IMAX'S CORNER

Abuse doesn't always start with a slap, harassment doesn't always have to be physical, some words cut deeper than knives and Akin knew that. There was no physical proof. So how could I explain that our last trip to Bali felt like walking on hot coal? That every tourist attraction carried a new memory of embarrassment? Jumoke would always say " Ore mi, you don't know how lucky you are, Akin is every woman's dream". What she didn't know, What none of them knew was i was trapped in a nightmare I had no clue how to wake up from.  He placed me in invisible chains. Somehow I found one excuse after another to escape my reality, I'd rather drown in delusion than explain how not-so-perfect my perfect husband was. Maybe if I didn't let all those " jokes" slide while we were courting, my story might be different. Maybe. I hadn't worn shorts in the last three years not because I had outgrew them like I told everyone but because my husband said th...

I grew up around lots of women and girls. Strong ones. Loud ones. Soft ones. The ones who hugged too tightly and the ones who made ofe nsala that could shut you up mid-rant. Raised by a single mum, loved by a battalion of aunties, shadowed by female cousins, and shaped by an all-girls secondary school run by reverend sisters. So, I think it’s safe to say I’ve experienced women and girls in all their forms. And today in honour of national girlfriends day, I just want to say I’m thankful for all the beautiful women and girls who have held space for me, the ones who’ve helped me grow, cry, laugh, rethink, and re-love myself again. To my girlfriends, the ones who stayed on the phone while I processed my mess,  sent voice notes that felt like therapy, shared lipgloss and chewing gum with me, reminded me to eat, hyped me when I doubted myself, and understood even the silences, I love you. When I made my last post, I sent it to everyone in my contact list like I always do. But...

I would have written this piece on Father's Day but I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to turn a happy occasion to a sad one. So I'll write it today, some days after Father's Day. I don't think I was ever told what death was. Not even now. No one ever sat with me to have that "talk", the one that tries to soften the tough blow reality has dealt you. I just… knew. And i knew pretty young too. Like they say, experience is the best teacher. Unfortunately, this was a lesson it handed me too early, in my honest opinion. Over the years, I’ve tried to understand death—sometimes with anger, sometimes with sympathy. I’ve written letters to it and gotten no answers.  It’s been 15 years since November 22nd, 2009. I was four years, eleven months, two weeks, and a day old. My first real encounter with death. Too young to understand.  Too old to ever forget. I wrote my first tribute at six. Now that I think about it, that was probably my earliest publishe...

I don’t think I fully understand the meaning of love, but I think I might know what it means to be loved. I know it's a concept that thrives in the little things—like remembering how I like my fish, that I prefer my fried rice without veggies, or that I like my omelet plain. It’s being seen—even in the smallest ways. It’s the constant showing up by my friends and family. The gentle encouragements. The reassuring smiles when I feel clueless. The hugs that feel like home. The loud applause for the simplest achievements. And of course, the constant banter that warms the soul. I see how my family wouldn’t let me suffer. My mum would literally give me the moon if I asked. We’d fight first o, but she’d come around. My Uncle Austin genuinely believes I can be an astronaut if I wanted to. My friend Nneoma swears I could be a superhero—specifically Superman—because of how strong she thinks I am. I'm grateful even to strangers who’ve called me talented. It's the little acts of kindne...

It’s currently 12:36 AM. All my roommates are fast asleep. I just woke up and I plan to take a bath. Don’t ask me why I’m bathing this late—and mummy, if you're reading this, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. But back to the actual picture: it’s past midnight and I’m left with my thoughts in the silence of my room. So I’ve decided to do what I love—write. Now, I’m not going to come here and give excuses for not writing in a while. I'm not even going to say “school has been after my life.", even though it has. I’ll own up to my inconsistency because something I’m learning lately is to be more accountable for my actions. Someone asked me today why I still hadn’t written—even though they remind me every time. The answer was already at the tip of my tongue: “I’ve just been so busy.” And that wouldn’t have been a lie. This semester has hit me with waves of emotions and intense fatigue. But I didn’t say that. Despite the chaos, I had made a promise to myself to write more on my ...

I sat with my younger self today for Amala because I wanted to remind her that it is a safe space. We both arrived late. Punctuality was clearly still a problem for us, but I told her how I had somehow managed to become a punctuality prefect in secondary school. We laughed. I don’t know if she believed me, but she’ll see. I watched her eat excitedly. I still loved Amala as much as she did—if not more now. She asked if I had finally decided on a career path. I said no, but at least now, I knew some things I wanted to do. I told her I had learned to love reading novels, although I still struggled with consistency. She asked if we still played the violin. I told her I hadn’t played in years, but I promised to start again because I knew how much she loved it. I missed it too. I told her I loved that I was understanding Mum a lot better, and she was understanding me too. I had realized she was just a girl—figuring things out, just like me. She asked if we were still shy. I told her yes, but...