral, again.
Comments flew like fireflies.

🔥 “Adora stole nothing. She saved lives.”
💔 “Sisterhood shouldn’t be war.”
⚖️ “Let’s hear both sides. Again.”

Tosin sent me a message:

“Do not respond. Just rise.”

And rise, I did.

📖 Written by: Lydia Ayankoso
📞 Ready for your healing plate? Message 07032261611

On the flight, I held three things close:

1. My grandmother’s diary.

2. The original 4 Star Food Fix manuscript.

3. A handwritten letter from Mama:

“My daughter, wherever you go, carry grace. Don’t fight to be heard. Cook and they’ll come. Speak and they’ll stay.”

The conference hall in London was a palace.

Chandeliers. Velvet seats. Voices from 13 countries.

When they called my name, I didn’t walk up.

I glided.

My speech was simple.

“I am not a chef.
I am not a saint.
I am a survivor who learned to feed herself after being starved of love.”

Gasps.

“When I couldn’t afford therapy, I cooked.
When I couldn’t cry, I stirred.
And every woman in this room has stirred something, soup, hope, resistance.”

Crowd: silent. Hanging. Breathless.

“I came from a town where women whisper healing in kitchens.

And now… I speak it on global stages.
Because our food is our fight song. And we’re done whispering.”

Standing ovation. From 13 nations.

But the moment that shattered the roof came backstage.

Tosin was waiting.

Nervous. Sweaty palms. Eyes soft.

He held a velvet box.

I blinked.

He opened it.

Inside: a gold ring with a stone shaped like a teardrop.

“Adora,” he said. “I didn’t chase you when I should’ve.
I didn’t see you when you were invisible.
But now I see you. Fully. Loudly. Internationally.”

“Marry me. Let’s feed the world together.”

The crew backstage screamed.

Cameras flashed.

But I?

I froze.

Because from the corner of my eye…

A man stood. Arms folded. Watching.

Sam.

Alive. In London. Uninvited.

Holding a child.

A toddler.

Curly hair. Round face.
The same face that kicked in my belly in Episode 8.

I turned back to Tosin.

Then to Sam.

Then to the audience who waited…

What would I choose?

📘 To be continued in Episode 29…

💭 Drop a comment below: TEAM TOSIN or TEAM TRUTH?
👑 Tag a woman who’s ever been torn between her past and her promise.
📞 Ready to start your healing from the plate up? Message 07032261611 now for your personalized 4 Star Food Fix meal plan.

11/07/2025

Story Timeeee 💃💃💃💃 Episode 27
THE STAGE THAT BURNED AND HEALED ME

The dress was white.

Silk. Simple. Flowing like grace.
Mama had picked it for me and whispered, “Wear peace to the battlefield. Let them choke on your calm.”

The awards were holding in Abuja.
Venue: Hilton.
Theme: "Voices of Power: Women Who Changed the Narrative."

I walked in, belly gently rounded, shoulders back, eyes steady.

The hall glowed with gold lights.
Red carpet. Cameras. Celebrities. Ministers. Judges. Influencers. Survivors.

I was the last to arrive, by design.

Because when they write history, they remember who showed up last… and strongest.

The program began.

There were dance performances.
Testimonies.
Video highlights.

📖 Written by: Lydia Ayankoso
📞 Need a Healing Meal Plan? Message 07032261611

Then the host said:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we now announce the top 3 finalists for the Her Voice, Her Victory National Award.”

Names flashed on the screen.

Mine was there.
Still number 3.
Still standing.

I gripped my seat.

The host smiled. “Each finalist will be invited to say a few words. Please welcome… Adora Okonkwo.”

Applause.
Mixed with whispers.

I walked up slowly, heart pounding.
A spotlight followed me.

I took the mic.

Paused.

And said:

“Before I speak, I want to ask: How many of you have ever been doubted… because your healing made others uncomfortable?”

Murmurs.

“How many of you have been told, ‘you’re lying’… just because your survival looked too beautiful?”

Heads nodded.

“Tonight, I’m not here to prove I’m innocent. I’m here to say that pain has many recipes, but one kitchen. And mine was the kind that birthed freedom, not fame.”

Applause.

“I didn’t rise to trend. I rose to live.
I didn’t write to impress. I wrote to breathe.
And if food was the only thing I could control… then I stirred my life with a wooden spoon.”

Louder applause.

“To every woman who has fed others while starving in silence…
This is your permission.
To eat.
To heal.
To live.
And to speak.
Out loud.”

They stood.
Some clapped.
Some cried.

And then…

Boom.

A woman walked briskly from the back.

Straight to the stage.

Security moved,
But the host waved them off.

It was Ngozi.

In a red dress.

Microphone in hand.

The whole hall held its breath.

“Sorry,” she said. “But I can’t let this continue.”

She turned to the crowd.

“You’re about to give a national award to a woman who STOLE my work!”

Gasp.

Cameras clicked.

“I had those recipes in my old ebook. She edited them, added storytelling, and made the nation believe she invented healing through food.”

The host looked panicked.

“Let me finish!” Ngozi insisted.

“She may have cried online, but don’t be fooled, Adora is a brand, not a survivor. This is manipulation. She stole my voice.”

Silence.

The crowd turned to me.

Eyes wide.

I walked up. Calm. But blazing.

Took the mic.

And said:

“Let me tell you something about stolen voices.”

“My grandmother never published a book. She kept her recipes in a diary. I found it while looking for baby shawls.”

“Should I credit her for every healing soup I made?”

“No.”

“But I honor her. And I share what saved me.”

I turned to Ngozi.

“You didn’t lose your recipes, sis. You lost your purpose the moment you tried to sabotage another woman’s healing.”

The crowd gasped.

“You’re not angry I used your recipe,” I continued.

“You’re angry I turned it into a revolution.”

“But guess what? This is bigger than us now.”

“Because somewhere, a woman is feeding herself with 4 Star Food Fix and deciding not to die today.”

The room stood.

Standing ovation.

Ngozi broke.

She dropped the mic…
And walked off stage.

No applause.
No pity.

Just truth.
Unapologetic. Loud. Healing.

Later that night…

They called my name.

“Winner of the 2025 ‘Her Voice, Her Victory’ National Award…”

“…Adora Okonkwo.”

I walked back on stage.

Not crying.

Not broken.

But whole.

“Tonight,” I said, “I accept this not for myself… but for every woman who thought silence was safety. For every girl who learned that healing should be humble. For every mother who fed pain to her children because she didn’t know freedom could be found on a plate.”

“This is for us. The feeders. The fixers. The forgotten. The now FOUND.”

That night, as I entered my hotel room, there was a bouquet waiting.

No card.

But one note.

“You didn’t just win, Adora. You made history. Let the story continue. T”

T?

Tosin?

📘 To be continued in Episode 28...

💬 Drop a comment if you screamed “STAND UP, ADORA” at any point.
💔 Tag a woman who has ever been sabotaged on her way to success.
📞 Ready to turn your pain into a plate? Message 07032261611 now for your own healing meal plan.

09/07/2025

Story Timeeee 💃💃💃💃 Episode 26
WHEN GREATNESS ATTRACTED WAR

The email came at 10:42 a.m.

I had just finished filming a short video on “Healing Foods for New Mothers” when I opened it casually.

Subject: Congratulations, You’ve Been Nominated!
From: National Women’s Impact Awards Committee

I blinked.

Reread it.

Then screamed.

Loud.

Mama ran in. “What is it?! Adora, are you in labor?!”

“No,” I said, laughing and crying all at once. “But something just gave birth!”

I was nominated for the "Her Voice, Her Victory" National Award, an honor given to women who’ve used their personal stories to bring healing and national impact.

Out of 3,000 nominees…
They picked seven.

And my name was number three.

I sat there, phone shaking in my hand, when I saw the last line of the email:

“Your story 4 Star Food Fix was brought to our attention by multiple women who credited it for saving their mental health and rebuilding their identity.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Adora, the same girl who once begged for garri, almost lost her baby, slept on hospital chairs, and cried alone in guesthouses, was now a national voice?

But with light comes shadows.

That same night, the first dagger flew in.

A blog post:

📰 BREAKING:
Award Nominee "Adora" Accused of Stealing Recipe Ideas from Former Friend

I froze.

Screenshot after screenshot of my food photos…
Side by side with Ngozi’s plagiarized ebook.

The headline screamed:
“Real Story or Repackaged Fiction?”

They quoted her:

“The recipes she’s claiming saved her life were mine. She just added emotion, tears, and marketing.”

My chest tightened.

“She’s deceiving the nation,” Ngozi said.
“Healing should be real, not rehearsed.”

The comments exploded:

“Is this true?”
“Women will do anything for fame.”
“This is why I don’t trust online motivators.”
“Wow. What if everything was fake?”

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t post.

For once… I prayed before I reacted.

I asked God one question:

“What is the price for rising, Lord?”

And I heard in my spirit:

“Warfare is the receipt for elevation.”

📖 Written by: Lydia Ayankoso
📞 Need a Healing Meal Plan? Message 07032261611

The next day, I got a call from the awards committee.

“Adora,” the woman said gently, “We’ve seen the controversy. We are launching an internal investigation. You’re still on the list for now.”

“For now?”

“We don’t want scandal. If the story sticks, we may have to revoke the nomination.”

I turned off my phone.

Sat quietly.

And opened Grandma Ezinne’s diary again.

April 10, 1972:
“Some women are too big for the kitchen they started in. The moment they rise, someone tries to set fire to the stove.”

I smiled sadly.

Grandma had already seen this.

But I wasn’t the same girl who cried in episode 1.

I had grown.
Healed.
Fought.
Fed myself back to life.

And I wasn’t going to give up now.

I recorded a video the next day. Calm. Direct.

“They said my healing story is fiction.
They said I stole my recipes.

But if food, storytelling, and survival are crimes, then I’ll stay guilty.
Because everything I shared saved my life.

I never said I was perfect.
I only said I survived.

And if my rising makes some people bitter…
Then maybe I’m the medicine they were never ready to swallow.”

The video went viral.

3 million views in 48 hours.

Women began reposting their testimonies:

“Her plan helped me survive depression.”
“I ate her meals every day when my husband left.”
“She gave me back my strength when I had none.”

Hashtag:
Hashtag:

But as I packed my bag for the award event in Abuja…

I got another message.

Anonymous.

“Ngozi is not done. She’s planning something at the event. Be careful.”

I stared at the screen.

My stomach turned.

Was she going to show up? Embarrass me on national TV?

The final award night was only 3 days away.

And I was walking into it…
Not just as a nominee…

But a target.

📘 To be continued in Episode 27...

💬 COMMENT: “Warfare is the receipt for elevation.”
📌 TAG a woman who knows that success comes with sabotage.
📞 Ready to rise above drama and feed your body and destiny? Message 07032261611 for your personalized healing meal plan.

Richlyd Diet Clinic

30/08/2025

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