​Cynthia Osokogu’s murderers finally got what was coming to them. I don’t imagine it’s any sort of justice for those in whose hearts her absence is a throbbing, bleeding emptiness, but  the rest of us needed vengeance. For our false sense of order, the false sense of security in an untruth that our lives  can’t be taken away from us without consequence.

The female TVC newcaster in dealing this bit of news referenced the murder victim as the “Facebook lover girl.”

Wait, what?

Is nothing sacred anymore?

Can we take a moment to discuss the state of journalism in Nigeria?  On a second thought, can we make it a moment of silence?

I’m irritable. I probe this irritability. Why am I…? Why do I…?
I can’t control how my mind works,  but I can be aware of it, I can clock my brain’s lies. Perception is reality. Awareness shapes perception, or at least filters it. 

I’ve never been more acutely aware of myself in relation to the form my thoughts take in the mirror. An awareness of self-awareness. 

It’s this thing called mindfulness, cognitive therapy, and it’s tedious.

Maybe it’ll become second nature, eventually. Maybe.

I’ve been undertaking mundane quotidian stuff with deliberation. It’s amazing how many steps I take on my way to work everyday. I no longer feel like I’m not getting enough exercise. 

One would think logging steps would take a lot of concentration, but, if anything, it’s controlled distraction.

What I do Mondays through Fridays is physically tasking. Incredibly so. My cocoa butter palms have become calloused.

I get these a lot: “You na boti o!” (in a mocking tone) “See as you dey slow like woman” (with a note of irritation).

I’m rarely offended by these. Sometimes, I get pissed. But I have nothing to prove.

 I’ve never been more ill-suited for anything my entire life, but drab days are a small price to pay for the freedom to do what I really want: Read. Write. 

I would be unable to thrive in a typical work environment (averse to authority, unable to follow rules, no good at taking orders, confrontational etc.). I’ve known this longer than I’ve made peace with it. 

Ironically, even in my atypical work environment, the room to read and write shrinks with each day.

“Lawyer, you think say this work na to read book, abi?” A lady said to me once. This was intended as an insult. She was being condescending. 

She went on to (she believed) ridicule me for being more brains than brawn. 

She had my absolute sympathy. She still does. 

How do you condescend to someone looking down at you from a stack of books? 

The answer is simple. You don’t. 

Then again, perception is reality.

I think about my unborn daughter, ada nna ya. I have a name, a wish like a kiss on my lips,  because what else is prayer but the magnetic fervency of thought?

Most Disney princesses would not be invited to ada nna ya’s naming, if I have anything to say about it. I like Moana and Jasmine and Mulan, and it’s not just because they are dark-haired, brown-eyed, and coloured. 

Prince Charming is going to be edited off her formative pages, banished from the footnotes, too. 

Of course, the butterfly would blossom out of its cocoon someday, coming to know the beauty of its wings in flight.

Should ada nna ya find Prince Charming,  I’d like to think it’d be on her terms. If he saves her, it wouldn’t be because she’s helplessly waiting.

To prove it can be done:

  • White Community 
  • Straight community 
  • I have family who live in North America


I realised today I no longer have a favourite author. I’d likely name Toni Morrison or James Baldwin if I’m pressed, but it’d be more convenient than true.

I suppose that’s how one logs success as a reader.
As a writer? I’d say it is what’s left on the page.

I lost my temper once today and snapped at a guard in the bank.  I probed this anger and found there wasn’t much to it.  I felt slighted by something the guard had said, but when I stepped back from my feelings, possibilities expanded:
The guard might have been rude, might have meant no offence, or might have been rude without meaning to. He’d been on his feet all day.

Perception. Reality. Awareness. Filter. 

I wanted to say something nice to him on my way out, but, instead, greased his palm. 

All’s been forgiven.

Today, I had difficulty counting. Couldn’t concentrate. Numbers ran one into the other. Maybe concentration isn’t controlled distraction. Perhaps controlled distraction is the best my mind can do at focusing on itself.

I’ve been forgetting a lot the last couple of days. Words, especially. It comes and goes, this black hole in my mind. As always, I’ll wait it out.

I’m reading Teju Cole’s Known and Strange Things. In my head, I have vivid pictures of him in places I’ve never been. I realise now that in my invocations of Teju, I’m a voyeur. I watch him but I don’t allow myself speech. He has no idea I’m there.

On my laptop’s lock screen, there’s a hint of a smile on Teju’s face. My arm is around his shoulder, I’m beaming, unspeaking, but my face does all the talking.

I’m tired as fuck. I still have to make dinner. From. Scratch. But I had to write this. Purgation, if you may.

I think I check too many boxes in my daily life, I’m filling seat for too many people, and there’s just one of me. I try. Love and duty are interchangeable. But I need to be taken care of. To carry more than my fair share, I need someone to hold me up. 

PS: I don’t know how to be taken care of. If memory serves, it eventually makes me resentful.

We hardly ever want the thing we need.
I have a bottle of Irish Cream in the freezer. I intend to drink the entire bottle while I cook, or so soon thereafter (privileged knowledge, hehe).

Tomorrow, I’ll probe my need to drink my lights out tonight. I’ll be mindful in retrospect. 

For now, fuck it!

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