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Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be beautiful and actually know you’re beautiful. It must be a nice feeling. To be so sure of yourself and the impression you leave on people.

I see so many pretty girls on the internet, and I appreciate their beauty. Just sounded like a 50 year old man talking about young women but you get my point. If you looked through my Instagram following, it’d be one pretty Black woman after another. I look at these beautiful girls and women and wonder what it’s like to be so objectively stunning. But it’s not just about being beautiful. It’s about knowing you are and moving accordingly.

There’s a quiet, sometimes not so quiet confidence that beautiful women seem to move through the world with. They post goofy pictures of themselves and still manage to look wonderful. They take a quick selfie with no makeup on and somehow look great. It seems so easy. So effortless. Then there’s me. I don’t feel that way about myself. I never have.

Like a lot of girls, I had a makeup phase. I’d watch makeup reviews and tutorials by Jackie Aina, SlimReshae, and a million other Black beauty YouTubers. I even took a makeup class. I’d attempt to copy them, and I think it started to pay off for a little while. I never quite got the hang of makeup, but I probably would have eventually if I’d continued applying it at odd hours of the day.

But then I stopped.

I’d be on the brink of tears when I looked in the mirror and wasn’t satisfied with what I saw. My technique wasn’t refined. I didn’t have all the products. I’d grumble about all the things I needed to make the look work.

Eventually, though, I started thinking it was my face. If only my nose was shaped like hers. It’d be easier to contour. Her skin is so smooth. That’s why the foundation glides on like that. I actually think I cried out of frustration a few times. I hated my face. Why am I so ugly?

The makeup debacle wasn’t the beginning of my insecurity by any means. I’d never thought of myself as a beauty. I remembered what I looked like in secondary school, and I thought I was ugly. And I continued to view myself that way long after secondary school was over.

I remember being a fresher and telling my friend that I didn’t understand what a guy saw in me. The crush made me feel weird. I didn’t get it. I honestly just chalked it up to the whole October rush thing (the period when older male students chase after naive freshers). Maybe it was that. But maybe it was genuine. It’s not like he proposed to me, but I could have let my guard down a little and allowed myself to enjoy the experience instead of letting my poor view of myself rob me of it.

For a very long time, most of the pictures and videos I took of myself were filtered. I didn’t want to see my face any other way.

If a candid picture was taken, I already knew I’d hate it. I travelled to places I’d never been to and barely took pictures( which is okay honestly because the views were amazing). My mom would offer to take my pictures, and I’d turn her down. There’s no point in taking pictures I’ll hate. Eventually, I realized I barely took pictures or videos of myself at all, so I started trying to do better. I take regular pictures now. I take videos. I post them. But I still don’t particularly like myself.

Sometimes, when I dress up, put on mascara and do my lips, I actually dare to think I’m pretty. Maybe I’m not hideous. I’ll look at a picture or video that I’m actually satisfied with and let myself believe it for a moment. But the feeling never lasts. I feel like an imposter. When people react to pictures or videos of me I think this isn’t even me.

When people compliment me, it goes in one ear and out the other. I don’t believe them. And it’s not a self-deprecating tactic meant to elicit sympathy and praise. That’s actually one of the more depressing aspects of self-hatred: reassurance doesn’t necessarily do anything. I believe that you genuinely think I'm pretty but I have to disagree.

I remember walking to my room after buying dinner in school one night. I was dressed as plainly as you can imagine. Not a hint of lip gloss.

This girl stopped me.

“You have pretty features,” she said with a big smile on her face.

I was stunned.

I thanked her shyly and told my boyfriend immediately. He’d heard all my self-deprecating commentary, so naturally I had to report this shocking encounter. It’s probably been two years since she stopped me, and the compliment still warms me. It’s one of the few compliments I’ve ever received that actually touched me. She looked so earnest, too.

But even then, my brain found a way to ruin it.

What if it had been a prank?

What if it was an inside joke with the friend she was with?

Let’s compliment an ugly girl.

Maybe she was smiling so much because she was holding back a laugh at my stupidity.

This ugly girl actually thinks she’s pretty. How delusional.

My boyfriend was definitely the person with the front-row seat to my low self-esteem. He’d reassure me, comforting me when I beat myself up over how terrible I looked. My terrible acne. The hairstyle that didn’t come out quite right. The pictures I hated.

I’d express disbelief, as I usually did. Eventually, he told me I was effectively calling him a liar by refusing to see my own worth. If I didn’t think anyone could possibly be attracted to me, then I was basically calling him a liar for being attracted to me.

Or something along those lines. I’d never thought about it that way before. So I tried not to be as hard on myself when it came to him.

Last week, I met an online book club friend in person for the first time. It was a nice first hangout. We talked and talked, and I naturally took a video of us to commemorate it. I wouldn’t have even done that a few years ago. I posted it on my status, and he did too.

“They’re pressing my neck about your contact,” he told me the next day.

“Who’s they?” I asked, genuinely confused.

Turns out people were asking for my number because of the video he’d posted of us. Mind you, I looked plain. To put it mildly. I expressed surprise at the interest.

“You be fine babe na 😂,” he replied.

I was bemused and amused. It’s weird being called pretty when you think you’re anything but. I never think like that. Some women aren’t surprised by people being attracted to them. They know it’s a given. I’m not one of those women. I’ve dealt with this a bit over the past few years: not seeing myself the way other people seem to see me. I rarely ever talk about this even with friends. Talking about insecurities seems so attention seeking so I tend to keep it all bottled up. Not to mention that when you tell people things like this their immediate reaction is usually to offer up sweet platitudes that don’t help me in anyway. It’s well meaning but generally pointless.

Song of the day🎧

FLO’s sophomore album is finally here and I love it. I wasn’t blown away after my first listen but I’ve learnt to actually listen to albums several times to really appreciate them. I have a couple fave tracks but the first one that stood out to me was I can’t be high around you anymore(✿◕‿◕✿). I love upbeat songs so much so as soon as the intro began I was hype.

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Four years ago, on a flight from Ibadan to Abuja, I began to fear death. I was a 100-level English and Literature student at the University of Ibadan. I live in Abuja, so I flew back and forth a lot. On this particular day, I was going home to Abuja and can’t remember what for. I did all the routine things you do at an airport. Checked in and waited for boarding. Skip forward, and I’m in the air en route to Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport. Everything was going fine. I probably had my earphones in, my music blasting at the highest volume as I always did (and still do). I was probably mindlessly scrolling or playing a game or maybe sleeping? (I doubt that since I rarely sleep on domestic flights). Anyway, even if I can’t remember exactly what I was doing. I’ve never forgotten what happened during that flight.

We start to experience turbulence. This was nowhere near the first time I experienced it. I’ve been on planes for as long as I can remember. It’s second nature to me. Even when I’d experienced turbulence in the past, it hadn’t scared me at all. It was even kinda fun for me. It felt like being on a roller coaster. Not a super scary speedy one. But a little thrill. Even though I have a fear of heights, it never affected me when I was travelling. I loved being on planes and just being at the airport. The hustle and bustle of it all. Knowing I’m going somewhere new and different in the case of international flights.

But this time it was different. For the first time ever, I genuinely thought something was going to go terribly wrong. The turbulence got really bad. The plane’s shaking and bumping. Then the plane takes a sudden dip like it’s actually going to fall out of the sky. While all this is going on, the fear in the air is so palpable. People are muttering prayers, shouting, crying.

I and the woman in the seat beside me hold hands as tight as we can. I’m trying to stay calm. Hoping that this is just the usual turbulence, hoping it’ll be over in a few seconds. But after that dip I completely lose it, and I start to cry. The fact that it was a night flight only made the experience worse. The flight eventually made an uneventful landing in Abuja. But I’d already, in hindsight, been traumatized. I developed pretty bad flight anxiety after that trip.

I remember bursting into tears while I was leading prayer thanking God for bringing home safe. But I wasn’t just crying because I was relieved. They weren’t tears of gratitude or relief. There were tears of fear. Because I realized that that flight had unlocked a major fear in me. A fear that couldn’t be tamed. A fear of death.

I hated how absolutely helpless I felt. The raw fear was such a terrible feeling. I had zero power in the situation, and that is still something that bothers me. If that plane had truly gone down that night, there was nothing I’d be able to do to stop it.

I would love to say as a Christian that prayer magically allays my fears, but it doesn’t. It’s almost instinctual for people to pray and cry out to God in times of despair even when they’re not religious. “Blood of Jesus” isn’t just a joke, you know. But those kinda exclamations don’t really calm me.

I think about death a lot now. I look at knives and think about getting stabbed. I imagine falling down the stairs and getting seriously injured. I worry about whether I’ll graduate, start to live life and suddenly die young of cancer or in what this post is actually about, a plane crash.

Whenever I had a flight coming up I’d worry for days leading up to departure. I kept all my fears to myself because it felt like such a ridiculous irrational fear. What would I tell my mom? “I don’t want to travel because I’m scared I’ll die”? I also kept it to myself because it’s not a fear I can be talked out of. I told my mom eventually. I cried while I talked about my fears at times. She’d comfort me in a very logical and funny way honestly. “You can die at any time” She’d say. And she was right. I’m more likely to die in a car crash than a plane crash (learnt this on Google when I was looking for tips to deal with my anxiety).

I don’t have as much flight anxiety now because I don’t travel as much since I transferred from UI to a university in Abuja. But there’s always underlying anxiety, and I’m accepting that it’ll never go away.

I don’t know if this fear will ever go away. I don’t want it to cripple me though because I love travelling. I love the airport, the different planes on the tarmac. I love looking out of the window while in the air, especially during landing. I’ve resorted to playing music very loud and squeezing my brother’s hand during the takeoff. It’s the most unsettling part of flights for me. I hope and pray that there won’t be any turbulence, and if I feel even a slight jolt or shake, I panic and have to hold back tears.

At the end of the day, if I am going to die suddenly or young, there’s no way for me to know. And as much as that terrifies me, it also comforts me a bit. At least if it happens, I won’t know till it’s happening.

PS: I actually have a flight coming up soon and I’ve already started to worry a bit. But I should be fine as always. At least I hope so.

So I actually wrote this months ago. I think I started it last year? Can’t remember. Final year forced me to take a Substack break but I’m back now♥️. I have so much backlog. Help me, Lord!

Song(s) of the day🎧

Many of my faves released new music recently (Katseye, Tyla, Victoria Monet). So I have a lot to choose from. Ariana Grande’s album will be out tomorrow and FLO’s will be out next week🥰🥰.In honor of this being my first post in months I’m actually going to share two songs I’ve been loving lately.

First up Boring by Chxrry💙. I actually adore this song.

The 2nd song is Out of Order by Zuriel🖤. Play this song if you want to kidnap me is all I’ll say😭.

For a long time, the concept of rape culture made no sense to me. It actually made me roll my eyes a bit. Here come the overzealous feminists, over-exaggerating again. I’d always believed rape was a universally hated crime. I didn’t know anyone, regardless of their race, ethnicity, gender, religion, or political affiliation, who didn’t think rape was deplorable. It’s one of the worst crimes imaginable.

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My surface-level understanding of rape culture was that there were significant numbers of people who thought rape was okay, not a crime, and actively encouraged it. That didn’t make sense with the view I had of most people. Rapists are vile extremists. Most men aren’t going around raping people. Deranged, abusive misogynists rape women and children, not regular, everyday men walking down the street. And regular men, particularly, don’t excuse or make jokes about sexual assault.

They don’t.

Well, I was wrong.

Turns out they do.

True crime was probably the first thing that caused me to realize that rape culture might actually be a thing, although the term still hadn’t come to mind. I’d watch case after case involving men being sexually violent toward women and children and getting slaps on the wrist or no penalty at all. For example, on the 25th of September, 1968 Rodney Alcala lured 8 year old Tali Shapiro to his apartment where he raped and beat her with a steel bar.

She was found alive in a pool of her own blood. She was in a coma for 32 days and spent months in recovery. By the time Rodney was caught in 1971 Tali’s family had relocated to Mexico and understandably didn’t let their daughter testify to avoid retraumatizing her. The prosecutors refused to charge Rodney with rape and attempted murder so he was convicted of child molestation. Guess how many years he got for raping and brutally assaulting an 8 year old. 3 years. Guess who went on to become a serial killer?

I grew more conscious of the different ways rape looked and how lax its penalties are. It’s not a coincidence that a lot of serial killers start off with sex crimes.

If rape culture doesn’t exist anywhere, it definitely exists in Nigeria. How I didn’t believe in rape culture when I live in Nigeria is beyond me, but my eyes have been opened.

Rape culture:

A society or environment whose prevailing social attitudes have the effect of normalizing or trivializing sexual assault and abuse.

Reading actual definitions of rape culture like the one above makes it pretty clear that I had no idea what rape culture was for a while. Does that definition not perfectly encapsulate Nigerian society?

Our collective dismissive attitude toward rape starts long before it ever gets that far. It begins in a country where pedophiles are brought before family panels instead of law enforcement, and where marital rape is still not recognized as a crime by a significant number of the population. It shows up in casual sexist jokes about women being gold diggers and having to “give something up” in exchange for basic decency. In older men who feel entitled to approach girls young enough to be their daughters. In police officers who hold the same archaic beliefs as perpetrators and encourage victims to forgive, forget, or keep quiet to protect reputations

.

In that kind of environment, it’s hardly surprising that sexual assault isn’t taken seriously.

We constantly talk about how women’s actions are policed more than the actions of men. How we need to teach men not to rape women, which I honestly find to be very absurd. I get the sentiment, but anyone who needs to be told not to rape someone is already too far gone. Rapists know that rape is wrong. They just don’t care. What needs to be taught is an overall respect for women, and in a country like Nigeria, where landlords can proudly come out and deny a woman accommodation because she’s single, it would be an understatement to say we have a long way to go.

The act of rape itself needs to be analyzed and spoken about for people to treat victims better. People have a pretty limited view of what rape is supposed to look like, what a raped woman is supposed to look and act like. And if she strays from that scripted narrative, she should be dismissed.

I partly blame Hollywood and the media for shaping such limited ideas of what rape looks like. In movies, it’s almost always violent. A dangerous-looking stranger pops out of the shadows and drags the woman into the dark. The poor woman is screaming and fighting for her life. The man is trying to silence her. He rips her clothes off and forcibly penetrates her. The woman is a bloody, tattered mess by the time the rapist is done with her.

And yes, rape can and does happen that way for some people. And I can’t even begin to imagine how terrifying and painful that is. But rape can actually look very different.

I came across this animated video of a man and a woman on a date. Watch it before reading further. Notice how he is acting, how she responds, and what feelings it brings up for you. Please stop here and go share your thoughts in the comments before continuing👍🏾.

Think about:

At what point, if any, did something start to feel uncomfortable to you?

Did the woman really have a choice?

How would you describe what’s happening. Consent, pressure, coercion?

Did your opinion shift while watching?

What do you think the woman was feeling at that moment?

A woman goes on a date with a man, and they go back to his place or hers. They have some drinks. The woman gets intoxicated. Men handle liquor better, so he’s still pretty aware of what’s going on. The woman is unconscious or barely able to move, and the man decides that it’s the perfect time to “have sex” with her.

In another scenario, a woman is alone with a man. He makes a move on her, and she turns him down. He locks the door and brings out a knife. He doesn’t stab her, never touches her, but he makes it pretty clear that he has a weapon and she’s all alone with him. She sleeps with him.

There was no screaming, no blood. She probably took off her clothes.

But that doesn’t make it any less rape.

The circumstances of all the situations I mentioned vary greatly, but it’s the same outcome. A woman’s body is violated, and she can’t feel safe even in her own skin.

An adult having sex with a child, even if the child gives “consent,” is also rape, by the way. It’s called statutory rape for a reason.

Who would have known that there’d be so many high-profile sexual assault cases recently when I started writing this months ago?

One of the many ways that rape culture shows up is in the form of “fake case panic,” a term Apoorva S. Raghavan makes use of in her brilliant article If Rape Doesn’t Shock You Anymore, Read This.

Her Half of The Story

If Rape Doesn’t Shock You Anymore, Read This

The first time I came across the word rape, I was nine, sitting beside my mother in the smallest room in our house, a former storeroom we had promoted, optimistically, to the study…

Read more

7 months ago · 2602 likes · 109 comments · Apoorvaa S Raghavan

The almost paranoid assumption that any woman who comes forward saying she’s been raped could be lying is actually a form of rape culture. Everyone deserves their day in court, but the refusal to even give a potential victim the benefit of the doubt is something that you should sit with.

In Sohaila Abdulali’s book titled What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape, she makes an excellent point that completely degrades fake case panic.

What exactly do people think reporting rape is like? Do you think a red carpet is rolled out for the woman when she gets to the station? Or that she is given the utmost care and respect? The idea that droves of women are tripping over themselves to falsely accuse men of rape is ludicrous.

If you’ve had the misfortune of dealing with any kind of assault or molestation, you should know this. How hard was it for you to tell your parents, your teacher, your matron in the hostel not to talk of a police officer? That’s if you’ve even been able to bring yourself to report it. The absolute discomfort of having to describe sexual behavior to a loved one or an authority figure while they ask you to show them what was done to you. Second-guessing your memory and the person’s true intentions. That senior probably didn’t mean to rub his groin against me repeatedly in class. He was playing.

While there are undoubtedly women who will lie through their teeth for various reasons, to get attention, for financial gain, because they have been slighted, or because they’re racist in cases such as Emmett Till’s that does not change the fact that rape happens far more than false accusations. Rape is even underreported, and don’t get me started on its abysmal conviction rate.

The burden of proof in rape cases is generally very high. The prosecution not only has to prove that the alleged victim didn’t give consent, but that the accused knew there was no consent and ignored that fact. Unlike many other crimes, rape usually has no witnesses, leaves no visible injuries, and involves delayed reporting. So cases end up hinging on testimony (which people unfairly scrutinize heavily), inconsistencies in memory (which trauma can affect), and physical evidence that may not always exist. Not to mention the gap between the legal definition of rape and its social understanding.

Rape is a violation of a person’s autonomy and well-being. In light of the so-called Ozoro rape festival that happened last week and Mirabel’s case that turned out to be a hoax, rape is on people’s minds and tongues more than ever. We must never get used to rape. We must be outraged every time, and we must all play our parts, no matter how little, in putting an end to this disgusting crime.

We can do it by checking our friends if they make rape jokes and vulgar derogatory remarks ( why are your friends even making jokes like that?), by always judging rape cases on their own merit, or by not being a spineless Ozoro man and actually physically defending women when they are in scary situations.

This article could go on for years, but I’ll end it by highly recommending this brilliant article about rape in India.

Her Half of The Story

If Rape Doesn’t Shock You Anymore, Read This

The first time I came across the word rape, I was nine, sitting beside my mother in the smallest room in our house, a former storeroom we had promoted, optimistically, to the study…

Read more

7 months ago · 2603 likes · 109 comments · Apoorvaa S Raghavan

Rape culture in India draws so many parallels with Nigeria it felt like it was written about our country. I also recommend What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape by Sohaila Abdulali. I don’t agree with every conclusion in the book. The concept of prostitution being empowering, especially in a country like India, is ridiculous, but it was an easy, albeit disheartening, read.

If you’ve ever been raped or molested, I hope your world feels brighter one day. I’m sorry that happened to you.

Song of the day🎧

It feels weird to have this at the end of a post about rape, but here’s something to cheer you up even a little. Right There by Ariana Grande ft Big Sean🩵

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I’ve been thinking of fun ways to tell y’all random fun facts about myself and I thought this would be interesting. I was going to make it a 100 things about me but that would be A LOT not impossible but a lot. So let’s start with this shall we.

1. My name is Edina, NOT Edna. No, it’s not an English name (because people love to argue with me about various parts of my cultural identity). It’s an Ewe name that’s short for Mawuedinam. My father chose it. I wonder why my family doesn’t call me Edinam. But I guess I can be called Edina or Edinam.

2. I’m Nigerian and Sierra Leonean on my mom’s side and Togolese on my dad’s side. My grandma was Nigerian and my grandpa was Sierra Leonean. They met in college in Freetown at Fourah Bay College which was the first university in West Africa. Fun fact: Samuel Ajayi Crowther was the first student to be enrolled at Fourah Bay. I belong to the Yoruba, Ewe and Krio tribes.

3. I’m a cradle Roman Catholic.

4. I’ve never had a “I want to be a doctor” phase because I wasn’t raised in a family where STEM was considered superior to the arts and humanities. My mom studied French and Portuguese by the way.

5. I’ve had a wide array of career interests. I wanted to be soldier (don’t ask what was wrong with me😂) and for a brief moment, a police officer because of the Police Academy movies from the 80s and 90s.

We have the entire set and my family loved it. They made being a police officer look so fun. Dangerous but fun.

You’d know I also wanted to get into voice acting at a point. I might still try my hand at it.

6. I’m not crazy about fruit, and I can go weeks without eating any sometimes to the point where I’ll bite myself, and the wound won’t heal because I’m vitamin deficient🙂. Yes, I need help. I need to get my act together and eat the damn fruit for the sake of my health.

7. I can’t swim and have almost drowned on at least one occasion when I was a child despite my grandparents taking me to swimming lessons. I love the concept of water activities but I can’t swim. I actually have a phobia of water. Swimming is a survival skill so maybe one day I’ll bite the bullet and try to learn again.

8. The only Yoruba name I have “Olusolabomi” was my grandma’s name. I love you grandma.

9. I was the first to submit my script during my Yoruba exams in secondary school. Not because I’m Ajayi Crowther but because I don’t speak or understand a lick of the language. Sorry Mrs. Gbadamosi.

10. Kdramas have my heart. I’ve been watching them for at least 10 years. Some of my favorites are All of Us Are Dead, Kingdom, Mask Girl, Happiness, etc. I have a thing for zombie Kdramas and thrillers.

11. I love kpop as well.

I unofficially got into it listening to the Boys Before Flowers soundtrack. That soundtrack is a masterpiece. Thank you Shinee and T-MAX. Then I officially got into it by listening to Apink. BTS was the first group I got really invested in but their military hiatus made me cool down quite a bit. I still love them but they aren’t current ults. Thankfully, because Arirang is a hot mess. My favorite groups are TWICE, IVE, Kiss of Life (they just had to be ignorant ugh), NewJeans, and LE SSERAFIM. I like Ateez, Enhyphen, Seventeen, Everglow, Aespa, and NMIXX as well. The list is incomplete but I’ll stop here so we are not here forever.

12. I have keratoconus and I have to wear contacts because glasses don’t help. PS: I do not like wearing them.

13. I don’t like nuts. Groundnuts, cashews, walnuts, etc. I don’t like any kind of nut but I like boiled groundnut and I LOVE Mafé (Senegalese groundnut soup). I know it’s strange. I really like Snickers, so I just don’t eat the nuts. I don’t like coconut either.

14. I’m from Lagos state. Not Ogun state. Yes, people can be from Lagos.

15. I have 6 piercings. 3 lobes on each ear. I got a helix piercing when I was in 100 level and it was healing horribly so I had to take it out. I even got a keloid. I plan on getting another helix and actually taking proper care of it this time. I recently discovered the hidden helix, and it’s calling my name. I’m also considering a rook, flat and conch piercing which is crazy because I have a very low pain tolerance. But I want to join the cool earring stack girls.

16. My hair has never been relaxed and I’m very proud of that fact. Thank you mummy♥. Embrace that fro!

17. I’ve changed schools quite a bit. I went to 3 primary schools. I was in Funtaj for like a term? Don’t know if it even lasted that long. My mom hated it and rightfully so. I went to 2 secondary schools and 2 universities.

13. I’m about to graduate with a mass communication degree but I studied English and Literature for a year at the University of Ibadan. English was my dream major but I quickly realized that I was way in over my head despite loving English so much .I’ll talk about that in a future post.

14. I love beans. It’s my comfort food. Beans slander is literally blasphemous.

15. I don’t know how to whistle and I can’t snap with my right hand.

16. I like to bake. I don’t bake as much as I used to but I’ll get back to it. My favorite thing to bake were cinnamon rolls until the yeast started playing in my face. Banana bread is always an easy bake though.

17. I’m a mini weeb. I haven’t watched the classics like Naruto and Sailor Moon but I don’t think one has to tick check boxes to really enjoy something. My favorite animes are Parasyte: The Maxim, Apothecary Diaries, Attack on Titan, etc

18. I love sea food especially shrimp which is funny because some of my family are seriously allergic to it. Glad that skipped me.

19. We don’t cook with Maggi (or any other brand of seasoning cubes) in my house. Never have. It’s pretty normal to me, so it’s kinda funny how passionate people are about it. I can hear the collective gasp right now.

20. I love Samsung and have never had an iPhone and I don’t have a strong desire to get one. I hate the elitism of iPhone users. “It’s just because you can’t afford it” a fanatica; apple user would reply and prove my point.

“That’s all folks” in my Porky pig voice. That’s a little glimpse into who I am and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much I liked writing this. I want to hear random facts about y’all. Drop them in the comments💕.

Song of the day🎧

The song of the day is YAP. I actually listened to it for the first time some hours ago. It’s from Justine Skye’s EP that dropped today. Enjoy💕

2026 is going to be a special year for me because I will finally graduate. It is months away, but I have been looking forward to it for quite a while. I saw someone say that the free trial is coming to an end, and it is such a funny but accurate way to put it. I am already in my twenties, so I am more than ready to be done with school and let real life begin.

I have a lot of things I would really like to achieve this year. Some of these things are goals I tried to accomplish last year but could not, so let us try again.

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Graduate with Good Grades

First on the list is graduating with nothing less than a Second Class Upper. From the moment I left 100 level, I can swear these lecturers have been using a big fat straw to suck up my GPA because it has been dropping and dropping. Your girl had a four point something GPA and it is gone.

Jokes aside, it really does feel like lecturers want to be as difficult as possible sometimes. I study Mass Communication, and many of my courses are very practical. You would think reading and using your critical thinking skills would be enough. Wrong. Why are you giving me a D in a course that is simple? What exactly do you want from me?

I got really frustrated by my last result and almost cried. I did not fail, but I hate Cs and Ds. I know how unpredictable lecturers can be with the grades of finalists, so I am not trying to be caught slacking.

Eddiytor’s Note from the future: I finished my first semester exams last week and walked out of the hall fighting back tears because I did not finish the compulsory question. It involved statistics, and as a mathematically challenged girl, you can imagine how that went. I tried to learn some of it the day before, but I fumbled the histogram and left the question incomplete. The course is one of only two three credit unit courses I am offering this session, so I am scared it might affect my grades. A carryover is the worst case scenario, but I do not believe I did that badly. The other questions were fine. At this point, I can only hope for the best.

Embrace My Natural Hair and Wear It Out More Often

Anyone who knows me knows I am a natural hair enthusiast. 4C hair in all its states is the epitome of beauty to me. Short, long, or loced, I think kinky hair is absolutely beautiful, and I wish everyone felt the same. Texturism disgusts me. I scroll past videos of people relaxing their hair and even click not interested because I do not want my algorithm infected by anti-Black rhetoric.

This awareness does not erase my insecurities though. I love braids. I genuinely adore them. But wearing protective styles year round can leave you with a kind of hair dysmorphia. Despite loving my hair in theory, I rarely wear it out. I do not know how to style it well, and because I prefer long hair, I do not always feel pretty with my short not so short hair.

This year I want to experiment. I want to find natural styles that make me feel confident. I like mini twists, but I am not fully comfortable with them because of my length. I want to try weaving and Bantu knots. I especially want to master shaping and styling my afro. I am even considering a curly cut so my fro has a nice round shape.

Learn How to Drive

I started taking driving lessons about two years ago but never finished. School took up most of my time, and when I finally had a chance to continue, my instructor no longer had a car at his disposal.

I have never had a strong desire to drive because of my fear of accidents and my general fear of death. However, I will be turning twenty four next month, graduating in November, and working soon. I need to learn. Nigeria does not have a cohesive transportation system, and there is a certain freedom that comes with being able to drive.

I used to feel embarrassed about learning in school for no real reason, but I think I need to ignore that pointless embarrassment and just register.

Continue My Chinese Importation Class and Expand My Small Business

I took a Chinese importation class last year during the holidays, but I did not get much out of it because I was also doing my internship. This year I would like to take another class and actually apply what I learn. I want to expand my business and sell more products intentionally instead of casually.

Fix My Attention Span and Reduce My Screen Time

My attention span has been struggling for a while, and it is definitely because of my phone. It affects everything. I do not read as much, write as much, or invest in my hobbies the way I used to, and I hate that.

I have an app that can lock me out of other apps and even my phone entirely, so I plan to use it more consistently. I need to be more disciplined instead of letting Tik Tok and Pinterest run my life. If you have practical tips, please send them my way.

Get Back Into Reading, Especially Hard Copies

One of the worst effects of my reduced attention span is my inability to sit through books. It makes me genuinely sad because I have always loved reading. My love for books was mentioned in my primary school report cards, and now it feels like a struggle to finish a chapter.

I have at least ten brand new books, some of which I have owned for almost three years. I look at the stack and laugh because younger me would be shocked. New unread books? That would have been blasphemous. Whenever I got new books, I started reading immediately. In the store, on the way home, while eating, in the toilet, anywhere.

Then my phone became my primary source of entertainment, and that habit slowly disappeared.

I promised myself I would finish every single one of those new books this year. I owe it to younger Edina.

Expand My Editing Skills

As a certified vlog lover, I deeply admire people who can tell stories visually. I started making vlogs and experimenting with editing, and I genuinely enjoyed it. Then self-doubt and embarrassment crept in, and I stopped.

I saved up to buy a tripod so I could create more content, but I kept comparing myself to beautifully edited videos online. I archived video after video. A major obstacle in my content creation journey has been my insecurity about how I look on camera. I do not like how I look, so I do not record. Because I do not record, I have nothing to edit.

I want to document my final semester in school, so I need to move past that fear and just start.

Customize My Avatar(Me)

I have folders of saved posts across my social media filled with beauty and fashion inspiration. I love clothes, jewelry, shoes, and the entire experience of styling myself. I want to step out of my comfort zone with my hairstyles, learn how to do my makeup properly, get my nails done more often, and experiment with different aesthetics.

I love earthy, boho styles, so I want to immerse myself in that. At the same time, I do not plan to limit myself to one aesthetic. I want to explore.

I discovered the hidden helix piercing yesterday and I will not rest until I get it. I dyed my hair ginger a few years ago, and now I am considering chocolate brown. A tattoo sounds exciting, but I am still unsure if I could fully commit to one. I was going to get Patewo done then I a girl I followed posted her double Patewo and guess who’s getting that this Friday? I’m excited to step out of my comfort zone but scared as well. I hope it suits me.

I will be turning twenty four this year, and that feels scary because life seems to be moving fast while I move slow. Still, as long as I am alive, I can work toward the things on this list.

I originally planned to write this in a playful tone, but it turned out more introspective than expected. Maybe that is not a bad thing.

Here is to a good 2026.i have I have a good year and I hope you do to dearest gentle reader. Had to say that because I just remembered that the 2^nd part of Season 4 comes out this Thursday.

Song of the Day🎧

Today’s song of the day is Papillon by NMIXX💙. I stopped listening to them for a while, but this song pulled me right back in.

2025 was a less than ideal year for me. It started off with joyful expectations, particularly because I became a finalist this year, but everything crashed and burned a few days after my birthday.

My first relationship came to a sudden and painful end, and as insignificant as that might seem, it really marred the rest of my year. My heartbreak has silently lingered in the background of everything since April.

After coping relatively well for the first few months of the breakup, I finally broke down during my long holiday. I’d wake up crying and go to bed crying. I actually started to dread going to bed because I knew my issues would inevitably find their way into my dreams. I’d dream about awful, hurtful scenarios that were so vivid I’d wake up crying, convinced they had actually happened. I had a bit of a mental breakdown (I sometimes feel dramatic calling it that, but I genuinely felt broken).

While all this was going on, I had an internship to do, so I couldn’t even wallow. I’d tear up at work and have to pretend something got in my eyes. My supervisor would ask me pointedly if I was okay because I clearly wasn’t.

Then my mom fell sick and was admitted for a bit. We rarely get sick in my family, so whenever we are, it tends to be serious. All this was happening while my grandfather’s age started to show; he was getting sick more often and becoming less independent. He eventually had a fall and was confined to a wheelchair. When it rains it pours seemed to be this year's slogan.

One day, during a hospital visit, I sat beside her on a hospital bed and sobbed, crying and crying about a broken heart that I couldn’t seem to mend.

I managed to go no contact for a while, and I started to feel better, though the heartbreak was an inseparable entity at this point.

A Lagos trip later, and I was feeling hopeful. Even though I was dreading resuming and seeing him after months of not talking, I was lowkey excited, which is very unusual for this school hater. I’d finally made it to my final year, so I had graduation to look forward to.

Then, three or four days after I got to school, Grandpa died. And just like that, 2025 solidified its position as the year of Edina’s tears.

My year wasn’t all bad by any means. I just had to coexist with a very painful emotion. The almost physical pain that people describe feeling when heartbroken is very real. It’s all so cliché, but the stab I felt in my heart wasn’t imagined.

Despite everything, I’m still looking forward to 2026 very much. It’s going to be a major transitional year for me with graduation, NYSC, and my first partial big-girl job. I can’t wait to start being a proper adult (yes, I know all the hardships involved, but still).

I’m definitely carrying my heartbreak into 2026. I literally cried last night. But I guess that’s life.

We were asked to share appreciation posts in my book club last week. I couldn’t bring myself to type anything warm and fuzzy, not because I didn’t appreciate anything this year, but because my pain cast a shadow over so much I just didn’t know what to say.

But I have a bit to say now.

I appreciate my mum for giving me the space to cry and talk about “boy issues,” even while she was sitting in a hospital. I genuinely don’t know what would have happened if I had been forced to bottle everything up. Small things, like sending me data so I could doomscroll and distract myself, meant more than she probably knows.

I appreciate my book club, Shelf Made Women. When I started it, I was convinced no one would care. I sent out invites and woke up to almost 30 members. I eventually removed most of them 😭, but what remained was a small, intimate group of girls I could genuinely bond with over books. I hosted a cute picnic for us, and that day is now a soft, cherished memory. I put the club on an indefinite break because 2026 will be heavy for students in their final year, but I am proud I built it at all.

I appreciate the book reviews from the other book club I am part of. They are so enjoyable that I started pushing myself to finish books on time just to participate.

I appreciate my grandpa calling me his diamond a few weeks before he died, especially because he had never called me that before.

I appreciate being invited to a friend’s surprise not so surprise birthday party. I had told myself I wanted to get out more, so it felt like a small win.

I appreciate playing card games with the girls in my book club. Being in women only spaces can be deeply comforting.

I appreciate my friends and former roommates, Kefe and Queen, for being pests I have grown to love dearly. Gossiping, talking about relationships, and indulging in bad girl behaviour has been ridiculously fun. I appreciate Kefe for letting me cry endlessly and Queen for downloading Welcome to Derry for me after yet another breakdown.

I appreciate another friend for listening to my most desperate, heartbroken rants and crying with me. A tragic situation, but somehow very funny.

I appreciate the new connections I made through my book club.

I appreciate everyone who reads my messy Substack.

I am out of thoughts, so I will stop here.

This was a deeply sad year for me, and I do not expect that sadness to magically disappear when the clock strikes midnight. But I can still be hopeful. And for now, that feels like enough.

Happy new year everyone🍾!

I hope you all had a better year than mine.

Song of the day🎧:

Supermarket by Say Now perfectly encapsulates the absolute despair I felt this year lol.

Dear Edina,

Long time no final year diary entry. I’d love to say I can explain, but honestly, I can’t.

I went home last week Thursday to escape school for a bit. I used to go home every three weeks, but the exeat process has become so unpredictable and stressful. The real reason I had not gone home in a while was because my mom was not around, and I had no desire to go home without seeing her.

Anyway, I chilled the way I always do when I am home briefly. I enjoyed having a room to myself, running water and free food. I filmed a colourism commentary video on Friday. I had not filmed and edited anything in a while, so it felt satisfying even though the usual self-doubt tapped me on the shoulder. I am insecure about my looks and how I appear on camera. I also feel like I am creating things no one will watch because the TikTok algorithm behaves like it has a personal vendetta against me( not that I'm consistent, but that's beside the point). I actually archived most of my videos because they felt cringe. Still, I am happy with what I made. I love watching vlogs, which probably fuels my interest in editing. There is something deeply satisfying about a nicely edited clip. I was teaching myself how to edit on CapCut for a while, but let my insecurities win and stopped for months. Now that the creative juice has started flowing again, I might as well document this chaotic, transitional chapter of my life. Even if no one watches the videos, at least future me will have a record.

Yesterday was Christ the King, which for any non Catholics is a celebration of the sovereignty of Christ. The procession is supposed to happen on Corpus Christi, but because of the Nigerian rainy season, churches shift it to later in the year. We went to a chapel that did not hold a procession, which I was lowkey grateful for because we would have reached home late, and I would have had to rush back to school. After mass, we went out for breakfast. I missed our Sunday outings, so I was genuinely happy. Flour Cafe has become a family favourite, but it was full, so we ended up at Cafe Chocolat. It was our first time there, and it did not give the way my beloved Flour gives. The food took forever, the drinks took even longer, and there were less than ten people having breakfast. I had waffles, eggs, sausages, and strawberry lemonade. The waffles were dry and crunchy when I preferred them fluffy. The eggs were fine. My strawberry lemonade tasted like grapefruit and lemon juice. It wasn't very sweet, and as someone who has a sweet tooth, that was disappointing💔. Easily the second worst lemonade I have had in my life( I had a truly HORRIBlE one last year). The food was not terrible, but I could have cooked a better version at home.

Food rating 5 out of 10.

Customer service rating 3 out of 10.

We still plan to try their Sunday buffet, though. Maybe lunch is their strong suit.

I had packed for school the night before, so when we got home, I relaxed until it was time to leave. The driver came early but did not tell anyone, so I was getting ready in peace while he was outside waiting. When I realised he was around, I hurried up and left the house. As we were leaving, I got this heavy gut feeling telling me to go back home and return to school this morning. But we had already gone too far, so I ignored it.

Maybe I should not have. Once we got to Bwari, there was serious traffic, and it was barely moving. Apparently, the traffic had been there since afternoon. I assumed it was the traffic light or maybe a minor accident. It was still bright outside, so I thought I would reach school before dark. But as we sat there inching forward, it kept getting darker. I was trying not to cry. Bwari has had some kidnappings, and the idea of being stuck there at night was terrifying. I called my mom and asked her to inform the dean in case I got locked out. His phone was off. She called my matron instead. On top of everything, my motion sickness kicked in, and I started feeling nauseous and faint.

Someone said the traffic was caused by the Catholic procession, which was clearly untrue. Someone else said it was an accident. I knew deep down it was the usual Nigerian impatience and disorganisation. After almost two hours of crawling on the road, we finally got to the end of the traffic. Was it an accident? No. Was it a procession? No. There was absolutely nothing there. Just chaos and Nigerian inconsideration.

I got to school a little after eight and found out other students were also stuck, so at least I did not have to explain myself.

By the time I settled in my hostel, I felt like collapsing. I forced myself to eat and slept. I had a 7 am class today, so waking up was painful.

The day is still ongoing, but I wanted to break my disappearing act and write something. I have been feeling a lot of jealousy lately, and I hate it. It makes me feel physically sick. I hope it fades soon because I am tired of fighting it.

This entry is not the most carefree thing I have ever written, but that is exactly why I am writing it. Sometimes, there's just emotional fog and stress.

My mom also showed me the fabric for my grandfather’s funeral. I need to pick three styles for the tailor.

Right now, I am in class waiting for my turn to present an assignment. I do not feel great emotionally, but it is what it is.

Current watches include the final season of Attack on Titan, Akame Ga Kill, the last episode of Mercy For None, and the first episode of Dynamite Kiss. I need a sweet romance K drama because I have become a staunch thriller girl.

Song of the day🎵:

M.I.A by Katseye

Fitting, since I have been MIA myself.

Hahaha, you get it?

I'll let myself out🙂.

It’s already my third week in school. Whew! Time really flies. I’m really trying to stay on top of this. Read this piece like it's still the 2nd week🫶🏾😭.

The second week of school went by so fast. I can’t believe it’s already been two weeks (three by the time I post this 💀). Honestly, it hasn’t been as dreadful as I expected.

Grandpa died last week, and as you can imagine, that threw me off in the worst way possible. But once I got over the initial shock and grief, I actually felt peace. Grandpa was the most agile 93-year-old I knew. He walked with no aid, ate well, and looked after himself. He loved talking to people, conversations that sometimes came with a few repetitions, but he was in his 90s, it was to be expected 😭.

I had this idea to interview him, ask about his life in Sierra Leone (I’m part Sierra Leonean), meeting my grandmother in college , and how he became a professor. Our grandparents hold so many stories, and now that I’m old enough to ask, I really wanted to. But I wasn’t sure how much he still remembered. I wish I’d still asked.

I went home last week just to be with my family and got back on Sunday. I managed to get most of the pesky registration out of the way the day I went home.

My IT defence was on Monday. I didn’t print my report at home because I hadn’t edited it. I assumed the defence would be in the afternoon, like last year. How wrong I was 😭. It was announced last minute that it’d be in the morning, and I had to scramble. Don’t procrastinate, guys. Seriously.

To make matters worse, I forgot my acceptance letter in the hostel. I had to wait forever to get the report printed (the cyber cafés in my school are minuscule), then go back to the hostel to get the letter. I made it on time, luckily, but I was so flustered by then. The defence went by pretty fast, though. My supervisor seemed like she wanted to see more evidence of what I learned, but at that point, all I could do was hope and pray.

The no-contact period with you-know-who lasted all of three days. No, I will not be explaining further 😭. Just know I’m still torn, confused, and very afraid of breaking down again.

We had more classes this week, as expected. I don’t take the first week of resumption seriously because classes hardly ever hold then. My classes end on Thursday, and one of my lecturers decided to tear into me over a minor misunderstanding about attendance. I won’t even bother narrating the whole thing because it was such a stupid thing to get angry about.

To keep it brief, he thought I answered two matric numbers. I didn’t, but he already assumed the worst, so he started to spazz out. We moved out of the class to another location because another group was holding theirs there, and when we got downstairs… he was still talking about it. Like, Sir, let it go.

Then he proceeds to say I have a “reputation for acting confused.”

ME?

MOI?

The person who barely interacts with lecturers has a reputation? You probably don’t even know my name. So please, respectfully, shut it 😭.

Anyway, after that nonsense, I don’t even know what else to write 😂.

Oh wait, there’s more.

So my funny school decided to give us a classroom with no chairs this semester. I mean zero. So you have to go chair-hunting every day. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Did they think we’d sit on the floor?

Shelf Indulgence, one of the two book clubs I’m in (the other one was created by me), had its book review last Sunday. We started this accountability partner thing to motivate each other to actually read the books we vote for. But there’s a competitive streak to it 😂.

For every book you and your partner read, points are assigned. If only one of you finishes the book and attends the review, you don’t get full points. That many people haven't joined the review since I joined the club😂.

Unfortunately, the book we were reading was absolutely dreadful 😭. My partner and I still got out full points, though hehe. It was boring and pointless. I gave it a 0/10 💀. Everyone generally agreed it was bad except for one particular person who defended it like Shirley Jackson was his wife. Let’s call him Mr. Teddy Bear.

Mr. Teddy Bear was almost in tears trying to convince us the book was good 😭. Here’s the book, so any book lover reading this can pick race if they ever see it 😭:

Anyway, that’s all for now, folks. Until next week (this week, actually 💀).

Love, Edina 💌

🎧 Song of the Day:

Boyfriend Forever by Jae Stephens

I’ve been forgetting to post this 💀😭. But Jae Stephens has a chokehold on me right now. I heard this yesterday, and I’ve listened to it like six times since I woke up. It’s only 8:22 a.m. Discovered Jae this year and her music is such a breath of fresh air.

This particular has a 90s feel to it🎶.

The name of the song is the Spotify link in case anyone doesn't know♥️.

I don't want to call myself a loner because that would be inaccurate, but I am someone who's always been pretty independent. But one of the lasting effects of being in a relationship is that you get very used to being dependent on someone (especially if you are coursemates). Even if it's not in person. You wake up to "good morning" texts, you both share constant updates about each other’s days (food pics in my case), constantly enquire about each other’s day, and end the day with a "goodnight" or simply drift off to sleep mid conversation.

I've experienced what I will term intimacy withdrawals post breakup. No longer having someone to share every emotion and life event, no matter how insignificant, has taken A LOT of getting used to. I think you experience these withdrawals even more when your boyfriend was your best friend as well. It sounds very cliché, but as someone who doesn't have a million close friends, he really was my best friend.

For the first time in my life, I can relate to heartbreak, and I hate it. Heartbreak is such a common theme in the media we consume. I'd watch or listen to the portrayal of heartbreak in music, shows, and movies. As much as I empathized, I couldn't relate. Heartbreak was just something I couldn't relate to until the past three months at home.

All of a sudden, I could relate to the constant tears, randomly bursting into tears even in public, waking up crying and going to bed crying. The embarrassing desperation, wondering day and night what I could have done differently to ensure a different outcome. The sharp pain I'd get in my chest whenever I thought about him. I'll probably look back on all this and laugh, but when you're in the heat of heartbreak, it's a truly crippling feeling.

For a long time, I kept the tears and sadness to myself, not wanting to bother anyone with my feelings. But it became very obvious to my mom that I wasn't okay. Usually, sobbing to my mom makes me feel better, but not this time. No matter how much I tried to shake off my pain, it just didn't work. It dawned on me that there was no cheat code for this. I'd just have to deal with all these emotions until I became numb, and I eventually did become numb once I went no contact. He wasn't constantly on my mind anymore. But I knew once I resumed, all the emotions would come rushing back, and come back they did.

I had one conversation with him, and a lot of my progress went out the window. I once again constantly thought about him. But as if to save me from the self destructive musings, my grandfather died. And that brought me back down to earth. It's still on my mind, don't get me wrong, but with my grandfather dying just four days ago, I realized that I should just focus on getting the hell out of school. It's the only way I'll cope with all this.

For a long time, I deluded myself into thinking that our bond would remain unchanged even if we broke up. We got along so well even without the romantic element that I was convinced we'd ease into a close friendship very easily. But after a holiday of mental breakdowns, tears, desperation, and coldness, I realized that that connection was gone. I had two options: maintain a "friendship" where I'm constantly waiting for another chance at a relationship, or go no contact and save myself from another breakdown.

I finally told myself the hard truth. Edina, you're not friends. Ironically, I'd had friends tell me the same thing. "You can't be friends with your ex,” they'd say. But I never listened because I do believe exes can be friends, and I believed that my connection with him was special (delusional).

Do I think exes can be friends? Yes.

Do I think exes can be friends if one person doesn't want to be just friends? No.

A big reason why I'm making this decision, or at least trying to, is because in nine months, I won't have to see him or talk to him ever again. Distance will force me to move on. But until then, I'll put my head down and try to get through my last session in school for the first time in three years alone.

I would finish this piece with a profound thought about healing and moving on, but I don't think I'm going to be completely fine for a while, so what's the point of trying to sound deep?

Let's see how I feel when I graduate.

Grandpa died yesterday morning. It's ironic that I almost mentioned him in my first entry but chose not to for the sake of privacy, and here I am..

My mom had already told me to come home because he wasn't doing well, but he was already gone. She just didn't want me to be alone when I heard the news. Unfortunately, I found out he'd died from my aunt's WhatsApp status while I casually scrolled through WhatsApp. I was so shocked I didn't even cry till I found a friend.

I'm at home now. After rushing to a friend's room and breaking down, I managed to pull myself together until I was able to leave school.

I looked expectedly at the couch he always sat or laid down on when I walked into the house, almost expecting him to be there. The usual exclamations of pleasant surprise didn't fill my ears. I'm not going to hear his voice again. He's gone. Death is so scary to me. It's actually my biggest phobia. I walked into his room, opened the wardrobes, and stared at his things. They have no owner anymore. Just like that.

Grandpa was 93. Everyone knew it was coming sooner or later, but I'm genuinely shocked. My cousin always jokes that he seemed invincible, and he really did. Until he got sick in July, you'd never think he was in his 90s. He walked just fine, up and down the stairs with no assistance. Fed himself, dressed himself, barely got a cold. But all of a sudden, it was like his body remembered he was 93, and he became less and less independent.

I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't spend a lot of alone time with him in the last few months.

I actually avoided him to an extent. It was unsettling and frustrating to see what old age could do to someone. You could see him get frustrated too, when he couldn't remember where he left something or when he made a bit of a mess serving himself food because he wasn't as coordinated anymore.

Just like when my grandma died, I was in school when he died, and I hate that.

He died two days after I went to school, and that saddens me. I wish I'd been here to see him one last time. As I walked out the front door on Sunday, I told him goodbye and said I'd see him soon. I planned on coming for my mom's birthday in about two weeks, so I was going to see him then. My last memory of him is a bit hazy because I was late and in a bit of a hurry. I wish I'd slowed down, held his hand, or hugged him.

"My diamond" is what he called me when I saw him in the hospital before he had surgery, and his diamond I'll remain.

Goodbye, Grandpa.

Love, your diamond.

As 300 level drew to a close, I found myself thinking of ways to document by last year in university. I thought of making vlogs, but I knew deep down it wouldn't be a media form I'd be consistent with. Not to mention my extreme awkwardness at filming in public. So I decided to write instead. I don't need to edit and edit for hours. Worry about lighting and how I look. All I need are my brain, fingers, and notes app. So here is my final year series “Dear Edina”.

“Dear Edina” is an intimate and self reflective series of letters to myself detailing my last months in school . So here's permission to eavesdrop on my messy, sometimes happy, sometimes sad thoughts. Cheers to the final lap and cheers to, hoping I'm consistent 😭.

Dear Edina — Entry One: A Dreaded Resumption and an Emotional Relapse

Dear Edina,

It’s Thursday, 2nd October 2025.( my brother'sbirthday 🎂). I'm starting the first installation of my Final Year Diaries at 6:48 PM. I’m on a plane from Lagos back to Abuja after a family staycation. In two days, on the 5th of October, I’ll be starting my final year in university.

I have so many mixed emotions. I’ve written before about the immense loneliness I feel whenever I’m in school, the absolute inconvenience caused by the lack of basic amenities like running water and toilets that flush. All these things always make resumption a nightmare. But despite all that anxiety and sadness, I’m still kind of looking forward to resumption. Not because I’ve had a magical change of heart about school, but because this is my last lap. The final stretch in my eventful and unpredictable university journey.

I just want to be done with everything. Free from scheduled resumption days. Free from loneliness. Free from the heartbreak and dull ache that comes from losing someone I care about so deeply and having to see them for nine more months.

As much as I hate going back to school, I actually have something to look forward to this time. Something that isn’t four years away. Graduation.

In nine months (yes, I’ve counted), I’ll be done. I can’t wait. I already have a graduation board on Pinterest because what better way to take your mind off something than to plan outfits, colour themes, hairstyles, and jewellery?

It’s 9th October now. I resumed on Sunday evening. I wasn’t hit with a major bout of sadness as soon as I arrived, so that was a surprise. Once I got over the most stressful part of resumption, lugging my luggage from the gate to my hostel, then two flights of stairs, I was able to relax. I unpacked until the early hours of the next day. On Monday, I pretty much lounged around, ate, listened to music, and watched a K-drama. I’m currently watching You and Everything Else on Netflix (it's entertaining, sad, and infuriating).

Everything was going fine until I decided to go see someone the next day, and I had a little breakdown again. I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, but I went anyway. Talk about dumb. I immediately went to talk to a friend before I had a chance to cry uncontrollably so I could get it out of my system.

The interaction took away a lot of the peace of mind I resumed with. I’ve started crying randomly again. It happened a lot during the holidays, and unfortunately, it seems to have started again. I also started to hear his words echo while I slept again. Something that made me hate going to bed for about two months during my holiday.

It's tempting to retreat even further into my shell and just barely survive this new session, but I have no choice but to push forward, put my head down until graduation. It’s the least I can do.

Love,

Edina💌

I still plan on writing an exhaustive piece on the topic but until then here's a piece I wrote 2 years ago🫶🏾 .

An alarming 77% of Nigerian women regularly use skin lightening creams according to the World Health Organization. It’s a disheartening and dare, I say, even an embarrassing statistic. How can a country known as the “Giant of Africa”, a country that for decades has led and still leads the African continent in its display of African pride have such a prominent hatred of and discomfort with its own skin? A casual walk to the cosmetics aisle of a Nigerian supermarket will result in one discovering shelves full of creams, soaps, and serums that promise its buyers a light and bright complexion. The packages of such products graced with the face of light skinned women beaming at you. I recently noticed newly erected billboards advertising the cream ‘Carotone’ and the slogan on the billboard reads “light and natural” but what does that even mean? Why is there such a demand for these types of products in an African country?

Skin lightening or skin bleaching is a cosmetic procedure that aims to lighten dark areas of skin or achieve a generally paler skin tone. It is a practice that is centuries old and has been adopted by people from all types of cultures, although the ideologies behind the practice differ. Skin bleaching has been mostly marketed towards women under the pretence that porcelain/light skin is the ideal representation of beauty and status. The first recorded practices of skin whitening can be traced back to over 200 B.C. across a multitude of civilizations that utilized natural sources of ingredients to facilitate the production of skin whitening substances. For example, the Egyptians and Greeks made use of honey and olive oil as a method of whitening the skin.

So what exactly caused skin bleaching to become such a widespread phenomenon in Nigeria you might wonder? The simple answer is colonialization and slavery. An American Sociological Society paper explains that: “To justify racial slavery, slave-holding interests espoused a white supremacist ideology which held that persons of African descent were innately inferior to whites Whiteness became identified with all that is civilized, virtuous, and beautiful.” The colonization and enslavement of Africans by Europeans left Nigerians with a poisonous mentality known as a colonial mentality. According to Wikipedia, a colonial mentality is the ‘internalized attitude of ethnic or cultural inferiority felt by people as a result of colonization. It corresponds with the belief that the cultural values of the colonizer are inherently superior to one's own. So since the colonizers thought that “white and bright is right” this way of thinking was adopted by many Africans.

There are countless number of reasons that motivate a person to lighten their skin. A major reason is colourism. Colourism is a form of prejudice and discrimination in which people of certain ethnic groups, or people who are perceived as belonging to a darker-skinned race, are treated differently based on their darker skin colour. The racial hierarchy and colour ranking within colonized African nations left psychological effects on many of the darker skinned individuals. Colourism has led many Nigerians to believe that “fair people” are not only more attractive than dark skin Nigerians but that they are inherently attractive due to their light skin. The message that darker skin tones are somehow inferior to lighter skin tones is delivered to children and largely perpetuated in school settings. Its not hard to imagine why dark skin children who were referred to as “blackie”,”charcoal” and “burnt offering” would grow up to despise their dark skin and seek ways to change it. This results in many Nigerians particularly women (as colorism does have more of a significant impact on the way black women are viewed than black men) lightening their skin to live up to the ridiculous beauty standards set for them.

In addition, a lighter skin tone is associated with better economic opportunities and a greater chance at upward mobility by some Nigerians. It is rumoured that some businesses will refuse to hire dark skin individuals as they believe that light skin is what “sells maightening products contain hydroquinone, which, in high concentrations, can lead to, among other side effects, organ malfunction, blood poisoning, nausea, abdominal pain, and convulsions Lightening products also contain mercury, which can cause serious harm to the nervous, digestive and immune systems, organs, and eyes. Other negative effects include abnormalities in a newborn baby (if used during pregnancy), visible blood vessels in the skin, skin irritation, and discolouration. Not to mention that long-term use of skin lightening products can weaken the skin, making it more susceptible to skin infections and other skin conditions. The use of skin lightening products can lead to psychological distress, including low self-esteem, anxiety, depression, and shame.

Lastly, we need to work together to combat the harmful practice of skin lightening in Nigeria. It is essential to increase public awareness about the dangers of skin bleaching and to educate consumers about the importance of using high-quality products that have been tested for safety. Consumers can also take a number of steps to ensure they are purchasing reliable products, including checking product reviews, consulting a doctor before purchasing a new product, and reading the product label for any warnings or potentially harmful ingredients. In addition to increased consumer awareness, there is a need for stricter safety regulations and greater access to laboratory analysis services in Nigeria. We also need to instil a sense of pride in our dark skin and work against colourist beliefs in our society. This will require a concerted effort by government, industry, and civil society, working together to protect the health and wellbeing of Nigerian consumers.

One of the latest additions to this used-and-abused club is “religious psychosis.” It has become the newest anti-Christian slur, thrown around by so-called intellectuals who do not know what the word actually means. It is lobbed at religious people, specifically Christians, as a way of calling them foolish and delusional. You will find it dropped spitefully into think pieces about Christianity, a shorthand for “these people are irrational.” The logic seems to be: who but a psychotic person could believe that someone died and came back to life? Clearly, they must be in the middle of a psychotic episode. But the real fools are the ones using a word they do not understand as an insult. It does not get more unintelligent than that.

So, what is religious psychosis? First, let us be clear about what it is not. It is not belief. It is not faith. It is not “going to church too much.” It is not the audacity to believe in a higher power and the supernatural. It is not zealotry. Religious psychosis, sometimes called religious delusions, occurs when hallucinations or fixed false beliefs take on religious themes. This can mean hearing voices, seeing visions, or developing unshakeable convictions involving God, demons, saints, prophecy, or divine missions. It is not a separate disorder but rather psychosis expressed through religious content.

Sometimes it takes the form of voices giving divine commands. David Berkowitz, the “Son of Sam,” claimed he was ordered to kill by a demon speaking through his neighbor’s dog. Other times it appears as a messiah complex. Herbert Mullin believed God demanded human sacrifices to prevent earthquakes, and he murdered thirteen people to fulfill what he thought was a divine command. Just to be clear: most people with religious psychosis are not violent.

Religious psychosis can also present as paranoia. A devout churchgoer may suddenly insist the parish priest is secretly a demon persecuting them. Unlike ordinary devotion, which enriches life, religious psychosis disrupts it. School, work, and relationships collapse under the weight of the delusion. In Nigeria, there are documented cases of people wandering the streets after hearing voices they believed were God’s, convinced they had been chosen as apostles. Others have fasted until collapse because they believed divine voices commanded it. What looks like extreme piety from the outside is, in fact, psychosis hijacking faith.

One key distinction is community. Religious faith is shared; it connects people and strengthens bonds. Religious delusions are rigid, isolating, and uniquely personal. A Catholic suddenly believing that the Virgin Mary is an eight-headed bloodsucking demon could be suffering delusions, as that is not a view held by the Catholic Church or their religious community. That difference matters, because faith is not an illness.

Contrary to the Twitter trolls and faux intellectuals, being religious is not the same as experiencing religious psychosis. Being religious is not even the CAUSE of religious psychosis. Some people who experience religious delusions are not religious at all.

The cause is usually biological or psychiatric. Religious psychosis often occurs as part of an underlying condition such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, severe depression, trauma, extreme stress, or substance-induced psychosis. Religion simply becomes the language of the hallucinations, not the cause. Religion appears so often in psychosis because it is a big part of our culture. When the mind breaks, it reaches for what is most familiar, and in much of the world, that is religion. It also provides a framework for making sense of overwhelming internal experiences during a psychotic episode.

The bigger problem is that the often intentional misuse of the term “religious psychosis” reveals something deeper about our perceptions of the intelligence or lack thereof of religious people, particularly Christians. People can believe in crystals, call on their ancestors for help, believe in the pseudoscience that is astrology, and manifest their dream life by repeatedly writing a sentence down. But let someone believe in resurrection, and suddenly it is “delusion.” Funny how that works. The problem with conflating all religious belief with “psychosis” is that you end up trivializing the people who actually suffer from it and from a host of mental health issues. It is the same cultural ignorance and laziness that says someone has “OCD” because they like their wardrobe tidy, or “bipolar” because their mood shifts. Here is what OCD actually looks like.

Weaponizing psychiatric terms as insults stigmatizes mental illness, waters down clinical language, and makes it harder for people who genuinely need help to be taken seriously.

The only reason “religious psychosis” has become a pejorative term is because being religious is synonymous with being stupid to some of you guys, and you might want to unpack why. There are zero studies that suggest that not being religious makes you more intelligent than people who are. Religion is not pathology. Religion is a normal human phenomenon, not a disease of the mind. It is one of humanity’s oldest meaning-making systems. For billions of people, it provides resilience, structure, hope, and purpose. It is not exempt from criticism, but you do not get to dismiss people’s faith as a mental illness because you do not believe in or like religion.

Misusing “religious psychosis” as shorthand for “Christians are stupid” is not the radical smart critique people think it is. It is lazy, stigmatizing, and disingenuous. Faith is not a symptom. Belief is not a disease. The fact that psychosis often borrows religious language does not mean religion causes it, just as seeing snakes in a hallucination does not mean snakes cause schizophrenia. To conflate the two is to misunderstand both. Psychosis deserves serious, compassionate attention. Faith deserves respect, if the beliefs are not dangerous, even when you do not share it. If you cannot tell the difference between belief and delusion, the problem is not religion. It is you.

Unlike most internet words of the week, “religious psychosis” will unfortunately not disappear soon. People are too committed to mischaracterizing people’s faith for it to fade into obscurity quickly. But it will eventually lose its novelty and make room for the next buzzword to be misunderstood. In the meantime, maybe the people throwing it around should look in the mirror. Mistaking complex realities for insults? If that is not delusional, I do not know what is.

Song of the Day🎧

Title: Elohim

Artist: Sondae

Today’s post is about religion, so the song of the day is a Brazilian-inspired Christian gem from The Eddiytorial Playlist. Enjoy!

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I'm not a chill girl. Never have been. Never will be. I was watching Coco Chinelo's NYC apartment vlog last night. She was hunting for a roommate, and she said something I felt in my bones so deeply. "I don't want to come across as the cool girl." SAME!

Here’s the thing: I’m not combative by default (though I can be if you try me), but I exist happily in my bubble. Still, every now and then, someone will say or do something so small, so seemingly insignificant, that just grinds my gears. And then I have to calm myself: “Edina, it’s nothing😭.” But actually? It’s definitely something. Because if it got on my nerves, it counts, and now we have to talk about it.

So here's a list of things that "aren't that deep,"... except they a 100% are🙂.

Stop Butchering My Name

Having a name that’s easy to turn into a nickname is the bane of my existence. I was living my life when an unknown Snapchat user slid into my DMs with, “Heyyyyy Edddi.” First of all, no one adds “i” to the end of Eddy, so you’ve already annoyed me more than usual💀. Excuse me, sir, do you know me? Why are you shortening my name? Ed, Eddiy, and all the other variations of my name are reserved for people with whom I actually have relationships. Not strangers. Not people I barely talk to. I assumed it was common sense not to go around nicknaming people you aren’t close to, but I guess not. My name is Edina. Call me by my name. Of course, there are exceptions if it’s my pen name or something like that, but don’t message me from our department group chat calling me Ed or Eddy when we don’t even know each other. So, in the words of Destiny’s Child, SAY MY NAME. Or just don’t call me anything.

The Rubbish We Throw, the Floods We Sow

I get an overwhelming feeling of disgust whenever I see someone litter. This unfortunately means that I'm irritated at least once a day because for some weird unknown reason, Nigerians practice littering like it's a religion and if they don't throw that La Casera bottle on the floor they won't see the pearly gates of heaven. It's more baffling when there's a dustbin in close proximity to them. You couldn't stand up and throw it in the trash? You had to act like a barbarian from the Stone age? If you litter, just know there is a woman in Abuja already writing about you in her rant list. If you litter, please do better. It's actually disgraceful disrespectful behavior. Don't even get me started on the pollution It creates and the endangerment of wildlife. Nigeria is a dirty country because we have no respect for our environment. When I'm in Lagos, I look into the trash filled gutters and see tadpoles swimming around. That's not fair to them. Are frogs meant to grow surrounded by trash? Contrast the clean sometimes crystal clear drainage canals Koi fish get to swim in in Japan.

Now, let's get into the contribution of littering to natural disasters like flooding, especially in places like Lagos.

Littering might seem harmless. After all, it's just tossing a plastic bottle here or a nylon bag there but those little acts add up fast. When people dump trash in gutters, drainage systems, or on the street, it blocks the natural flow of water. So the next time it rains, instead of draining away smoothly, water piles up, overflows, and floods homes, businesses, and entire roads. In cities like Lagos, where drainage systems are already struggling, your nylon bag can literally be the reason a whole street turns into Venice for the day. Beyond the inconvenience, it damages property, increases the spread of waterborne diseases, and costs the government huge amounts of money in repairs and clean-up( and how much proper clean up is done in this country?) Flooding is not just “bad weather” it’s often a direct consequence of our collective stupid habit of treating the environment like a trash can. Lagos smells for a reason.

Why Are You in My Personal Space?

I instinctively back up when someone gets too close to me. Yes, there are obvious safety reasons because I’m a woman, but the main reason is simple: please move away from me. I’m not a touchy-feely person unless we’re in a relationship. Don’t stand too close to me. Don’t sit too close to me. Don’t lean in or stand right behind me in a queue. Do you want to enter me? During my internship orientation, there was this one girl who always sat annoyingly close to the point that she’d brush up against me when she moved. Mind you, we all had our own chairs, and there was plenty of space at the table. I’d ask her to shift a little, but when that didn’t help, I just started moving my chair as far away as possible. I didn’t even realize how obvious my discomfort was until a man pointed it out. Then came another woman during orientation who tapped me on my lap to get my attention. You could have tapped my arm, my shoulder, my hand, why my lap? And no, your intrusion of my personal space isn’t less intrusive because you’re a woman. Please keep your hands to yourself and maintain a reasonable distance.

Speaking in Tongues or Having an Episode?

Since religion is a touchy subject, let me make it clear: I’m not here to say anything blasphemous or disrespectful. This isn’t a space for anti-Christian rhetoric. But I do have something to say about the culture around speaking in tongues in Nigeria. Speaking in tongues is biblical, no question. What isn’t biblical is the almost cult-like way it’s practiced in certain evangelical spaces. I’ve always been sceptical of it, not because I think it’s fake but because it often comes across as performative. Maybe that says something about my faith. Who knows. But finding out that people actually attend “speaking in tongues classes” was the last straw. What do you mean you’re learning something that’s supposed to be a gift from the Holy Spirit? Speaking in tongues isn’t like learning French. You can’t learn how to conjugate verbs or use the correct pronouns. So what are you learning?

Then there’s the way people choose the most inconvenient times to show off this supposed gift. There was a girl in my hostel who’d suddenly start shouting and “speaking in tongues” in the dead of night. This is a hostel, not your personal chapel. Speaking of chapels, I once walked past my school’s chapel at night, and the guttural screams coming from inside were honestly terrifying. Why are you screaming in church? Are you speaking in tongues or having a schizophrenic episode? Maybe this is my Catholicism showing, but I don’t understand the screaming, growling, and theatrics that sometimes accompany prayer. It’s jarring, and I can’t make sense of it.

At the end of the day, maybe I just have low tolerance for nonsense, or maybe people really do need to learn the basics of respect, space, and timing. Either way, if you’ve made it this far, consider this your gentle PSA: don’t nickname strangers, don't litter, don’t invade personal space, and please, please don’t start screaming in tongues at 2 a.m. Some of us are trying to sleep.

Love, EDINA💌

If you made it to the end of the post, you deserve a treat. I’m starting a little Song of the Day section with every post ♥️

Song of the Day🎧

PDA- Jae Stephens

let me know your thoughts on the post and the song💕

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I can’t remember the exact words, but they’ve stuck with me ever since.

We were in the middle of one of those chaotic, no-head-no-tail gist sessions, and that’s when she said it. I looked at my other roommate and laughed incredulously because what a random thing to say?

Whatever made you think that? I thought.

I didn’t get mad. She’s one of those people who constantly says things that leave you puzzled. But the statement lodged itself in my brain, probably because I’ve been deeply insecure about my lack of close friends and how that ties into whether I’m even likeable in the first place.

Last year, I realized I really don’t have close friends. It crept up on me, the way realizations do. I’d watch my roommates’ friends pour into our room every day. Whenever there was a knock, it was rarely for me.

Not that I minded. I like my space. I value solitude even more when I’m in school and constantly surrounded by people. But even though I liked being on my own, I started to wonder how it looked from the outside, especially after my roommate’s comment.

Do people think I’m not a good person to be friends with? Do they think I’m cold? Unapproachable? Weird?

A particularly rocky friendship played a big role in exacerbating my insecurity. We fell out regularly, and these arguments or misunderstandings resulted in us not talking at all until I reached out to clear the air. It was a constant cycle. We'd argue, get offended by actions or words misinterpreted, ignore each other for a while, numbers would be blocked then unblocked, and I'd break the ice by starting up a conversation or going to talk to her. What hurt most was realizing that she was always ready to cut me off while I kept trying to hold things together. I tried to match her unbothered energy a lot. "I don't care if we don't talk again." I'd lie to myself. But I'm unfortunately a very chalant girl. I don't know how to be unbothered for the life of me. It takes so much effort to ignore people(unless you REALLY wronged me).

Eventually, I got tired. Tired of being the reconciler. Tired of swallowing my pride for someone who hardly ever met me halfway.

I slowly and reluctantly accepted that maybe just maybe she just didn’t care.

That truth had been whispering itself to me for a long time. I just didn’t want to listen. But once I did, it was easier to let go. We haven’t spoken since. Just like that, it ended. A rocky chapter finally closed.

Then, not long after, I lost another friend. I said something that rubbed him the wrong way, and instead of talking to me, he screenshot our chat and posted it on his WhatsApp status and insulted me like I was a stranger. No warning. No explanation. Just public humiliation.

I apologized once I realized I’d offended him, but I never got a response. I tried to speak to him in person but he walked away.

It was confusing and painful, but it also made me angry.

If something I said upset you, why not talk to me about it? Why is every conflict always taken to an extreme?

That was my breaking point. I blocked him and moved on. (When I later found out he told a mutual friend to “get me on a leash,” I stopped feeling bad altogether.)

I wasn’t going to keep fighting for friendships with people who treated me like I was disposable.

I finally broke down. I sobbed in front of my mom and told her how lonely I felt. I told her I didn’t think anyone liked me. She listened. And I cried again when it was time to return to school.

School had started to feel like the loneliest place in the world ironically because I was always surrounded by people.

Talking about loneliness is weirdly embarrassing. I don’t know why. Maybe because admitting you care makes you feel small. Or because it sounds like self-pity even though it’s not.

I’m not looking for a six-person girl group. I just want one person who wants to talk to me as much as I want to talk to them.

These feelings might not be logical. I know I have friends. I wave at people, and they wave back. I joke and chat with people all the time. But it’s the insidious feeling of not being anyone’s person that bothers me.

I wish I had some profound insight to end this with. But I don’t.

Maybe one day I won’t feel alone in a crowded room.

Maybe I will.

Who knows?

Student woes and struggles cut across cultures and societies binding us together no matter where we're going to school. But there's something so uniquely jarring about being a Nigerian student.

Relatable academic pains like being behind in your school work and failing a test are made even worse because I stay in a hostel where one has to decide if they want to use their bucket of water to bathe before their morning class or flush the toliet. School is already tasking enough without the ridiculous water, network, and electricity issues that plague my glorious academic institution.

Watching YouTube vlogs is a favourite pastime of mine. “College Days in My Life,” “GRWM for My First Day of School,” “College Move-In Day”… I love seeing how other people live their lives and seeing what living in their country is like whether they live in America, Korea, Australia, or Singapore. But recently I realised that there's another reason why I enjoy vlogs. It's a form of escapism for me. There's something about watching people enjoy a quality of life. I will never enjoy living in Nigeria that's weirdly therapeutic.

I'm sure all of the vloggers I watch still have academic struggles, but at least they don't wake up in a hostel with no running water, no electricity, and horrible network.

I watch them wake up and take HOT showers effortlessly. I watch them they get ready in properly furnished dorm rooms. I watch them study in universities that have proper infrastructure and enjoy what seem like luxurious amenities to me. Dining halls, study rooms, leisure areas, pools, and amphitheatres while I have to race to get to class because our lecture room is the size of a primary school classroom( I'm not exaggerating).

I'm literally sitting in darkness typing this because NEPA- Never Expect Power Always (Got this from “I Do Not Come to You by Chance 😭”) has done their usual magic.

I'm still in darkness even though my hostel's generator should have been turned on by now because the hostel is owned by a greedy incompetent pig, and the hostel is run with the same efficiency our government runs this country with.

I could write several editions of this article focusing on a specific issue, and I'd never run out of things to write about. Whether it is the ridiculous dress codes, jumping through hoops to go to my own home( private universities🚮)., lecturers who think they gave me life and being fined if I don't go to church on a WEEKDAY!! There's more than enough to rant about.

The only silver lining in all this? By the grace of God, I'm graduating next year. So I can kiss Nigeria's sorry excuse of an education system an eternal farewell.

PS: There’s probably going to be an NYSC version of this in about a year or 2.

This salacious question ignites a frenzy of phone searches. You rush to whatever school group you’re in to get your piece of the latest gossip, the tea, the drama. You tap on the WhatsApp view once, and your screen displays the explicit amateur video you were promised.

Now the gisting begins:

“I know that girl. She’s in my department.”

“Eww, she didn’t even shave.”

“These girls never learn.”

“Guy, send me the video.”

The pictures or videos are passed around like memes on Facebook.

On a campus where gist spreads faster than malaria, leaked nudes are often seen as “exclusive tea.” People want to be the first to share the gist they want to be “the plug,” the person students run to for wild updates. In this scramble for gist, it’s quickly forgotten that this is an actual person’s life, not just salacious gossip.

Leaking nudes doesn’t usually happen with dramatic hacking scenes or stolen phones. Most of the time, it’s someone you trusted, a boyfriend, a talking stage, or someone who sweet-talked you into sharing something private, then turned around and stabbed you in the back.

Sometimes it’s screenshots or screen recordings from video calls. Other times, it’s sharing a device. Your phone’s gallery gets exposed while someone’s pretending to borrow your charger. In group chats, one person shares it “just to show you something wild,” and suddenly it’s everywhere. A file saved, a name forgotten, and a life changed.

What’s worse? Some people never even sent anything. Their content was recorded without their consent—secret screen recordings during calls, or like the infamous case that happened right here in my university, someone secretly films you in a state of undress and shares it with a bunch of people. The perpetrators of this CRIME (yes, it’s a crime) are overwhelmingly male, with the victims usually being women. But this can happen to men at the hands of women as well to be clear.

There’s a multitude of reasons why people leak nudes( all of them being unacceptable). It’s a mix of revenge, clout, cruelty, and peer pressure from group chat culture. Some do it to get back at someone who rejected or left them. Others do it just for laughs, to seem cool, or to have gist in the group chat.

It’s also a form of digital violence, especially against women. People use leaks to silence and humiliate, especially girls who are confident or admired. It’s a brutal way of saying, “You were too proud. Let me humble you.”

There's a clear gender gap in shame when it comes to the phenomenon of leaked nudes. Exposed intimate photos or videos of men are met with jokes and banter. The leaked pictures are treated as a joke or even a badge of honour but for women, here comes the slut-shaming and the “she should have known better” mantras.

Look at how Nigerians reacted to Buju’s intimate video compared to Tiwa Savage’s sex tape. The issue isn’t the call for internet safety. It’s the complete double standard.

Now, every guy is going to call her an ashawo, as if they don’t ask and even shamelessly beg for these explicit photos on a daily basis.

When one tries to point out that sharing explicit content of someone without their consent is wrong, the victim of this cyber harassment gets blamed more than the person who actually shared it.

Instead of asking, “Why did he share them?” we ask, “Why did she take them?”

Unsurprisingly, these leaks are usually not reported to the school authorities. The person or persons responsible for broadcasting the content get away scot-free.

It’s really not hard to understand why someone wouldn’t make a report about their nudes being leaked in a Nigerian Catholic university.

Who wants to make it known to the school authorities, priests, and all that they sent a topless video to the boy they met in class ?

There’s a real possibility that the female student is going to be punished for even taking and sharing the nude content. This fear keeps many students quiet.

A major way to combat the non-consensual sharing of intimate images on school platforms is to change people’s mindsets. Someone’s nudes aren’t gist.

It’s about changing the narrative from seeing someone’s intimate images as “tea” or “gist,” to recognizing them as an unacceptable invasion of privacy and a form of cyber harassment.

The casual circulation of someone’s intimate photos often stems from a toxic culture that trivializes consent and violates personal boundaries.

This mindset reduces individuals to objects and dismisses the emotional and psychological consequences of such actions.

So next time someone’s intimate content is released, let us make a conscious effort to not consume it like a TikTok trend.

Report the account or the group in which the images are being shared, and refuse to quench your thirst for tea with another woman’s pain.

Why Nigerians defend their own political oppression—loudly and proudly.

The only way to understand the political psyche of Nigerians is to envision a woman in an abusive relationship. Nigerians are like battered women. Even though she’s beaten, raped, and degraded daily, she refuses to leave—no matter the circumstance. Taking her kids and walking away feels like an impossible, daunting task. After all, the familiar evil is better than the strange safety of the unknown.

Yes, he cuts off her electricity. Yes, he denies her quality healthcare. Yes, he watches nonchalantly as she struggles to afford groceries. And when she dares to complain about basic amenities or missing rights, he threatens her. But none of that matters—that’s her man, and she’s going to stand by him.

What? Leave him? Fight back? Absolutely not.

Sound familiar?

For some reason, Nigerians seem to love incompetence. They make excuses for everything. From terrible customer service to outright abuse, there’s always someone lurking, ready to defend the indefensible.

Unprofessional service provider?

“What if she was having a bad day?”

“Why are you trying to spoil someone’s business?”

The defender of the incompetent strikes again.

A corrupt, fanatical pastor?

“You know you don’t criticize men of God.”

There’s always an excuse waiting to be unwrapped and handed out like party favours at a delusion convention.

This defence of dysfunction leaks straight into politics. It doesn’t matter if the people in a state have no light, no water, or access to education—there will always be someone ready to justify the lavish lifestyle of the governor’s family.

Understanding Political Stockholm Syndrome

Stockholm Syndrome is a psychological response where victims develop positive feelings, trust, or even loyalty toward their abusers. It often emerges in situations of prolonged captivity or abuse, where the victim empathizes as a survival mechanism.

It was named after a 1973 bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, where hostages defended their captors and even refused to testify against them. Though not a formal disorder, it’s common in abusive relationships, cults, and systems of oppression.

(As the true crime junkie I am, I listened to a podcast covering the robbery—it’s fascinating. Here it is for anyone interested:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/7eQ0iFgyqigC3EwglozUtX?si=iDQmriNWSlicUo9TvBppFA%0A

In Nigeria’s political context, this syndrome manifests as a psychological attachment to corrupt leaders. If one occasionally throws out a few handouts—some subsidies here, a poorly-built road there—citizens feel grateful. “I know you’re poor, so here’s 5k,” they say, like a sugar daddy dropping crumbs.

The Comfort of the Familiar

Enter: the “devil you know” syndrome. It’s the psychological tendency to choose familiar suffering over unknown potential. Victims of toxic relationships stay because “what if the next person is worse?”

In Nigeria, this plays out every election cycle. People re-elect the same failed leaders out of fear of what the next might bring. Hope is scary, so we settle for disaster management.

Tribe Over Truth

In a country sliced by ethnic and religious lines, we support “our own” even when they’re dragging us into the abyss.

You’d rather vote for a corrupt politician who shares your tribe and faith than a competent outsider. And for what? So now that you voted for an Ijaw Christian man—did your life magically improve?

(No shade to Ijaw Christian men, I’m just saying.)

When Corruption Feeds You

Let’s be honest: some Nigerians benefit from the rot. From political contracts to stomach infrastructure, there’s a whole industry built on hush money and shared silence.

Even those who suffer indirectly are scared to shake the system—because if things change, their tiny sliver of stability might vanish.

But let’s get real: what’s the point of wealth in a nation with no power, no roads, and no functional hospitals? Money doesn’t shield you from bad governance. You’ll still buy N9000 butter, still get subpar healthcare, still swerve potholes like landmines. So if you think silence in exchange for “stability” is sustainable, brace yourself—reality’s coming.

At the end of the day, no nation thrives on excuses. Countries are built by people angry enough to demand more. And clearly, Nigerians aren’t angry enough yet.

We’re trapped in a cycle of mediocrity where we praise crumbs and defend the hand that starves us. Stockholm Syndrome isn’t just a condition here—it’s our national identity. We romanticize suffering, slap loyalty on trauma, and call it patriotism.

Until we stop excusing the people actively digging our graves, we’ll keep dancing on our own ruins. Loyalty to oppression is not patriotism—it’s delusion. And if we keep protecting the same systems and leaders that destroy us, then maybe—just maybe—we deserve the chaos we keep voting for.

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From the moment I got into secondary school, I noticed that there was a clear distinction made between people gifted in the arts and people more scientifically inclined.

There was a silent but loud intellectual ranking. Science class was the class of the intellectual elites, the crème de la crème of academia. Commercial students came in 2nd place in this ranking. They're not as bright as science students, but they at least do some math, so that saves them from being considered dull. And in last place are the mediocre art students. I think the position is well deserved. They only read and write after all. How hard is it to identify the themes in Amma Darko's “Faceless” and look out for metaphors, similes, and alliterations? Don't even get me started on how easy phonetics and phonics are. Arts class is obviously for people who are less academically gifted.

It's fine if you can't critically analyze literature. Its fine if you can't spell or don't know the etymology of the words you use every day (quick, what does etymology mean!?🎤) who needs to know about history when they can solve algebra, right?

The inflated self-importance Science students have isn't solely their fault, of course. It starts from their parents, who often times completely deny their children the choice to pursue their own careers and interests. Reading novels, writing short stories, and drawing are considered unserious unproductive hobbies by a lot of Nigerian parents. Unfortunately, they pass this narrow-minded way of thinking down to their children so that we all have to listen to their self-absorbed braindead comments;

· “There's nothing in the Arts”,

· “What's so hard about reading novels?”

· “Arts students aren't as smart as Science students”,

· “Imagine not passing when you're studying Mass Communication”

...but you can barely string a sentence together. Okay Einstein.

Why force yourself into an academic field you do not have the capacity or skills to succeed in? Why waste your artistic skills because people will think less of you for it? Is it because you've been told that being able to solve an equation is of greater value than being a skilled storyteller? Or that you'll be poor if you study Mass Communication or History? Never mind that the medical doctors in this country are paid so poorly that they're fleeing from Nigeria like the Israelites. Is that what we should aspire to be? Poorly paid doctors and pharmacists who've been told that they're God's gift to man?

Living in Nigeria enables this backward way of thinking, unfortunately. The fields and industries that art majors thrive in are poorly run or non-existent. Where are the libraries and museums?

This academic favoritism plays out in different ways. Such as medical students who stay in a hostel that'll remain unnamed being provided with reading desks in their rooms. Why is this significant? Because they're the only ones that have them. Because the history, mass communication, and English students are apparently not studying "serious" enough courses to require their rooms to be furnished adequately.

A world without art majors would be a world devoid of storytelling, cultural preservation, and essential forms of communication.

There would be no journalists to uncover the truth leaving us in the dark about important global events think Dele Giwa, no historians to document our past imagine not knowing anything about slavery, colonization or how to Church of England came to exist , no marketers to craft compelling messages, and no designers to shape the visual world around us. With the aid of consumer psychology, branding and marketing experts analyze market trends to select colors that evoke the right emotions and associations. Film and theatre would disappear, leaving us without the movies and performances that entertain and challenge us. Where would animation be without Walt Disney and the Fleischer brothers? If you're a weeb, you have Tezuka Osamu, the father of manga, to thank for that. Music, literature, and visual art—integral parts of human expression—would cease to evolve. Imagine a world without Chimamanda Adichie, Buchi Emecheta and Tems. Even advertising, public relations, and social media strategies rely on the creativity and critical thinking developed in these fields.

So, no, it's deeper than just reading novels.

It is shameful to discredit the hard work, passion, and contributions that art majors make to society. It is a major slap in the face to journalists and media workers who've lost their lives covering stories and shedding light on corruption, conflict, and war. In an Emmy award-winning documentary, I watched a reporter get shot at point- blank range in the back of his head. Don't disrespect me. And don't you dare disrespect him by insinuating that his contributions to society are less than that of a doctor or pharmacist. They are not.

For anyone interested in the documentary: Reporters At War

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When I was younger, I was under the very wrong impression that any light-skinned person I encountered was Igbo. I remember being genuinely surprised that a light-skinned male friend I constantly talked to was, in fact, NOT Igbo. Who would have thought? Thankfully, I shed this false, unverifiable belief as I grew older💀.

On the other hand, the Yoruba tribe is generally perceived to be primarily made up of dark-skinned people. I've heard people joke about having never met a light-skinned Yoruba boy which made me stop in my tracks and think if I had ( of course I have).

If you type up Igbo women or Igbo babes anywhere on the internet, particularly on TikTok, you'll be presented with videos and pictures of dazzling, glamorous Igbo women. Glistening teeth, perfectly made-up faces, an Igbo song hailing them in the background.

And of course, the comments don't disappoint.

"Igbo girls are the Nigerian half-cast for reallll 😭❤❤" (yes, this is a real comment).

"My toxic trait is assuming every fine Nigerian babe I see is Igbo."

"Nobody is finer than Igbo girls 🙌🏽"

All these comments are copied straight from TikTok, by the way. People of all tribes make comments like these, unfortunately, but I have noticed that the glorification of Igbo women is frequently tied to their perceived light skin tone. Light skin is often linked to femininity and softness while dark skin is considered an indicator of masculinity and strife which is why black women feel the effects of colorism much more than their male counterparts.

Igbo women are generally perceived to be light-skinned, beautiful, classy, feminine, soft, and lovers of money.

It's a common joke that you shouldn't dream of moving to an Igbo woman if you have no money. On the other hand, there seems to be a weird perception among a lot of Nigerians that Yoruba women are the opposite of all this.

We are ugly, hard as rock, don't deserve to be pampered, and most seriously, are as black as charcoal (just to be clear, it's okay to be dark).

There's a notable pattern on the internet of Nigerians being in disbelief that a beautiful woman they've come across is Yoruba, at least fully so.

I was at Garki market yesterday, getting my shoes repaired. The cobbler told me I was beautiful several times, to which I replied with thanks. He proceeded to say something in Igbo to me, and I let him know that I'm Yoruba. Why does this man say, "Yorubas don't have this kind of beauty?"

I just laughed wryly because what kind of backhanded compliment is that? Just to be clear, I'm not light-skinned, so I know this phenomenon isn't solely tied to skin tone but more so tribal perception.

I don't think the man had any ill intent, but these seemingly harmless compliments and comments are an interesting indicator of what and who we consider beautiful.

I don't think that it's a coincidence that a tribe of women that are stereotypically perceived to be light-skinned and, as the TikTok commenter said, "the Nigerian half-cast" are constantly elevated and pitted against a tribe of women that are known to be dark-skinned.

It goes without saying that my point is hinged on perception and not reality. All Igbo women aren't light-skinned, and all Yoruba women aren't dark-skinned. The goal of this post is not to elevate or demonize any particular tribe. Nigerian women of ALL tribes are beautiful.

This is all based on observation and anecdotal evidence, so maybe I’m doing too much, but I think it’s an interesting conversation. I think we could all be a bit more aware of the complex politics of attraction, especially regarding tribe, skin tone, and gender.

So ask yourself and a friend today, are Igbo women prettier than Yoruba women, or are you just colorist?

This my first post guys🤧. I hope you like it. I would love to hear about your thoughts and experiences with colorism and tribal perceptions

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