I was taught in Architecture school that if different architects were given the same brief, each person could still create something unique because their approach to the design would be different. Every house, therefore, has a unique story.

But Nigerian architects seem to be telling the same story using even the same fonts.

I believe what I call the “white box pandemic” affecting contemporary luxury residential architecture in Nigeria is not unique to Abuja and Lagos.

The design pattern is often predictable: white rectangular boxes stacked together, a flat roof, large-scale glazing, achromatic accents, a sprinkle of marble, and minimalist landscaping.

One of the courses I studied in school was called “History of Architecture.” I found it so interesting because it explored the different architectural styles and eras that emerged as humanity progressed.

From the wondrous Egyptian pyramids to awe-provoking Baroque architecture and the creative complexities of Postmodern architecture.

It baffles me that at a time when humans barely had technological tools, they still produced different architectural ideas and found ways to express their creativity.

I imagine the long years of hard work and sheer determination it took to bring each structure to life. And now, with vast tools, software, materials and technology at our disposal, it seems we have chosen to embrace minimalism and repetition.

Now, I have a few questions. What makes a building contemporary: its appearance alone, or how intelligently it meets the needs of the people who live in it, in terms of their climate, culture and technology? And what, in the name of feigned love for minimalism, is happening over here?

I understand that trends have existed since forever. There have been prevalent architectural styles in different eras.

I also know that architects learn by copying, but have we lost the art of copying from different places and influences to generate a new idea?

At what point does a style stop being a style, and become a template?

Perhaps this style has become a statement of luxury and opulence among Nigerians, which is one reason it continues to thrive.

With Ola of Lagos and his cohorts showcasing yet another overpriced white box on a cramped plot and shouting “it is plenty” every Meh market day, it is not just about the design anymore; the style has become a symbol of status.

There’s another major thing I can hold responsible for this pandemic, it is the “aesthetics culture” created by social media.

With unlimited visual references on Pinterest, Instagram and other platforms, it has become easier to copy the things we like than to try to create something new.

Clients repeatedly see these houses on social media as the current aesthetic, save the references and expect the architect to simply replicate the design because it is familiar.

Of course, as architects respond to the demand, the repetition has increased, and eventually, it has become the new definition of “modern.”

The irony is that while we are busy making our houses look “modern”, we may be forgetting to make them suitable for the environment in which they actually exist.

This irks me the most because aesthetics seem to have taken priority over sustainability.

Nigeria is typically hot, with abundant sunlight and considerable rainfall, during the rainy season.

Buildings must therefore be designed with careful consideration of solar heat, ventilation, shading, insulation, and drainage, while also accommodating the cultural practices and climatic needs of the people who live in them.

The flat roof behind parapet walls that has become almost compulsory in this new template, is a perfect example.

I am not saying flat roofs are bad. They can be functional when properly designed, but their broad exposed surfaces can absorb significant heat. Pitched roofs, on the other hand, naturally shed rainwater and create a roof cavity that provides space for insulation and ventilation, helping to reduce the amount of heat transferred into the building.

The same goes for the enormous windows that seem to be a requirement for any luxurious home. They look beautiful, but without proper shading and orientation, they can also allow significant solar heat into a building.

I also don’t think the typical tiny room windows that barely serve their purpose of providing light and ventilation are a good choice either.

You might say, “Well, there is mechanical ventilation too; it doesn’t have to be natural.” But you must be forgetting how unreliable our power supply is. And no, not everyone can afford 24/7 solar power.

And don’t even get me started on the landscaping. We are removing trees and replacing green areas with swimming pools and enough marble to make the entire compound look like a bathroom.

There’s clearly more to this than aesthetics and social media. I’ll talk about some of the other reasons in my next essay.

So, if you are reading this as an architect or simply someone who aspires to build a house, it doesn’t hurt to add a twist to the style or introduce a new concept entirely (with lots of green areas, please). Every building has a story. Perhaps it is time we stopped telling the same one.

Trends are meant to inspire, not dictate. So, fork the trend.

Then I come across a post of yet another woman or girl who has been sexually harassed, assaulted or raped. I decide to open the comment section, knowing fully well I’m going to be rage-baited.

Of course, I am not disappointed. Look! A foolish reprobate eagerly defending the abuser.

Then here comes the main reason for this essay: a cretin! One who feels they are the voice of justice for the unfortunate woman.

They rush forward to attack the defender of evil with, “You are wicked! May this happen to your mother, sister or daughter, then you will see how painful it is!”

I sigh and shake my head ike a disappointed African parent.

There are several problems with this statement, and the first one is simple: why are they wishing such a cruel fate on another human being so that someone else can indirectly pay for his wickedness?

Secondly, does a woman have to be someone’s mother, sister, or daughter before her suffering becomes worthy of empathy?

I have unfortunately come to understand that a significant part of society fail to recognize that a woman is a person in her own right. They struggle to recognize her humanity outside her relationships with men. And that’s why the argument quickly becomes, “Imagine if this happened to a woman who belongs to you.”

It’s almost like the crime is regarded as a crime against someone’s property rather than against a living human being. That’s why it is so normal to see comments such as, “How can you do this somebody’s daughter?” or “Chai! This is someone’s mother oh!” under an abuse post.

It is also the reason why some men tend to exercise more restraint with married women: they respect her husband, a.k.a. the owner and protector of the woman, and they don’t want to contend with him.

For example, a university lecturer could slap a married female student, and while everyone is talking about the incident, comments like “Somebody’s wife oh!” and “A married woman, for that matter!” will be flying around. As though a woman finally earns respect and personhood when she gets married.

In simpler terms, na single women them suppose slap na, shey?

A woman is not just someone’s mother, daughter, sister or wife, she is simply SOMEONE!

Now, why wish that fate on an innocent woman instead of the person who actually committed the crime? Don’t men get sexually abused too? If you think they don’t, you are another part of the problem.

Every time I see a boy who has been raped or molested, especially by an older woman, the reaction is often completely different. People, mostly men, flood the comments with claims that it wasn’t rape because the boy probably enjoyed it.

Some even come forward with unsolicited testimonies about how they too were molested by older women when they were younger and how it was a good experience.

The same crime that would have people demanding justice for a female victim is suddenly treated as a joke when the victim is male.

This doesn’t just trivialize the abuse and the trauma inflicted on the victim; it also absolves the woman of any accountability.

Even more annoying are those who quickly jump in, not to condemn the act, but to say, “If the situation were reversed, feminists would have been calling for the abuser’s head, but no one is seeking justice for the male victim now.”

Of what use is that stupid statement in the situation at hand? Call for justice and condemn the act yourself. Or is someone’s suffering just a convenient “gotcha” moment to take a shot at feminists for seeking justice for abuse victims?

Victimhood has no gender. Male victims deserves to be taken just as seriously.

I must add that there’s a huge difference between revenge and justice. Justice demands that the perpetrator be held accountable for the crime, the victim be protected, and then the perpetrator faces the consequences.

Revenge, on the other hand, can make us so consumed with making the criminal pay that we stop caring who else suffers in the process.

The person cursing the abuser or his defender may genuinely be furious on behalf of the victim. But in their anger, they wish the same fate on an innocent woman because they believe her pain might affect him.

Unfortunately, revenge doesn’t necessarily produce empathy. The man might have no care for the people being cursed just to trigger him.

And if it takes him being indirectly affected to develop a sense of empathy, then there’s a clear indication of how he sees women.

If we believe an innocent person’s suffering is wrong when it happens to one woman, why would we suddenly make another innocent woman’s suffering acceptable simply because it might hurt the man we’re angry with?

So next time you encounter the moron asking, “Why man go rape man? Abi women no dey there?” or a rape apologist, victim blamer or abuse defender, direct your vitriol at them. Not at the innocent women connected to them.

If insulting them won’t suffice, go on, wish their holes be torn out by a girthy 9-inch tool without lube.

I promise empathy towards rape victims will come easier when they can finally understand the horror of it.

And if the only thing that makes rape horrifying to you is imagining it happening to someone you love, then you need to say this repeatedly: “I am too wicked. God, take me.”

Once upon a time, this writer was deep in the trenches of men-pleasing. I can’t say I have completely escaped, but at least I can see the light now. There is hope.

When you grow up as a girl in a typical Nigerian household, it is easy to become deeply male-centered.

From childhood, you are directly and indirectly taught that marriage is the ultimate achievement, and you are raised in preparation for the glorious day you’d be chosen by a man and spend the rest of your life trying to keep him.

Your individuality is denied, as though you cannot exist as a complete person without being married.

Even your preferences are questioned to remind you that whatever you are must please your husband.

You could innocently say, “I hate ogbono soup,” and the nearest virtuous woman will ask, “What if your husband likes it?” It never made sense to me, honestly.

The slightest mistake was met with a golden reality check: “Is this what you will do in your husband’s house?” or “You want your husband to think I didn’t train you well?”

You are taught to shrink yourself because you might be too much for a man; too bold, too opinionated, too smart, too independent.

Every step taken was in accordance with becoming the most important thing you could be as a woman: a wife and mother.

And now we have women who no longer subscribe to this mentality but still feel the need to clarify that they are not feminists before stating their opinions.

But have you noticed that “I am not a feminist, but…” is usually followed by the most feminist idea ever?

Especially the most popular rhetoric: “I am not a feminist, but I believe in equal rights and opportunities for both sexes.” This one has me feeling weak every time because isn’t that literally the core principle of feminism? The belief in equal rights and opportunities for both sexes?

It is strange to think there are people who exist in the 21st century who think men are inherently superior to women.

If we strip away individual differences in intelligence, education, wealth, social status, achievements, etc., what inherent quality does being male give a man that makes him superior to a woman?

So why do we have people who clearly believe in feminist principles running away from the feminist label? I have been there before, so I can mention a few.

The first reason is, of course, religion. “I am not a feminist, but…” is a disclaimer I have noticed particularly among religious people.

A few weeks ago, I saw a reel featuring a pastor preaching against feminism. “You can’t be a Christian and a feminist,” he said, arguing that Christ had already acknowledged the equality of both sexes.

Then, in his next breath, he admitted that women have been badly oppressed and taken for granted, even in the church.

And that was the irony of it. He was acknowledging the oppression while rejecting the movement trying to address it.

I am not a prophet, but I can already hear a religious person saying, “Well, I reject feminism because feminists are man-hating, angry women.”

But do you reject your religion because some of its followers are hypocrites, abusive or even extremists?

Of course not. You understand that the behavior of a few does not define an entire faith. So why should a few extreme feminists suddenly become evidence that feminism itself is bad?

If we judge a principle by its worst representatives, what principle would survive?

I am a Christian, and Christianity itself has hundreds of denominations, each with significant differences in doctrine and interpretations of the Bible.

Yet we still understand Christianity to have certain core beliefs: that Jesus Christ died for our sins, rose from the dead and is coming again.

In the same way, feminism has different schools of thought offering different explanations for the inequality between men and women and different ideas about how it should be addressed. But at its core is the belief that women should not be disadvantaged simply because they are women. So why is that part so difficult to accept?

The actual reason I think most people struggle to admit to themselves is the need for social approval. It is that simple.

You don’t want the feminist label because you are afraid of what could come with it. “What will people think?” You’re worried they will see you as bitter, angry, or difficult.

We can tolerate flawed religious followers and flawed institutions, but somehow all feminists must perfectly behaved women before we are willing to associate ourselves with feminism.

The next reason is one I heard from someone very recently, and shame surrounded me like a shield when I realized I had once said the same thing. I quote: “Modern-day feminism is just misandry.”

In a debate between feminists and anti-feminists by Jubilee Media, an anti-feminist justified his stance by saying feminists are misandrists and that the “hatred” of men is being normalized.

When his opponent asked where he saw this hatred, he pointed to women saying they don’t need men and protesting against patriarchy.

He interpreted women’s refusal to depend on men and their opposition to patriarchy as hatred of men. And that is a good example of how women rejecting social expectations can be confused with misandry.

Misogyny and misandry may be linguistic opposites, but that doesn’t mean they have the same consequences.

Why? Because what is often presented as evidence of misandry is simply women staying single, divorcing their husbands, refusing to have children or protesting against patriarchy. None of these things directly imply hatred of men.

Misogyny, on the other hand, is not merely an unpleasant opinion expressed online or something existing only in the minds of those who resent women for exercising their autonomy. It has real consequences.

According to UNODC, about 140 women and girls are killed every day by an intimate partner or family member, roughly one every ten minutes. Nearly one in three women worldwide will also experience physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime, according to WHO.

The problem is that misogyny has become so normal that women’s resistance to it seems more offensive than the misogyny itself.

We normalize holding women responsible for men’s lack of self-control, forcing girls into child marriages, denying girls an education and restricting women’s freedom in the name of culture.

Misogyny doesn’t only abuse women; it reduces us to properties, wombs, maids and sex objects, denying us autonomy and freedom to make our own choices.

The third and final reason is simply male validation. This doesn’t apply to women alone, even men seek validation from their friend groups.

Standing up for women when need be can earn disdain from the boys and it is easier to just laugh when a something misogynistic happens and not stand up for what you believe in.

But, when a woman vehemently denies feminism, chances are she doesn’t want to be seen as a “bad” woman.

She has been taught that a good woman is marriageable, soft, nurturing, sacrificial, agreeable, and submissive to men; anything else is simply bad and counter to femininity.

Eventually, in a bid to please the men she has been taught to obey, she could oppose rights other women fought to secure, or even accept the limitations placed on her as being for her own good.

To all the women reading this, as Sheryl Lee Ralph said: “Just because you have rights today does not mean that you will have rights tomorrow.”

Afghan women were granted the right to vote in 1919, a year before American women received a constitutional guarantee of suffrage. Yet today, Afghan women live under restrictions that deny them some of their most basic freedoms. It is deeply disturbing to watch women lose rights that they once had.

I believe women deserve full autonomy, regardless of where they live. Our rights should not be privileges determined by geographical location. If those are feminist principles, then why should I be afraid of being called a feminist?

So next time you are about to say, “I am not a feminist, but…” followed by the most feminist idea ever, ask yourself why you feel the need to deny the label in the first place. Is it really the belief you disagree with, or is it everything you have learnt to associate with the word?

Drop the invisible social, religious and gendered baggage and simply stand by what you believe in, without fear or shame.

Being a feminist is not a slur. If you truly believe in equality, perhaps it is time to stop being afraid of the word.

After that, I’ll be driven to the nearest psychiatric hospital for further evaluation. Talk about two-factor authentication.

Not to judge anyone who fawns over celebrities, but that is something Uju could never be caught doing. Maybe I have simply never admired a celebrity enough to lose my mind over them.

I enjoy the work some of them do, but the idea of screaming, crying, or fighting over someone simply because they are famous? I cannot imagine it.

Anyways, “I wanna be, I wanna be, I wanna be famous.”

I’ve always wanted to be famous. I started singing and writing songs at 4, writing storybooks at 5, and drawing fairly well at 6.

My family and friends made me feel like I could be the next big thing simply because I was multi-talented.

So, I unconsciously believed talent came with an automatic recognition package. Nobody told me that the world is full of talented people who never get discovered. You can be incredibly good at what you do and still remain unknown.

Life, as usual, humbled me.

Now, I am an adult and realize that if I do get famous, I might run to Artantica and build a new civilization there just to escape the fame or spend the rest of my life having weekly meetings with a therapist.

Last week Sunday, while hanging out with my sister and her friend at Monoliza, we saw content creator Asher Kine.

At first, we thought it was someone who just looked like him, and my sister jokingly said that if it were him, she would go and ask him for money.

Suddenly, a girl squealed, “ASHER KINE!” and our suspicion was confirmed. Before I could blink twice, the booth he was at was crowded with fans asking to take selfies with him.

As he quietly sipped his drink, people eagerly took pictures, forming a mini paparazzi around him. I was just happy to be in the background because me sef no small.

By the way, we didn’t flinch when we realized it was him, much less ask him for money.

In the midst of it all, I pictured being in Asher’s shoes. I imagined my self-conscious ass trying to drink my juice in peace while surrounded by people excited about my presence.

Sure, it must be nice to see people happy to share the same space with you, and even nicer to have whole fan bases dedicated to you.

But watching the whole episode made me realize that fame comes with “costs” I don’t think most people who aspire to it have thought about.

Fandom might not be as glamorous as we often make it seem. It can get weird very quickly because fans become possessive of celebrities.

During the BBN lockdown reunion, some housemates mentioned fans entering their DMs to remind them when they hadn’t posted pictures that day. Imagine waking up to strangers basically saying, “Excuse me, where is today’s content?”

Between strangers feeling entitled to your posts and actually taking the time to remind you when you haven’t posted, I don’t know which is weirder.

I have always been curious about the “fans” who contribute money to buy cars and other expensive gifts for BBN housemates after the show. But I guess friends and family count as fans too. Otherwise, I can only assume the other contributors have too much money to spare.

Maybe it is a possessive kind of “love” that makes people spend their money on famous people who don’t know them personally. But that kind of investment can easily turn into a sense of entitlement.

When a fan feels they have contributed to a celebrity’s success, the celebrity’s mistakes can start to feel like a personal betrayal. The moment they do something the fan doesn’t like, out comes the “we made you who you are” card, and the celebrity gets dragged like a faulty generator for falling short.

It’s easy to get sucked into the fickle attention of fans and start bending over backwards to keep them happy and stay relevant. Give it enough time and they’ll be dictating when to breathe and how to sneeze.

Speaking of relevance, celebrities are expected to stay interesting or risk being “forgotten.” The irony is that the internet never actually forgets anything.

The way I see it, once you become famous, you are handed a brown carton marked “handle with care,” containing your reputation. Suddenly, things you could once say or do without consequence become public controversies.

Fame doesn’t just give you attention; it changes the conditions under which you’re allowed to live. You are no longer seen simply as a human being with flaws, but as a public figure whose opinions, endorsements and judgments are taken seriously by a large part of society.

It must be exhausting to be constantly conscious of yourself because you are one wrong move away from being dragged. I am not even a celebrity yet, but I could be laughing loudly, then remember that someone might see me and suddenly comport myself.

Celebrities can also become trapped in the persona that made them famous. If you become known for being funny, suddenly everyone expects you to be funny all the time. If you become known for your looks, people start scrutinizing every change in your appearance. What a life!

But I still wanna beee famous! After all that ranting, yes, I still want it. I have my reasons. If you ask me, the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.

For one, people pay attention when famous people speak. They can reach millions of people with very little effort, which can be incredibly powerful when they use that attention to raise awareness about important issues.

I remember researching pre-eclampsia after Adesua Etomi shared a post about her experience with the condition during pregnancy.

People can become interested in something simply because someone famous is attached to it. I could use that advantage to raise awareness or support causes I care about.

And don’t even get me started on the doors fame can open. Suddenly, you have access to opportunities and connections that would otherwise be difficult to reach.

Invitations to chill with the crème de la crème of society, businesses built on an existing fan base, and endorsements from other famous people. Must be NICEEE.

I don’t even need to talk too much about the potential to make MONEYYYY. I’d rather deal with the inconvenience of being famous if it means I can afford a luxurious life and never have to stress over problems money can solve.

Of course, I’d prefer the money without the attention, but if those are my only two options, I’ll take the fame.

But above all, I think what we all admire most about fame is visibility. There is something deeply human about wanting to be seen, to feel like we matter and to know that our work is being acknowledged.

We want our voices heard and the things we create to mean something beyond ourselves.

Perhaps this is why fame is especially appealing to creatives. It gives your work the possibility of reaching people far beyond your immediate circle. Maybe that is what we are really chasing when we say we want to be famous: not to be watched, but to be seen.

But I’d like my fame with some terms and conditions. I want people to know my work, recognize my name and care about what I create. I just don’t need them knowing what I had for breakfast or who I am beefing with.

Anyway, if I ever get famous and start complaining about it, you people should remind me that I asked for it.

You had never felt so naked until you felt Nonso’s eyes undressing you from the congregation.

Your skin prickled with awareness, your breath caught in your throat like your lungs had forgotten how to exhale.

Suddenly, your mind couldn’t make sense of what the guest pastor was saying, despite your eyes following every animated movement he made.

You could feel the intensity in his gaze, familiar from two nights ago.

That night, he had stared at you wistfully, his expressive eyes glistening with blatant desire.

Now, even without looking back, you knew his thoughts were wandering somewhere they shouldn't, just like yours.

You never realized how smitten you were until you heard him laugh. Deep, rich sounds filled the room as he threw his head back, laughing with such abandon, like one with no care in the world.

Although you had never heard a wealthy king from an ancestral Igbo kingdom laugh, you imagined he would sound exactly like one.

You never felt such longing until that night in your cramped kitchen. He had offered to help pound pepper when he arrived while you were cooking.

You watched him with admiration, his presence filling the tiny space and making you dizzy with desire.

His muscles flexed as he worked the pestle in a steady rhythm, concentrating as though he were performing an important task.

In that moment, you found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else.

Realizing you were losing control, you distracted yourself by cracking jokes.

Soon, he was laughing, but watching his throat bob only made you want him even more.

Finally, the stew boiled on your little camp gas. As you washed your hands, you sensed a presence behind you and turned to find him standing close, his gaze fixed on you.

Flustered, you tried to ask why he had come closer, but you barely got the words out before he kissed you.

Your knees went weak, but his arm held you firmly. A shiver ran down your spine as a rush of desire swept through you. It wasn't the first time he had kissed you, but something about this moment felt different.

It ended too soon, but you knew the moment would be etched in your memory forever.

Nonso squeezed your waist before stepping back, his expression suddenly distraught.

You knew from the look on his face that whatever he was about to say was the last thing you wanted to hear.

“I won't come again, Ada... I don't want her to find out. She's already suspicious,” he said regretfully.

It hurt so badly that you would have cried if not for your pride.

“We should have never begun this,” was all you could say.

Nonso's heart belonged to someone else. He could never love you the way you loved him. Yet, you still think of him fondly sometimes.

There had been a genuine attraction between you, a mutual desire he couldn't ignore. But in the end, none of it mattered. He chose her over you.

Continued from part 1

Uju Thinks Too Much

I Signed Up To Work For INEC.

First in my bloodline to willingly sign up for premium shege because of audio money. Apparently, I needed to learn some lessons the hard way…

Read more

a month ago · 25 likes · 31 comments · Uju Thinks Too Much

….That was when we turned to Google Maps because the security man was obviously leading us to Sambisa. Because where are weeee???

Oga Yellow suggested we find our way back to the school and ask around from there. Despite using Google Maps, we still had to ask people for directions. This time, the security man was quiet throughout. It turned out that Upper Iweka was literally two minutes away from the school. In this life eh, follow who know road.

Finding our actual polling unit became the next problem. Everywhere we went, people were already there setting up. Finally, we found a polling unit that somehow fit the description. We carried our materials from the vehicle, and the driver left.

As we began setting up, a corper from the next polling unit called me over and told me that wasn’t our unit! She opened the polling-unit map on Google and showed me that ours was still further ahead.

As the leader of the team, everyone turned to me, expecting me to know what to do. I was like, “Why are you guys looking at me? Aren’t we all doing this for the first time??”

Two minutes later, your favourite election officials were trekking the streets of Upper Iweka with sensitive election materials, while people stared at us like we were white missionaries sent to seek and save the lost.

Oga Yellow was carrying the booth on his head, Habibi had the ballot boxes on hers, Oremz carried the bag containing the other materials, and as the leader of the group, I focused on Google Maps.

We trekked until we reached the outskirts of Upper Iweka, and somehow, it still didn’t look like we were getting any closer to our destination.

We stood at a spot, completely lost. I was about to suggest we trek back to where we came from when the driver who brought us spotted us from afar and came to our rescue. I was so relieved I almost cried.

That was when I realized I hadn’t even turned on my data while using the map! This time, with an internet connection, it wasn’t hard to find the polling unit. Unfortunately, they hadn’t brought our canopy, table, and chairs yet, so we used the opportunity to take pictures and videos while we waited.

Soon, almost an hour had passed and there was still nothing. I quickly called our superior and received the shock of my life.

She said if we hadn’t received anything by then, we weren’t going to get any because there was usually not enough to go round.

I asked her what we should do, and she said, “When the party agents arrive and see that we can’t start because there are no tables or chairs, they will have to help us get some.”

Just as she predicted, the agents arrived and saw nothing. They waited for a bit, and when they got tired, they went to a nearby bar and borrowed tables and chairs for us. But there was still no canopy. Sun dealt with us that day.

I delegated duties to everyone. We pasted the voters’ list first, then setting up began. We had just finished when my stomach played another fast one on me.

It was so intense that I knew I couldn’t hold it in. Habibi and I raced to the bar to beg them to let me use their toilet.

As we entered the place, the men playing snooker directed me to their oga, who was already smiling at me with obvious interest. Before I could even finish asking, he was already directing me towards the toilet.

I will spare you guys the gory details again.

Our voters started arriving, and we got busy. I must say, we were a perfect team. I was armed with my manual, following the process exactly as it was written.

Oremz was handling the BVAS like a pro, Oga Yellow was doing a good job helping people find out if they belonged to our polling unit, and Habibi was having the best time playing nail tech, painting people’s entire fingers with marker in the name of marking their thumbs.

Aside from the sun beating us wickedly, everything else was fine. Some nice women brought kunu tied in nylon for us, which I declined, of course.

Habibi also offered me a drug which she said usually helped with her menstrual diarrhea. I had already swallowed it in desperation before she told me about the side effect: I might not defecate for three days afterwards.

If I try to tell you guys the individual drama with the voters, there will be a Part 10. Because where do I start from? The ones who asked us how much we were going to give them to vote, or those who threatened us to our faces, saying their candidate had better win?

It was finally 3 o’clock, and voting was over. It was time to count the ballots. I opened my manual and followed the process exactly.

We had just finished separating the ballot papers according to parties when one party agent, who had obviously just finished drinking himself to a stupor, decided to be a nuisance. Let’s call him Mad Man.

He rushed in and threatened to scatter everything because we were counting the ballots before canceling the unused ballot papers.

The policewoman assigned to us and everyone else tried to calm him down, but he was determined to cause a scene by accusing us of electoral malpractice.

“If you don’t stop counting this thing, I will scatter this place!”

I was calm throughout the drama. The calmness of a hungry person with tummy issues who had just spent more than six hours in the sun, regretting every choice that had led to that moment.

Suddenly, before I could stop her, Uju the ferocious tiger burst out from the cage where I keep her locked for security reasons. The voice that came from me that day was hers.

“OGA!!! IF YOU DON’T STOP THIS RUBBISH NOW AND RESPECT YOURSELF, I WILL TELL THIS POLICEWOMAN TO THROW YOU OUT OF HERE, OR I WILL DO IT MYSELF!”

There was silence first. Everyone turned to me in shock. Even Mad Man stopped. He looked like he couldn’t believe I had actually shouted at him.

I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, but this man immediately mellowed down like a kitten. He asked if it was because of this small matter that I was shouting at him like that, followed by a dramatic, “Chai, Mad Man, you don suffer.”

I assigned Oga Yellow to cancel the unused ballots while we finished counting, documenting, and signing in peace.

To my surprise, Mad Man started being all smiley and unnecessarily nice to me, saying I was the type of wife he wanted to marry because he liked strong women.

The party agents commended me, saying I had done a very good job. They said they would never have guessed it was my first time.

A young man from the bar came to tell me that his oga said when I was done, I should come and meet him.

I wanted to believe it was because I hadn’t flushed their toilet properly (which I had), and not because he wanted me to come over so he could toast me. Men and audacity.

The driver arrived, and we returned to the rack for the submission of our materials. I had to let Oremz and Habibi go home because they looked like they could faint at any moment. But I forced Oga Yellow to stay with me. That turned out to be the best decision I made.

After waiting for over two hours, it was finally time to submit our materials.

When I presented the BVAS, I was asked to open it, and that was when I remembered that only Oremz had the passkey. My phone was dead at this point. Imagine if Oga Yellow wasn’t with me!

We began calling Oremz, but she wasn’t picking up, probably because she didn’t have Oga Yellow’s number saved.

I was already on the verge of a massive breakdown. I had called my mum just before my phone battery died to let her know she might be unable to reach me, but I knew she would be very worried.

Finally, Oremz picked up, and I was able to submit everything. I got home a few minutes before 9 pm. I knocked just once and heard the celebration going on inside the house. My mum ran out like a woman who had just found her missing child after three years.

Apparently, she was about to leave the house in search of her stubborn daughter.

I narrated the whole experience to them, and I got the classic, “We warned you, but you didn’t listen” speech.

Funny enough, some of my friends had much better experiences than I did. Some were even given expensive restaurant food during the election. It seemed like they had the time of their lives at their polling units.

Three weeks later, I received my alert, which was less than half of the ₦35K I was expecting. I spent my money and went through all that suffering for audio moneyyy!

All’s well that ends well, my people. Never again!

Let’s establish some things first: I won’t be using real names, real locations or going into too much detail for obvious reasons.

I was just fresh out of NYSC orientation camp, trying to recuperate from the stress and sleep deprivation, when my camp roommate sent me a link to register as an INEC ad-hoc staff member for the upcoming AMAC election.

For the sake of this story, I’ll call this friend ‘Oremz’.

Of course, as an Igbo girl, the first question I asked Oremz was how much I would be paid for the job. She told me the person who sent the link to her said we would be paid ₦35k.

My ears perked up like a dog that just heard a sound at the gate.

₦35k for a day’s job?? I no go sign up ke? And thus began my shege.

Oremz assured me that there would be a training allowance, so I shouldn’t worry about the transport money I’d spend getting to the training because we would be reimbursed.

We got to the training venue and the teaching on the electoral process had already started.

I have to admit, that part was kind of fun, mostly because the young man teaching us was very funny, expressive and kept things straight to the point.

I also got to see some of my friends from camp who were there as well.

After the lecture, we were given a test to determine whether we actually understood the roles of the four main electoral officers at a polling unit.

I remember getting 16/20 in the test and feeling like a genius.

Did I mention that my parents weren’t in support of me registering, my dad especially?

He said Nigerian elections can get really violent. I downplayed his fears by insisting it was just a chairman and councillorship election, not a presidential election.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Few days later, I received a call from an INEC official. I was told I had been selected and was to be at a LEA secondary school by 4 p.m. the evening before the election, with everything I’d need for the next morning.

By the way, we were told at the training, “You guys will sleep over at the rack, and you will be transported to your polling unit the next morning with the election materials.”

I imagined the “rack” to be a nice accommodation provided by the government for ad-hoc staff.

D-day arrived and your girl began packing to go to the “rack.” I packed my NYSC uniform and boots, some wipes, nighties, toothpaste, soap, small body cream and two panties (hoping to take my bath that evening, change into one, then use the other after taking my bath the next morning).

I wore baggy jeans, a cute pink vintage shirt and really high-heeled slippers (big mistake).

I arrived at the school looking like someone who was about to catch a flight to Lagos for a quick business deal, only to see very casually dressed people making themselves very comfortable in the classrooms.

I saw another friend from camp, a really sweet girl. Let’s call her “beaurii.” She asked why I was dressed so nicely. She, on the other hand, looked like she was going to buy something at the market close to her house.

Not long after, Oremz arrived and we all began conversing.

Meanwhile, I was still patiently waiting for the big buses that would take all of us to the “rack” when I noticed a young man gathering the tables and chairs together to make space, spreading a wrapper on the ground and making himself at home.

I wondered if he was okay. Because, bro, we are still going to the rack. Why are you wasting your strength?

Few minutes later, we were all called out for a meeting. A woman addressed us nicely, thanked us for coming, and told us that our polling units and roles had been distributed.

We were to head to a groupchat to check our polling units, roles and teammates. The next thing I heard was, “Don’t worry, we will soon share mats for you guys along with the election materials for tomorrow.”

If not for my shy nature, I could have raised my hand to remind her that not all of us present were Muslims, so what were the mats for??

I asked Oremz, “Mats?” and she replied, “Yes nau, we’re going to sleep here.” That was when it dawned on me that I had been at the rack this entire time!

You guys, I am not slow, I promise. I just didn’t want to believe that I could be subjected to such treatment.

There was no socket to charge my phone, the classroom furniture was so uncomfortable to even sit on and, to crown it all, there were no toilets or bathrooms. So much for carrying a nightie.

Looking back now, I realize how delusional I was. I joined the others to catch a wooden furniture, secured my things with Oremz and then Beaurii and I went out to get some food.

We got bread and egg with a soft drink to hold body that night. It was such a terrible meal, I managed to choke down every bite because I was hungry.

It turned out that Oremz and I were coincidentally in the same polling unit. I was the presiding officer (PO) of the polling unit, Oremz was the assistant presiding officer I (APO 1).

Another lady with a motherly vibe was the APO 2, let’s call her “Habibi,” and APO 3 was a fair young man I’d call “Oga Yellow.”

We were just going through our duties when I felt a strange rumbling in my tummy. Before I could process what was happening, I felt shit at the tip of my asshole.

It is important to note that I have a feeling-the-urge-to-shit-in-public-when-there-is-no-toilet-around phobia.

I literally start sweating, salivating and having trouble breathing whenever that happens.

I ran to find Beaurii, who offered me wipes and told me to find a nice dark spot at the back of one of the classrooms.

That was the day my steeze suffered a major fracture! You guys! I was purging at the wrongest place possible. I won’t give y’all further gory details.

When I came back to my teammates, I was told they had collected our materials, aside from the mat, which the officials claimed someone had cunningly collected on our behalf.

I don’t know which confused me more: the fact that someone had collected our mat and signed for us, or the fact that four adults were expected to share one mat.

We worked together to sort out our materials, after which we secured them because we were told we would be responsible if any went missing.

My stomach was having a good time attempting to humble me. I had to go again, and go I did.

At that point, I was just praying to God to forgive my sins and help me get through the next day because I knew it could only get worse. I consoled myself with the hope of collecting ₦35k.

Beaurii noticed I was having a hard time trying to sleep on the little hard bench, and she offered to share her mat with me. I told y’all she’s really sweet.

After tossing and turning on the floor for nearly two hours, I finally fell asleep around 3 a.m.

Before 5 a.m., I was woken up by Beaurii, who told me the officials were waking everyone up to brush and dress up for what was before us.

I grudgingly stood up, and my body immediately reminded me that I had spent hours on the floor, not in my bed at home.

I wobbled like a toddler in my heel slippers to the back of the classroom, where a lot of people were brushing their teeth or doing “rub and shine”

I got back to the class and everyone was dressing up, both male and female alike. Nobody had the energy to care who was looking at who.

We were all too tired to give a f*ck. I joined them and dressed up in my full kit. Soon, we were briefed on who to call if we ran into any trouble, and each team was paired with a driver and a security official to transport us to our polling units.

The driver asked if any of us knew where the polling unit was. We gave him the address, “Upper Iweka” (fake address), and the security officer quickly exclaimed, “Okay, okay, I know the place. Make we dey go.”

He seemed a little drunk to me, but of course, I couldn’t prove it, so I kept quiet.

And thus, the journey began. The security man led the driver to a turn, and Oga Yellow asked him if he was sure because the Upper Iweka he knew was on the other turn and not far from the school.

The security man insisted he was leading the driver correctly.

We had driven for over 10 minutes through an unfamiliar road when we got to a building in a quiet neighborhood, too quiet to be a polling unit.

The security man announced that we had reached our destination. We called a young man sitting nearby and asked if we were at Upper Iweka, and he said there was no place like that around the neighborhood.

Suddenly, the security man shouted, “Okayyyyy, I know the place now!”

We all chorused, “Are you sure??”

“Yes nau,” he replied.

Five minutes later, we were at another place, and someone else confirmed that we were not at Upper Iweka.

That was when we turned to Google Maps because the security man was obviously leading us to Sambisa. Because where are weee?? (To be continued…)

I couldn’t fit all the suffering into one story. 😭😂

Part 2 is here. Apparently, my one-day INEC experience had enough drama for a whole series.

There’s no song I have sung with more vigor than Olamide’s “Poverty die”.
When the “poverty die die die” chant starts, I shut my eyes tightly, stamp my feet and clap aggressively, as though I am personally trying to trample poverty to death.

It is a popular belief that the rich have more complex problems than the poor. I think that is one of the comforting lies we tell people drowning in poverty: “at least your problems may be easier to solve. Rich people have more complicated ones”

Poor people have complex problems too, and perhaps the most ironic of them is that the less money one has, the more expensive life can become.

Poverty comes with taxes, and somehow, being unable to afford them doesn’t exempt the poor from paying.

To answer the question already on your mind, no, the government isn’t collecting a special tax from poor people. But have you ever considered that taxes aren’t always paid with money?

A rice seller could buy a bag of rice for ₦50,000, sell it for ₦55,000, and offer an even lower price to anyone buying several bags at once. But the poor person who cannot afford to buy a bag has to buy four cups for ₦400 each just to make dinner.
With approximately 150 cups in a 50 kg bag, at the bulk price, those four cups would cost about ₦1,333. At ₦400 per cup, they cost ₦1,600.

That extra ₦267 is not payment for better rice or better service. It is simply the price of being unable to afford more.
This is not unique to rice. Across many everyday commodities, buying in bulk is cheaper.

It is a cruel paradox that the person with more money gets the discount. I call this extra cost of buying little the “small-quantity tax”.

My mum often calls me lazy whenever I complain about her annoying attempts to “save” money. Rather than buy pap from a local vendor, she would go through the tiresome process of making it herself at home.

But there is another cost attached to that saving. This brings me to what I call the “convenience tax.”

Poverty forces people to pay with the currency they have most: time. When money is scarce, paying for convenience can feel like an unnecessary luxury.
Why pay someone to do something you can do yourself? Why pay for a machine when you can spend an hour doing the same thing by hand?

But, doing these things yourself does not make them free. You are simply paying with your time instead of money.

The wealthy, on the other hand, often use money to buy back their time. They pay for convenience, use appliances that make work faster, or outsource tedious tasks. The time saved can then be spent earning money, resting, or pursuing more fulfilling things.

For the poor, saving money can mean spending time, which is the one resource they can never earn back.

Poverty also forces us to make practical decisions that come with hidden costs. Here’s an example. Someone earning ₦200,000 monthly cannot afford the ₦1.5 million yearly rent for a house close to their workplace. So, they choose to live on the outskirts, two hours away, where the rent is ₦700,000 a year, relieved that they have saved ₦800,000.

But the cheapest house isn’t necessarily the cheapest place to live when all the costs not reflected in the rent are considered.

Saving on rent could mean less sleep, longer commutes, higher transport costs, fatigue, and ultimately, lower productivity. This gets even more interesting when we consider what I call “infrastructure tax”.

Now, we’re at my area of specialization. What could this environment with affordable shelter look like? What happens when people build where land is cheap, with whatever resources they can afford, and with little regulation? The answer is simple: mayhem.

That environment, which I simply call the trenches, is likely to be not just overcrowded but ridden with poor roads, inadequate drainage, poor water and electricity supply, and insecurity.

And when basic infrastructure is lacking, residents are often forced to spend their little money compensating for it by providing these amenities themselves.

Experiencing this comes with health and psychological costs that could take a toll on one’s wellbeing and drain their pocket faster than I could drink a Caprison.

The most frustrating part is the cycle of never-ending poverty that this kind of environment creates. Instead of accumulating resources that could improve their circumstances, the poor are forced to spend what little they have simply trying to survive their environment.

And so, their children grow up under the same terrible conditions, inheriting not just their parents’ poverty but the environment that helps perpetuate it.

It is even sadder for the children. Without adequate education and guidance, many grow up without the opportunities and support they need to build a better future. The cycle continues.

Finally, “the emergency tax”. In simple terms, this means, the poorer you are, the poorer you could become. When one has limited resources, an emergency can become catastrophic.

A poor person is one broken phone away from losing their livelihood or valuable connections.

One medical bill away from financial ruin. One natural disaster away from starting all over again.

This particular tax could be so damning, because sometimes, lives pay the price.

So, Poverty isn’t just the absence of money. It means having fewer choices, and those limited choices are even costlier.

Choosing your environment wisely might just be one major way to break free from it.
Proximity to wealth might not translate to wealth itself, but it could mean access to better-paying jobs, good schools, hospitals, and social networks that give one a better chance of becoming wealthy too.

Poverty makes the road out of it difficult to navigate, and that, to me, is the cruelest tax of all.

Contrary to motivation, I wasn’t peer-pressured into this. I have been seeing this trend everywhere, but I felt I wouldn’t have up to thirty things to say about myself. I decided to try and turns out I am actually interesting because I had a lot to say. Well, Agu inspired me to write mine.

So, let’s get straight into it.

1. My full name is Obianuju, and I absolutely love my name.

   It loosely means “a child that comes when there’s abundance.” In other words, I waited till everywhere was stew before arriving. 😂

   Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. My parents were at the lowest point of their lives when I was born, but afterwards, life changed for good.

   (Give your kids significant names, guys!)

1. I am a proud Igbo girl. Everything just sounds funnier in Igbo. I am funniest when I speak it, and I am also notorious for mistakenly adding Igbo words when conversing in English.

   Ogene and Igbo music beckon my body to move as my ancestors did.(In case you catch me dancing aggressively, just know I couldn't help myself)

2. I hate lizards, cockroaches, rats, snakes, and every other creature whose bellies rub the floor as they crawl, with every fibre of my being. Lizards are just the most hated because those creeps are everywhereee.

1. I am very sensitive to graphic, gory, and scary content. Mostly because the treacherous organ called my brain is really good at reconjuring those images behind my eyes and spinning them into the nastiest nightmares.

1. My favourite colours are brown and orange.

1. I LOVE TO EAT! I can’t even say I have a favourite food. Is it edible and delicious?? Bringgg! Feel free to bribe me with food if you offend me.

   (Husband cheats) “Baby, please forgive me.”

   (Presents food with plenty meat)

   Instantly forgiven!

2. I have three siblings: Two brothers and my only sister (ofu mkpụrụ anya m’ji ahụ ụzọ).

1. Both my parents are alive, and I am terrified of losing either of them.

1. I have mood swings a lot and I am easily irritated. my mother and sister call it ogbanje behavior.

1. I am very introspective and self-conscious, but I occasionally do foolish things that I know I will regret, for the plot.

1. I am an unhealthy consumer of fiction. Reading is one of my favourite thing to do. Not motivational and self-help books though (motivational speakers avoid me!)

1. I prefer books to movies. The only movies I usually enjoy are romance and animated movies. (Yes, cartoons too)

1. I was a precocious child; I grew up faster than I was meant to. I still feel like I went from childhood straight to adulthood.

1. I can SINGGG! I started composing songs at four. I used to turn everything around me into a musical instrument.

   My dad, thinking I was a reincarnation of his father, who loved music, used his last money to get me a guitar. I don’t know how to play the guitar (don’t ask me what happened!), and I no longer write songs. But I still sing though.

2. I am multitalented. And it is both a blessing and a headache. So much potential and yet nothing is working yet.

1. I wrote my first book at five and wrote many others subsequently. I saw one of them recently and was genuinely impressed. I have always loved writing, and here I am, still doing it. Anyways, I am working on publishing my first book soon.

   

1. I could draw fairly well at six. My dad, being the supportive man he is, used to supply me with sketchpads, pencils, and colour pencils, so I’d write my books and draw my characters. I am an artist now, and I took a liking to painting too. At least his investment no waste.

1. I am a feminist, and I do not entertain misogyny or the slightest hint of it.

1. I read Things Fall Apart at six, Half of a Yellow Sun at nine, and Purple Hibiscus at eleven. Re-reading these books as an adult makes me realize how childish my perspective was when I read them. Things I didn’t understand then just make sense now.

1. I have not been in a “real” committed romantic relationship because I have a fear of commitment. There, I said it!

1. I decided I was going to be an architect at four, and yes! I studied architecture (and saw premium shege). I am still passionate about it, but I’m no longer sure it’s what I want to spend my life doing.

1. I can’t swim (I am deathly scared of water) or ride a bike.

1. I love musiccc! I can’t function without it. And just like food, I don’t have a favourite genre. I consume anything that sounds good.

2. I have never travelled out of Nigeria or travelled by air before. (Sapa, unhand me!)

1. I do not know how to plait hair, knit, or do any other craft. I can’t even do makeup to save my life. I am so jealous of the girlies who can. But my lip combo game is madd sha. (Clockeeeet.) It is the only makeup I do.

1. I struggle with social anxiety, and I have the social battery of a 2018 Gionee phone. But I am really good at pretending. So, I act social, then go home and stare into space for hours to recuperate all the energy I spent. I wear my social butterfly uniform when I meet my fellow anxious people. (We can’t both be shy!)

1. I smile a lot, too much even. And my smile is my favourite thing about myself.

1. I have a healthy amount of pride. It really keeps me in check. Anything wey go affect my steeze, count me out.

1. I like gum-body, and I love to bite nibble on people I love.

1. I was the youngest in my set and the best graduating student in my department. (Make I brag small.)

Jaraaaa ohhh. (In Helen Paul’s voice.)

1. I have an intense urge to travel the world! I know deep within me that I do not belong in these trenches.

1. I love to flirt, especially with witty people…(Hehehehe.)

1. I am a last born, and it really entered my head eh. People just meet me and ask me, “Are you the last born?” after three minutes. I am never going to lose my childlike energy.

1. My birthday is in 10 days, and I am not excited about it.

   Okay byeeee.

   If you feel Komodo Dragons in your tummy already, feel free to subscribe!😂

If you asked the people who know me what animal best describes me, their answers would vary depending on where and when they first met me.

Those who met me in church would probably call me a hummingbird, except my fellow choristers.

My course mates from university wouldn’t think twice before saying “bunny”.

If your first interaction with me happened during an argument about feminism, you must still think I’m a crocodile.

And the customer service rep at the bank on the day my NYSC allowance got trapped in a blocked account? He went home convinced I was a tiger.

The funny thing is that every one of them would be telling the truth. None of them had met a fake version of me. They simply met the version the environment called for. And many Nigerians seem to have perfected this art.

There are several reasons why most Nigerians have spare personalities like spare tires, one of them is our “packaging culture.” If you’re Nigerian, you already know what I’m referring to.

Packaging culture is more than dressing and carrying yourself in a way that does not reflect the sorry state of your bank account, it is becoming whoever the situation at hand rewards.
It is the swift change of manners and accent when you find yourself amongst people of a higher class than yours.

The faux humility you display around a prominent person.

The sudden subservience you perform when you find your car packed by road safety corps and even the exaggerated air of importance you spray on before chilling with the big boys.

I understand the need for behavioral adaptation; it is a necessity. It is okay to be more polite when addressing an elder, be sweeter when conversing with kids, or be more formal at a job interview.

But at what point does behavioral adaptation become a full stage performance? Are we all just uncertified thespians?

I once watched a viral video of a Nigerian answering a phone call in gruff Pidgin, only to switch immediately into polished English after the caller introduced himself as IK Osakioduwa, the host of Nigerian idol.

The transformation was so swift it was almost theatrical. We all could have sworn it wasn’t the same person. But we understood, because most of us are guilty.

The next reason sounds innocent enough, but what it inspires Nigerians to do is another matter entirely. It is the “Naija people no dey carry last” mantra.

You must be wondering, “Doesn’t this mean Nigerians are resilient and refuse to lose?” You are right. But it also means that, to the average Nigerian, everything is a competition they must win.

With Nigerians, it’s never a simple haggle over a basket of onions between a seller and buyer. It becomes a competition over who can outsmart the other.

Since prices are often inflated based on how affluent the buyer appears, people leave their posh, sophisticated selves at home before going to the local market.

Instead they go with bargaining skills, fluent Pidgin or the dominant local language, and enough kpako behaviour to avoid being outsmarted.

This mantra is also why enforcing orderliness is a herculean task. With everyone trying to win, the people following the rules end up looking stupid.

I saw this firsthand during a voter registration session. The adults pushed and shoved like toddlers trying to form a queue, until the queue somehow had rows and columns because nobody wanted to be last.

When I refused to join them, someone told me, “You are not smart.”

I learnt that next time, I would strip off my gentle personality, hang it on a nearby tree and put on the brash one.

Apparently, the lesson stuck. but it nearly cost me my vocal cords. Two weeks ago, the vehicle taking me to work broke down before reaching my destination, and when I asked the conductor for a refund, he tried to shout me down, probably because I looked gentle.

I summoned the strength of my ancestors, deepened my voice and shouted my refund back into my purse.

But perhaps the strangest manifestation of this mentality is our competition over suffering. someone could say, “I dey suffer” and the closest person will respond, “you no suffer reach me oh”.

It baffles me how, even on the scale of suffering, nobody wants to come last.
We take pride in how much hardship we survive, as though it were something worthy of a badge and a pat on the back.

Perhaps switching personalities is more than mere performance. It is an innate human ability rooted in adaptation. And over here, our culture literally demands it.

Beyond the need to fit in when we feel out of place or avoid being disadvantaged, these contradictory switches are sometimes essential for survival.

To be docile in the face of oppression, knowing that protesting could add you to the statistics of people who lose their lives for peacefully demanding change; yet abandon that docility when following the rules means being left behind.

The restraint you apply in police custody, knowing that one wrong display of assertiveness could make you the reason for a trending #EndPoliceBrutality hashtag; yet that same assertiveness becomes necessary on your next trip to the local market.

The self-consciousness that makes us abandon our true selves at the altar of “what will people say?”; yet somehow disappears when there is a queue to push through, or an argument to win, and suddenly the audience can go to hell.

So, how many personalities does one Nigerian need? One, two? How many? As many as possible. There’s a fine line between adaptation and pretense, though.

Switch personalities as often as survival demands, just remember which one is actually yours.

I have formulated what I believe is one of the greatest scientific laws of the twenty-first century, and you dare not question its validity just because I am not a scientist! (Adjusts glasses.) The law states:

“A citizen’s level of sanity is directly proportional to the cleanliness, beauty, and social orderliness of the city they inhabit, provided all other factors remain constant.” A beautiful city, after all, cannot cure a drug addiction or mental illness.

Unfortunately, the scientific community has not acknowledged this, largely because I haven’t told them yet.

Naturally, I conducted extensive research. By “extensive research,” I mean I spent several months observing the only participant I could afford to recruit: me.

At the beginning of this year, the construction of an overpass/flyover began in my city, and ever since, I have experienced significant mental decline.

The roads have been narrowed to allow room for the construction to take place, causing severe traffic in the already crowded city.

The coal tar on the road has disappeared under laterite, so each time there is a down pour, it becomes a muddy mess, forcing people to take careful steps to avoid slipping into the red horror.
And when it is dry, the road becomes a haven of dust, settling on everything in its wake.

It gets worse. The construction team installed concrete barricades to separate the road from the construction area, without leaving gaps for people to pass in between.

Pedestrians left with no choice have mastered parkour to jump over them as quickly as possible, after crossing the road. The team either had a lot of faith in our athletic abilities or assumed we could simply teleport to the other side.

Consequently, every weekday, I wake up reminded that it is another day to “enjoy” a morning and evening dose of traffic, dust and whatever special that might add flavor to the day.

Speaking of “specials”, I had a nice one recently. After enduring two sets of traffic, there was no available tricycle to take me home. Guess who had to wobble through mud in her brand-new shoes, while it drizzled? ME.

Each time I decide to take my mind off my misery and observe my surroundings, I’m met with weary faces, visible irritation, and the occasional blank stare.
I resonate with them completely, it’s difficult to feel hopeful when every commute feels endless.

Well, it turns out I am not the first person to blame my city for my deteriorating mental health. There is an entire branch of psychology called environmental psychology, dedicated to studying how our natural- and built environments influence our behavior and shape the people we become.

In my experience, I discover new symptoms of my mental decline every week. I have gone from simply frowning at bike riders who inflate their prices, to having a semi-permanent scowl on my face.

From gently insisting on collecting my balance from tricycle riders, to arguing loudly with them.

From being shy to say out my bus stop, to shouting at the bus conductors at the slightest provocation.

My latest symptom is maladaptive day dreaming. With the help of my trusty headphones, I travel into my imaginations smoothly, only to be rudely pulled back into reality.

Apparently, researchers have already diagnosed my condition, and to my annoyance, it has a name: Urban stress. It is the gradual psychological strain caused by living in overstimulating urban environments filled with traffic, noise, pollution, overcrowding and poor infrastructure.

Its effects include, increased anxiety and depression, chronic fatigue, reduced concentration and productivity, irritability and aggression.
The effects are so relatable, I almost thought I was secretly used for the research, except they forgot to include some of my symptoms.

The most frustrating thing is that I know exactly why this city is this way, because I spent five years studying architecture, learning how buildings, neighborhoods and public spaces impact the way people live.
Now I spend four hours every weekday watching those lessons play out in my life.

Perhaps my theory won’t be appearing in any scientific journals anytime soon. Until then, my research continues.

So, if you ever find me arguing with a tricycle driver over hundred naira...Don’t judge me. I’m collecting data.