The curse of being a curious person, a person with too many questions for your own good, is that you’re never satisfied with surface level answers. You find a loophole so of course you have to dig, and dig and dig and -

Sometimes you find something you wish you’d never seen. It’s a pandora box. Once it’s open you can’t take it back. You just have to deal with the consequences.

I’ve been a Christian all my life. Most of the photographs documenting my early life feature me in church. Come a little closer and I’ll let you look at them…

In the first frame, there’s Baby Chiamaka bawling her little lungs out as her mother tenderly hands her swaddled form to the pastor to be dedicated. And there she is again, five years old now, standing in front of the altar, fist clenched around a microphone as she recites the memory verse she spent days learning by heart. She’s terrified, bless her soul, but she keeps going, looking only at her parent’s encouraging faces. Applause sounds all around her when she’s done and her face erupts in delight. Oh, look at her now, nearly eight years old, draped in a pretty flower girl dress, sitting with the other girls in the front row seats of the church, watching the bridal procession with an awe-struck expression.

I was more or less raised in the church. My childhood was morning devotions and bible readings and conversations about what I’d learned and evening services and Sunday services and -

It was structure, a routine. I do well with routines. I liked knowing that on Sunday mornings, I had to be off to church for workers meeting at 6am. (Or else!) And when I got home, I had to do all my chores on time so I could make it to house fellowship on time. To be honest, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed worship sessions, the goosebumps that would dot my skin. I enjoyed reading the stories in the bible. They were fascinating to me as a little girl.

Then… I wasn’t a little girl anymore. And the thing about growing older is that it stretches you, opens your mind to views you never knew existed. Suddenly, I was sitting in sunday school and the teaching tasted like sand shoveled into my mouth. I realised for the first time, that I had sat in that place for years and each Sunday I was taught that purity was a woman’s greatest calling, that I must never under any circumstance have sex before marriage. They never said this to the boys.

I realised for the first time, that half of the hour allocated for workers’ meetings, was spent discussing how to “attract richer members to the church”. That was literally the agenda. How to get more money. So we could build a better building. Buy better air conditioners. Be known as one of the “big churches”.

It doesn’t help that I have queer friends, genuinely beautiful people that I admire deeply. So each time, I sit through a sermon where the pastor condemns queer people to an eternity of burning, I feel a needle stab through my chest. Like I’m betraying them by being there.

And yes, yes I still believe that God exists. I don’t think I could ever stop believing that, no matter what happens.

And yes, yes I still believe in the love of Jesus.

I just carry around with me this baggage of doubts, this load of unanswered questions. And the longer I carry it, the more it weighs me down. And I’m tired. I am so tired, friend. I’m tempted to just toss the baggage - beliefs and doubts combined - over the Third Mainland Bridge and watch it drift into the ocean, leaving me finally, blissfully free.

I hate that whenever I ask questions, difficult questions, I’m always given that same patronising stare and told the same statement that has gotten painfully familiar -

We do not question God.

But I am human, am I not? It is in my very nature to question things.

I could write pages more about my doubt, my endless questioning. But my fingers are tired and my eyes are nearly giving out, so I’m going to stop now.

When I get this question “Are you a Christian?”, I still stumble in my head for the answer. (Yes…No…I Don’t Know)

But maybe this is a normal phase of a young woman’s life. Maybe it’s part of growing up. I’m looking forward to seeing what my answer will be when I get to the other side.

Thank you, dear reader, for holding my hands, for staying with me till the end while I got this off my chest. You deserve all the beautiful things in the world.

I turn 20 in exactly one month.

The prospect of womanhood makes me giddy. I think about it and feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. I’m excited to jump, to feel the wind roaring in my ears, to fly. But I am also scared out of my mind. What if the parachute doesn’t work? What if i land wrongly? what if i fall into the sea and drown?

It would be easier if i was somewhere else. If i wasn’t born in a country filled with so much violence and poverty and prejudice. I spend a lot of time wondering what my life would look like if I’d been born in a different country, with better opportunities for success. But like a friend would always say to me, there is no point in mourning over “what-ifs”. What I have right now is my reality. And my reality is that I am a woman in Nigeria.

To be a woman in Nigeria is to have to endure being groped in markets. Every single time. And if you dare to complain, best case scenario: they call you an ashewo, a bitter feminist. Worst case scenario: the men gather to beat you, tear your clothes. And no one does anything about it. In fact, you’d be insulted for provoking your assaulters to anger.

I started going to the market with my mother when I was really young. And even as a little girl, I would still be touched. They would grab my arm, hold me by the shoulders. “Fine girl, come and buy”.

My mother would have to scream at them to leave me alone.
Once, my brother went with us. i remember warning him beforehand. Stay close to Mummy or those men will try to drag you to their shops. But they didn’t lay a finger on him. They didn’t even look at him. What was it about my femininity that attracted unwanted touches? Did I wear a sign on my forehead that said ‘go ahead. touch me as you please’

To be a woman in Nigeria is to have your every action policed, from the clothes on your back, to the time you get married. Marry too early and they say you’re desperate for marriage. Wait long and you’re apparently doomed to grow old and die alone.

To be a woman in Nigeria is to be in a country with the highest maternity related deaths in the world - with approximately 75,000 deaths each year. Yes, you read that right. I don’t think we realise how staggering that number is. 75, 000 women. Each year. Dying because they wanted to bring life into the world. Dying because the country simply does not have enough doctors or even enough healthcare resources. So when a woman says boldly that she never wants to have children, I understand. I understand completely.

To be a woman in Nigeria, specifically Northern Nigeria, is to have to fight tooth and nail to be seen as more than a potential bride and breeding factory.

It’s all the girls who are still enduring female genital mutilation, even though it is illegal, just because some barbaric culture deems it improper for a woman to feel sexual desire.

It’s domestic violence carried on generation to generation. It’s the 197 reported cases of women and girls killed in 2025 alone, according to the DOHS Cares Foundation (and those are just the cases that made the news)

It’s women being denied of their share of inheritances, yet they’re still expected to be the main supporters and caretakers of their entire families.

It’s the widows in some communities still being forced to face harmful, degrading mourning rituals when their husbands die. It’s not enough they’re grieving. No, they must also be humiliated publicly.

It’s the many, many girls whose rape cases were swept into an abandoned room, left to rot. Pay attention and you’ll notice the bitter, anguished wail for justice. Do you hear it?

It’s the little girls who are right now, as i write this, beings sold into marriages. Their parents laughing over cold drinks while they bargain how many cows will be exchanged for the price of the girl’s virginity. These girls had dreams, I’m sure. I imagine them wanting to be doctors, authors, sportswomen. These dreams were ripped brutally from them, and in return they were made wives to old men, mothers to babies they never asked for.

Disclaimer: This isn’t an attempt to start a gender war. It’s a chronicle of all the unfairness I’ve witnessed as a Nigerian woman. I deserve better. We all deserve better.

But change is not made on a screen. It is not made in comfort. It takes bravery. Reckless bravery.

it seems like we are cowards, you and I.

thank you for reading.

kisses~😘😘😘😘

I read fantasy, sci fi, thrillers - whatever interested me. At the end of it all, though, there really is no place like home.

There is something so lyrical and raw about Nigerian writing. It’s not just because I’m reading from the point of view of characters i can relate to on a deeply personal level.

Nigerian writing is vulnerable and honest in a way I never get to experience when I read books by authors from other nationalities.

These are some of my favourite books by Nigerian authors, along with the quotes I hold close to my heart. Books I still think about years after I read them for the first time. Books that feel like coming home…

1. Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
   Not mentioning this book would be a horrible abomination, a crime against literature.
   Oh, this book. This beautiful, glorious book. This testament to Chimamanda’s literary genius.
   It’s a story about family ties and how abuse can disguise itself so perfectly as love. It’s about politics and religion and corruption and how all three are subtly interwoven in ways a lot of people don’t realise. It’s a story about a lost, sad girl who finally found her voice again. As I write this, I think of the first time I read this book. I was about 15, fresh out of secondary school. Reading Kambili’s thoughts and reflections felt like peeking into my own mirror. We were two sides of the same coin, so alike but different at the same time. I was never abused as a young girl, never made to feel like I was not enough. But when she stuttered over her words, when she kept her mouth shut and her eyes down, i felt it deep in my chest. Like I was thirteen again, trying desperately to make friends at the new church. And when her tongue loosened, when she learned to not be afraid of her own voice, it felt like my own personal victory.
   I think about this book a lot: the characters, the story in general left a mark on me that will never fade. Amaka, with her irreverent ways and wild ideas. I was Kambili through and through, but Amaka was the girl I dreamed of becoming. Jaja, with his quiet strength and rebellion. Aunty Ifeoma, as resilient as a mountain, fiercely protecting her children. Father Amadi. I’m not ashamed to say I had a fat crush on him. (Please don’t judge me). I think he was the first person Kambili opened up to, aside from family. He helped her thrive in so many ways. And then there’s Papa. I hated that man, despised every word that came out of his mouth. Chimamanda did such a good job at writing him though. He was not black and white. He was a man who thought the best way to love and protect his family was by beating defiance out of them.

The end was so satisfying to read. If you haven’t read this book, honestly, what have you been doing with your life???

“Being defiant can be a good thing sometimes” Aunty Ifeoma said. “Defiance is like marijuana. It is not a bad thing when it is used right.”

2. A Broken People’s Playlist by Chimeka Garricks
   I wasn’t expecting this book to make me cry. (In hindsight, i should have known from the title)
   Oh, heavens above, I cried.
   It’s a collection of tragically beautiful short stories: a love story that ended before it could truly begin, a man losing his only brother to cancer, first loves and last loves, death, trauma, joy in the darkest moments. I read this book as a younger teenager and it scared me. I thought to myself, is this what adulthood is going to look like?

   
   I loved how messy and vulnerable the narrative is. The author, Chimeka, peels back the layers of skin and lets you see the blood inside. The tangled intestines, the oozing pus. He makes you sit in it, with the silence and the discomfort and the echoes of pain. And then you come out on the other side, feeling a pleasant ache in your heart.
   Read this if you want to feel something. Or if you’d like a date with depression.

“We have to choose if we want to live or die. Whatever we choose, let’s do it. Do it with our full chest.”

3. Waiting For An Angel by Chimeka Garricks
   This is another beautiful collection of interwoven stories. I reread it often, and each time it devastates me. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I don’t like pain, but maybe I’m a masochist only when the pain is delivered at the hands of a gifted writer. Yes, whip me with your words and I promise I will thank you for it.
   The book follows Lomba, a young, aspiring novelist with a penchant for falling in love with women who break him in the end; Kela - a teenager banished to Lagos to change his bad behaviour; Joshua - a man with ideas and beliefs that seemed too big for him, a man who falls in love with a prostitute.

   
   It’s set in Lagos, during the military regime. And I found myself sinking into the setting. I was there with Lomba in prison, surrounded by rats and human filth, rotting away for a crime I didn’t commit, writing poetry to keep myself from going insane. I was there on Poverty Street, skin burning under the hot sun, as Kela went on one of his trips to buy alcohol for his aunt.
   I think it’s amazing how the author could write such sad characters living in such brutal times and still make the prose sing with hope. This story told me that it was okay to dream, no matter how bleak my circumstances were.

“The world is not as big and incomprehensible as people will have us believe. Everything lies within our grasp, if only we cared to reach out boldly”

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4. The Death Of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi
   When I say that reading saved my life, this book is one perfect example of what I mean. There’s a very distinct line between the person I was before reading this book and the person I became after I read it. It opened my mind a lot. I was raised to believe that being a man or being a woman meant following a conventional set of behaviours that dictated how you could dress, what you could talk about and who you could love. And anything outside of that was straight up demonic.
   

   This story perfectly depicted what happens when you put a person in a cage and try to stop them from being who they really are. They unravel, they splinter into pieces. They hurt. Vivek went through so much pain in this book. I constantly wanted to reach into the pages and give him a hug. All he wanted was to be happy. To wear the pretty dresses. To admire himself in the mirror. To kiss who he wanted to kiss. Is that such a terrible crime?

   
   The book title literally tells you that the main character, Vivek, dies. And yet, when it finally happened, it was an unexpected blow to my sternum. I had to put the book down and gasp in air.
   The story wasn’t just about Vivek. His parents’ story was also fascinating to read about. I still don’t know how I feel about Osita. He unsettles me…
   I’ve only read this book once. (I dont have the bravery to reread it yet.) Still, Vivek’s ghost haunts me. I like his ghost though. He’s such good company.

“Some people can’t see softness without wanting to hurt it.”

“I often wonder if I died in the best possible way- in the arms of the one who loved me the most, wearing a skin that was true”

“What do you do when you’re not allowed to be angry at God?”

5. Half Of A Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
   Yes. Chimamanda again. Have I mentioned how much I adore her? I was about twelve years old when I picked it up for the first time and it was from this book that I first heard the word Biafra. I learned more about Nigerian history from this book than from everything I was taught in school! I love books that can teach me things, especially when it’s about my own history. It’s a beautiful, complex story with character detail and a compelling narrative that keeps you hooked on the page.
   

   It’s about war, and what it does to people, how neither side ever wins. It’s about politics, how no one is immune to it. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor or middle class, when the bullets start firing, everyone bleeds the same way.
   

   I loved following Olanna and Odenigbo, Kainene and Richard through their lives, watching them grow and change.
   But it was Ugwu, the simple houseboy, that was the glue that held this book together. He’s the one that kept me reading. I wanted to see where his story would lead. This village boy with big dreams and hopeful eyes and awkward mannerisms.
   I think of the Ugwu I met when the story started - innocent and naive, so excited at the prospect of a new life. Then I think of Ugwu at the end of the story - eyes haunted with loss, back bent from all the weight he carried. I mourn for him. for all the boys and girls like him. children, with hopes and dreams, for the future. children who died with those dreams, buried and forgotten.

“The very air we breathe is politics”

““Education is a priority! How can we resist exploitation if we don’t have the tools to understand exploitation?”

I have a long list of Nigerian books I am devotedly obsessed with, but these are the ones that came to mind first. I think reading is a culture that is very important, now more than ever. Not for a ridiculous superiority complex. But because, in a world of AI slop and brain rot, literature is an anchor to keep you grounded, a healing place when the world gets heavy.

How many of these books have you read?????

Thank you for being here.

Kisses~😘😘😘😘😘

1. I really don’t like chocolate. Yes, I said it. i think it’s completely overrated. Sue me.

2. I rarely get crushes. Like maybe, once in a year. Sometimes, not at all. for the longest time, I thought i might be asexual.

3. I really, really, really love my Mommy. that woman is my baby.

4. I’m the first child of my family. on one hand, responsibilities choke! on the other hand, i get to flex authority.

5. I’m also the only girl, with three younger brothers to contend with. most of my childhood was spent yearning for a little sister. i wanted one soooo bad!

6. i love the colour red. it’s my favourite colour to wear. it makes me feel so damn sexy.

   

7. i find beauty in solitude. there’s something deeply romantic about spending an evening alone, lost in your own thoughts, while music plays softly in the background.

8. if you get me ice cream, i will instantly fall in love with you.

9. i can only speak English. it’s a flaw that haunts me deeply. knowing all the proper english grammar in the world doesn’t heal the wound of not being able to speak my native languages. It feels like I was robbed of a huge part of my cultural identity.

10. Speaking of culture… I’m an Igbo babe. And an Idoma babe. I love both sides of me.

    brief intermission: what do i need to sacrifice to get one of these tech gurus to create a Duolingo style app but for African languages. it would be so helpful!!

11. i have never watched anime. not because i don’t want to. all the edits ive seen look so cool. but ive never actually settled down to watch it.

12. i’m obsessed with musicals. ‘sound of music’, ‘hamilton’, ‘the greatest showman’ were all masterpieces.

13. i love earning money.

14. i really, really, really love spending money.

    

15. i’m an artist or at least i try to be. i love design and animation.

16. i have an insane addiction to shortbread biscuits. it’s just my luck that they happen to be so expensive.

17. i spend a lot of time learning about psychology. the human mind is so interesting and complex.

18. I LOVE AVATAR. and if i could choose any type of bending, it would be… Damn, I still can’t choose just one.

19. storms are soothing to me. i like to listen to the rain and thunder, feel the strong winds crash against my skin

20. i really enjoy honest, vulnerable conversations with the people I love.

21. i love children. and children love me. and yet, the idea of motherhood doesn’t particularly excite me.

22. i have beautiful natural hair. one of my favourite things is wearing my afro around and basking in the compliments i get.

23. i dont know how to do my own lip combo yet and it frustrates me to no end. 😭

24. i live, laugh, love music. whatever artist. whatever genre. as long as it speaks to me and makes me feel something.

25. i love period dramas. pride and prejudice, the one with Keira Knightley, will live with me forever.

26. im so deeply attracted to guys who know how to hold conversations. add in a smooth voice, and pretty eyes and a lovely smile, and i just might have to marry you

27. my sense of direction is criminally bad. i get lost so easily, even on roads i’ve passed a million times.

28. i’ve lived in Lagos my whole life and i can count on one hand, the number of times i’ve gone out for fun. i neeeed friends that will lead me astray. if you’re that person, text me, abeg.

29. I loooove to read books. You could call me a book addict. my favourite genre is fantasy. but ill read anything with a good plot and well written characters.

30. I looove to write. Essays, fiction, poetry. it’s been a part of my life for as long as i can remember.

    ps: i’m going to be a bestselling author someday.

    ---

compiling this list took wayyy longer than I thought and it made me realise maybe i don’t know myself as well as i think i do.

thank you for reading,

kisses~😘😘😘

i’ve never really liked talking about myself much. the worst thing you can ask me is — “tell me about yourself”. my brain just short circuits and i’m left gasping for words like a fish out of water. call it my introverted nature or whatever.

but nominated me, so after years and years of procrastinating, i’m finally writing this piece. (p.s if you’re a deep thinker and lover of philosophy, you should definitely read his work.)

My name is Chiamaka and i’ll be answering questions about myself and my writing. ready? yes? dive in with me.

1. what would you say is the most personal piece you’ve written and why?

   the most personal piece I’ve ever written is currently sitting in my drafts, collecting dust, mourning for just a glimpse of the outside world. maybe one day i’ll be brave enough to share it with the world. or maybe not. we’ll see. but amongst my published pieces, i would say the most personal thing i’ve ever written is “i have never been in love”. writing it felt like sitting naked in the midst of a thousand people. like peeling back the layers of my skin and letting everyone see what was lurking underneath.

   ---

2. what is your favourite personality trait about yourself and how does it reflect in your writing?

i’ve been told that i’m a very good listener, an empath. i’m the girl people tell all their problems to without a second thought. i know how to … pay attention to the world. and this really transforms my writing. my writing tends to be vulnerable and introspective. and that is both a blessing and a curse.

3. what is your favourite piece you’ve written and why?

   ouch. choosing a favourite feels like torture. but if i absolutely had to…

   it would be - “the beauty of self expression” - my very first published Substack essay. i love the backstory behind this piece so much, and because, i adore you already dear reader, ill share it with you…

   it was earlier this year - on the kind of night that has you lying naked in bed, contemplating all the ways you are a failure. i was deep in my feelings and i was trying to solve it the only way i knew how - doom scrolling like my life depended on it. i remember reading this beautiful article on a website and then being redirected to Substack to read more. i had never even heard of the platform until then. it felt like walking into some kind of paradise. the first few posts i read were from Nigerians and i remember how my breath caught in my chest. i honestly didn’t know Nigerians could write like that. i felt so seen, like i had finally found my people. i spent hours - no, seriously, hours… reading post after post. i was so moved, so inspired i had to write something of my own. i wrote “the beauty of self expression” in under 20 minutes - just pure, unfiltered brain vomit frothing on the page. i published it immediately, i didn’t even bother to edit it. it was like a fire had been lit in me, a mad yearning to share my thoughts.

   i still read that piece every other day and it fills me with joy and pride. check it out, would you?

   ---

4. what is the last thing you read that made you feel seen and why?

   ohhh, i could write an epistle on this topic. i’m going to bend the rules here a bit and mention more than one essay.

   first, every single piece written by — he’s my go to writer for when i want to get drugged on words. i still think about his piece “I’m just a boy that wants to be famous”. then there’s this essay by - “The Courage Of Wanting Things” . it is a masterpiece i return to every time i need inspiration. something about the cadence of her writing feels like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders. i also really, really adore ‘s essay - “The Art Of Being On Your Own”. reading it made me realise that i could be alone but not lonely and that solitude could be a very beautiful thing.

   ---

5. what motivates you to write?

   writing is my outlet, my guilty pleasure. it’s my way of screaming my thoughts into a world that tends to overlook me. i write so i can be heard, so i can be seen. but also, so i can see myself. because its so easy to get caught up in the noise of the world that i forget who i really am and what it is i stand for. in a way, writing is my anchor.

   but mostly, what motivates me to write is the thought of you.

   reading this somewhere in your own corner of the universe. i write and keep on writing because maybe, hopefully…my words bring a smile to your lips, or lights a spark in your chest.

ohh damn!

writing this was the therapy i didn’t know i needed. thank youuuu for reading.

i nominate:

for the longest time, i believed firmly in the myth that if i looked hard enough, if i paid close enough attention, i would find myself.

like Myself was some lost phantom roaming in a dark forest.

i hit my existential crisis era quite early and i became a young preteen constantly struggling with her identity.

Who even am I? what am i doing here?

i would spend hours on YouTube self help videos, complete every Buzzfeed personality quiz i could find. and when that was not enough to sate me, i turned to the Zodiac signs. i wrote down all the personality traits of Scorpios, thinking to myself. this is me. this is who i am.

what i wanted was a script, a detailed manual describing who i was and what made me me.

lately, i have realised something...

people don’t find themselves.we are all in a never ending state of becoming.

becoming: a life cycle, a metamorphosis, an evolution

and what shapes this process of Becoming is not the big events - not the move across continents or the heartbreak that nearly shattered your sanity - but rather the mundane, seemingly insignificant moments in your life.

there was this phase in my life when i was just..stuck. i kept waiting for this big event that would change me, shape me into a different version of myself. Amaka 2.0.

i told myself that once i got admission to university like every damn person my age, i would stop being depressed. if i could only make more money, i would be happy again. or if i took my skincare routine seriously and got that perfect glowing skin, i would finally be brave enough to go outside with friends.

do you ever do this? make bargains for your own joy? just me? okay.

but if I keep setting milestones for your happiness, will I ever be happy? if I keep putting a price tag on what a good life means, will I ever have it? or will I be cursed to spend the rest of my life searching aimlessly, desperately for something that was right in front of me the whole time?

maybe life is more than just the big milestones - finally getting into uni, graduating with that degree, getting that dream job. maybe what truly defines us in the deepest ways are the small, everyday moments. the choices we make each day.

I think James Clear said it best —

The habits you repeat every day largely determine your health, wealth and happiness.

Choosing to get out of each bed in morning and doing a 10 minutes work out session.

Making time each week to be with your friends.

Cooking a healthy meal for yourself even when you’re exhausted.

Small moments. Simple decisions.

But these small acts all rolled together can make big waves, giant impacts. these small moments train your mind, reinforce your identity.

there is magic in the mundane, everyday moments. but we tend to see them as ordinary. the small habit you have of sending your lonely mother an I love you message every night before you sleep might seem insignificant. but in reality, it’s a habit that shapes you as a person, strengthens your identity as a loving daughter. you could be the kind of person that exercises every morning and maybe you don’t see the effects yet, but your health, your physique will thank you later.

you are a kaleidoscope of memories: of your soft loves and passionate hates. you are a softly woven tapestry of every book you have ever loved, the music you listen to, the people you call your own.

so, enjoy it. soak up every single moment. let life drown you in its beauty. make memories with friends. do crazy things together. laugh like a mad woman. love like heartbreak isn’t a thing.

but more importantly, make memories with yourself. buy suya tonight and eat it outside, propped up on the hood of a car or lying on your balcony floor. let the stars keep you company as you remember how to breathe deeply again. and for the love of all things sacred…TAKE MORE PICTURES(i’m screaming at myself here, not you darling).

and in your final moments, when you look back at your life, i promise you it won’t be the loudest events that ring in your mind. it won’t be the house you bought when you turned twenty five. or how many zeroes you have in your bank account.

it will be the conversations you had with the special people in your life, the laughter and the tears you shared. it will be the smell of freshly laundered clothes - that faint tang of detergent nipping at your senses - as you put them out to dry. you will think of the heady kisses you stole from that cute boy you like when no one was watching and it will make you smile. it will be the memory of sitting at the dining table with family for Sunday dinner, surrounded by that familiar, tantalising aroma of slightly burnt jollof rice and fried plantain. You will close your eyes and be transported to that moment, so many years ago, when you walked home instead of taking a bus - the moment you realised that Lagos could be quite beautiful at sunset. Chaotic, yes. But beautiful.

and you will finally realise, that those moments were what truly mattered.

P.S: thank you for reading, love. if you made it this far, tell me what book you’re currently reading. i’m in the worst book slump in the history of the world right now.😭

Let’s all be UNCENSORED together!🤗

it took me a long while to realise this but when i started to notice it, i saw it everywhere. in the way we glorify our own pain, smear out faces with the remains of our lost dignity. we like to call ourselves the toughest people in the world. no one else can suffer as much as we have - the killings, the terrible government and oh my heavens, the poverty - and still smile as we much as we do. still laugh, still joke.

if Nigeria was a woman, she’d be a pain slut. a masochist, getting off on humiliation, on pain. she’d look her abuser in the eyes, drop down to her knees in front of him and beg him for more. more spanks, more degradation.

because the worse she is treated, the better she feels.

hurt me more, she screams. make me feel alive

i was talking to some course-mates a while ago. and as it is wont to do, our conversation drifted to the terrible financial state of the country. a guy with a slanted face cap told the rest of us that he was so broke, he no longer remembered what meat tasted like, all he’d been eating was eggs. another guy immediately countered him - “at least you can eat eggs. it’s only crayfish i put in my food.”

just like that, the game was on. a depraved kind of competition and the aim was to see who had the ugliest scars.

when i was young, things were so bad, my family had to live in an uncompleted building for two years. one person said

that’s nothing, we slept under the fucking bridge. was the heated response.

in our eyes, the person who has gone through the worst situations, endured the most pain is always seen as the hero. it is this same fucked up mentality that makes a lot of people deny themselves the simple pleasures of life - because apparently, if you haven’t suffered enough, you do not deserve happiness. parents tell their children that “life was not meant to be easy” and this mentality is passed down through generations.

We were raised to believe that endurance is a crown. That if you suffer well enough—through poverty, bad governance, heartbreak, and hunger—your reward will be divine. But what if all we’ve built is an altar to pain? What if we’ve mistaken survival for holiness?

Nigerian women, especially the older ones, are especially guilty of this. i could never forget the woman in my church who always came for service on Sunday with a new bruise on her face, given to her by her loving husband. when the other women would talk to her, ask her to do something, run away, she would smile in the annoying way holier-than-thou people do. she would tell us that her husband only beat her because he loved her. she really believed that her suffering was winning her brownie points with God. that is what the mark of a good woman to tarry in her home, no matter how much pain she had to endure.

suffering will not take you to heaven. and contrary to popular opinion, just because you had a poor childhood doesn’t automatically make you a better or stronger person than the person who grew up with money. it just means that you went through a lot. period.

Can important life lessons be learned from pain?

Of course. Pain is a teacher — brutal, but effective. Sometimes it cracks you open so light can get in. But pain was never meant to be a home. You visit it, you learn from it, and then you pack your bags and leave. You don’t build a shrine and start worshipping at its feet.

We’ve turned suffering into our identity. Into proof that we’ve lived well. As if joy somehow cheapens us, and only hardship can make us deep. You can learn from pain without falling in love with it.

it is not a crime to enjoy life. it is not a crime to actively seek joy. it is not a crime to cry out, to speak up when you are in a situation that is damaging. staying in an abusive relationship doesn’t make you tough, no, you’re just an idiot with a collection of bruises and wounds-congratulations. spending part of your pocket money to end your garri streak and give yourself a nice treat is not the end of the world.

society will try to tell you that just because you were born Nigerian, you are divinely equipped to deal with hardship. gas prices are outrageous? deal with it. the system is fucked up? embrace it.

fuck that.

reject suffering. you are only human and you deserve softness, you deserve peace. fight for it. don’t settle for anything less.

suffering will not take you to heaven.

thank you for reading darling, I’m glad you’re here.

I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I still feel the calluses on my palms from scrubbing floors and washing mountains of dishes. I still hear my grandmother and aunties in my head—

“Learn to cook so your husband will be happy.”

“Eat more. Men don’t like thin women.”

“If you don’t learn to wash clothes now, who will do it for you in your husband’s house?”

From a young age, my worth was measured in how well I could catch a man’s attention. If I wasn’t desirable to men, was I even a real woman?

My big introduction into the world of boys came when I turned thirteen. Before that, boys were just my annoying playmates who always got into trouble in school. then all of a sudden, they became so much more. The boys in my class had started to pay attention to me. I noticed it. the way their gaze would follow me when i stepped into a room. A boy would look me deep in my eyes and call me the “most beautiful girl in the world” and i would nearly die from bliss. Another guy would compliment the style of my braids. And i would keep styling my hair that way till the end of the school session.

those first few tastes of male validation sent a thrill through my chest, instantly addicting. I wanted boys to see me, pay attention to me. I wanted them to like me, to choose me. as a teenage girl, i would binge watch YouTube videos on how to “embrace your feminine energy”, in the hopes that if i learned to be soft enough, gentle enough, beautiful enough i would be desired. in the hopes that if i tried hard enough, a man would look at me and think yes, she’s perfect. [The toxicity of a lot of these ‘“feminine energy” content is something that needs to be discussed] I watched football even though i detested it, just so i would have something to talk about if a guy talked to me. i pruned myself into what i considered to be an easier version of myself to be with. cut off all the edges that made me who i am in the quest for validation. I watched football even though I hated it, just so I’d have something to say if a boy spoke to me. I trimmed off my edges, sanded down my personality, and offered up a version of myself that was easier to love.

A lot of us are hooked on male validation without even realizing it. How could we? It’s been coded into our girlhood, carried through our teenage years, and quietly followed us into adulthood.

And I’m not here to tell you it’s inherently wrong to want male attention. It’s natural to want attention from the sex you’re attracted to. We’re human—we crave to be seen, to be appreciated.
But the real issue is what we’re being validated for.

We live in a world that grades women on beauty and sex appeal, or on how good a wife or mother we are. Your degrees don’t matter. Your accomplishments don’t matter. For many men, you’ll always be a body waiting to be rated.

How big are your breasts?
How soft is your ass?
Are you good in bed—but still somehow a virgin?

And we’ve been conditioned to accept it.

The beauty and fashion industries thrive on that hunger for approval, feeding it like it’s oxygen. They sell us serums and surgeries and wigs that promise to make us “the prettiest version of ourselves.” We spend money, time, and mental peace—all chasing the same thing: to be seen, to be wanted.

The worst part? This hunger turns us against each other.
When every woman is competing to be a man’s favorite, we start seeing each other as rivals instead of sisters.

Sometimes it’s obvious—the girl who refuses to speak pidgin when men are around because she wants to sound sophisticated.
Other times it’s subtle—the way you wear that suffocatingly tight skirt because you know it’ll draw eyes, even though it makes you miserable.

I used to think being a feminist would break me out of this cycle.
But apparently, it’s not that easy.

I bought a new wig yesterday.
Dark, vibrant curls that bounce when I move.
I stood in front of my makeshift mirror—my phone propped up on a Milo tin—admiring myself.

And the only thought that kept ringing in my mind was:

“I wonder how many guys will compliment me when I wear this out to tomorrow’s party?”

Fuck.

Does the cycle ever end?

i don’t know. maybe i’m too far gone.

I don’t think seeking male validation is something we can ever completely scrub out of our systems. It’s too deeply stitched into girlhood, too woven into the air we were raised to breathe.

What we can do is reclaim ourselves. Choice by choice.

It starts when you make decisions that come from you — not from how you’ll look through a man’s eyes. If you’re going to get a BBL, do it because it is going to make you feel like a goddess
If you’re wearing your hair in all-back, wear it like a crown, even if anyone tells you that you look unkempt.
If you’re putting on that pretty dress, wear it for the woman staring back at you in the mirror — not the man passing by on the street.

Because the moment your reflection becomes your audience, not your prison,
that’s when you finally start to be free.

i’ll leave this here.

there is more to life than male validation. there is more to life than external validation, period.

a dozen men can tell you that you are beautiful, that you are worthy, but if you don’t believe it yourself, their words will be meaningless. find validation within yourself instead. you are enough. just as you are.

Liberation isn’t about not wanting validation at all—
but about learning that yours is the only one that truly matters.

I didn’t know what evil looked like until it stared me in the face and called my name.

i was twelve, a child with a head full of Disney princesses and Barbie lyrics. i didn’t know what it meant when a grown man looked at me and called me baby. i didn’t know it was wrong when he would hug me tight to his chest, place his hands on my flat, almost non-existent ass and squeeze. the problem with traditional African families is that you are not taught what to do, no one tells you at such a young age how to scream for help, how to run away when the monster comes calling

but that night, i screamed anyway. my legs had to learn how to run.

we lived in a very rural area, on a street with only a few houses, surrounded on both sides by bushes. my parents both worked so i had to go home alone each day after school. that particular day, i came home late. and when i got to our compound, he was already there, waiting outside my front door, with a friendly grin on his face and a bag of snacks in his hand. i ran to meet him, the friendly neighbour that i completely trusted. the man who called me “the most beautiful girl in the world”, his “small wife”. i greeted him and he hugged me like he always did. except this time, he didn’t let me go. he squeezed me to himself , so tightly i couldn’t breathe, my ribs were aching.

he forced his lips onto mine and i can still remember the stench of cigarettes as his tongue forced its way into my mouth. the streets were deserted, the compound empty. he kept on whispering, chanting “my wife” even as he forced me to the ground, right outside. his eyes were crazed, desperate as his hands roved over my tiny body. i remember shaking, crying, not knowing what was happening.

i didn’t start to scream until he ripped open my shirt and latched his teeth onto my nipple, yanking it like it was a piece of meat. i screamed and he slapped me. i wasn’t his sweet little wife anymore. he called me a bitch, an ashewo - a twelve year old ashewo.

a car passed by then, and he jumped off me, sprinting away into the darkness. i remember lying there on the ground for a long time, nearly naked. i remember crying, feeling dirty and ashamed as i crawled the house. my parents were furious when they found out, we told the neighbours and they looked at me strangely. i will never forget what one particular woman said to me - “you seduced him, don’t you know it’s wrong to hug men? next time, mind yourself.” my mother - the fierce woman, that she is - slapped the woman.

what happened to the man?

we never saw him again.

but now, every time i hug a guy, i see his evil face, i hear his grating voice.

i was lucky enough to escape, but each day i am haunted by the ghosts of the girls that didn’t. recently, it’s like there’s been a rampage of mad men. and their focus is young girls.

when i heard Ochanya’s story, it shattered my already broken heart.

there is madness and there is madness. there is evil and there is evil.

the kind of evil that will make a man rape a child - to take out his penis and insert it into an eight year old’s vagina, her anus - is the greatest evil of all.

i think of Ochanya a lot. to survive a single rape is enough to traumatise any grown woman for her entire lifetime. but Ochanya was only eight years old - a literal child. and she went through this hell for five fucking years.

i think of her pain, the one that stabbed between her legs and the one pulsing in her chest. i think of the betrayal she felt, having the people who were supposed to protect her, care for her be the source of her life’s misery.

to think that she kept on going to school, even when this was happening. she carried on, the little soldier. her uncle would take her to church on Sunday and she would have to smile when he hugged her and treated her like a daughter, even though she was breaking on the inside. she would run errands with her cousin and watch in pained silence as he joked with her, played with her, like he didn’t force his shriveled dick inside her asshole the night before.

the family would meet for night devotions and they would all lift their holy hands. the rapist man and his rapist son. the wife and the daughter who knew about it and did absolutely nothing. and later in the night when she was supposed to be dreaming of icecream and cartoons, Ochanya would be screaming soundlessly, as she was fucked into the bed - first by the uncle and then by his son- her thin legs spread apart, a hand on her mouth to muffle her broken sobs.

i think of the shame she felt when she first discovered she had VVF. was she ever walking on the street with a leaking ass? did she ever break down in public and sob?

i wonder if, during those early years, she ever found the bravery to tell someone? and if she did, did they scream at her, accuse her of lying as people are wont to do?

and oh my fucking stars, i think of the days leading to her death. poor darling, she must have been so terrified. she was only thirteen. she was supposed to have a long life ahead of her. she must have had big dreams - maybe she wanted to be a doctor. or maybe she wanted to be a writer.

she will never be anything because her life, her future was stolen from her.

the crime is that the men who did this are free. they were acquitted on the grounds of “not having enough evidence?”. her dead body was not evidence enough?

the nigerian justice system is so fucked that they saw all the evidence and still let these animals out in the wild. the uncle is still a lecturer(an actual lecturer in an actual university, let that sink in) and the son is an “upcoming artist”. that is the fucked up world we live in.

the question is...if not even family members, can be trusted, who then can? i wish the evil people among us came with a sign, a marking on their forehead that screamed “BEWARE”. but there is no sign. mad men are everywhere. the pastor in your local church. your favorite cousin you once caught staring at your breasts. girls are not safe. we have never been safe. and for the longest time, the victims of the story have been painted as the villains. you’ve heard the questions. “what was she wearing?” “what if she was asking for it?” we live in a society that cannot comprehend evil so finds ways to justify it instead.

justify this -

the two girls who were recently raped by their father - 2 and 5 years old, respectively - what were they wearing? did they hold their father by the neck and ask him to rape them? what did they do to deserve it?

when does it end? when do we realise that is not enough to shake our heads and give our half-hearted sympathies? it is not enough to tell our girls to “dress modestly” and “behave well”. it doesn’t matter if a girl is completely naked or dressed in a floor length dress, a rapist will still only see a body waiting to be plundered.

when will the men realise that not being a rapist yourself isn’t enough - that holding other men accountable, protecting the women around you is also important? when will the women that still treat men like walking gods learn that silence is not a virtue, that covering your husband’s evil is not righteous, but madness?

news that the case has been reopened got to social media yesterday. and i mean it with every fibre of my being when i say that it’s the best news ive heard all year. to everyone who spoke up, who posted or reposted content, who lent their voices...you did that, we did that.

this is proof that our collected voices is a force to be reckoned with. and we as a nation are done keeping quiet. we have failed so many of our girls. Ochanya Ogbanje is just one in so many. so many girls have died or are living in abuse.

don’t stop speaking. don’t stop fighting,

For Ochanya.

For yourself.

For every girl child in Nigeria

do you ever stay up at night and picture yourself in a few decades - love starved, empty, aching?

no? just me? okay.

i think about it so much you could almost call it an obsession. it haunts my daydreams and my waking moments - this horrifying thought that maybe love is not for me.

maybe Love is an elusive Goddess, as beautiful as she is deadly, picking only the truest of her worshippers to bless. and i could kneel at her feet for the rest of my life - pleading and begging for a touch, just one, and she would never deem me worthy enough.

“single-hood” has its own special romance. At least that’s what i tell myself. i tell myself that there’s something poetic about preparing dinners just for one. that walking home from classes alone is romantic, even when seemingly EVERY ONE ON CAMPUS is coupled off and holding hands. that my peace is thriving in my moments of solitude. and most of the time, i believe it.

i play music and dance in my room until my body aches. i watch YouTube cooking videos and make the craziest dishes, eat it alone while i watch Bridgerton Season 2(for the 60th time). most of the time, i’m completely fine being single.

until i’m not.

the ache doesn’t hit me often, but when it does, it comes in sharp pangs. When it comes, it breaks into my chest and batters my heart until it’s a battered, bleeding mess. until i’m doubled over, gasping desperately for air.

the ache comes at 3am, as I’m listening to my roommate have another four hour long conversation with her latest boyfriend - they’re fighting one moment and whispering fervent “I love you’s” the next. and i’m on my bed, head stuffed into the pillow, trying uselessly to tune them out. one of these day i will honestly crash out and no one will be able to blame me.

the ache comes when i’m scrolling on TikTok - which is becoming more and more of a hellish torment for single people - and every other post I see is happy couples doing happy couple things. a woman is getting proposed to at the Eiffel tower. a man is displaying all the gifts he’s bought for his wife to celebrate her birthday.

it feels like the universe is doing this on purpose. taunting me. rubbing it in my face.

last week, i was talking with one of my younger cousins and her boyfriend walked in. he put his arm around her shoulder, gave her a special smile, and called her “Obim”

“Obim?” something in my brain sparked. my 16 year old cousin has someone calling her “obim” and the best i got were a dozen variation of “wyd” texts in my DM.

i laughed, teased her about it. but it left a bitter taste on my tongue. i wasn’t jealous (okay, who am i kidding, i was a bit jealous).

in secondary school, my friends were already having sex when i hadn’t even held hands with a boy yet. i would be the wide eyed spectator, listening to their sexcapades with something close to lust in my eyes. they would tell me about their boyfriends, the passionate love declarations, their clandestine meetings and I would thrum with awe. i didn’t have any relationships, not because i wasn’t asked out. not because i didn’t have the opportunity to date if i wanted to. but because, even at that age, my heart was a proud creature, unwilling to bend, to melt for just anyone.

oh i had crushes. lots of them. i collected crushes like it was an Olympic sport. Toyosi had melted chocolate eyes that glowed when hit by sunlight. Ifeanyi was wicked brilliant - the only guy in class smart enough to challenge me for first position. Israel had dark skin so pretty he belonged on a runway.

one of the first guys who ever asked me out was one of my classmates - David. i was talking with my trio of friends when he walked right to us, looked at me and said in the most nonchalant tone ever “I want you to be my girlfriend”.

around me, my friends squealed and giggled, like it was the most romantic thing to happen since the kiss-in-the-rain scene in The Notebook. but I could only stare at him blankly. where was the handwritten letter? the single rose flower? And the heartfelt confession - preferably screamed in the middle of a rainstorm.

thinking about it now, i definitely expected too much from a fifteen year old boy with a head full of football and video games. but damn it, i wanted more than a bland demand. i wanted fire in my chest, sparks in the air.

i wanted someone who would look deep into my eyes and say something along the lines of — “by you, I am forever undone”. or “.I once had a thousand desires, but in my one desire to know you, all else melted away” . i wanted someone who would look at me like i made his world brighter and silenced his demons. not a boy who just wanted to brag to his friends that he’d managed to bag a girl.

i am a lot older now and i have never been in love. i have never been so caught up, so consumed in someone that I sometimes forget to breathe. i don’t know what it feels like to be so obsessed that i waste hours daydreaming about one special person. i have written love poems but never for someone in particular. i have sang along to love songs but never with a guy’s name ringing in my head. i have never held someone’s hand and called them “baby”. i have never been kissed properly, or made out with someone in the backseat of a car while a Chris Grey song plays in the background.

i used to think that maybe something was wrong with me, making me incapable of falling in love. maybe i was asexual, or maybe i had some kind of mental block. i still have these thoughts to be honest.

for those of you that have been blessed (or cursed) by this thing called love, this thing that i have read about, dreamed about for so long…

tell me, please -

what does love feel like? does it burn like electricity when it lights up in your chest? or is it warm like a blanket draped on your shoulders on a rainy Sunday evening?

what does love taste like? is it like coffee, hot on your tongue but soothing to your body? or is it the sweetest poison, utterly delicious, but burning down your insides until you’re dying(but oh, what a beautiful death it would be)

love is a dangerous drug and i have never been high. not even once.

i want to be in love. i want to give out all this love i have been hoarding in my chest for so long. i want to kiss someone’s lips and breathe back life into their lungs. i want to be someone’s safe place. their anchor in every storm. the one that never fails to make them smile. the one that makes them laugh so hard their sides ache. I want to write love letters and poetry and songs and have it truly, truly mean something.

i want to be in love and be loved in return. i want someone to see me in all my broken edges and be able to find the beauty in the cracks. i don’t want someone to complete me - i am already a whole being. but I do want to be with someone who makes me completely at ease. i want the ice-cream dates and the late night conversations and the walks down the street.

i want and i want and i want and it feel like all this “want” is slowly killing me.

i have never been in love and maybe i never will be.

it is a truth i have come to accept, i have sat with it long enough that it doesn’t make me catch my breath anymore. maybe the truth is that Love - that elusive, beautiful goddess - can be worshipped in more ways than one. I could show her my devotion by learning to love myself more, learning to appreciate all the things that make me me. can i truly love another when i am not even well versed in the art of loving myself? i am learning that romantic love is not the only one that counts. the love of a family member, of a close friend matters just as much. i am learning to love the little things in my life. the smell of my perfume, the beauty of my own eyes, the ethereal glory of a setting sun.

and maybe, maybe one day, Love will look down at me from her throne of bitter tears and deem me a worthy worshipper after all.

P.S: few things are as beautiful as being home alone, writing on your Substack as “Je Te Laisserai Des Mots” plays on repeat.

P.P.S: do you know the thought that haunts me the most? the idea that maybe ive missed chances of finding love because i was looking for a raging fire when all i needed to do was fan the spark that was already right in front of me

to be uncensored is to spit out the ball gag society has forced between your lips

it is to rip the duct tape off your soul and unleash all the pent up chaos

it is to refuse the tiny box they’ve shoved you into, to raise your middle finger to their labels - “good”, “easy”, “palatable”

to be uncensored is to speak your truths with your head held high, to bury your shame, and shine the light on the skeletons society likes to hide away

it is saying “ I will not be quiet” even when the world tries to sew your lips shut

to be uncensored is to break down the prison gates, shatter the locks, burn down the chains and finally, finally set your voice free

The thing about being an African woman - a Nigerian woman - is that we are literally raised to be quiet.

As a child, I was taught that good girls don’t talk too much. Good girls never talk back. Good girls smile when spoken to, mind their own business, and always respond politely.

i was Little Miss Perfect, adored by my parents, my teachers, the neighbours. “the quiet girl” is what everyone called me.

i wore that title like a crown, carefully dusting and polishing it each day. i took it with me to my teenage years. and now that im teetering on the edge of womanhood, i look at that crown and it just fills me with disgust.

i had a friend in secondary school. let’s call her Sylvia. you’ve probably met a girl like her before. wild eyes, wilder tongue. the girl who moved like she had fire in her blood. my god, she was bold. sometimes, i thought she was secretly superhuman.

if a boy insulted me, i would put my head on the table and cry until he felt bad and apologised to me. but if a boy insulted Sylvia, oh god save his soul, she would curse him and his ancestors and his entire generation to come.

In SS3, our Maths teacher turned into a tyrant, punishing us according to his whims. he would slap a student for coughing too loudly, whip us on the back for failing to answer a question, sentence the entire class to a month long sentence of sweeping the schoolyard just because he was having a bad day. The rest of us took it without complaint, even though he was straight up abusing us. Sylvia? She marched straight to the principal’s office and reported him.

of course, the teachers labelled her a “bad girl”, “oversabi.”

but secretly, i wanted to be her. i wanted to crawl into her skin. i wanted to live in her body, know what it felt like to not be afraid of the sound of your own voice.

i’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a person who just doesn’t talk a lot. i’m reserved by nature and i wouldn’t change it for the world. but it becomes a problem, when you’re the person who doesn’t speak up in the moments you need to.

the ugly truth is that the reason why girls are urged to be “quiet” is because our voices are powerful, and the best way to stop a revolution is to silence them.

one time, a guy i was having a complicated talkuationship with told me that i was a wonderful “wife material”. he wasn’t even the first person to say that to me. i immediately felt hyped up. validated. (i think of that moment and cringe so hard)

i asked him why he thought that way and he said that it was because i wasn’t like all the other “feminist bitches” he knew in Lagos. this guy actually looked me in the eyes and said that to me, word for word, with an unaffected smile on his face. and i stared back at him, with my mouth wide open in disgust.

see, at the time, i was already a feminist. but he had no idea. because whenever he made sexist jokes, or comments that reeked of misogyny, i would bite down my tongue, hold back every raging reply. i would cut myself down into the version of myself that he would like. the version that everyone around me would like.

i was the problem. and i didn’t even realise it until that moment.

i started this newsletter because i have never been brave enough to say aloud the things that needed to be said. my whole life i’ve lived with a gag stuck into my mouth, my voice locked in a ten feet high tower. i wanted a medium to express myself freely, self consciousness be damned, and Substack gave me just that.

a place to speak freely.

and maybe one day, i will stand on a stage in front of thousands of people and speak on women’s rights and the absurdity of misogyny in Nigeria. but until then, this is my stage and i will use it without fear.

this piece is a love letter to you, dear reader.

welcome to my newsletter.

Let’s be Uncensored together.

with love,

Amaka

While I wait for the last episode of Season 2 to be released, all I can think about is how much my favourite character - Conchita Closson - has grown. I’ve always loved her—right from episode one. She’s the girl every other girl secretly wants to be, and every guy wants to have. She has this fearless, carefree nature that drew me in. She laughed and danced and smiled and played—so full of life it took my breath away.

She pissed me off a lot of times in Season 1. And I have to admit, she was shallow at times, acting like the world revolved around her.
But in Season 2, she transforms—beautifully—from the carefree girl with not a single worry in the world into a woman. Softer somehow, but still confident. Still true to herself.

Face card? Giving.
Costumes? Slaying.
Her matchmaking business venture? Genius.

And I swear to you, watching her and Dick together gave me the swoonsies—actual, living butterflies rioted in my chest (curse you, writers, for the BS you pulled in episode 6).

Damnit, I want to be her.
I want to walk into a room and make it brighter.

I want to dance, shake my hips and exude light from my very being.
I want to be the party, you know?

I wish—desperately—that I was the kind of girl who’s called a social butterfly, the life of every party. I watched Conchita waltz through life like she was the main character and the world was her own universe. I look at my life, and I’m not even qualified to be the sidekick. I’m more like an extra. An extra in my own life—and I don’t know how I got here.

I stand by the sidelines, script in hand. Every time I open my mouth to say my lines, my voice shakes, my knees knock together, and my heart shrivels up in my chest.
I can feel a million eyes watching me. Waiting for me to make one mistake.
I can already hear their laughter, their mean comments.
So I run away.

This fear of what other people will think of me has found a home beneath my skin. It’s mixed into my blood, making me incapable of doing anything without obsessing over how I’ll be perceived.

I want to start a YouTube channel—but oh my God, what if my friends see one of my videos? What would they think?
I want to do a poetry reading—but oh my God, what if no one likes the words I have to say? What if no one claps?
What if I finish talking and all I hear is a chorus of booing?
I would just disintegrate. Vanish into dust, right there on the spot. The janitor would have to sweep away my remains.

I want to get out of the confines of my own mind, this prison I have built for myself with my very own hands.

If I could be Conchita for a day, here’s what I would do:

I would go outside and just… walk.
I’d sing as I moved. Out loud. And I wouldn’t give a damn if people stared at me. I’d sway my hips to the beat of my song.

I would banish my social anxiety—get out, I don’t want you here anymore—and I would walk right up to a stranger and introduce myself.

I would do a live performance on stage. A song. A dance. A poetry reading. Anything.
I would stand in front of a crowd and not stutter, not shake, not look at the floor.
I would express myself—wholly and completely.
It wouldn’t matter whether the audience clapped or jeered.
I would enjoy myself.

“Confidence is not ‘they will like me.’ Confidence is ‘I’ll be fine if they don’t.’”
— Christina Grimmie

What a wonderful thing it would be to live a life not dictated by the opinions of others…

Lately, when I’m terrified of doing something that’s important to me, I try to channel my “inner Conchita.”
I believe every woman has one.
That version of yourself that is bold. Unafraid of her own voice.
Let her out once in a while.

It’s a new month, darling.
Go wild for a while.
Be silly. Be the party.

"You have to be loud. You have to be proud. And you have to be you."
— Conchita Closson

Channel your inner Conchita.
Even if it’s just for a day.
See where it takes you.

One of the biggest tragedies of life?

No one stays in your life forever.

They either die at some point or just pack their bags and walk away.

I think a lot about the friendships I used to have.

I think a lot about my best friend from secondary school…Mariam.

We used to be so close we could be taken as sisters. We were the “IT” friends. The power duo that was the envy of every other girl.

Back in school, we’d sit together in class, pass notes filled with gossip to each other,

share snacks and sweets.

We told each other everything, it was like our souls were somehow intertwined.

On Valentine’s Day and birthdays, we’d buy little presents and write love letters to each other.

I thought we were going to be friends forever,

go to the same university

go on double dates

be each other’s bridesmaids.

We were supposed to grow old together

raise our children together

but it’s only been four years and-

we don’t talk anymore.

We might as well be strangers again.

I can’t tell you exactly how it happened

but after we left secondary school?

It just wasn’t the same.

It was like we’d evolved into these new versions of ourselves

and our souls couldn’t recognize each other anymore.

so, the conversations felt forced

and when we tried to hang out, it was just awkward

there was nothing left to say and so we slowly, painfully drifted apart.

I cannot begin to put to words, how much it hurts to lose someone you thought was your forever friend. You give so much of yourself to another person - your time, your affection, your darkest fucking secrets- only to wake up one morning and realize you don’t even know them anymore.

It would have hurt a lot less if we’d had a big fight, if she’d betrayed me. But having to sit there and watch a friendship of several years slowly crumble to dust? Trying everything I could to fix it but knowing in my heart that nothing was working?

That is next level torture.

That’s not the only friendship in my life that has faded.

And over the years, I’ve come to realize that it is normal - losing friends.

Sometimes people just grow out of each other.

Maybe their lives no longer align.

Or maybe it’s just not the right time for them.

Either way, when it happens- it’s okay to let go, it’s okay to move on.

And maybe, if it’s meant to be, you will find each other again and it will be beautiful.

So, to all the friends I used to know,

thank you for all the moments and memories we shared

I hope you find all the happiness you deserve

And to all the friends

that still stay

the ones that have engraved their names on the very walls of my heart,

I see you,

I love you

I hope we’re forever friends

I’ve learned to cherish the people in my life

show them that I love them in every single way I can,

and graciously accept the love they give in return.

I’ve learned to treasure every moment,

because nothing really lasts forever.

Like there's a fire burning deep inside your bones. An echo resounding in your chest. Rushing waves aching to be set free.

You know, oh you really, really know, that you were meant for more. You aren't where you want to be. You aren't doing all the big things you dream of doing. You're just stuck. Dreaming of tomorrow and wasting today.

I've felt like that a lot, lately.

I know what I want to do with my life. I know it like I know my own name. In my blood, flowing through my veins, is an overwhelming passion for story telling.

I tell myself that I am going to be a world famous author. The next Tomi Adeyemi. The next Chimamanda Adichie.

I paint pictures in my head of the books I'm going to write, the stories I'm going to tell.

And yet, day after day, nothing happens. I stare blankly at the screen, waiting for this magical rush of inspiration. I have so much to say, but I can't get it into written words.

Weeks pass. Then months. And hey, it's another year gone without a single first draft to my name.

I say I am a writer. And yet, I don't write.

Am I the only one plagued by this monster called perfectionism? I want every word I write to be perfect. And because of that the words don’t come at all.

Lately I realized, my writing doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be real. I don't have to wait till I write my novel to start sharing my stories with the world. I can start today, right now.

To be a writer is to write. Consistently. Even when it doesn't make any sense.

It's scary, isn't it? Putting yourself out in the spotlight, letting down your walls and revealing your true self to the world. But that is what it means to be a writer. To take off your armor and let people see all the parts of you: the good, the bad, the ugly.

Maybe this post will get lost in the void. Or maybe, maybe it will find someone that needs to read my words. And maybe that someone is you. I hope this inspires you. Pushes you to show up for yourself and your dreams. Every single day.

Your words matter. Your stories and ideas deserve to be heard.

Here's to the beauty and raw bravery of self expression.