20/11/2025 — 5:15 am

I woke up to loud banging.

My whole body still aches from the long walk three days ago, and somehow… my eyes understood what was happening before my brain caught up.

I don’t even know how I managed to sleep. Today is the first real sleep I’ve had since Sunday.

The chaos before me makes me scared, but nothing… nothing compares to the fear of being dragged out of church on a bright Sunday morning.

I wasn’t supposed to be afraid. All the sermons, all the scriptures… they were meant to prepare us for moments like this.

But when that first gunshot shattered the rear window of the church, my heart almost tore itself out of my chest.

I didn’t even remember to pray. Amaka, “Echefulam otu esi ekpe ekpere”.

I’m scratching this letter on the wall of the small mud building where they dumped the 35 of us.

Somewhere in the noise and confusion, I hear Pastor Musa praying under his breath. Last night, before the banging started again, I heard him whisper Psalm 91…

“…He is my refuge and my fortress: My God in Him Will I trust…”

I wish I had his kind of faith.

My children, Somto and Chika… I pity them.

They begged me not to stay here in Zamfara, but where else would I go? My whole life is here. My shop, my customers… everything.

Tell me, Amaka, if Nigeria was working, would I be afraid to do business in my own country? Ike agwulam. I’m tired.

And to be honest, I think I’ve reached the point where I just want to die.

I’ve been running from these bandits for five years. Five long years.

They finally caught me.

When they burned down my shop in Gusau back in 2023, Somto almost went mad. He begged me to return to Imo. He even cried. I told him I would think about it.

I’ve been “thinking” for two years.

After Emeka died in 2016, you remember how his family stripped me of everything. The shame. The begging. The hunger.

That was why I came north.

Somto and Chika left in 2021 after Chika married Kunle, but I… I stayed.

Maybe stubbornness. Maybe foolishness. Maybe pride.

I don’t even know anymore.

This place had become my home. I am a strong Igbo woman, a lioness. We didn’t learn to give up easily.

But these people… these people have squeezed the strength out of me.

I’m no longer the lioness you used to know.

They’ve turned me into something soft… something breakable.

Yesterday, they raped a 6-month pregnant woman and her 13-year-old daughter right in front of all of us.

Her husband kept screaming, even while they were beating him with cutlass. I couldn’t even look. I just sat there crying and shivering.

The way he screamed… I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

He ran away this morning…

They say the government is negotiating again.

Twenty million naira per person.

Twenty million.

For human beings who did nothing wrong except live in a country that refuses to protect them.

I’m losing strength, Amaka. My eyes burn and my throat feels like sand.

I’ll stop here for now.

If anything happens, know that I wrote to you because you’re the only one who would understand.

My children… I know they’re tired of my stubbornness. Maybe even angry.

But you, Amaka… from our days at Maria Regina Model, Nnewi… you’ve always known me better than anyone.

They’re shouting again outside.

I think they caught the man…

Oh God, Amaka…

Some mornings, I wake up feeling like a storm trapped in a glass jar; fierce, raging, but contained. I am the crack in my own armor, the chaos in my own peace.

I am the girl who laughs too loudly at unfunny jokes, who trips over her own thoughts in the shower, and rewrites yesterday’s conversations when no one is listening. I am a thousand half-finished thoughts, running barefoot through my mind, tripping over memories I should have forgotten and dreams I have yet to surrender.

I still remember the time I stood in front of the mirror, whispering apologies to my younger self. I looked into my own eyes, searching for the girl I used to be — the one who believed in the magic of first loves and forever friendships, before life taught her that people leave and words don’t always mean what they should.

I remember JSS 1, the first time I felt my heart do that silly, nervous dance. Uyi. Tall for his age, possessing a smile that screamed ‘adventure awaits’ and eyes that could turn my words into a stuttering mess.

I was 9, with a heart that hadn’t yet learned to guard itself. Back then, I thought love was simple; a thing you could slip between the pages of a notebook or whisper to your best friend behind the teacher’s back.

I still remember the letter. I had written it in the middle of a noisy lunch break, my heart thudding with every stroke of my Bic pen.

Dear… (No, too formal. He might think I’m weird.)

Hey… (Too casual. I don’t want him to think I’m unserious.)

Hi… (Perfect. Simple. Safe.)

I folded it neatly, my palms sweaty as I passed it to him through a mutual friend. My handwriting was a mess, my words a tangled web of shy confessions and childish hope.

Hi Uyi,

I don’t know if you’ve noticed me, but I sit three rows in front of you in class. I wear big, thick glasses with a rope and my uniform is bigger than I am. You make me forget my math problems, and I like the way you smile; it makes the whole room feel brighter. I don’t know if you like me too, but I just thought you should know.

I watched him from the corner of my eye for the rest of that week, waiting for a sign; a glance, a smile, anything to show that my note had reached him, that my tiny heart hadn’t been bared in vain. But he never said a word.

I still think of that letter sometimes, in the quiet hours when my mind drifts to the girl I used to be — the one who wrote love notes on lined paper, who believed in the magic of first crushes, before the world taught her to be careful with her heart.

I am the shaky hand holding the pen, writing love letters to my flaws, apologizing to my past, and making soft, whispered promises to the woman I am becoming.

Sometimes, I am the breath before a lie, the truth I choke on when no one is listening. I have loved too much, given too much, broken and rebuilt, only to fall again and call it flight.

I have stood at the edge of my own despair, toes curled over the cliff of my doubts, and screamed into the void, hoping it would scream back, just to remind me I’m alive.

I clutch my flaws like heirlooms, passing them down from one version of myself to the next. I have loved people who did not know how to love me back, and I have blamed myself for their shortcomings, as if my love was a weight they could not carry.

But I have also learned to forgive myself, to look in the mirror and say, “I am enough,” even when I don’t believe it.

There’s a certain beauty in being human — in the chaos and the calm, the breaking and the rebuilding. I have danced in the rain and sung at the top of my lungs, only to cry myself to sleep hours later. I have whispered secrets to the wind, hoping it would carry them far enough that even I couldn’t find them again.

I am the ache of wanting, of loving too much, of hoping against reason. I am the tear I refuse to shed, the laughter that spills out when I should be serious. I am the silence that stretches between words.

And yet, I am still here. I am still breathing, still hoping, still fighting my own shadows. I am the chaos of being human — loud, messy, beautiful, broken.

I am all of it, and I am enough.

Written on: Tuesday, 8th April, 2025.

Today, I experienced a moment that encapsulated the everyday struggles and contradictions of being Nigerian. Here’s my thought on why the change we complain about should begin with each of us.

The Encounter

Something just happened right now.

Don’t worry, this ain’t no Lasisi anger or ranting episode-type stuff.

This is my musing.

On my way back from church this evening, two men joined the vehicle I was in.

One of them told the driver he had a thousand naira note which, by the way, is the highest currency note in Nigeria currently. It’s common practice to inform the driver early when you’re boarding with that amount so they can let you know if they have change or if you’ll need to get down and take another vehicle.

When they got to their destination, which happened to be a bar, they alighted from the car, and the man who had spoken earlier paid the driver the transport fare for himself and his friend.

The driver gave him seven hundred naira as change instead of eight hundred. The correct fare is a hundred naira each for the distance they had covered.

The man who paid protested and asked the driver to complete his money, but the driver objected, saying the fare was a hundred and fifty naira each.

The man stood there, arguing with the driver. He was of the opinion that the only reason he collected that amount was because he gave him a thousand naira. But the driver wasn’t having it and he stood his ground.

Seeing that the driver was adamant, he left.

Reflection and Realization

We continued the journey, and I didn’t pay much attention to what had happened—until the driver said something that pushed me to write this.

In his words:

“A bottle of beer costs over a thousand naira and you’re going to buy more than one tonight, but you dey follow me drag because of one hundred and fifty naira.”

That’s when I realized.

This driver had cheated them on purpose.

In his mind, he was thinking:

Well, since they have enough money to go to a bar, let me eat my own. After all, there’s enough money.

Make it make sense, y’all.

The reason why this country is the way it is isn’t 100% the fault of the leaders.

It’s a collective problem.

This, “dog eat dog” mentality that Nigerians have.

While we’re ranting for 30 days on TikTok, X, or whatever platform, we also need to check ourselves.

Every slight opportunity a typical Nigerian has to extort another, he grabs it with both hands.

A bad citizen becomes a bad leader.

Leadership just puts you in the spotlight and gives you greater influence to amplify whatever it is you already are.

It Starts With Us

I remember how upset I was in 2020 when the prices of nose masks suddenly skyrocketed because of COVID-19.

Nose masks that were previously sold for fifty naira a piece suddenly became five hundred naira — or more — just because demand increased.

Wickedness, lawlessness, corruption, and injustice have eaten deep into the hearts of the citizens of this nation.

Regardless of ethnicity, religion, or whatever, the average Nigerian is an extortionist.

And nothing will change until we change.

After all your rants about the government, what kind of citizen are you?

• Do you take advantage of slight opportunities to oppress or pilfer?

• Do you always look for ways to get things you know you truly don’t deserve and haven’t worked for?

From ‘sorting’ courses in the university, to jumping queues by paying your way out…

From not returning money you borrowed because you think the person has enough, to how you handle responsibilities at work…

These are the seemingly little things that have kept this nation where it is.

The Real Solution

The truth is:

If we don’t make a conscious effort to be a better people, Nigeria will never change — because the corrupt citizens who complain about a corrupt government today will be the same ones who will take those positions tomorrow.

And what you’ll do when you’re in power?

It’ll just be a replica of what you’re doing now.

The change we want to see begins from us!

A friend asked me last night what I think the solution to Nigeria’s problems is.

I replied:

“Look in the mirror and make that person staring back at you the kind of leader you want this nation to have.”

Short and simple.

What do you think is the first step towards change?

Have you looked in the mirror today?

Childhood Dreams

I had always wanted to wake up and walk downstairs to a living room or kitchen or whatever that was part of our house.

I always imagined meeting Daddy, Mummy, or someone else sitting in the parlor or making breakfast. I pictured saying good morning as I descended the stairs.

I was 12, and we had lived in the house at Shagholor all my life. It was a decent apartment: two balconies (one in the front and one at the back), three bedrooms, two toilets, a parlor, a dining room, and a kitchen with an attached storeroom. Honestly, it was more than many children my age grew up in, and I was grateful. We lived upstairs, but the stairs weren’t part of our unit.

The entire building had 8 apartments, four on each side. You came home, climbed the shared stairs, and went to your apartment. The compound was spacious enough, and my childhood there was beautiful.

Adventures in Shagholor

After a while, we outgrew our space and wanted more room, so we began exploring our neighbor’s house.

The neighbor upstairs, adjacent to us packed out, and their empty house became a haven for adventures.

And boy, did we adventure!

Tessy, Light, and I spent hours rummaging through the debris they left behind daily. We never got tired.

Well, I did at a point. I guess that’s because I am older. Sometimes, we found nothing. Other times, we found everything: old cassettes, half-torn letters, forgotten toys. It was thrilling. An entire house, and no adults in sight.

Daddy, Why?!

When Daddy began building the house close to Joebans hotel, we couldn’t contain our joy.

Finally! We would leave this place. But he gave us the shock of our lives when he handed the key over to Aunty Esther and her husband on their wedding day. They became the first tenants and the caretakers of the building.

I almost chopped off his head. His excuse was that the house wasn’t the standard he wanted his family to live in.

So, we remained tenants in another man’s compound, even though Daddy was a landlord.

I remember the day that troublesome woman downstairs chirped that during a quarrel with Mummy. It was as infuriating as it was funny.

Infuriating because she was right, and funny because if not for Daddy, who secretly paid her family’s house rent, so the landlord wouldn’t evict them, she wouldn’t even be here to quarrel with Mummy.

She didn’t know, but Mummy did. And that’s life for you.

The Site at Kosini

Then came the building at Kosini; we called it ‘site’ then. Trust Daddy to either go hard or go home. It was the biggest and most beautiful house in the area. The first building with a one-storey apartment built just for the gateman. Daddy set the standard for other buildings in the area.

Even the gate of our compound was simply stunning – it still is. It became a studio for pictures. The water fountain was the icing on the cake. Years later, Nana turned it into our swimming pool.

Daddy even named the house like one of his children. He called it Rehoboth Villa, said it was his place of rest (Rehoboth). And, well, it’s on the map to this day.

We couldn’t wait to move into our own house. I could even sense the desire in Mummy; she wasn’t having it this time. Once the building was finished, we were moving. And that’s what happened.

The Last Day in the Old Home

31st December 2012.

Mummy woke up angry.

“Nwokeoma, we are not entering the new year in this house,” she said that morning.

“Children, park your things. Don’t carry too much; we will come back to take the rest.”

And that was the last time I saw that building. It’s thirteen years later, but we didn’t go back to carry anything else. I left clothes, shoes, and my entire childhood behind in my excitement. But I didn’t care.

Tomorrow morning, I will walk downstairs to the parlor.

The First Walk

1st January 2013.

I woke up elated. I couldn’t sleep properly. I lost count of how many times I stepped out of my room to stare at the stairway.

Thinking about it a decade and three years later, I wonder what my obsession with stairs was.

I took it up a notch that morning. The harmattan was severe and gave me an excuse to go all out. I wore my long leather jacket (the one that made me feel like Blade), a short skirt, and a tank top.

I walked down the stairs like royalty. When I stepped into the kitchen to greet Mummy, she burst out laughing. In that moment, I was fulfilled.

I’ve walked down those stairs more than a thousand times in the past years – rushed, distracted, angry, late for school, late for a trip. But that first time? That first walk? I will never forget it.

The sunrise introduced you to me,

And I, like a fish, followed the worm on your hook.

I was on my way to lectures that beautiful morning.

One of those GSS classes that made me rise before the sun.

I knew they were important but I had no idea why.

I still have no idea why.

I decided to take a new route today.

These little adventures, mixed with prayers as I walked to class, made it feel less like a chore.

I strolled ahead, taking no turns, past the female hostels.

Halls 8 and 9, I think.

As I approached this new department (I didn’t know which it was then),

I stopped, drawn in by the beautiful sculpture that stood gracefully before me.

A woman playing drums, crafted masterfully by the coarse, deliberate hands of a true African artist.

I admired her stance, the way she seemed frozen in rhythm, her story locked in stone.

Time passed as I examined every angle of this masterwork.

Then, just beyond her, something else caught my eye and in my ever-increasing curiosity, I decided to explore.

The sun had just touched you slightly, and you responded,

Leaning in as she kissed you.

I knew true beauty when you smiled,

A shimmer emanated as the sun’s rays touched your calm surface.

I stood in awe of what was unfolding before me.

A cool breeze hit me then, whispering my name as it floated away.

I shivered and beamed.

I had just found something special.

Walking over to the flight of stairs overlooking your water,

I stood for a few minutes, then sat.

With my eyes closed, I took a deep, long breath.

Even though you were far away,

I could still sense you from where I sat.

I could feel you in the air.

My early morning class forgotten; the sight before me was my newest fascination.

My adventures ended for the next few months.

I looked forward to waking up, just to meet with you.

To sit with you, write with you.

I talked to you and cried with you.

Sometimes, during the day, when I felt overwhelmed, I ran to you.

And I didn’t keep you to myself; I shared you freely with those I held dear.

My “sunrise dates” became famous among my friends.

The day I introduced Evalsam to you,

I went home and cried.

I think I loved him.

We spoke about it the next day and I cried again.

I miss you now.

Soon, I will sit with you again.

They call you the Unical River.

But to me, you are home.

I hate the smug look on his face.

He sits swellheaded as we gather,

Scavenging for the crumbs he lets fall.

We stand in line while he speaks;

Maxwell. M: “$20,000 & a house in the Bahamas.”

Jane. P: “€323.”

Godwin. F: “I will take your mother with me.”

Some leave with joy.

Most trudge behind, decked in sadness and regret.

The queue is long.

Eyes gleam with awe,

Desperation or anxiety, staring ahead.

Some come with fear,

others arrive with hope tagging along.

Today I arrived with astonishment.

Finally, I knew his secret.

After years of searching,

I’ve been enlightened.

Tomorrow has a twin sister,

Born on the same day,

divided by choice.

She is docile and submissive.

But he? Defiant and balky.

No two could be more unalike.

“Tomorrow is pregnant!”, they say,

but they lie.

Today carries the child.

And while tomorrow mounts the dais, distributing his gifts,

No one sees Today behind him,

Dutifully sending packages his way.