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A Love Letter From A Diehard Fan

Dear Chimamanda, I have heard stories about how you turned down every prospective suitor. But I blame those men who thought you would be captivated by their mere show of masculinity. They should have done a background check on you to find out who you are. However, I thank goodness for creating such irreconcilable differences between you and these men. It gave me a huge opportunity to prepare fully to shoot my own shot at you. Over the years, I have watched you from a distance. Definitely, it was never stalking, but admiration for your persona. I first saw your picture on television. It was on a literary show created for book lovers like me. I remember how provocative your dress was. It was unlike the female educators I know, who were always stuffed into old suits like sardines. I remember wanting to know more about you, but the presenters said little about you except your name, “Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,” which sounded like a whole industry. Eventually, I got to read about you from my ...
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What It Means To Be A Boy In Africa

The world celebrated International Day of the Boy Child, and I went into solitude to reflect on my growth as a boy in Africa. Growing up, I always had a constant reminder that “I am a man.” Aunties and uncles whispered into my ears that soon, I would have my own family. Therefore, I had to start acting like a man. Elders threw proverbs into our conversations to buttress this point. At that time, I was barely a teenager. It is said that when a boy child is born, so also are his problems. He cannot waste his time chasing rats when his house is on fire. He must start early enough to tackle these problems and challenges, or else they will see to his end. He is not allowed to play with toys because it is considered feminine. Just like Jesus in the Bible, he must follow in the footsteps of his father. When I eventually became a teenager, I was told that my dreams were not enough. I was made to feel that dreaming itself was irresponsible. I was condemned because I dreamt of becoming a writer....
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Decolonizing The Mind: Africa Has A Long Way To Go

I made a post on Substack about why you should avoid people, basically Africans, who adopt fake accents. Beneath the post, an argument, which I considered civilized (and I'm grateful that a sane app like Substack still exists in this insane world), ensued. The argument really opened my eyes to the gravity of neocolonialism in Africa. Renowned writer, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, in his book Decolonising the Mind: The Politics Of Language In African Literature,argued that our stories should be told using African languages. This has been the major yardstick of argument among African scholars and academics. African books should be written in African languages like Igbo, Yoruba, Swahili, and the rest of them. The movie and music industries should tell their stories in African languages. The argument is that it establishes our belief in African culture and independence from the West. This will make room for global dominance and fair competition between different cultures. However, while we ar...
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The Story Of Our Fathers

"Haven't you heard about the blessed one in the story of the sun?” Chikadibia asked. Everywhere was quiet. Chikadibia looked into the eyes of his friends, who gazed at each other with confusion. The cool wind moved gently as he began the story. “In the land of Umunta, located on the shores of West Africa, there lived a man called Udemba. Udemba was a warrior well known across the cities of West Africa. Nations trembled at his feet and empires crumbled at his sight. His community, Umunta, was so proud of having a great son like him. Udemba was also a successful farmer. His barn was the largest barn in Umunta. It was so tall that anyone who fell from the top would break his legs. People traveled from different cities to see the great edifice called the barn. Despite his successes, Udemba had the reputation of being a chronic womanizer. He loved women more than his own life. Udemba slept with any woman he came across. He hardly went to bed at night without a woman at his side, ca...
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Therapy Corner For Writers

Build a system for yourself. Today's publishing world does not reward emerging writers. It rewards writers who are already in the game. So how do you stay in the game? Build. Build an author's brand. Let people know who you are even before your first book is published. Create a blog that reflects your personality as a writer. Share your writing experiences on the blog. Let the world read your story. Make short videos of yourself. This is where personal branding takes place. Talk about what you write about on camera. Let people see the face behind that powerful pen. Let them feel the mind that will trigger their emotions. Submit your work to journals and magazines. This is one of the ways of gaining visibility as a writer. However, treat this with caution. Rejections are bound to come, even when submitting your novel to literary agents. Rejections should not define you; they should be a stepping stone to your success as a writer. Most importantly, build a community. Connect with...
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Musing About My Mum

I have been thinking lately about this woman's influence in my life. As hilarious as it may be,it is the truth. She sits comfortably like the African queen in my short poems. In my short stories, there is a woman that was fiercely inspired by her. In the "empty chapters" of my novel, Shattered Dreams, she speaks life and action through the characters. I was born in 10th December,2007,in Onitsha,by a strong huge Igbo woman,Onyinyechi Blessing Onuoha. I grew up to know her as a robust looking woman, whose skin was dark and shone like a polished wood. She had no reason to wear synthetic hair because her natural hair was dark and long. To be sincere,my mother has never had a reason to wear a synthetic hair(even now). She will neatly pack her hair in folds. Most times, she does this with a careless appeal that whispers class. And to think that she is a teacher, one who has spent almost twenty years of her life imparting knowledge into children, is the biggest deal. Before marr...
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Silenced: A Short Story

Nneka Madu sat on the floor with her legs folded, facing the prison gate. She had not spoken to anyone or responded to any query from the prison officials. She refused to speak to the female warden who brought food for her, even when the latter told her about the killing of the leader of the Alasamba Children Movement, Chikadibia Mbanefo, in a protest which was staged on her behalf. When the prison officials questioned her, she kept mute like a lamb sacrificed at the altar.  But yes, she sacrificed herself for her people. She offered herself up so that the people of Umuaga and Alasamba would have eternal life. The capital city of Alasamba, Umuaga, was thrown into a fierce protest ever since the government arrested the popular journalist, Nneka Madu, ultimately becoming a battleground between the people and the government. The protest, which started peacefully, was organized by the students of Umuaga Comprehensive Grammar School. The aim of the protest was to speak against the gover...
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