Where reflection meets renewal. There’s a stillness that arrives around this time of year.It’s not loud like January’s resolutions or December’s noise.It’s softer the kind that sneaks in when you’re too tired to keep pretending you’re not tired. The emails are slowing down.The group chats are buzzing again.Half the people you know are planning to…
Because no matter where we are, we always find our way back to each other. There’s a smell in the air around this time of year part fried stew, part anticipation.WhatsApp groups start reviving like old spirits.Somebody suddenly remembers to ask, “Are you coming home this December?”And even if you’re not, your body starts acting…
Because for many of us, rest has always felt like rebellion. Let’s be honest: Nigerians don’t rest.We only recover. Even our vacations look suspiciously like work.You’ll see someone on “holiday” still replying emails with “sent from my iPhone” energy.Aunties will visit family abroad and spend two weeks cooking for people who told them to come…
And somehow, we’re still chasing what we can’t even name. Every November, it starts the same way. Someone will post, “Can you believe it’s almost Christmas?”Someone else will reply, “Where did the year go?”And just like that, a familiar Nigerian panic starts to hum through our collective bloodstream. Because once October ends, Nigerians home or…
But we’ve been writing it all the same in pepper soup, praise names, and permanent resilience. October in the UK is Black History Month.Yes October, not February.That’s when the country pauses at least on paper to honour the legacy, pain, brilliance, and presence of Black people in Britain. There are speeches, school assemblies, banners with…
And somehow, they kept surviving things they never named. You know the kind of pain I’m talking about. The one she brushed off while pounding yam.The one she carried in her chest like an extra load.The one that made her wince slightly when she lifted the bucket but still went on like nothing happened. That…
When migration scatters the family tree, and names become blurry echoes. There was a time when cousins were your first crew. The ones you fought and gisted with in the same breath.The ones who ran barefoot with you through sandy compounds, climbed mango trees, and shared sweets your aunty told you to hide.The ones who…
Ask anyone in diaspora and they’ll tell you: Nigeria never left us.It’s in our pepper preference, our humour, our sense of community, our suspicion of authority, and our spiritual GPS.We carry it in the way we speak, the way we style, the way we cook. But every time you try to feel proud, something pulls…
When home becomes a place you love from afar and grieve from even farther. There are some calls that make your heart pause.The 2am WhatsApp ring.The voice note that begins with, “Don’t panic, but…”The cousin’s name that flashes on your screen after months of silence. And just like that, you remember you’re not nearby.You’re not…
You didn’t waste it. You wore it with pepper, joy, and your belly out. There’s a kind of silence that settles in August. The sun is still shining, but the light has started to linger like it knows its time is nearly up. The wind changes key. The laughter gets a little slower. And somehow,…
