It started as a small itchy patch on my inner thigh. I thought it was just heat rash — Lagos weather, you know how it is. I ignored it. Two weeks later, it had spread into an ugly ring, red and burning, with a white ring around the edge that kept growing wider no matter what I did.

I tried everything. Methylated spirit. Native chalk. A tube of cream my neighbour swore by. Antibiotics from the chemist that had nothing to do with fungus. Nothing worked. It would go quiet for a week, then come back angrier — and this time it brought friends. My toenails turned yellow and thick. My feet started peeling and cracking between the toes, so bad that slippers became painful. My underarm developed patches of lighter skin that never tanned with the rest of me.

I stopped wearing skirts. I stopped going to the beach with my friends. I started sitting with my legs crossed at every event, terrified someone would notice. I would scratch myself raw at night and wake up with blood under my nails. My husband started sleeping further away from me in bed, and even though he never said it, I knew why.

The worst part? Every hospital visit gave me the same tired advice — “keep the area dry,” “use antifungal powder,” “it will clear with time.” Meanwhile the fungus was living rent-free on my body, spreading, embarrassing me, and stealing my confidence one patch at a time.