IMAX'S CORNER

 Merry Christmas La Familia! I pray the abundant joy that comes with this season never ceases from your lives. Typing this is a bit uncomfortable for me because I have nail on (I wonder how bankers do it), but I'll do anything for you. Plus I have been putting off writing for some days now. I didn't start writing to feel smart, I started writing to express myself properly. But  these days that has been a little hard for me maybe because I am searching for a perfection that doesn’t exist. And that search shouldn't stop me from sharing my heart with you, it's currently 13 minutes to 10 p.m., and I have noticed inspiration usually hits me at night no thanks and more blames to a certain someone from Oraukwu, Anambra state for turning me into a night owl. Don’t ask questions.  It's my first Christmas without my mum, and probably the first December in my life I didn't travel to Illah or see my grandpa. I don't know how to feel. I don't feel bad but...

I always said I’d save this story for Forbes, but I’ve been AWOL for too long. So take this piece as my apology. Sometimes you hear a song and wish you could go back to the very moment you heard it for the first time, nostalgia does that to you. Well, not this time. I don’t want to relive the first moment I heard CashApp by Bella Shmurda, but it remains what I’d call a canon memory. “Scar her.” Those were the words that greeted me that morning. “Madame, I’ve thought about other solutions, but I don’t want her to have complications in the future. I’m afraid… we have to scar her.” My doctor said apologetically. “Scar her, as far as there is life,” my mum replied immediately. No hesitation. No questions. Just a mother choosing life for her child. I didn’t know how to feel. It meant I would never know my stomach without a scar. At fifteen, that felt huge. But better scarred and alive, right? So I held on to faith. It was the 24th of November, 2020, around 7 a.m at Military Hosp...

Buhari and Charlie Kirk died, and Nigerians reacted the way Nigerians do best; loudly, passionately, and in very different directions. Some were celebrating, some were reflective, some were calling for conscience. Me? I just want to be spared the hypocrisy. You can’t guilt trip people into grief. You can’t force sympathy for someone whose life left more scars than smiles. The life we've lived is a testament whether good or bad to who we are. Death doesn’t suddenly erase who a person was or what they did. It only amplifies it. This isn’t about Buhari or Kirk alone. Their death dragged up a memory for me, one I had felt guilty of over the years. It was the first time I didn’t feel bad about someone’s passing. I was about fourteen or fifteen. My mum tried to soft launch it to me but it didn’t land. I could see how visibly affected she was but it really meant nothing to me and that was my concern. That nothingness disturbed me. It felt cold, heartless, wrong. It didn'...

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...