Writer. Reader. Lover of life & Full-time warrior.

"Sometimes, I write out of anger."

Feminist. Black. African. Woman. Nigerian. Igbo.

Ijeoma.

Sometimes, calling home means seeing your heart bleed and knowing there’s nothing you can do but keep on. This is the immigrant experience. This is pain. So, when people ask me where I’m from, I’ll start replying, I’m from where family is treasure. How can anyone ask me if I still have family in Nigeria? It’s like asking me how I breathe. It’s like asking me if I have a heart. It’s like telling me to uproot my lineage and place them in a foreign land. That will never happen. Home is in my mouth. Home is sucked between my lips. Home is cradled on my thighs and home even visits me in my sleep. Night after night. Home is begging me never to forget her. Ijeoma.

You have Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr and Instagram yet you do not know that I do not live in trees and do not have a lion as a pet. You are either spiritually stupid or will remain perpetually foolish. Which is it?

It is never your duty to remind others of how warm you made them feel. It is never your duty to remind those who hurt you how promises were made of friendships that will never go sour, how you once giggled and laughed at your silly inside jokes. It is not your duty to keep trying to open up, when all they do is take a blade, leaving you to die if you want to. It is not your duty to entertain all their lies. It is not your duty to keep trying, beating yourself up. Let those who are quick to point your flaw be. Let those who have left your path leave. Let yourself be. It is your duty to love yourself, to cradle your heart, to warm your own spirit now. It is your duty to come back to self. You are worth it. You are worth it. Sugar, taste your bliss.

Ijeoma.

The Act of Forgiveness

Dearest Rwanda Rwanda,

Thank you.


Sincerely,
All your African Cousins.


Love from Nigeria. Ijeoma.

Jungle Justice. Ajegunle burning

You sneak to watch the crowd scream “Ole! Ole! Thief! Kill am!” and there he is stripped. The crowd is screaming for fuel, for tires. Two young men run to the nearest repair store to get used tires. The young man has been stripped. He begins to plead. Your Auntie is screaming for you to come back into the house. You watch in fascination. You move your body seamlessly in the crowd. You watch as they pour fuel on his body. Dark beautiful skin against the Lagos heat. Sweating. Begging. He begs for his mother. He begs for his father. He looks around, searching for a familiar face. No one holds his blood. No one knows his face. You back away slowly from the crowd. They put tires around him. You back away slowly. They put more fuel. He screams. You begin to run, away from it all. Burning flesh. Smoke rising. You’ve been running ever since.


Ijeoma.

Nwanne m nwanyi birdwithsong ❤️❤️

Sometimes, it’s hard to write without crying.


Truthfully,
Ijeoma.

Dem say, “this pikin na winch” so take am go see pastor, make dem remove the winch way dey her body. Them say, “your pikin no normal” as them hold their own pikin for hand. Them say I no normal, so, every Wednesday, I go go prayer for Church. Them say, “kneel, kneel! You evil child! You devil pikin” and them put hand for me as them dey speak in tongues. Na so I kneel, for inside church. They cast and bind.

Last Monday, for school, my friend come meet me inside bathroom as I dey cry. She tell me say God like me. How God go like Ugly thing like me? Uncle say na by mistake them born me, say I black like devil pikin na why demon live inside me. My friend say God like me but I no know. Nwanne, I no know.

Them say I be winch. Na me eat my mama pikin. All my mama pikin way no survive. They call me winch because I survive.

Ijeoma.

I was a Yoruba priestess in my other life. I probably lived in Ibadan, in a small bungalow with corrugated roof. I wore white wrappers and walked about with no shoes. I had three children: The first a beautiful girl called Ola, the second a boy called Femi and the third was called Abedemi. My house was filled with joy and my husband adored me. I was a priestess, and a healer of wounds with words. Ask about me in Ìlú Ẹ̀bá-Ọ̀dàn, they would tell you about the Priestess who danced and smiled sweetly. My name was Ayodele. This is my second life.


Ijeoma.

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