My Own Story — Written in My Own Words
I'm going to tell you something I didn't tell my wife for almost eight months. I didn't tell my business partner either, and God knows I saw him nearly every day at our shop on Allen Avenue.
I had piles. Bad ones. And for the longest time, I was too embarrassed to say the word out loud, even to myself.
How It Started
It began, if I'm honest, with nothing dramatic. I was in my late 40s, running two small businesses in Lagos, sleeping too little, eating whatever was fastest — a lot of bread, a lot of rice, not enough water, and definitely not enough vegetables. I told myself I'd "sort my diet out" once things calmed down at work. Things never calmed down.
Constipation crept in first. I didn't think much of it — I assumed everybody struggled sometimes. But it kept happening, two or three times a week, and each time I strained more than I should have, just to get it over with and get back to my desk.
Then one Tuesday morning, there was blood. Not a lot, but enough to make my hands shake a little as I stood in my own bathroom in Ikeja, staring at the tissue, trying to convince myself it was nothing.
What It Cost Me
I want to be honest about this part, because I think it's the part people skip when they tell these stories.
It cost me sleep — I'd lie awake dreading the next morning. It cost me focus at work; I'd catch myself shifting in my chair during meetings, unable to sit comfortably, pretending everything was fine. It cost me closeness with my wife, Folake, because I was distracted and short-tempered, and I never told her why. She thought it was business stress. I let her believe that, because the alternative felt too humiliating to say out loud.
I even started avoiding public toilets altogether — turning down invitations, cutting meetings short, planning my whole day around being near my own bathroom. Looking back now, I can see how much smaller my life had become without me even noticing it happening.
Everything I Tried That Didn't Work
I want to list these honestly, because I tried a lot before I understood anything.
1. Over-the-counter creams. I bought three different ones from a pharmacy near Computer Village. They gave temporary numbness, some relief for a few hours, but the underlying problem — the straining, the hard stool — was untouched. A few days later, back to square one.
2. A herbal concoction from a roadside seller in Ibadan. A friend swore by it. I drank it for two weeks. It did something to my stomach, certainly — mostly discomfort — but nothing that addressed what was actually happening.
3. Ignoring it completely. For about three months, I simply told myself it would go away on its own if I "didn't think about it." It didn't go away. It got worse, and the bleeding became slightly more frequent.
4. Random YouTube advice. I tried a rotating list of "miracle" home remedies I found online — none tailored to what was actually causing my symptoms, no structure, no consistency. I'd do something for two days, get bored or busy, and stop.
5. Avoidance and distraction. I genuinely tried to just "manage around" the problem — softer toilet paper, sitting differently, rushing through meals so I could get home. None of it touched the actual cause.
The Turning Point
The morning I saw blood again — heavier this time — I finally went to see a doctor at a private hospital in Ikeja. I sat in that waiting room more nervous than I'd been in any boardroom in my life.
The doctor examined me, reassured me it was consistent with hemorrhoids aggravated by constipation and straining, and gave me the kind of plain, practical explanation nobody had ever bothered to give me before: fix the stool, and you take most of the pressure off the problem. She also told me clearly — if the bleeding continued or worsened, or anything looked unusual, I needed to come back immediately for proper evaluation. I never forgot that instruction, and I still repeat it to anyone I share this with.
That conversation changed how I thought about the whole thing. I stopped hunting for a magic cream and started paying attention to the actual pattern: what I ate, how much water I drank, how I used the toilet, and how much I was straining without even realizing it.
I began deliberately eating more fibre — vegetables, oats, beans, fruit — and forcing myself to drink water consistently through the day, not just when I remembered. I stopped rushing on the toilet. And almost by accident, I discovered that a warm sitz bath in the evening gave me a level of comfort nothing else had — a simple, quiet fifteen minutes that made a genuine difference to how I felt.
How the Protocol Came to Be
Within a few weeks, I noticed something I hadn't felt in a long time: I wasn't dreading mornings anymore. Not because the problem vanished overnight, but because I finally had a routine — something consistent I was doing every single day instead of just reacting when things got bad.
I started writing it down for myself first — a simple daily checklist taped inside my bathroom cabinet. Then a friend, someone I finally opened up to, asked if I could write it out properly for him. Then another friend. Then a small WhatsApp group of men my age who, it turned out, were quietly dealing with the exact same thing and never talking about it either.
That's the honest, unglamorous origin of this guide. It wasn't built in a lab. It was built in my own bathroom, refined over months of paying close attention, and shaped by every failed attempt that came before it.
I'm not a doctor, and this isn't presented as one. It's a practical, structured routine built from real experience and from what my own doctor confirmed about the role of hard stool and straining — organized so you don't have to stumble through years of trial and error the way I did.
