IMAX'S CORNER

Dearest Gentle Readerrrrrrr, How do you say graduate in Igbo? (Nothing concern this Illah girl with Spanish.) Maybe “gladgete,” the way Odumeje says it, but either way, your girl is now a BSc holder. Somebody hold me because I can’t hold myself. Can you tell I’m excited? If you can’t, well, I am. I am literally over the moon. I just finished reading one of my favourite newsletters, and it motivated me to write to you because the letter asked how my week was. So, rather than replying under their comment section, I decided to tell you. I know I haven’t written to you in forever, and we have a lot of catching up to do, which we will. Hopefully, I keep my promise to myself and start writing to you more often. But before I continue, do me a big favour, will you? Open your music streaming app and play “See What the Lord Has Done” by Nathaniel Bassey. Whether you are Christian or not, please. I’ll wait. Have you done that? Okay then. Let’s get straight to it. Last Sunday, or maybe two Sunday...

Sometimes you never know what forms your next prayer point. You pray for the basics; a roof over your head, food on your table, good health and if you live in a country like Nigeria maybe power supply and security. You tell yourself that as you have known the beginning of your child, you'd never know their end. You've told them to plan a celebration of life when you die at a ripe old age. So the day you send Ali off to school in the morning after giving him his breakfast of bread and tea and packing his lunch box with Indomie,  nothing tells you that this day will be different. Nothing tells you that, unlike every other day, your son will not come home. He will not return drenched in sweat after a long afternoon of football, forcing you to wonder whether he went to school to learn or to play. He won't ask what's for dinner. He will not tell you stories about his classmates. Unlike other days, your son who turns five next week, doesn't come back at all. Instead, y...

 Happy New month to the most amazing people on the internet, the ones who read all the things I write and the people who cared enough to check in when I disappeared from this space . I love and appreciate you all. I'm sending you lots of hugs and kisses.  It's been a hot minute or a hot three months but who is counting? I have written to you or thought to write to you on almost every occasion, but for some reason, I just couldn’t hit publish. But here I am today… celebrate grace, brothers and sisters. Let's do a quick debrief, shall we?  It won't be possible to tell you anything without telling you about school. School has been after my life per usual or even more in recent times, maybe it's because it's my final semester. Yesss, you heard right. In two months I'll be out of Epe with my bachelors degree, it feels so surreal.  But right now...Omooo, I am going through one or two if not three and four in the hands of my final year thesis. At this point, you ca...

Eid Mubarak to all my beautiful Muslim brothers and sisters. I pray this season brings you nothing but joy and overflowing happiness, but I can't say that much for the women right now in Ozoro, Delta State, who are being harassed, raped, and molested all in the name of "tradition and culture." No matter how much we try to defend our dear African culture, time and time again it proves to be very patriarchal, oppressive, and taunting for women. We don't hear enough about "culture" or anything from these cultural enthusiasts, except when it's to tell a woman what to do, how to dress, how to speak, and everything in between. I don't know what separates a woman from a domestic animal in the eyes of some people. And then when women speak up, they say we are "angry," a bunch of "angry feminists." I am angry, and you should be too. Are these reasons not sufficient enough to be angry or bitter, even?? If you hear of things like...

Could you do me a little favour before we enter this piece? Play 21 by Ayra star, not too loud, just at the perfect tempo to continue reading without distraction. Now that that is done, let's get to business. It's the 9th of December, 2025 at 7:45 and I'm officially 21, yessssss, 21. I am legal everywhere. It's a bit surreal because I was 16 like a minute ago, and at 19 I was so afraid to turn 20 because it meant I was getting old but now I am 21. Every year brings testimonies for me and this year is no different so let's go down (or up) memory lane.  I met someone at the beginning of this year, we'll call him the man I met turning 21.  It must have been the morning of January 4th on my way back to Lagos, alone, after Christmas. Sitting in the back of the Sienna, sulking over my phone that had fallen two days before, reflecting on what a time I had during the holiday and how much I hate good byes. Maybe I was extra emotional because it was the first ...

 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...

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...

 It's big 2025! Let’s pretend it’s still the first day of the year—starting everything clean and brand new. Happy New Year, eyin fans mi! Welcome to 2025, and thank you for all the laughs and engagement last year. Cheers to even more fun and laughter this year! I haven’t made New Year’s resolutions in the past 2–3 years. Instead, I’ve written love letters to myself—little guides to help me navigate the year—and this time, I’ve decided to share this year’s version with you. Dear me, love yourself enough to walk away from situations that don't serve you. One of my favourite lines from Shayo's Soft life rendition is " if it doesn't serve you, it don't deserve you ".  It’s not selfish to protect your peace; it’s survival.  Be bold enough to choose you this year, be kind enough to love yourself more this year, Walk away from people or situations that drain you or make you feel small, value yourself enough to say “no” to anything that doesn’t align with your g...

 Are you crazy? Are you unhinged? Congratulations, you’re halfway to surviving Lagos. If you ask me about Lagos, I'll probably say it's a crazy place. But if you buy me a hot plate of abula from the iyalamala across the street, washed down with a “mortuary standard” Pepsi,  I'll tell you how unreal a place it is. One of the things that makes Lagos so unpredictable is that every outing is an adventure.  As someone who doesn’t go out much, every time I step outside, Lagos greets me with something unexpected.   Lagos houses some of  the biggest markets in Africa, so market madness is inevitable. Take the day in October when I went to the market. It seemed like a normal day—until I saw a whole family of five: father, mother, two sons, and a daughter, in a full-blown wrestling match with a vendor. Or the first time I went to Lagos Island market alone and experienced the infamous 'marriage by change'.  The danfo driver gave me and another passenger a si...

 Dearest gentle reader, Newsletters from my favorite people have become one of my new favorite things. In Adekunle Gold’s latest “love letter” (as I like to call them), he asked where my mind was at. His exact words were, "So Immaculata, how's your mind?" You can call this my open response to AG Baby’s love letter.   It took me some time to reflect on AG's question because we’re so used to the typical, “How are you?” and let’s be honest, the response, “I’m fine,” has become almost robotic—rarely requiring any deep reflection. "How is your mind?" was more thought-provoking for me. It felt personal, deliberate, and demanding of thought. I honestly don't think I have all the answers yet, but here it goes.   I’d like to believe that, in its entirety, my mind is calm yet hungry. It’s been everywhere lately—hungry yet grateful, appreciative yet unsatisfied. It wants more out of life than I can articulate, but I’m learning to balance these desires with gratitud...

I witnessed one of the most horrific scenes  some weeks ago that made me feel so helpless. I saw a man who had just been electrocuted by a transformer; his skull was practically visible, his skin was peeling, his blood was everywhere on the tarred road, and I could tell he was in so much pain because he kept rolling on the floor as if trying to quench an internal fire. At that moment, I knew he wished he had just died from the electrocution, and I secretly wished the same because it would have saved him from his present agony. However, what made this scene even more horrifying were the things happening around him. The number of people just standing and watching, including very young children, some laughing; LASTMA officials (traffic wardens) going about their business as if everything was normal; cars driving by, simply avoiding him. There was no sense of urgency to save the victim or attempt to shield the young children from witnessing such horror. People just stood and did nothin...

BODY DYSMORPHIA DID NOT FALL FROM THE SKY!!!! Today, a lot of people are quick to judge others who undergo cosmetic surgeries, especially in Africa, but are not quick to remember the snide remarks made to such individuals in the past about their bodies. Rome wasn't built in a day; decisions like these are most likely the result of negative comments they have heard over the years. Many of our parents try to understand where our insecurities stem from, forgetting they were the first to make "harmless" jokes or comments about our bodies or looks as children. Sadly, some of our first bullies were the adults in our lives—parents, teachers, and others who were entrusted to build our confidence. Growing up skinny in Nigeria was practically character development for me. I grew up skinny and very aware because people pointed it out a lot, directly or indirectly. If I didn't know I wasn't Yoruba, I would have been sure that "lepa shandi" was my middle name. Commen...

 "Drop one Banger and ghost off, hehehehe".  Maybe this isn’t the best way to make a comeback, but I’ve been experiencing what I’ll call a "little writer’s block." For two months now, I’ve been trying to write, but I haven’t been able to produce a coherent paragraph. I haven’t been able to tell stories the way I like, or maybe I’ve just been striving for a certain level of perfection. Today feels a little different. I don’t really care how incoherent or imperfect my paragraphs are. I just want to tell my story and enjoy writing, as I’ve always done. So there’s no subject here—just random thoughts, more like a diary entry. I’ve struggled with inconsistency and procrastination for some time. One of my greatest idols, Chimamanda, says that "procrastination is the outcome of fear." For the longest time, I thought it was my drive for perfection that led to procrastination, but what Chimamanda said feels like the perfect explanation for "my problem." M...