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  • No matter how much more.

    Life had become a Teacher who made forceful requests of a “ fill in the blank space” assignment ,and she was expected to submit hers, because, time was up, But it didn’t mean anything that she was not done yet, because no matter how many times she told the teacher that she needed to finish, that she needed to just write a word, she was met with deaf ears. 

    A spot, left open and waiting, needing to be occupied, the spot now too rusty, too old-fashioned, to be occupied, so it needed to be discarded. It had to be kept aside for supposed growth. 

    Another shiny new spot had appeared for him to sit on, new, young, exciting and approved  

    “More soap, It needs more soap”. Alanna poured more soap, the viscous liquid crawling slowly on the smooth brown chair. She scrubbed and she scrubbed. “Its going to be perfect, you’re going to be perfect, just perfect.” 

    After she finished rinsing of the soap, she took the perfumed cloth she had ironed a day before and began to mop the liquid off the smooth mahogany, smothering it till the cloth appeared to be coming apart from friction, she was almost finished with the last part of the chair, when she smelled his cologne, she turned her head to look at him, her face beaming with smiles. Baba did not fix his gaze on her; he looked at the chair shortly and started walking towards Bo’s room. “Baba, I’ve cleaned the chair, it’s perfect for you to sit, I have made it so that it is smooth to touch and adorned it with the sweetest smell,” Alanna said. Baba continued walking. Alanna called out, raising her voice, “Baba, look, see the chair, see it. I have made it perfect for you to sit, Baba, look”. 

    Baba turned his head sideways to look at her and not the chair, and said. “Alanna what is this sight you have presented, yourself to be seen ,disheveled and unpleasant. Certainly Not acceptable”. Then he walked out of the room. 

    The friction injured cloth in Alanna’s hand fell to the floor. Alanna crumbled beside it, picking it up and smoothening the frays. As her tears and sweat fell to the cloth, Alanna sighed and lay quietly and slowly beside the chair. Heart throbbing with an exhausted despair.

  • Nigerian, but Ignorantly African

    I had a friend named Chad, ask about a Country called Chad. He said he had heard that the people who lived in Chad were poor, and that it was close to Nigeria, and he wanted to know If I knew anything about it. In the split seconds I had before I replied to him, I thought to myself, “Why was that the first thing to be thought about?”. I didn’t know anything about the country Chad and had never looked it up, except from in school where we had to draw my country’s map and represent a portion of Chad as an intersection to the country itself.  

    I defended Chad. I defended Chad like I had forgotten about my own country. I told him that they were not poor, they were living peacefully according to their population, but they weren’t poor. I asked him if he was going to visit there sometime, and he responded with “Nah, I don’t want to leave my home”. There was nothing wrong with what he had said, but his nonchalance displeased me. What a weird way ,I thought, to say that a country was poor, with confidence and without the general sympathy. 

    Another person also asked me if I knew about the Wars in Congo. I didn’t know, but I thought that I may have heard of it happening. The only Congolese person I knew was Jonathan from South Korea, and I had never even met him in real life. This person also asked me if there were any wars in Nigeria. I turned and I looked at him as I drove. I was disappointed, but there was nothing I could do about my disappointment, except to change my facial expressions. Was there really nothing positive these people could say ?,Wasn’t there something good about African Countries that this people knew about? 

    Every Sunday when My Dad drives us to church, I am forever amazed at the homeless people on a particular street we pass, it is to the point that if I tell my Friends, they would gasp and scream, “you’re lying”. But I would not be lying, I would only be saying exactly what I had seen, it is not as if it is not possible for a country to have homeless people but to say that the “ The Great America”, “The U S of A” had those people, would almost be to insult the Economy itself. 

    No matter how much I thought of it, there was no way in which all these could be America’s fault, A country I assume is expected to be majorly individualistic towards its own roots and progress, to work hard for the betterment of a nation and to yield profits for its general growth, but how many are interested in that growth ?,Is it a concern for the government or the citizens who would later become the government. My Mum used to say to me that even if there is a brand new man ready to sit on the presidential seat, his hands would have been soiled and his mind and heart changed from the original goal, before he is even able to sit in the seat. What I think might be the fault of America’s media is the excitement that comes with talking about a poverty that is not theirs, the display of pictures, and the things only their citizens are made to know. I wonder what it means to perhaps feel joy for another’s misfortune. Maybe someone had spoken of our Agriculture, our Music, or culture and had been dismissed, and told that that was not what the people wanted to see. Whenever I checked for pictures of the Biafra War, I wished Google would just blur the images of the starving children and show the Bright Ones, the ones of their temporary victory, their patriotism and courage, Or was no one interested in that ?, Did no one take any ?, and is there really no one interested in seeing them?. 

    I am usually familiar with the general upsetting curiosity of the place of my origin and its environs , but never thought to be a human background spectacle for other African countries. Perhaps Chad  wanted to engage in a conversation, and thought to begin with the poverty of another country, but if that was his first thought choice, of a topic for a conversation, what a terrible job he had done. Recently, I have been on a journey of discovery for South African Movies, and have developed an affection for their manner of speech and their variety of languages. One in particular I like is “Chomi” meaning Friend. Here in America, I am also beginning to discover and learn more about countries in Africa, and it has only dawned on me that I had only known to be Nigerian, but never truly African. 

  • Hypocritical

    It is with ease, you criticize
    So well, you seem to be the originator of the solution.
    Because where you stand is void of retribution and conflict
    You peel and speak with confidence.

    You do not speak of a position you obtained,
    But one from a place of comfort
    Your loins are not soiled with guilt and pain,
    And hidden struggles, so you are brief and careless with your words.

    Of what great sacrifices do you know of.
    What pain resides in you, that you strive to hold yourself together 
    Unbelief should stream from your veins
    Mocking you, and rendering you unworthy to speak.

  • Trusting You

    It was the authenticity of your voice that bothered me.  

    The certainty you exuded. 

    In obvious ways that made you seem, perhaps  

    Indestructible? 

     

    It grew my fears as you chatted away. 

    And rather than being imbued with faith and strength 

    I become afraid, I tremble in fear.  

    Because in waking nights, Perfect doesn't seem close by. 

     

    Your confidence gave no warning.  

    Nor did it share any sense of safety. 

    It usually gave the impression of the one blinded rat. 

    Leaving the blind ones to a place prepared for death

  • Being a part of your comfort

    I met a Korean man today at my workplace. He was Korean because of his English accent and his eyes. His eyes were slightly oval with a curve at the top left and a curve at the bottom right, seemingly soulful, cautious, and warm. I felt an overwhelming familiarity course through my heart as I looked at him, and watched him. I paced closely in his direction, hoping he would say something, maybe he would notice my accent and ask me where I am from, so that I could ask him too. In my head, a couple of words formed sentences and phrases, all trying to win competitions for actual qualifying conversations, but he didn’t look at me, and I couldn’t speak to him. My co worker walked to my side and said, “all these Korean people never knowing what they be doing”, this wasn’t unusual for him to say, making random comments about peoples activities, and I would laugh because I didn’t know what he was trying to say, but this time, my eyebrows twisted weirdly and I avoided his gaze, it felt like a betrayal to laugh at that statement, and before the Korean man had left I was already upset. I thought it weird to be upset, but it did not change that I was upset; I didn’t even know the man, and yet I was so unsettled within me.
    I am popularly known among friends, families, and acquaintances for my love for korean drama and its country, How I fell in love and the moment it happened i do not remember, but I had often found myself looking for something related them, My friends in school outgrew it and kept telling me that this was a phase, I told them it wasn’t a phase but waited to see if I would also at some point fall out of this phase, instead, in place of the attractive men that occupied our attention as teenage girls came the beauty of its scenery, the words spoken and the comfort it brought, crafted from reality into fantasy, and the giggles that eluded me, there was something pacing about the emotions the actors and actresses always seemed to portray, their eyes were mostly so deep and when they cried, something felt like it was escaping from my chest.
    I mourned characters that died but were never real, crying for days and annoying my sister who was already sick of my tears, The men being very fine was still appreciated, but I had built something so warm and accepting with Korean drama’s that it wasn’t exactly about the actors anymore but the stories, stories rich and acknowledging of passion, made with so much love that I could only want and dream to be a part of them.

  • Comfort for the grieving

    You will remember to think of them.
    As if it has always been a part of your life
    Their smell, how they feel
    To touch them is to hardly ever dream


    Tears that are dry from exhaustion
    The dull ache that intensifies your fears.
    A beginning that has now come to an End
    Ever abrupt, but now too late to stir


    Will Redemption be found again?
    Sometime in the future, after all these have passed
    My love, my dearest, and my Friend.
    To meet you again, I fear.
    Now belongs so far,in my waking dreams till the End.

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  • My Nigerian Accent

    This piece is inspired by Lupita Nyongo, who is now my newfound role model, especially for this recently cultivated dream of being an Actress, or as I will tell people who I am extremely comfortable with, “a Superstar”

    When I was much younger I had filled my head excessively with the contents of anything on the TV screen, Nigerian, Indian, Korean, Yoruba, American, and even to Arabic, especially with contents of MBC 3 as a TV station, at first it started with just it as TV and I then slowly progressed to CDs and an everlasting affection for K-dramas, but what was more shocking to me now as I write this piece is to what extent it took me to watch anything on the screen.

     I was  voracious, because as little as I was, I was already sneaking into the living room at midnight to watch the TV and when I would  hear the voices from my parent’s room, I would put the TV off and pretend like I was asleep, I even got caned for it, because I just couldn’t settle for not watching Nickelodeon as a child. Which is very surprising because I was very much a coward when I was growing up, and more of a by the book kind of girl.

    So believe me when I say that by the time I could speak in an American accent, I wasn’t taken aback actually, which was strange because I had never even been to America in the first place, what I also didn’t realize was that I wasn’t aware that it was an American accent until people at Secondary school told me I sounded like cartoons, and then I would speak it at little gatherings where my hostel or class mates were, basically just for laughs and awe

    Coming to America was very comfortable, what was also more comfortable was the ignorance of the effect of my skin color and my accent in an environment of majorly white people. In my attempt to blend in, I applauded myself internally that I had experience with an American accent, and this was the time to showcase those honed skills,  so I set about talking first to the staffs at the airlines ,to the cashier at the grocery store, to someone at the beach, and to someone at the Library, My siblings even applauded me as well, the only place I felt accent sane was at church, and I wasn’t even conscious of it, because immediately I got to church my Nigerian accent would slip out ,and I wouldn’t even care if I used American or Nigerian at all

    Fast forward a little bit further to when I had to go for a job interview at a Recycling company, which I got ready for properly, I even got to the location on time so I was exact that I made a good first impression. I walk into the interview room and I began the interview, they all ask questions but most in particular “where are you from”. shit. I’ve been caught, my accent was breaking, I go ahead to tell them that I am Nigerian, and the gray and black long haired man says “you speak really good English”. My Dad had made it a National anthem at home that most of the white people here pretended like they didn’t understand what we were saying because we spoke with a different accent, so I wasn’t surprised, but what was more surprising after I had answered him “yes” was that he didn’t know, “He didn’t know?”, now that is more outrageous than a common lie. Surely he must have known or heard of Fela kuti, or Okocha or even Wizkid.(This was 2024 as I write), Americans and Nigerians have passed through the borders before and after the Biafra War. Slightly offended I focused on my main goal, the interview, after I was done I went home, silently still commending myself that I did a good job, that even if I was discovered, I had done a good job. I begin my evening routine scrolling on social media and decided to take a break from looking at Lupita nyongo’s Instagram page but to actually listen to her podcast ,and I am astonished when she begins to talk about her own story with her accent, A wonderful podcast by the way, but I begin to reflect on myself and my little commendatory ceremonies held in the inner crevices of my mind, about how silly I was to be proud of an accent that was clearly not mine, about how shameful it was that “Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie” may hear me speak and be a little bit disappointed that I couldn’t be proud of my natural born voice, how embarrassed I now felt that speaking in an American accent was something that I commended myself for instead of seeing it as a tool to materialize myself into the culture temporarily. And to think that I had told my friends that I was practicing amidst while speaking to them in that accent, they must have thought me ridiculous.

    Now Writing and typing away at my brother’s laptop, I have come to the silent resolution to work hard to make my Nigerian accent shine even better and more brighter, and even if some of them  go to the far pathetic  lengths of pretending that  they do not  understand me speaking English ,It is my job to repeat and educate such “sorry people” on accentual knowledge concerning Nigeria in a way that they come to the realization or are even educated conciously or unconsciously.

    October 31st 2024

  • First Observations

    Immigration is a word that I had known but never knew. It was a word I didn’t know carried immense depth and sometimes a hint of shame. But it was an exciting thing to be an immigrant, to leave a country with so much beauty and fruitfulness, yet barren of opportunities. To squeal at so much ice cream and fast food yet bedridden with the worry of being obese, To anticipate the things that could all be possible and move towards working on them, It was all exciting.
    How oblivious, How ignorant, How innocently expectant.
    The man at the driver’s license office was making smart remarks at us while discussing with a supposed colleague, and we had only known because my Dad had reprimanded him. The people you see often at work continue to ask where you’re from faces distorted with forgetfulness, and when it continues after weeks, you know you have arrived at a place that is unwelcoming of you, upon this realization is to hasten adjustments, a contrast conscious anxiousness of being caught, you laugh at jokes that you do not understand and do unfamiliar things to make yourself known in silent desperate pleas of acceptance. I thought that coming to America would cause a shift in the air, a dawning of bliss, but it wasn’t like that. There is no magic here, and hardly is there any occasional kindness, and to experience one even in supposed flickers is to doubt its honesty constantly.
    There was also the unnecessary gratitude that threatened to come out from underneath the skin. Receiving an absolute bare minimum becomes a gift of Gold in a swift wave of the hand. The looks and remarks of people who hardly know most things, but wish to glow and bask in your ignorance, asking questions with already prepared answers, how cowardly I thought, but also sad, to need to enjoy one’s ignorance to be truly fulfilled.
    On days I let them have fun, extremely pretentious of common knowledge, to also have little ceremonies of glee as I watch them explain things already known, wondering if they can figure out what the smirk on my face is for, other days I laugh, an extended cackling that makes them uncomfortable and suddenly conscious of their absurdity, and then I fake wipe my tears and when they have questions about my place, I too explain, so slowly, asking them if they understand what I mean.
    America is a wonderful place, and there are reasons why that is general knowledge, but you see, it is no heaven. All the people who live here seem to be getting by, somehow looking soul-sunken, their lives occupied with work and scheduled Adult assignments.
    To truly know and experience America, I believe, is to read the books of the Ancient Founders, amazed at their thirst for growth, and dreams of a place built on with dedication and might.
    I hope and wish to see America, the founding dreams old yet so beautiful at the forefront, still and basking in the morning sunlight, of abounding glory.