Sands

One of many,
With many in her,
Many that she nurses at her pillow
For fear that they may become.
Coddled in her castle.
Yet sands in their castle never glisten,
Never taste the heat that melts their inhibition,
Never glow till their glass is revealed,
Never get to see through their shortcomings
And fully come into themselves.
So she sidles in the sidelines,
Watching the woods timber
And the stones marble.
Till her own desires calcify her heart,
Steel her gaze,
And brace her feet
To chase the fire herself.

Her Stage

Her stage had once bloomed,
It boomed with intrigue and delight,
It blazed with the sparkles of countless eyes.
Her stage was beautiful,
Twas truly everyone’s spite.

But that spite had grown,
Inordinate and uncontrolled,
It left her young, naive heart a crone
And turned her stage into a thing unknown.

The wooden beams grew decayed,
The curtains hung rigid and frayed,
The steps now halted her pace
And the carpets denied her a place.

She no longer wanted to use her stage,
The Godlight offered her no more grace,
It illuminated shadows that frightened her gaze,
While her audience turned a blind eye to her refrain.

She no longer knew how to use her stage,
Her throat was tight with disdain,
Her limbs limp with pain,
Her muscles ached to demonstrate,
But she forcefully restricted their gait.

Now her stage lay desolate,
No audience,
No viewer,
No watcher,
No hearer.

So she abandons her stage,
Redirects all her rage,
And turns to that of another,
With whom no one else would bother.

There, her throat finds a gate
Through which it can escape.
Now her limbs find liberty,
Under the cover of anonymity.

Her muscles burst with delight ,
With no inhibition in sight,
She sang with all her might,
And danced without a single fright.

But looming in her eye,
Was the indignant twinkle of desire,
The twinkle fought for its own stage,
But she blinked dismissing it, assuaged.

Yet, the twinkle persisted,
It banged on her eye lids
And thumped against her irises,
Determined to have its abilities admired.

The twinkle watched, enraged,
As audience after audience,
Filled the stage of another,
Who did not bear the name of its master.

How swiftly did praises fill the air,
To deny her talent, one would not dare;
To the blind it was ever clear,
With a voice even the deaf could hear.

In this way did she persist,
Filling the stages of those she oft kissed,
Using her talent to show love
To all and sundry but herself.

But as surely as the sun,
Which rises once night is done,
This lass’ grieves will all be gone,
Her hesitations undone,
And her stage shall be hers once more,
Her splendour on display,
For all to admire and to adore.

P.S.

Today’s pair is for those of us finally ready to make our own futures, to drink the glass of absinthe, to chase our dreams and forget our shoes in the sand as we do so.

So cheers to that 🥂✨

~ Ruchi xxx.

19:57

You almost died today.

Funnily enough, I could have changed the date, altered the time, but that statement would still ring true. Because this is not the first time.

Not the first time you welcomed its burn in the presence of the matchmaker. The same matchmaker that would sell you flames and berate you for getting burned. Like he does not know his actions, or more probably, like he's satisfied with the revenue his matchmaking earns him. Revenue he can lord in your face to push you further down into self-loathing.

With how frequent the threats of your death, you'd think I'd be accustomed to it by now. On one hand I am, because now they are no longer greeted with tears (nowadays they are greeted with writings like this one), but on the other hand, it seems I am not, because I don't imagine I could make peace with such a reality if it manifested.

You almost died today.

But seemed to be the last person aware of it; how I wish I could be as ignorant as you.

And even when the morning dawns, your fabled dance with death would not so much as occupy a footnote in your memory. And when relayed by griots, you would not so much as award it an extended ponderance. Nor would you entertain medicines when cautioned by healers.

So we continue in the intermission, ready at the wings, until your next prance with the fire.

You almost died today.

And I dread the day I would no longer need the 'almost'.

To My Love’s Faithful Treasurer

Like leath’ry milk on eager tongues of babes,

Ophelia knew nothing of this love.

Verily, unto thee I say,

Ev’ryone yearns for such from above.



Willow trees enjoy not a space near here,

For with you, I am a dancing fountain,

Abundantly, you fill me with nothing but cheer,

With your love, my joy exceeds Ev’rest’s mountain.



Gimmicks know no way to find your favour,

Horus’ eyes which search with deep earn’,

Biancas preyingly prancing with glamour,

But Madonna’s worthy of your concern.



To your favourable dispose and to

My pleasurable repose, I rest assured,

No matter the day, maugre the weather,

You remain my love’s faithful treasurer.

Good Things Fall Apart

I guess this is goodbye,

Unexpected, or maybe it wasn’t,

Unwanted, but here it comes.



It didn’t ask.

It didn’t need to.

We gave it all the permission it needed.



I won’t say you caused it,

I won’t point the finger,

Because I know the fingers I put together,

When I prayed for it.



But no, I didn’t want it.

Or atleast not like this.

Or maybe I did.

Regardless, I have to tell you this secret:



I prayed not to lose you,

If only you were the one

He wanted me to give my love to.



I prayed that you’d do it yourself

So I wouldn’t hurt you,

Now history has repeated itself,

And the only person I have to blame

ls myself.



I love you.

These tears have shown me that I always will,

Though the pain is pungent,

As if you hated me still.



I know l’Il be okay,

Because He loves me back anyway,

Though a way forward is yet unclear,

I’lI now try to go wherever He steers.



And put a pause on my stubborn, eager heart,

That has yet brought me to this part,

Jon really said it best,

I guess that sometimes good things fall apart.

Always

I was always your lender,

And you, a debtor never satisfied,

I gave and gave as you asked,

Until I had no more money left to give.



I was always your tributary,

With a form so slight,

Still, I flowed and flowed into you,

Until I had no more water left to give.



"Forever and always,"

"Always and forever,"

You lied and you lied,

Until there were no more lies left to tell.



I always slaved away for your nourishment,

And you always ate to your fill,

You ate and you ate,

Until there was no more left to eat.



I was always hurling my love,

But you struggled to bear it,

Yet, I threw and I threw,

Until there was no one there to catch it.

P.S.

Hola pookies,

Today’s collection is from yesteryear when your girl was still a lover girl 😛 (still am a lover girl 😔✋🏾, just w a lil more sense 🙏🏾).

Hope y’all peeped the irony between the drawing and the first poem :)

Anywho, toodles ✨

~ Ruchi x.

Applause

The air is tense.

Eyes glimmering with suspense.

But this suspense is different,

It is aware, knowing,

Almost, expectant.



Countless claps thunder on,

Each with its beaming owner,

Strutting to the reward of their ardour.

I mirror the claps of my peers,

A silent petition to receive the same fervent clamour.



In reality, my heart holds no care

For the austere parades they share.

My stomach is the den of ferocious lions,

Roaring within are insatiable beasts,

Stilled only by the imminent feast.



My sweat was fueled by this moment,

My tears wiped by its prospect,

My energy topped up by its grandeur,

My distractions diminished by its prominence,

My adversaries shamed by its incomparableness.



It was a drug ever within my reach,

My dealers mercilessly generous,

My addiction swelling with each taste,

My appetite infinitely unquenchable,

A deliciously debt-less purchase.



The calendar greedily housed its magnificence,

A day that stood far above its peers,

A day as loathed as it was lauded,

It all depended who was questioned;

It’s princes or its paupers.



I had been blessed to be party

To its amply applauded royalty,

My throne dictatorial and unmoving,

As I watched numerous nobles deposed and imposed,

My bottom sat deeper into my throne’s cushioning.



This day unleashed in me mellowed mirths,

Unmatched even by the days of my birth,

Joys the crevices of my brain eagerly etched,

As my mind itched to relive it,

In prideful shadows of savoured isolation.



Level by level,

Qualification after qualification,

I sought it with renewed passion,

An exhilarating partner,

My mind’s faithful lover.



Silence



Buzzing soundlessness invades the air,

A knowing announcement lies

On its iridescent inciting wings.

The climax was here knocking,

Ushering in an expected end.



Teasings were butterflies to my pride-

The lions would be soon assuaged-

My harrowed humility a fading shroud,

Barely blotting out the crooks that hid

Excitedly at the nooks of my lips.



It was time



My petitions were answered,

My sportsmanship rewarded,

Thunders slammed my eardrums,

Now masochistic vessels of my hubris,

As claps quaked the hall.



If I was a model,

And this day, Fashion Week,

This was a runway I knew all too well,

My walk practised and perfected.

Yet I was an unused sponge soaking up the applause anew.



My feet glided to the stage,

My phalanges felt the leaves of my accolades,

Not enough.

A smile snaked across my face,

Contrasting the lions beneath my waist.



My appetizer would be a fill for most,

Quaint for me.

My feast was not over,

The lions still raged within me,

And I would not have my pride starve.



It was time for the main event,

Only, the winner was already set,

An outcome that did not shock many,

Least of all myself,

My crown awaited me.



It was my coronation day at long last,

A beacon of light among days past,

My crown sang my name,

And I lulled to its blues,

As its bedazzled rim embraced my scalp.



My pride has eaten its fill,

Though this drug wears off with a hasty thrill,

Numbing my senses from savouring the pill,

My teeth are bared but not in a scowl,

As I am soon again on the prowl.



My extravagant lover blurs my introspection;

A lonely hollow croons against my inclinations,

A whisper of a venomous void,

Concealed by amorous applause,

Sealed off by feline sentries.



It shall remain a void ever sealed,

An insecurity never healed,

For my applause is an ever-loving shield.

I

I.
One thing in my life
That does not involve
You.

Before you,
I laughed
Without a second thought,
I lived
Without caring who watched.

I was allowed to live
Without an ulterior motive,
To exist
Without a prerequisite.

I was allowed 15 minutes of fame,
Without having to share it
With your name.

Before you, I could be
Selfish,
Loud,
Reckless.

But most of all,
Before you,
I could be
Me.

Leave a comment

P.S.

Guys, I almost forgot I was a poet.

I opened my Medium back up to look for the first poem cuz of , and my heart lit up with such a golden shade of pride, remembering all the amazing poems I’d written. So I’m prolly gonna post some of ‘em and write some new ones too, so stay tuned 😛.

Also, guess what the first one was about 😛. Lmk if y’all want analyses as well, I’ve always wanted to analyse my poems 🤭.

~ Ruchi xx.

Yes, I'm young and living dreams,
In love with being noticed and afraid of being seen
                                                                            ~ No Complaints, Noah Kahan.

It was there, that feeling,
Packaged between bottomless bottles of blunders
and the preening underneath:
The desire to be felt,
But to let no sight persist.

You chase the highs of a cursory glance,
But curse any attempts at that preemptory dance;
The one weighed down by its nakedness
and wrought with your weaknesses.

So you searched deeper inside,
Into that abyss,
Willing that the unending dark
yield to you foreign flickers of light.
But as you trudged further down into your own darkness,
The light beckoned from above,
In the twinkle of your best friend’s eyes,
In the chipped tooth adorning your grandmother’s mouth,
In the forgotten highlight at the centre of your Bible.

The light called you outside to let their touch linger,
their knowledge deepen
and their sight penetrate.
Because you deserve to have all of you known
And they all deserve to know you.

So I will be young and living my dreams, delighted at being noticed, and in love with being seen.

~ with care, Ruchi xxx.

P.S.

Okay this is genuinely the most annoying thing that’s happened to me. I literally just thought up this poem/spoken word (imagining I was performing it on stage beside Noah Kahan 😭), and after i finish rattling off one of the greatest things I’ve ever uttered off the top of my head, I now started glazing myself instead of writing this p down IMMEDIATELY 😭. And to get my phone rn was wahala so I got down to get my laptop now I can barely remember jack 😭. I swear I even had more to say.

Just know what you are reading now is literally 30% of the beauty I had thought up. But a bird in hand is better than 10 in the bush I guess…except I already had all 10, then I set the bush on fire and scared the rest away 😭.

So note to self, please glaze post-post🙏🏾.

And I WILL be seeing this man this year!😭 Getting to say this with/to him would just be the largest, juiciest cherry on top : )

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But don't you know? There is no justice in the jungle. 

In October 2012, four students, Ugonna Obuzor, Lloyd Toku, Chiadika Biringa and Tekena Elkanah were murdered in cold blood in Aluu. Brutally beaten and burnt alive on the accusation of theft. Of phones. And laptops. Policemen were there, and happily ushered the boys to their muddy graves.

I say boys, because, as I now learn, Ugonna was only 18, Lloyd 19, and Chiadika and Tekena were only 20. Ugonna and Lloyd were even talented artists, free styling around the UniPort campus like rent was due every single day. The boys, of course, were innocent and were falsely accused by someone who owed money to Ugonna.

Yahoo boy dey really shout thief.

I learnt of their story about two months ago and almost couldn’t even write this. The slow dance with despair I’ve had since has been a strange one. Mourning people I never knew, but wholly felt and remembered all at the same time. I was only 5 at the time, blissfully unaware of the horrors being faced only 30 minutes away. Maybe it’s them being from Port Harcourt, or even being just minutes away from me. But the hunger and greatness that all too often made love in their bellies is a passion I’m sure many of us remember as well. And would rather burn the world down than see it be snuffed out by depravity.

Sorry to start on such a dark note, but these are indeed dark times.

Only 7 months prior, however, former governor of Delta State James Ibori was accused of stealing $250 million from state coffers. Two hundred and fifty million. Two hundred and fifty million. Not naira. Not kobo. US dollars.

Today, that would be about 342 billion naira. Maybe there is an unspoken competition amongst the cabal that rules us, because it seems Kyari had a fire in his belly to beat this record when he stole 210 TRILLION naira. Sorry, I had to capitalise that incase the difference wasn’t clear. That’s about 153 billion United States Dollars.

Whereas Kyari is now in Germany treating mysterious, phantom illnesses, Ibori had pled guilty in a London Crown Court in 2012 and was soon released after serving only 4 years out of the 13 years he was sentenced to. He was deported to Nigeria, where, of course, he served no further jail time.

Today, he lives peacefully in Abuja still enjoying rank and influence.

As you can see, all jungle no justice.

Now, anyone who’s read The Leader and The Led by Niyi Osundare, will know by now that leadership begins with the ‘followers’. Leaders are not beamed out of a spaceship onto each country. They are raised in a society, taught its values and soaked in its culture. As such, any rotten habits they consistently reproduce must point back to a rot in the people. And one rot in Nigerians as a people, is that we love to punch down. Any chance we get.

Myself included. I saw the results of one of my essays and hated that I couldn’t get a better score. But when I found out that score was the highest in the cohort, a giddy excitedness zipped all through my heart. Because, at least, I better pass my neighbour nau. All 203 of them.

More than half of Nigeria’s population lives in multidimensional poverty. So, it won’t be a shock to anyone that such a wealth disparity leads to further inequalities in the justice system. But unlike every other unequal capitalist society, where the proletariat sells their labour to survive, it almost seems as though in our case, they must sell their very souls to survive. And barely, at that.

That is the reason why no bureaucratic function can take place without a bribe, why there is no limit to the depths to which we can crawl for cash, and why some beings still claiming to be human would be so wholly ‘BATified’ as to throw away their living tomorrow for their survival today.

And don’t worry, Gbajagate will be left for another date, when I have the full gist.

In yet another baffling instance, instead of just the bourgeoisie being the culprits responsible for overly punishing ‘poor crime’, if you will, with us, the poor are the ones leading the charge. Take the Aluu four horror. No individual present in that lynching owned a Rolls-Royce or a Jeep, or could boast of a nine-figure bank account. But each was more eager than the last to sentence the boys to their own vile judgement.

When it comes to the brain bending amounts our ‘leaders’ take from us though, there is barely even a cough. It’s merely the next headline for a week or so, and the latest punchline in the comedy show of our lives. But no raging crowd foaming at the mouth to burn them at the stake. Just gaping mouths watching them eat us out of house, home, and future.

Of course, we have learnt nothing from 2012, because just a week ago, a one-man jungle set a boy ablaze in Bayelsa for allegedly stealing firewood. 210 trillion naira is missing, but let’s burn him for stealing firewood… Okay.

That boy is still fighting for his life in hospital.

Like I said, many of us have sold our souls to survive, because the same hands that rush at lighters to burn ‘petty thieves’ alive, are the same ones raised in exaltation whenever thieving politicians actually bother to visit the people they are supposed to serve.

On their mandate, I guess.

I usually end these having proffered some abstract solution of some sort. But to be honest, I’m still unsure about the origin of this problem: this uncanny relationship we have with power and wealth. Is it just the endless allure of money? Is it Stockholm Syndrome? Is this some form of PTSD?

I’m not fully sure yet. But I am sure of one way we can hold power accountable. By voting them out when they prove to us they are not serious.

INEC has extended voters registration to July 24th, and is set to make registration for new voters fully digital, without having to visit an office to complete biometrics. Possibly by tomorrow. Go and get registered now.

CVR.INEC.ORG

Oh, and NDC will be on that ballot.

~ always, Ruchi xx.

(And yes this article was laced with excerpts from that essay :)

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P.S.: This image was very purposefully curated x.

On the 24th of June, Nigerian rapper YCee went on the Afropolitan podcast to discuss his mental health, journey in music and of course, what he termed an ‘Olodo Uprising’. By now all our feeds have likely been inundated with different takes, memes and comments on this, so I’ve come to drop mine along with some food for thought.

I’ve gone to listen to the entire quote from the podcast (and honestly need to go back later to listen to the full thing) and first wondered:

Are we trying to accommodate the unintelligent? Or are they simply dancing to the tune we’ve since begun piping? Heck, are we the unintelligent whom they are merely accommodating and entertaining with their antics?

Okay maybe the last question was far, but you get the gist.

I think the ‘Olodo Uprising’ conversation has a wider space in the social media and pop culture discourse globally. As screen times rise and attention spans fall, the short funny, jarring or rage-inducing post becomes the most sought-after commodity. The issue isn’t just your resident olodo, it’s a worldwide rise in anti-intellectualism. In a world where ‘hawk tuah’ gets you a podcast, and ‘that’s massive’ gets you opportunities, it’s safe to say the Olodo Uprising has gone global, and it’s been at it for a minute. So naturally, the ever-existent olodos now get their time to shine. And some who might have been otherwise swayed, are incentivised to put on the same costume and join our troupe of jesters.

However, one would be remiss to pretend like the reward for academic achievement does not fall lower and lower each passing JAMB cycle. With regards to that, YCee’s comment about accommodating the ignorant does very much have its place. Lowering JAMB scores does nothing to prepare youth for an ever changing, ever demanding workforce and world at large. Our education system is actively being eroded by underfunding, outdated curricula, terrorism and yahoo/Peller culture. But with a nation such as ours that loves to slap on temporary solutions (to the poorest of the poor) onto deep rooted problems, such an antic is not suprising. And when yahoo and tiktok olodoism pay more than excelling in university, their rise is not mind-boggling.

Graduates leave school to meet joblessness or underemployment, with their first class certificates barely valuable enough to be a table mat. While, of course, our first lady encourages us to spear head the sales of akara, corn, kuli kuli and every food item under the sun, because God forbid her husband does his job and she stop handing out cars to her bum-licking sycophants.

Such a deplorable situation is the wind under the wings of those who claim that school is a scam.

In a way, you can’t fault them.

In a society like ours, where we have firmly placed money on the thrones of our consciences, anything which does not lend itself to the acquisition of money, and fast, cannot possibly have worth.

And this is precisely the reason you can fault them. And should.

We seem to have forgotten that the aim of school is not simply job acquisition. It is for character development, fostering curiosity, honing skills, social interaction and communication building, and helping people be learned enough to carry a conversation past ‘wyd’ and ‘nm’ for goodness sake. Nobody is saying education is the pièce de résistance when it comes to getting a stream of income, we all know by now that, at least in Nigeria, it is not. But not knowing how to string clauses together, or the history of the unfortunate state we call Nigeria, or how to even press Kapek calculator, is a thorn that can never be removed by the additional zeros in your bank account. Because no matter how loud your money is, your foolishness will aways be louder.

Yet Nigerian classism consistently rears its ugly head to praise rich fools (#CubanaChiefPriest).

Besides, education doesn't exist in a single, formal manifestation. Being educated could mean finishing at a university, college, polytechnic, or even completing an apprenticeship. Knowledge isn’t only found in the yellowed pages of a university library. I think what the Olodo Uprising really hits at is the slow death of the thirst for knowledge and the discipline to quench that thirst. No one can say an nwa boi is uneducated or an olodo, because he didn’t finish learning business administration in RSU. He took the time and effort to thoroughly learn his craft and can impart that knowledge. And his craft contributes to society in ways “that’s massive” never can.

Sorry, as you can see I’m still untying the gele that second hand embarrassment wore me during that God forsaken livestream…

Fortunately or unfortunately, the olodos and the distractions of the world will always exist; after all, everyone has their role to play in this life. That is not to say this conversation isn’t insanely relevant or that I don’t agree with YCee’s comments. It is and I do. But I say this to remind Nigerians that the ball is in our court, as it’s always been. We can choose to pedestalise, praise and pander to the olodos and olodo culture, or we can choose to finally lock the heck in and get our values and priorities right in this country.

E still get 210 trillion naira wey we dey find for Kyari hand.

So as I leave you with this article, I want to remind you to, as my cousin brilliantly says, ‘hold your curiosity’. Keep learning and keep asking, and stay in school kids, cuz e dey pay, in more ways than one.

~ Ruchi xxx.

P.P.S. don’t be an olodo, go read a book today 🙂‍↕️🫂 (I’m reading Estrangement by Elechi Amadi rn, what about you? :)

I can hear the song of the robin
I haven’t wrote my own in a long time.
                   ~ We Go Way Back, by Noah Kahan

Hi guys 😝!

I know, it’s been a minute, but I’m here, and that’s what matters :). And today we’re headed back to the couch.

Okay, so my birthday’s in exactly a week now, and I should be excited about that. And now, at least, I am. But that flicker only came yesterday morning. So I need to take you, and myself, through my mind before we get to this happy ending.

When I was much younger, my birthdays had been wonderful as far as I can recall. I remember for one, I think it was my seventh, my mom had gotten me this huge vanilla cake in the shape of a doll’s dress. And guess what? there was actually a Barbie doll at the top, so I got a free doll and a gigantic cake. The cake was literally so heavy we’d had to leave it in the downstairs living room.

In hindsight, I think that doll was actually Black as well, so big ups momma.

I still remember that evening. The lights were off downstairs, but there was still warm waning sunlight coming in from outside. I kept scurrying downstairs to get another slice. Even after we’d moved it to the fridge, each slice, colder than the one before, bore its own share of heaven.

Omo that cake!

I don’t even fully remember how it tasted, but I do remember it was the best cake I have ever had in my life.

After that, in Grade 3 or 4 (or maybe it was 5?) I was giddily awaiting another birthday, trying to probe my mom for clues. I remember at some point she asked me what my favourite ice cream flavour was, and I said strawberry and vanilla. And at the time I had recently broken out of the monopoly Chelsea had on my family and chosen to be a Manchester United fan (mostly because the club colour’s red, what can I say 🤷🏾‍♀️).

Next thing you know, I was at school on my birthday, in mufti (as was school tradition) and here comes my mom with a vanilla and red velvet cake. And of course, it had huge Manchester United stickers all over it! I swear I even got a second cake later that day, just for me, because I had to share that one with the class. When I tell you that red velvet cake was the best I’d ever laid my tongue upon, I tell you absolutely no lies. Afterwards, I even used the stickers to decorate my room door for the longest time.

Again, big ups momsi like mad. I swear I need to ask her who her cake plug was that year 😭.

June 23rd, 2018.

On this day, I was turning 11, and it was my first time celebrating my birthday in secondary school. Everything was amazing that day, honestly. Per custom, my friends had made huge cardboard birthday cards and even gotten the seniors to sign them for me, even the boys too. Every once in a while, I still go back to those letters in tears, to a time when I still anticipated my birthday with joy and not dread. I’d even enjoyed one of the last festive acts of being doused in water on your birthday, before our hostel mistress banned it for its ‘pagan origins’ 😭.

It was the cutest day. Until nightfall, or rather, sunrise.

At the end of the night, one of my friends had taken me to the bathroom to wash my feet and give me a pedicure. It was such a surprising act of love I couldn’t help but hold close to my heart. Unfortunately, I didn’t have long to do so, and by the next afternoon it would be yanked out of my chest.

The next day came, and the post-birthday jitters were still keeping me going. It was a Sunday, and we were in our Sunday wear studying at prep. I think it must have been a snack break. All I remember is somehow overhearing that friend telling someone how I was ‘feeling big’ because of my birthday and I’m not ‘the only one to turn 11’.

As e shock you na so e shock me o bro.

I think I’m only just now connecting the dots between that incident and the bullying at the time, but long story short, hearing that made me want to become smaller. From that day, especially on my birthdays, I would want to shrink so much that it didn’t feel like I was overstepping or being rude. And somehow, slowly, that translated into me not caring as much about my birthdays.

It didn’t happen overnight though, there were still birthdays I sort of enjoyed after that, though not as much as before. Come to think of it, maybe part of that jadedness is just growing up. In any case, my 16th birthday on the last day of WAEC was one that got close to those days of childhood bliss. Despite a lot of turbulence at the time from relationship politics, that day was pretty cool in my book. We’d written Catering Craft that day, and our teacher, the wonderful Mrs Nonye, had greeted me after the exam with a song and cake she’d baked me. I don’t even remember what it tasted like, but my belly’s still filled with love anytime I think about it.

But since that day in 2018, I’d created a formula in my head where, if I put my all into everyone else’s birthdays, then when mine came around, people would do the same for me and no one would think I was being self-centred. That mostly worked. Until I wasn’t in secondary school anymore and the curse of the summer birthday struck.

Being out of secondary school meant that not only did my birthday not fall within school time anymore, there was no longer any social contract mandating a huge signed birthday card from everyone. Suddenly, I felt like there was no point going the extra mile for people’s birthdays, because no one would care, or be around, when mine rolled around. And at least if I didn’t care too much for anyone’s birthday, including my own, no one could say I was being snobby, and it wouldn’t hurt when no one cared about mine either.

So I’d limit myself on their days to offering acts of service, long birthday messages, and a story post.

Selfish, I know.

Until Sewa and Naomi came along.

I met them during my A Levels, while they were doing foundation. That one year I had with them was the best I could have asked for. I found myself caring again. On Naomi’s birthday, Sewa and I worked together and got her a gift and Naomi and I did the same when Sewa’s came round. Even with mine falling outside term time, I’d somehow begrudgingly made peace with the fact that I wouldn’t be getting to celebrate with them. Though I’d be lying if I said a sulk or two weren’t had.

But then they called me downstairs one random day and popped out with a happy birthday song. As if that wasn’t enough, my eyes suddenly beheld gifts, like sentimental, thoughtful gifts. They’d heard my friend joke about how I kept my jewellery on my table, so they’d got me an organiser. They’d seen the sticky notes I’d kept on my bulletin board to remember what day I had football and societies, so they got me a planning board. And most of all, they’d suffered through every single Malcolm X-obsessed rant I had and got me the prettiest poster of him literally giving his babies (me) aura saladd 😭 😭.

Each of these gifts are right behind me on my wall as I write this and as I sleep and wake up every morning.

When y’all read this, I love you guys like mad♥️.

So back to yesterday morning. I was beginning to lose hope in my birthday this year, because again, a lot of my friends wouldn’t be around and neither of the bakeries I’d messaged were able to do my cake. I was honestly already kicking myself for even having hope in the first place.

But then a bakery finally agreed to make my custom, Hamilton-coded, cake; my mom sent a birthday gift; and I secured a spot to hang out with my friends. I even found out one of my friends would actually be able to make it!

Little wins. Actually, no, very big wins that really put me back on the horse and now I’m taking my birthday back into my own hands. By hook or by crook I will re-engineer my brain and fall in love with my birthday again.

I mean, I only have the rest of my life to, right?

I’m going to try not to get in my own head again. Going to try not to spiral and catastrophise when my mom mixes up the date with my sister’s again 🤣, or crash out when something doesn’t go to plan. I’m going to fall in love with my birthday again because that’s the day I got to be blessed with my family, friends and every person I will grow to love that I am yet to meet. Because I owe it to God and the twin brother who never came to be. So happy birthday in advance to us, hun. Happy birthday in advance to us ♥️.

This was more a sappy write than anything else, trying to lock back in here after my exams, and encourage myself most of all.

I just finished watching Teach You A Lesson, so let’s just say I’ve learnt a good one about asking for help when you need it. I think I’m getting better at doing that. Writing this was kind of my way of doing that, and it honestly made me feel a lot better. Thanks, ig :)

Plus see as the birthday is even fine sef 😭 ‘23rd June’. Haba nau, and I no wan enjoy am ke? As as how nau??

Manuchim’s missed you guys too btw. She’d say hi, but she’s busy reading atm.

~ Ruchi xx.

Disclaimer: the outcome isn’t pretty.
(And omo, Jesus wept!)

If you had been following up on my Substack from at least February to March, particularly my notes, you could trace an emerging pattern, a theme. Him.
It started with this one:

"Maybe we find love in the vulnerability. In the steady peeling away at each other's selves, dovetailing each layer, until we're joint and inseparable."
                                                                                                                16th Feb, 2026.

As you can see, a girl was in her feelings. Or maybe more accurately, in his. Holding what he felt, what he’d told me, what he didn’t, and leaving space for the thoughts and the melancholies to breathe and take form. I found comfort in the moments that showed that steady peeling and revealing. Like the moment he sent his first voice note, the one I’d been waiting for like a child on the night before their birthday, and it was right after we laughed about hating our voices played back.

I wasn’t used to that; receiving such baring of one’s self. I’d somehow always found the avoidant ones. The ones whose feelings and fears were unseemly things tucked away in a vault the Louvre would envy, a vault you had to guess at until your fingers grew weary and your heart grew faint.

Though it would be that I hadn’t truly escaped that torture.

Then, I wrote this:

But now, strangely, she thinks she can learn to love again, and not hurt herself along the way. She feels she’s tasted enough of the light to know where to spot the darkness, and when to spit out the poison. She knows she might taste the pain once again. However, this time at least, it won’t be because she chased it anyway, just to feel seen.
                                                                         'When Healing Comes' 23rd Feb, 2026

And taste I did.

So as you have read from the title, I told a boy I liked him. Scary enough, I know. But when the response I got was a vague appreciation of our bond, followed by a swift change of subject, I exposed myself to an even more brutal punishment. I called said individual to find out, genuinely, where his feelings lay. It was alright if he really did not like me, I just needed to know before I deluded myself any further.

His reply was basically an amalgamation of dressed-up “kind of’s” and “yes, but’s” because “we hadn’t met in person yet”. Topped up, of course, with his signature subject change. And just like that, as soon as the call was concluded, the tears began to flow. Followed closely by thoughts I knew all too well:

Is my heart shameless? Am i the fool? Do I love too easy? Or am I just on the receiving end of schemas he formed long before me? Is Jesus the only man that wants to fight for me?!

Then a new strand of theories popped up:

Maybe it’s daddy issues. Maybe my heart is just ever-searching but no one’s looking for her. Maybe deep down I’ve always felt abandoned by my dad? (though that would imply he was there in the first place). Maybe I’m searching for that in guys? Someone who won’t just look for me, but see me.

But no one ever truly sees me.

I thought, not so much that he was ‘the one’, but that he was at least a good precursor to ‘the one’. Someone who embodied and showed me that what I yearned for could actually exist in my life. We liked the same things, thought and overthought the same things, wrote and read the same things, had built up the same walls and broke them down to let each other into deeper layers we often left untouched and unapproachable. How do you achieve that level of vulnerability, that 1-am-crash-out level of vulnerability with someone, and still say you’re not sure? Was I foolish for being sure? For knowing that I liked him because he made me feel safe? For knowing I loved how we could talk about everything, the infinite and the infinitesimal? Because to be loved is to be seen, right? And he made me feel like he saw me and like I could let myself be seen. He made me feel heard, in the silly little moments when I wouldn’t even have to ask him to listen to a song I liked, in the full moments when he’d look up the synopsis of a book I was reading to ask me about it, in the kind moments when he asked me about a cold I’d hinted at the day before. In the ways he remembered, asked, cared. Was I the fool for knowing that in another world I could fall in love with the nights we’d spend on walks he’d drag me out to, only to lay on the grass, fingers intertwined? For knowing that liking him felt different? Because I felt healed this time. Ready.

How could one not fall for everything she’d wished for? For everything that seemed perfect? Well, per usual, nothing was perfect. And I could not be heard.

Did I hear his tune or was I just listening to the song I was playing all along? Maybe he was just loving with his brain and I was loving with an all too damaged heart. A heart that was simply latching on to another source of anxiety because that’s all she knows; pain and discomfort. Because she’d learned that the calm is really just the storm on a delayed flight, and she liked to welcome her on the tarmac.

They say if a man knows he knows, right? And he didn’t, so maybe that’s all the answer I need.

Damn my yearning heart.
But at least, as my friend told me, it is better to speak than to die.

March, 2026

Remember when I said earlier that, per usual, nothing was perfect and I actually still couldn’t be heard? Well a lovely Tuesday this past month is exactly why.

To cut an infuriating story short, I, unfortunately, crashed out to him about how I thought I had ADHD, because I was spending way too long finishing a task my friend completed in under an hour. This was met with what felt like a dismissive response from him (although the jury is still out on this one). After making my sour feelings known the next morning, his potentially Chat GPT-ed apology culminated in him making clear that he could not always ‘jump into a deep conversation the second it happens’, because he has a lot of stuff he’s trying to do, though he does ‘value our friendship’ and wants me to be able to talk to him about things like this…

In case you missed it, the highlights are that I’m a mumu and we’re just friends so I should chill out 😃. And of course, the match wouldn’t have been complete without a topic change snuck in in added time!

I may never be able to fully articulate to you all the nuance, gestures and past conversations that made that response such a slap in the face, but just know the face is still bruised mehn. Because when me I was doing jumping jacks into his own deep conversations the moment they started, I was high nau? Abi na me wey just dey jobless? God abeggg.

For the record, this was the third time I felt like he wasn’t being serious with a deep conversation I was bringing. So you know, like they always say, third time’s the charm.

After stewing for hours before responding to his subject change asking about my lectures, the communication concluded. He gave no response, and I gave him (or more so, myself) a timeline.

By the next Tuesday, he was blocked.

As a hard PH babe, as much as I’m a lover girl, business had to be stood on and I refuse to be whined.
In the end, at least, I knew this time to spit out the poison before my tongue went too numb to move.

And again, if you’ve been following up with my notes of recent, you’ll also notice that I finally came to terms with his issue:

I had somehow found another avoidant, so I did what anyone else would do. I cried, drew the pain away and lived happily ever after, I guess 🤣

* I originally wrote the first part of this post in the second person, like an un-mailable letter addressed to a beloved recipient. But the you’s have been scrapped, because I choose to no longer hold space for someone who did not do same. The level of emotions those “you’s” suggested no longer exist. I’d started this post in tears right after baring my mess of a heart. Now, I’m writing this post-block, having sealed that mess right back up and laughing at my own jokes (cuz yes, I’m that funny).

But I’ll still leave this with you all because there’s too much literary brilliance here to be wasted on a confused boy. (and also mostly cuz my friends said I should :).

~ xoxo Ruchi 😘.

Okay so the news cycle has done its thing and we’re back again with some natural hair discourse, courtesy of @sshoz on Tiktok. This time, like every time it seems, the conversation is about Black women’s need to to be in and out of wigs (and even braids), and neveer coming to terms with their natural hair.

So I’ve been active like mad!

One thing I love about this conversation is that it has finally crossed to the shores of the motherland 😭🙏🏾. Because I must say, being a natural hair girly active in this discourse, I find it so discouraging that many a time Nigerian women are not as locked into this convo as we should be. Whenever other Black people are talking about this conversation and moving forward (see Côte d’Ivoire nau), we still seem to wallow!

The discourse has brought up the usual tropes of back-and-forths, and I think they roughly fall under 4 excuses that need to be discussed:

Excuse #1: “It’s a protective style”

Well yes, and no. A cheeky little glue-less wig that allows you to actually wash, moisturise and oil your hair underneath every other week, can be amazingly protective. But most people aren’t doing that. Even if the wig is glue-less, many women are still just forgetting their hair underneath and not taking care of it. And let’s not even get started on them final boss frontals. Not only are they not protective because people often leave them in for months at a time, abandoning their own hair, but frequent frontals are actively destroying a generation’s hairlines. Besides, why can’t your hair be grown and protected underneath a type 4 wig? That’s the real gag, because if you loved your hair type and protection is all you sought, your cupboard would be lined with wigs of a texture no looser than 4a (maybe 3c if we’re being generous).

But that’s not what we see is it? And you don’t hate your hair? Right…

This also brings us to the back-to-back braids. We’ve at least come to the consensus that back-to-back knee-length boho and lemonade braids are not in the least bit protective (though of course, a slay has to be slayed). But much of this critique applies to braids as well, especially with the current ‘bussdownification’ of braids.

Again, as Sshoz stated repeatedly, the problem is not just wearing the wigs, but the frequency with which we do so begs the question, why? As Yoruba Barbie on Tiktok asks, at what point does it stop being about protecting your hair and start being about hiding your hair? We all know the wigs eat down, but if you feel like your hair only eats in a wig, then there’s a problem somewhere.

Although, if you asked me, I’d say death to the Nigerian wig industrial complex, but that might just be my intrusive thoughts getting the better of me.

Excuse #2: “Stop policing Black women”

I hardly think it’s sane to term a movement that asks you to exist as you are ‘the policing of Black women’, especially since it is not forcing you to never wear a wig again till you die.

No one ever said the body positivity movement or advocating against bleaching creams were policing our bodies. And these movements all have the same thing in common: embracing your features and rejecting what I think Fela would also term colo-mentality. Mind you, the ‘policing’ is rebutting the harmful narratives Black women themselves push about 4c hair.

All the ‘my 4c could never’s should actually NEVER find meee😭 or the ‘4c hair is (insert negative description)’ bandits. Whole time what they hate about their ‘4c hair’ are basic things one would expect from their hair. Like have you considered, per chance, that you just…do not like having hair? Stay with me now.

Or you just do not like having Black hair? Like if you don’t wanna be Black just say so 😭
In any case, going bald is always a choice. I mean, shey the wigs will even lay better like that sef.

But when it’s time to lay the wig, then suddenly everyone has ₦150k and 3 hours to spend on an install, with their hot comb, straightener, curling iron, wig glue, headband, holding spray, rollers, serum, alcohol rub, wig cap, scissors, tweezers, etc, up and grateful and ready to use? Okay, cool.

Plus after all that, you still have to regularly wash and condition the wig like…actual hair.

Excuse #3 (the laziest one of all): “It’s your tone“

Now at the start of this I mentioned that we’re talking about this at the moment because of a creator named Sshoz/Sharon on tiktok. Here’s Part 1 of her series, so you can examine her ‘tone’ for yourself. Somehow, in a bid to dodge her point, and the accountability that comes with accepting said point, the new deflection is to call out her tone as the reason for rejecting her message.

Genuinely miss me with the ‘it’s your tone’ allegations. What I like to think of as the 2nd wave of the natural hair movement (where it became more mainstream), has almost 2 decades under its belt. I’ve been natural for about 8 years now and locked into the natural hair space for 6. I have seen the gentle parenting that nudged a generation into loving their hair, but there are still ‘wiggers’ (as Sharon calls them) who refused to listen even to that ‘softer’ tone.

Like she said in the video, even with all that cho cho cho, have you changed??😭It really just gets to a point.

And for all the ‘tone’ they’re complaining about, omo she better pass a lot of us (myself included) 😭. Because I’m actually fed up. The rhetoric some people spew get me so angry. Do you actually sit to think how what you’re saying on Tems’ Black internet could damage a whole generation of girls? After you finish ranting, we should now still come to be padding your bum bum and begging you to love yourself like you gave that same care to other people with 4c hair when you posted? It’s that same rhetoric that gives hairdressers in Nigeria the impetus to not know how to do virgin/natural hair and then to be complaining if, God forbid, they have to make the hair that naturally comes out of somebody’s scalp (their scalp too!).

Like only God knows the fever and headache that shrouded me after I made my hair last summer, because I went with my hair shrunken the woman almost snatched my prefrontal cortex in the name of stretching my hair 😭.

Excuse #4: “It’s not that deep” …. actually nevermind, this one is the laziest abeg.

This one was so lazy I contemplated even putting it on the list at all, but I think she may be more insidious than all the excuses that came before her. She takes on other forms as well, you may know her as “plantain conversations” or “let people do what they want with their hair”. And, concerning the latter, I have to say, while we aren’t really arguing paternalistic responses to the situation, when we are talking about larger societal issues, using an idiographic rebuttal, as if those individual cases are not largely influenced by said societal issue being argued, is a tad bit… lazy.

yes, I know, I’m loving this word today, it’s the nicest one I can think of atm.

When people say the current natural hair discourse is “not that deep” and wearing wigs (24/7, mind you) is a “choice” all I have to say is that if your choice is so deeply dictated and influenced by societal (or real any) pressure, then it may not really be a choice anymore, I fear… At least not in the way you think.

And that influence may not always be conscious.

Thinking back to before I transitioned, so when I was about 10 and younger, I don’t think I fully registered that I had been living in a world of the creamy white crack that is relaxers and roasting my strands. It was a routine so firmly bolted on to every other month that I never second-guessed why exactly it was I did them. But that was when I was 10. For the adults in Sshoz’ comments to still be so proud of choosing any and everything but their hair at their big age, in this big ass 2026, is actually embarrassing.

I couldn’t even articulate this any better, this post by meziha explains why it is precisely that deep.

I think the sadder part even, is that many of the wiggers in the comments using one of the aforementioned excuses are grown women. As much as we’re all aware of the societal conditioning and institutional racism that brought us to this point, you reach a certain age in life where your active participation in such structures demands greater accountability and, ultimately, change. You have a responsibility to yourself and other Black women, to question the harmfulness of what you take part in. As one commenter put it, our choices do not exist in a vacuum.

The same way we would side eye a Black man claiming that him only liking lighter skinned women is his “preference”, and so automatically void of colourism somehow, is the same way we should be second guessing how much texturism and anti-blackness play a role in the choices we make and the patterns we form that inherently demean our hair.

In all of this, at least, people are actually beginning to wear their hair out. I saw a video of a girl and her friend locking in after Sshoz’ video. So another win for Blackness I guess 🙃.

Leave a comment

~ Ruchi xx.

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Okay, So I know I may have said I would not be bothering with the brand… but curiosity got the better of me, and luckily I’m not dead yet :). I decided to put on my little journalist cap and query the very mind that brought us Wigvon, and here’s how it went.

The Interview:

• How do you want people to approach your brand?

“I would love people to approach my brand with respect knowing that it represents quality, and purpose. I hope they feel welcomed, understood, and inspired, not just to engage with the products, but also to connect with the values behind the brand. In a nutshell, to see Christ.”

The first question was innocent enough, and so was its response. For the most part, I agree, people should approach her and her brand with respect, and I’m sure the products are of a reasonably good quality. The tension, however, begins to show in the second…

• What would your response be to those who claim your brand’s product is incompatible with Nigerian women learning to love themselves and their natural hair, and seeing themselves in Christ?

“Our brand is not about replacing or rejecting what God has given. What we offer here is choice and confidence in who God has called you. Wigs do not define your worth, God does. Wigs are simply just a tool for expression, not a measure of your identity in Christ. However, our goal is to use this as a tool for edification and also to encourage modesty with how you present yourself.”

Now, I feel this response contradicts itself, especially the first two sentences. The ‘choice’ consumers are being offered is one that explicitly rejects what God has given them, i.e. type 4 hair. Although, I suppose, this leads us to a deeper conversation of why we wear wigs in the first place. There is definitely something to be said about the experimentation and exploration wigs afford you, especially when they’re different to your hair type. Choosing to wear a non-textured wig does not automatically signal self-hate, but it would be wilfully obtuse to suppose that the majority of Nigerian women who wear wigs, the women to whom Wigvon is marketed to, do so because they are simply exploring, and not because they consciously or subconsciously hate, demean and/or do not care to understand their natural hair. At some point, we need to look up and notice when our individual decisions are dictated by and contributing to an anti-black narrative.

Hoping to see if we would ever be presented with ‘choices’ that at least reflect what we’ve already been given, I asked:

• Could we expect to see any type 4 textured wigs set to be released?

“I can’t say for sure yet, we’re taking it one step at a time. But stay tuned for what’s to come, as the Holy Spirit leads.”

The first thought in my mind was cop out.

Clearly, textured wigs are not a priority. Why, you might ask? Because the status quo in Nigeria does not value its own features. As a society we reward based on proximity to wealth and whiteness, so it wouldn’t even be a smart business decision to prioritise type 4 wigs. But something in the last sentence just bothers me. Wouldn’t the Holy Spirit lead one to prioritise making decisions that shifted the current rhetoric? Decisions that didn’t align with business norms? That helped Nigerian women appreciate their own hair texture?

I mean Matthew 5:13-16 right?

Probing her motives a bit more, I asked about the narrative she would like to leave behind with her brand.

• What do you hope to be your brand’s legacy?

“I want it to be remembered as a brand that uplifts, teaches modesty, and points women back to their identity in Christ.”

At this point, the natural question would be how? Obviously, at least in my opinion, the wigs themselves do not point women back to their identity in Christ, so I had to ask:

• Other than through their names, how do your wigs hope to represent purity in Christ for Nigerian women?

“Purity in the general sense is alignment with God. I think it’s where I was misunderstood.

Purity means having good intentions, clean values, and not building something with corruption, vulgarity, compromise, profane words, or profane sounds. Purity in understanding that your outward beauty should be an expression, not your identity. It shouldn’t make you feel less than who God has called you to be.

So basically, we are selling that consciousness.

That’s why the brand is intentional about the things we push out, our captions, the kind of words we use, etc. We don’t use demeaning or profane marketing just to sell. And that’s why we add things like scripture cards, affirmations, and things that point you back to God.”

Essentially, it seems that it’s the production and not the product that is Christian (at least in my view). So there’s a discussion to be had about whether one can truly exist without another, if your brand is to be termed “Christian”. Can your production be Christian and the product not be? Is the product just neutral and not actively un-Christian?

If you asked me, I’d say “No, sir! No sir! No sir!” (iykyk)

For one, I think the product and its marketing is inherently demeaning. Especially when many of the videos featured women with natural hair in what we like to term its “undone” state, then putting on straight wigs. But hey, maybe I’m just splitting hairs.

Thus came the most pressing question of the interview:

• Do you think there could be something damaging in the way your brand pairs the idea of rebirth and purity with non-natural wigs?

“Okay, to clear the air. “Rebirth” is a word God gave me to signify a fresh start for the brand.

I understand why some people might question pairing rebirth and purity with wigs. But like I stated up there, for the brand, it means starting fresh in Christ. It’s not that I wasn’t a Christian before, but now, being intentional, proclaiming my values, and honoring God in every detail of how the business is run.

The faith elements; biblical names, scripture cards, and affirmations, are meant to inspire and edify, not to suggest the wigs themselves convey holiness. I’ve never claimed the wigs are ‘Christian’ or ‘holy.’”

If you consider the air cleared, there you go.

But I couldn’t help but think that my question was somewhat dodged. The issue, to me, is not simply that purity was paired with wigs. It is that purity was paired with non-textured wigs. With the same wigs Nigerian women have been told is preferable to their own hair. With the same wigs some Nigerian women cannot be caught dead without, because they’ve been taught to hate their hair. The issue is not the wigs themselves, it is the texture of the wigs.

Following the end of the interview, rather unsurprisingly, the views expressed in my first post on this matter have not changed. I think the brand’s marketing is damaging. But I also think the proliferation and marketing of wig brands in general in Nigeria is incredibly damaging as well. The brand can simply be seen as a product of its environment. What makes it particularly hurtful is the added layer of proposed Christianity.

In any case, my purpose with this article is not to incite outrage against one wig brand. Perhaps, if anything, it would be to incite outrage against the systems we exist and continue to participate in. Like I asked before, I’d hope that more of us learn to love our hair, and question what we consider beautiful, pure and put together.

~ As always, Ruchi xx

I’ve been eyeing the thought of writing on natural hair topics on here, so I figured why not start with the Nigerian-based “Holy Spirit” inspired wig brand Wigvon, with its message of rebirth, starting afresh and remembering who you are in Christ. Far be it from me to believe that its purported foundation is truly Christ, simply because the wigs are named after women from the Bible.

Genuinely what are we even doing?

“The Christian shoemaker does his duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes, because God is interested in good craftsmanship."

~ Thomas Cromwell

Honestly, there is no better way to put it. Because we cannot seriously be expected to be swayed to hail this brand as Christian just because the 30 inch buss down we are being sold is named Ruth, can we? We are supposed to believe that living out 2 Thessalonians 1:12 and embodying purity in Christ with what we wear somehow involves imported wigs?

Nigeria still wallows!!!

It’s genuinely the effrontery of it for me. Why should it ever be marketed that purity in Christ can be achieved by hiding the very hair He placed and counted on your head? I should remember who I am in Christ by wearing a bone straight wig named Deborah? For God’s sake, if we want to even be ridiculous, at the very least where are the type 4 wigs? abi that one no pure?

So not only is the brand vainly appealing to Christian women for sales, but it does so brazenly carrying the implication that rebirth must come in a bundle of synthetic (non-textured) hair. It suggests that we, as BLACK women, can remember who we are by subjecting ourselves to WHITE notions of beauty. Oh sorry, not white actually, lest I forget, they’re actually Burmese, Vietnamese and Cambodian curls, so that actually means it’s not anti-black…

The more I sit down to process the absurdity of this brand and its message, the more irked I actually get. The idea that selling Nigerian girls and women with type 4 hair, type 1 and type 2 hair wigs is some how representative of spiritual rebirth or growing closer to who you are in God is definitively insane to me. As much as part of me wants to see the innocence in it, wants to appreciate the cuteness of attaching little Bible verses and character analyses to wig orders, there is no changing the emptiness of it. I mean the devil masquerades as an angel of light, right? And maybe she didn’t wholly conceive how insidious this branding was when she set out on this venture, but she is still throwing another cog into the gears that work to oppress Black women, especially in Nigeria.

Now let’s talk about the perceived and perpetuated ‘impurity’ of our natural hair.

Honestly, after watching her intro video on TikTok and scrolling her Instagram, I’m convinced this genuinely has to be ragebait and she’s using all this one to market her brand (she was even liking all the hate comments 😭). Like I’m not even just convinced, that genuinely has to be the case. This is not a new brand, this is just new branding. I am only bothering with this because, ragebait and marketing aside, this brand is only echoing notions that continue to rule the minds of many Nigerians.

To quote her own Tiktok caption:
”If you believe in becoming — becoming better, becoming new, becoming whole — then you already understand Wigvon.”

Someone actually pour me water.

Why, in the gigantic 2026 are we still associating growth, improvement and wholeness with non-textured wigs? To echo a sentiment I’ve shared before, Nigeria’s debilitating classism will never cease to amaze me. Apparently, the less Black and more expensive your wig is, the ‘purer’ and ‘more established’ you are. So to continue to feed the beast that is social approval, people still force themselves to buy to wigs that could have paid yearly rent for a 3 bedroom apartment in Obio-Akpor.

Apart from our insatiable classism, one has to ask, why do we still hate ourselves? At the root of it we can blame Britain and the white man, yes. But they are no longer our reality (obviously not discussing neocolonialism). We do not necessarily need to conform to euro-centric beauty standards as a means of survival anymore. By now, we only have ourselves to blame because we reinforce and project this evil mentality on one another. We continue to see everything Black as impure, as worthless. We continue to chase ideals that were built to destroy us, and we run into it with a smile.

I have a feeling I’m going to be saying a lot more on this topic, so for now, all I ask is that we start to love our natural hair. Not just when it’s straight, not just when it’s long and not just for 2 months out of the year. Your hair is beautiful and pure. It’s fearfully and wonderfully made, and I promise you, when God numbered your strands, He wasn’t counting the ones on HD lace.

Now I’m going to go back to twisting my Black hair, because that is who I am in Christ — a Black woman.

~ Ruchi xx

P.S. At some point, we will also need to have the discussion about the rampant anti-blackness in secondary schools, both state and private (shoutout to GIS 😃).

This post was inspired by Essie Muonwem’s video on the same topiccc 🎀🎀(natura__essie on Youtube)

Creature

The creature in me sidles
To crooked and callous beats,
To drained dreams of princes
And abandoned hopes of retreat.

Darkness ambled through her limbs,
Tendrils seizing her throat,
Death sneaking beneath her nose
The scent of fallen nymphs.

Love to her was a wicked master,
A beckoning though the fog,
Eluding her bruised grasp,
Only to entice her evermore.

Even when healing arrived
And light cleansed her vision, 
She still spurned Love,
And feared to have it revived. 

So when she stands and flows,
Ebbs and breathes,
She waits and calls
For his boat to taste her seas.

But she is never moving,
Leaving her dam plugging her peace,
Lest she be known
And loved again.


Aruchi

How do you know when you’ve healed? Is it when you no longer bleed when you peel off the scab? Or rather when you no longer even think to pick the scab?

A heart can learn to love rather easily. What is much harder is relearning to love another in the same way it was once scorned for doing. Mine is a heart that had learned to chase its killer. A heart that’d learned to long for the bitter taste of a familiar poison and relish its burn, because that poison is all she had known, and darkness had been her sole comforter. The darkness had weaved itself in between the seams of her ventricles, a partner passed down between generations, from mother to cub, ravishing everything it tasted.

But now, strangely, she thinks she can learn to love again, and not hurt herself along the way. She feels she’s tasted enough of the light to know where to spot the darkness, and when to spit out the poison. She knows she might taste the pain once again. However, this time at least, it won’t be because she chased it anyway, just to feel seen.

*I wrote this listening to How Long, How Low by Chance Peña and Hayd, so I was kinda in a mood writing this 🤣. Lowkenuinely feels a bit heavy 😭 and may or may not be based on a true life story 😃.
Anywhosies, long time no write, so enjoy :)) (Also GASSED because this is my first poem in a minuteeee, and I still got it😝💁🏾‍♀️)

~ Ruchi xx

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I’ve been watching a lot of Riverdale, and doing a lot of thinking. Naturally, I’ve gotten into a headspace similar to Betty and Jughead’s, and have been acting this out on many occasions, so permit me to carry you along a Jughead-esque thought rant.

I’ve always wondered how people make the transition from being a probably pesky kid to being a properly evil person in adulthood. I mean, you know people when they’re younger. How does the little kid you met in primary school turn into a vile monster when you all grow up? Does the moniker of adulthood somehow open gates permitting one to venture into a darkness formerly unknown? Or has the passage of time all along crafted a monster under your very nose? And maybe, you always knew it was coming. Or maybe the transition had been set in motion since birth, or at least since before you knew them, and all you were was a witness to a headlong train, without knowing it was already set on a crash course.

I find it morosely interesting to think about. How does a child grow into a monster? Why can’t the very depths of evil we are all capable of simply be the thought of skipping school or work or cheating during an exam? Or are these too merely juvenile manifestations of the same evil, perhaps in preparation? I always like to think back. Peer with me into, for example, a corrupt politician’s childhood. Granted, they may have been groomed for such darkness from a rather vulnerable age, but I can’t help but think that there must have been a moment, many moments even, where we may peek into their childhood and see a little kid playing, wholly unaware that their future lay blood-soaked and marred by the very hands we see tossing paper balls at their classmates. When you’re young and innocent, you can never guess what beast you may turn into. Or maybe there’s some of us who can.

In any case, I often find myself mourning a loss of innocence whenever I peer into the youth of a monster. Little did many a young child know, their machinations and obsessions would be far from white picket fence dreams.

This would be sorely ironic if I fell to similar temptations, but hey, God forbid🤣.

~ As always, Ruchi xx

Okay I know usually you sit on my bed, but today we’re going to need to move to the therapist couch… it’s gonna be a long session.

The other day i had my friends in my room for a sleepover. And no, there wasn’t a big fight that prompted this rant. Not with them at least. But as the night went on and I found myself micromanaging little movements and cleaning up every drop of coke and piece of pepperoni, I kept coming to the same conclusion. I might be a control freak. And still, I think I might know why.

Now you’re going to have to take a wee trip with me down memory lane, so let’s imagine we’re being hypnotised on the couch or something and we fall asleep 🤣. Deep in the recesses of my mind are pivotal moments in my childhood I can point back to as the origin of one fear or vice or the other. Today’s culprit is actually not one singular moment, but a string of behaviour – patterns if you will – that has shaped my relationship with my property.

As the youngest of three siblings, I pretty quickly had to get used to the fact that my stuff was going to get used and borrowed without much care for my permission. Maybe little me would have been fine with that if it wasn’t simultaneously drilled into my prefrontal cortex that I absolutely had to get permission from my older siblings to use their stuff (as you can tell, this may or may not still be a bit of a sore spot for me). Imagine you just finished begging your older sister for her Nintendo, only to turn around and find your brother off with your toy without asking. I was going insane, always having to reiterate to them that they had to ask for my own stuff too. I want to say that at some point little me won that court case and finally got them to start asking, but I fear the damage had already been done.

Fast forward to today, where I don’t have to live or put up with anyone not asking for my stuff (and also being able to have stuff that aren’t hand-me-downs), I think my body still has sort of a stress response to people being in my own space or using my things. Once upon a time, I used to be really generous. Like unthinkingly generous. I like to think I still am pretty generous now, but a big chunk of that part of me got spurned, and hasn’t learned to love since 🤧. Oh. Wait sorry I think I started talking about something else at the end there, lol, who said that? Anyway, now I feel like I go through a thousand different reasons to not lend someone an item, even though I really don’t just want to be stingy for the sake of it. And when other people are in my space I feel the need to micromanage everything; where they drop their stuff, what they move, where they sit (I’m actually usually relatively chill about this, as long as they are far from my pillows). I’m not even a germaphobe or neat freak by any stretch of the imagination, but I have a system. There’s an order to my madness and I simply do not like that order being disrupted (…I like to think i do not have mild OCD, for the record).

So yeah, hopefully that makes sense to you guys and I didn’t just psych-speak myself into going down this train of thought and believing this 😀. And for any of my friends that have witnessed or been victims of this behaviour, it really wasn’t you, it was me 🤣.

This may or may not become a series 👀, because there’s quite a bit of psychoanalysing I do to myself, so get used to the couch hun :) Oh and happy new month 💕.

~ Ruchi xx

Okay the subtitle may or may not have been hyperbolic, but you get the message nonetheless.

By now, we’ve all heard our favourite (me included) ‘nepopiano’ song, How Far by No11 and Ajay Bobo, and while that isn’t the main focus of this little think-piece, it’s worth keeping in mind. As the song keeps making rounds on tiktok, it’s managed to surge nepobabies to the forefront of Nigerian youth culture. And I’m not even talking about the nepobabies themselves, I’m talking about the accounts that have taken it upon themselves to research, analyse and rank the net worth and genealogy of the top whatever number of nepobabies in Nigeria.

Like can we be so for real in this 2026?🤦🏾‍♀️

To be fair, I can’t say I’m necessarily surprised. As an immensely classist nation, we’ve never really stopped being obsessed with the rich and their offspring, but this song seems to have added another layer to the romanticisation of being a nepobaby, and has given tiktok accounts (none of whom are nepobabies I assume) a new vessel to highlight this. Frankly speaking, there’s nothing inherently wrong with being a nepobaby, I mean we don’t choose the families we spawn into, but the hyper fixation on the wealth of various nepobabies, without any attention or appreciation being given to the time and hard work their parents *may* have put in to amass said wealth, creates this pressure for mapo and lapo babies (which I recently learnt from are middle and lower class kids 🤣) to live luxuriously instantly and amass wealth out of thin air, especially when said nepobabies are adults who have no talent or work of their own.

Like I said before, not shading the nepopiano boys, I think How Far is a great song actually.

Our generation is already obsessed with instant gratification, paired with this nepobaby fantasy, this kind of mindset lends itself to the rise of “pablos”, “iyawo pablos” abi “pablesses” 😭, “bombers” and “yahoo boys”, because we all want to live fake life by any means necessary. Honestly all the fake life doings and posts is part of a whole other conversation about us always wanting to ‘do pass our neighbour’, but let me not digress.

In none of these tiktok posts do you even see the occupation of these nepobabies, just who they’re the son or daughter of, as if that one na work 😭. Granted, their family name must have played a huge part in getting them to where they are today, but if we’re going to obsess over them, can we at least appreciate their own work and livelihoods too? At least that’s something remotely realistic for the rest of us to aspire to.

In case it hasn’t been made clear enough already, the reason this may or not lead to (or continue) the downfall of Nigeria, is two fold:

From an economic point of view, if everyone is more obsessed with fake life doings than actually working, people are going to keep up their lifestyle by borrowing, gambling, or more insidiously, defrauding. If the most able demographic is not working or innovating, the economy will stall. Not to mention the damage that the cybercrime alone does to the economy.

From a social standpoint, it creates a toxic and unsustainable mentality of feeling the need to always show up as a ‘spender’ or a ‘mover’, when the only thing moving is the choice of friend to borrow from that week. It creates this weird youth culture of unspoken peer pressure and not questioning the source of wealth as long as it’s there. And it makes people feel like they can’t confidently exist in certain social circles or spaces if they can’t go band for band with everyone else.

And honestly, if people won’t befriend you because of how much money you have, they weren’t looking for a friend anyway, they were looking for an investor.

To wrap this up, I just want to remind everyone reading that it’s okay to not be able to afford things. Your papa no be dangote, and it’s genuinely fine. If the restaurant is too expensive, don’t go. If you have that special item on your wishlist that’s way too expensive right now, save up your allowance and/or salary, and treat yourself to it for your birthday maybe. If e still no reach, yamski it is still okay. You no be Father Christmas; it’s not by force to buy everything.

Alrighty then, thanks for coming to my room again.
Till next time, toodles✨

~Ruchi xx

I’d been messing about with the idea of starting to write on Substack. Now on the last Friday in January, we’re finally here (it’s never too late to make a start on a resolution, huh). But before I talk too much let me explain to you who “I” is.

My name’s Aruchi (I’m Ikwerre) and I write poems. I actually started posting them on Medium about 3 years ago now (crazy I know, we really are getting old ), but lately I haven’t been able to put pen to paper to create a proper poem in ages.

Shameless plug: you should still go check out my poems on Medium :)

But, I have gotten ideas of things to talk about that in another life would have made their way to my youtube channel as video essays. That other life may or may not materialise this year, but in the meantime, I couldn’t let these thoughts only sit with my teddy bear and the walls of my room, so I’m bringing them here, to my substack aptly named Ruchi’s Room.

Reintroducing myself here kinda feels like talking to someone new after a breakup (both of which I haven’t done in about 3 years), so forgive any weirdness or missing information. If you stick around long enough though, you might be able to fill in the gaps :).

So welcome to my humble abode, and like I said in my bio, yes, you may sit on the bed... just not on my pillow.

~ Ruchi xx