Your name was probably one of the many options your mum told her high school best friend on a random walk back home from school.

Her friend, Tise, says, “I think I’ll name my child Joke.”

And your mum mentions all the names she had planned. One of them eventually makes it onto your birth certificate, alongside the other names your grandfather thought would look cool on you.

They look at this baby, fresh out of the womb, and go,

“Hmm. Rose. You look like a Rose.”

And just like that, Rose becomes your identity.

For life.

(Of course, unless you change it.)

And in the coming years of your life, you either live up to your name or create a life for it.

Nicknames are different.

You are already you. You are who you are, and someone gets to witness that. They witness your becoming. They learn your laugh, your favourite colour, the way you like your garri (not everything is coffee), and they go,

“Hmm. Instead of Ore, I’ll call you Hore.”

Because your friend Ore, who usually speaks perfectly well, had that one H-factor moment and now you can’t let her live without reliving it.

Even your mum, who named you Ruth, hasn’t called you Ruth in a long time.

Instead, she calls you Ada.

To you, it might just be another title. But to her, it means my first daughter. The first girl that came out of me. My first human creation. My best creation.

Maybe nicknames are what happen when everyone else thinks they know you because they know what the government calls you.

But I know you.

And this is what you sound like to me.

For me, my name is pretty basic.

It’s a five-letter word.

Grace.

But when Ebube says, “Grace Udyyyyyy!” I can hear the love in her voice and the excitement she has to see me again.

My first name is Udeme.

But when Ore and Ajimola add the extra zy and call me “Udemzy,” I know I’m in for a ride of stories worth sharing and gist that will last for hours.

And even when Desire says “Udeme”—a name I once didn’t care for because of my desperate attempt to stay away from my African heritage—she says it like I need to remember who I am.

Or when Ruth calls me “my love,” I know she wants to hear me talk.

And I want to hear her too.

Or when you call me Lulu, a name born from a name I never really used:

Eseohenoselumen.

A name that somehow inspired this piece.

Maybe that is what makes nicknames so special.

They are not names you were given before anyone knew you.

They are names people give you after they have known you.

After they have watched you become.

After they have heard you laugh, seen you cry, eaten garri with you, listened to your 2 a.m. thoughts, survived your annoying habits, loved your strange ones, and decided that the person they know deserves a name only they can call you.

Maybe to be loved is to be known.

And to be known is to be named.

Not the name on your birth certificate.

But the name someone gives you after they’ve met you.

The name that sounds like love.

I’ve never had a boyfriend. my crushes expire like milk, sour in three months, gone in five.

and yet, i miss a man whose name i don’t know. a man who hasn’t held me, but somehow still feels like home.

maybe it’s the cartoons, the ones where even pencils and drawings could find love.

maybe it’s the couples in school who look at each other like forever is a promise they can keep.

maybe it’s the algorithm, feeding me videos of girls who look like me, soft and wanting, with captions like “he’s everything I prayed for.”

or maybe it’s just that I am tired.

tired of boys who only know how to touch, but not how to hold.

tired of “what are we?” and “I’m not ready.”

tired of watching my friends cry over the same man who forgets her worth every other day.

I miss my husband because he would know.

He would know how to be kind. how to stay. how to see me, all of me, and not flinch. he wouldn’t need to be reminded. he would just be. he would be the safest place I’ve ever known. he’d choose me without question. he’d love us like a rhythm. like a heartbeat.

I like (not love) being single. I love my life. but sometimes, when the lights are low and my heart is loud, I miss my husband.

I don’t know where he is. maybe he passed me yesterday. maybe we’ll meet next year. maybe we’ve already met. maybe he’s dreaming of me too. but until then —

I miss my husband. and somehow, even that feels like love.

At age 5, I started writing fiction. I thought they were pretty good. I always added full stops and commas, and the first letters after a sentence were also in capital letters. However, if you looked closely (or read closely), it was an ‘unintentional dupe’ of the book I read in the library from one of my favourite authors. So instead of ‘Jane crossed the road’, I wrote John crossed the bridge. But 5 year old me didn’t care. 5 year old me simply wanted to write.

7 year old me got her first laptop, aka Dad got Mum a new one, so I on my free will took her old one. It was a silver Toshiba, it was my best friend. My favourite app on my Toshiba was this blue and white software from 2007, its name was a word I would need as a writer, MICROSOFT WORD 2007. Everyday I would write my story in words with Word, making stories that maybe one day would be a book. But in all, I simply wanted to write.

I’m in my 20s now, I have more than just Word. I have Substack, I have Medium, I have a laptop of my own and an iPad too, but I struggle to write.

I read some of my old work from 7. There was a lot to critque, like the vague and cliché beginning, the multiple use of simple sentences, and the list, stops. It stops because there shouldn’t even be a list in the first place.

Because 7 year old me did nothing wrong, in fact she was so right, because she chose to write, even if 20 year old me would be criticising it today. Unlike me, she had the desire to tell stories and brought them to life, and for me, I have the desire, and analyse and wonder and think of what could go wrong or right.

When the only right thing to do is write.

To 7 year old me, who wanted to write, I hope to make you proud!

There are only two leaves left.

Which means I’ll have to leave this notebook for another one soon.

It’s quite bittersweet—bitter because it’s my favourite book, sweet because all of me this past year lives within these pages.

It will now exist as a museum of my becoming. An important piece in my biography, just like the other books I’ve had over the years.

It will be like a time machine.

Five years from now, when I’m 25 and, by God’s grace, living the life, I’ll look back at the adventures of my 19-year-old self. How she struggled with uni work and wrote affirmations like, “I don’t need motivation, I just do what I have to do,” (from the legendary Alysa Liu) in an attempt to gaslight herself out of bed and into productivity.

Gosh, this book has been my best friend.

It’s been left under my bed, gathering dust. On my bed after I fell asleep mid-brainstorm. Or simply on my table as décor, because the colour is just that cool (it’s really just jet black!)

Shoutout to the Memovi team for giving me this book too!

Now I wonder… what will the next lucky book look like?

And I can’t wait to fill it too.

Do you hear that? That’s the music that’s been playing as I dance with the devil, a creative’s archnemesis: creative block.

Today, the music is playing from our usual coffee shop, where we ironically have tea, like any other day these past few months. I have my book and pen in hand, open like I’m about to spill my feelings with my favourite ink.

I was wrong.

There was nothing to write. No story to tell. And this has been the case for months now. Opposite me sits the evil being who has somehow become familiar, almost a friend; thanks to the consistency of our tea breaks. They were laughing. I was crying. Internally. Holding back tears and thoughts of my incompetence to simply create like I used to.

Nothing I had in mind made sense. And pardon me—I had nothing in mind most times.

But today… today would be different, I say for the hundredth time this month.

Maybe it’s because as I pick up the teacup, take a sip, and realise how tea the tea really is. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t bring my book along this time. I look out the window, enjoying the scenery, until the being passes by, with a grin.

“What are you writing today?” they ask, taking their seat.

“Nothing. Today’s a date. I’ll ask questions, you answer.”

With no time to respond, I ask, “What’s your purpose?”

“To ensure you don’t create.”

“Great. What does it mean to create?”

“To create means to bring to life something extraordinary.”

“Must it be extraordinary?”

“Well, it usually is. That’s what makes creatives so fascinating. It’s the only way. The right way.”

“But it doesn’t have to be.”

They pause.

“Why are you asking these questions?”

“Because today, I’ve decided to write as I would normally do, but this time, I will write what feels right to me. It may not be extraordinary to you, but my effort, my uniqueness, will make even the ordinary mean something. If not to anyone else, then to me; the one who chose to bring the story to life.”

I pause.

“It might have a few errors here and there. But at least I picked up my pen. At least I let the ink spill. At least I let my heart speak.”

They hum, almost amused.

“Sure. When do you start? You don’t even have your book.”

I smile.

“You’re wrong. I’ve already started.”

Silence.

“You no longer exist to me. You’re now just an extension of my pen, words on a page. A story about how I let you stop me for months… and how I finally left the coffee shop that sells tea.”

I lean back.

“I write now not because it’s right, but because it feels right to me.”

And I hope… it feels right to you too.

Create because you can, not because you have to be right. Cause what good has ‘good work’ done for anyone? Or a better question, who defines good work?

I can’t remember when last I had a crush on someone. But I remember who I was when I did.

I become this girl who walks slower on the pavement, in hopes they might pass this walkway today. I start to wear my glasses more often, though I never did before, so I could see them clearly from across or even around the room. I start to take my time to get ready in the morning, gosh I hate this part, but I apply my lipgloss 3 more times than I should. I’ve been adding blush to my cheeks recently too.

But honestly, I don’t need it. Because even though I’m overly melanated, you can see it. You can see right beside my overarching smile lines, there’s this cheekiness, this redness on my cheeks, quite natural, when they walk in the room.

Oh when they walk in the room.

Suddenly what my friend was saying is music to my ears, not because they are pleasant to listen to; no. But because they become the background music to the rom com movie that’s about to play.

‘Girl, are you here?’

Nope, I’m neither here nor there. But where I really want to be is where they are. Right there! Take me there.

Actually, don’t.

I hate having crushes.

It’s useless.

I genuinely believe that a crush is ‘a lack of information’

Yes, they’re dark, tall, likes Asake, and smart.

But what else?

So, I start to think, what is it about them that I should know so I can let go?

Maybe, they don’t really read and it’s all a performative act

Or they don’t like cooking?

Or they’re a misogynist (BIG NO!)

Or they don’t know Jesus (BIG NO TOO!)

So I occupy my mind with what could be wrong with them.

But that’s the thing, nothing is wrong with them, cause I haven’t gotten to know them.

Should I get to know them?

Nah, no need. This would be over by next week. It always is.

But in the meantime, it’s hard to sleep, as my mind slips into this trance, where I wonder if there’ll ever be a chance for me and them.

Probably. Maybe. Who knows? (Plays Daniel Caesar)

Who Knows? by Daniel Caesar

This crush thing is crushing me, and it’s crushing me even more, that they’re somewhere in their room simply existing while I…

I need to work on my project

I only have crushes when I’m less busy I believe.

Wait, I have a crush on a man🫩!

Anyways, this play may not even be about me, WHO KNOWS?

On my Instagram profile, my bio has the words ‘filmmaker, writer and storyteller’

Yet I have not picked up my camera in weeks, have struggled to write a word (not sentence lol) in more weeks and a story I haven’t told other than what’s the latest gist on campus.

I am a fake.

A lie.

A phony.

I’m not real.

Or at least the version of myself I claim to be isn’t.

I have spent the last 11 days of March, marching around my room in my parent’s house with thoughts that march me in my constant dilemma of who am I? Or who can I be?, and also march myself to sleep, the only place I truly find peace.

It’s lonely here, with these thoughts and most importantly, I’m tired.

I miss creating.

I miss being creative.

I miss being a creator.

Now I just create chaos in my mind.

I scrolled through my own page, to see how far I’ve come. It’s been 3 years since I started creating content and boy, have I grown.

I found my first video and nostalgia hit me. I’ll never forget that day. It was the 21st of February and I was about to make dinner. Noodles, Indomie to be precise and suddenly I had a light bulb moment, what if I record this and edit and post it on my page?

And I did just that. Even with my mum walking in on me and asking me what am I doing with a camera in the kitchen, I found a way and did it anyways. Cause I had one goal. To post a video today.

Before this day, I always told my friends I’ve been making videos since I was 3 and I would love to be a filmmaker in the future. That was cute. But until I posted that video, I wasn’t really a videographer. I was fake.

After that day, I wasn’t fake anymore.

Because I finally manifested what I’ve saying

Your dreams aren’t real until you make them a reality.

My dreams weren’t real until they became a reality.

Unfortunately I have been fake for a while, spending more time consuming than creating, disabling my account, archiving some ‘embarrassing posts’.

My dreams aren’t real anymore cause I haven’t been treating it as such, but that’s another story for another day.

I removed my bio some days ago. Cause it’s a lie until I produce my next film, write my next article and tell my next story. I think I’m halfway there once I post this Substack.

If you’re seeing this, I think I can put the writer and storyteller part back.

Hope this made sense

- Love, Udeme

And it’s not because I’m not smart, I hated results day in secondary school even though I came out as first in the class. For some reason I just hate it, and I don’t think I’ll ever like it.

I got my results today. For some reason the day before, I turned off my DND, so I got a ‘ding’ from my friend Tiffany this morning, with the words ‘Graceeee’ and I knew. My body knew, my heart knew. Suddenly the air was thin, and I could see frost on the ceiling and feel shivers down my spine even though the air conditioner was off and I live in Nigeria where the sun is always smiling. It was time. It was time to see if I really worked hard or was hardly working.

My mother worked into the room, like as the Holy Spirit had directed her in that moment that her daughter needed her. I told her results were out. Almost dressed for work, she sat on the edge of my bed, handed me my laptop, and said ‘let’s check’

Before I continue the story, keep in mind my parents aren’t ’You must get first or else’ type of parents. Actually I think my father doesn’t care, he wants me to do well no doubt, but he wasn’t going to shove a knife into my heart to get me to do it. He just believed I would. Grace always does well.

He was wrong today. Today, as I set my iPad to record mine and mum’s reaction like I always do, prayed cause God is in control, opened my laptop, checked my portal and begged my mother to open the result for me, even though she didn’t know how to navigate the website, my father was proved wrong again. I did not do well.

Now, there are different types of not doing well.

There is ‘I got an F in this course so I’m carrying over’ and there’s ’I got a B in this course and it ruined my CGPA’. If you resonate with the first, I advise you to not or just proceed with this article with caution especially if you like to undermine people’s feelings cause they’re not as ‘heavy’ as yours. Yes, I got a B or two. And I fell sick

I hate Bs, there’s something about the letter that annoys me. Cause it could be almost an A or nearly a C. It’s on the edge, not really knowing what it wants but knowing how to annoy you. I could swear that anytime I see this letter, it’s laughing at me; telling me you couldn’t get an A. It’s like a reminder that ‘You were nearly there’.

Then I wonder what stopped me from getting there? Didn’t I work hard enough? Should I have written that extra line on number 1a in that course? Should I have read that part of the textbook the lecturer told me to read but I somehow believed it won’t come out?

My mum looked at me and told me ‘I did okay’. Okay? Okay?? I don’t like that word. There are many other words that the English created to describe how I wanted my results to be like, there was excellent, amazing, great. But my mother used Okay. I understood her cause she was just telling the truth. I honestly just did okay.

I can’t tell you the details of my results as much as I would want to. For some reason there’s this unspoken rule that if you tell someone your result, a bad omen will fall upon it and you will drop the next time. Who created this please?

Regardless of all this, I’m grateful to God. I’ve tried to keep being grateful. I thanked Him immediately I saw it and held my tears in, and told myself, it could have been worse. But what if ‘THIS is worse’. This result isn’t what I wanted, I wanted something else and THIS result is far worse than the one I had hoped for.

But I still remained grateful. I didn’t question God, who am I to anyways?

But as I entered the bathroom to take a shower and looked in the mirror, I remembered the verse ‘Jesus wept’ and I started crying. I cried and cried and cried.

I think I’ve ‘wrestled’ God today, trying to remain grateful while still trying to manage my feelings. Lord forgive me for my sins.

I wanted to call someone, but I don’t think anyone would truly understand how I feel. Even you reading this, might find me a little crazy and that’s okay. Maybe it isn’t and I do want someone to understand me so I feel less alone, but that’s life I guess.

Anyways, here’s how I feel raw and direct. I actually feel better now.

My friend offered to call me today, one sent money to buy Chickwizz, another said they believe in me. I haven’t believed in myself for a while, but I’m glad someone is carrying that weight for me. I’ll find the strength to pick up that load from them soon but till then I’m glad someone cares.

Im still on a roller coaster of emotions, hence this post. From shocked to sad to grateful to guilt to tired. Now, I’m numb.

What’s the point of all this again?

Oh yeah, I hate results day.

And someone out there, probably does too. We’re in this together.

Till next time.

My grandfather died 8 years ago (Wow, that’s a whole child!), and I’ve forgotten about it.

The man who made the family house a little more funny. The man whose back I was always excited to ride on. The man who taught me to stay calm no matter the situation. The man responsible for my high standards. The man I loved, and I hope I still do, I no longer miss him.

I no longer see a tree and think Grandpa and I tried growing an orange tree once when I was 5 so we could always have oranges when we came home for Christmas. I no longer think of him on his birthday (Gosh, I forgot his birthday this year). I no longer hear the echoes of his voice; I don’t think I would recognize it anymore even if he came in the form of a ghost to tell me he still loved me. I no longer think of him. I no longer miss him.

This hit me last week when I was “spring cleaning” my room. I was going through my bookshelf when I saw it, sitting there: his biography, with his face plastered on the cover, and beside it, 19— to 2017. That’s when I felt it. This man. I know this man. He was my Grandpa. Wait, he IS my grandpa. I haven’t seen him in a while.

I went through the pages—each one carrying his story, or a chapter he wrote in someone else’s life. You will be missed were the words that were used. But here I was, a product of his genetics, and I hadn’t missed him this year. In fact, one could say I had forgotten him.

I turned to my page in the book—‘To my Grandfather’ I wrote. It was a beautiful piece for a 12-year-old. I wept. I didn’t cry. I wept—as the tears filled the empty spaces between my eulogy and that of my siblings. It was my first time crying this month. I had planned not to cry this month.

As I read on, I felt like I was just getting to know him all over again. Like I was learning new things about him—how he made my mum feel like a daughter though they were only related by marital ties. How my aunty felt she could have done more for him as his daughter. How my dad was grateful to have seen him three days before his death, a surprise visit his spirit told him to make for some reason—but now we know, and we thank God for the “Last Supper.”

These bits of information had gathered dust, like the biography in my hand, over time as I learnt to live life. And then I continued to weep.

I cried originally because I had missed him—his death was my first, and a strange one too. But I continued to cry because why don’t I miss him anymore? How could I forget him? And all he’s done? His legacy? Was I letting Pagran (as I fondly called him as a kid; an exchange in syllables of “Grand-pa” but without the “d”) die like he hasn’t already died enough?

But as I struggle to use present tenses when I talk about him;after all, he’s still my dad’s dad—I realize that maybe grief is in the silence. It’s also in the moments when we “forget” about the ones who left us because they never really leave (I know you’ve heard this a thousand times, but listen). My Pagran still lives in my heart—in my love for trees because he taught me how to love them, in my love for memories because his death taught me to always take a picture or video of the ones we love (We didn’t take many pictures of him before he died), or in the ways my family interacts, like how my dad says, “Ask whatever you want and I’ll give it to you,” because that was my grandfather’s favourite line anytime we came to visit (And best believe, he gave us everything we asked for!).

Instead of phoning a friend, these thoughts comforted me. So I wiped my tears, knowing he would want me to use the time I’m using to cry to learn more about life and experience it, so I can tell him all that he missed when we meet again.

And even though the pain isn’t as much, I still miss him. I love my Pagran.

Always and forever!

I had a friend. An amazing friend. The oldest in the friend group. Kind. Always with a helping hand and never one to bother anyone. She laughed loudly and joked about the littlest things. We loved our friend. But our friend didn’t feel loved by us. So, she left.

This didn’t happen overnight.

It started the first time we couldn’t get her a birthday gift, but got one for her best friend months later. It happened when she called for help and we weren’t able to answer.It happened when she opened up at a friend group meeting, told us how she felt and we promised to do better. It started when she spoke… but continued when nothing changed.

So, one random Thursday, I noticed.

I noticed she wasn’t sitting with us for service. I noticed she didn’t ask for help with her business. I noticed she didn’t give us any updates on her life. I noticed my friend left. And I felt bad.

Months later, I wanted to talk to her.

What happened? What really triggered everything? Why did we have to give up her seat in chapel? Why didn’t she ask us to help with her business posters? So I went to her room.

As I was about to enter, the window was open and there I saw her: laughing, making her usual jokes to people who seemed to now understand her lingo. She bent her back and hit the person beside her, like she always did when her jokes landed. They didn’t flinch. They laughed with her.

My friend was happy.

So, I turned back.

The next day, feeling like a coward, I returned. She was there again, with the same friends; packing her business items for trade fair. They were helping. They were giving suggestions. “This could have been us,” I thought. My friend group. Like it was supposed to be.

But it wasn’t.

It was her and her new friends.

And she was happy.

She was glad to see me. I was glad she was glad. She hugged me. I asked how everything was going. She asked me too. She told me about her business, not in the “could you help me?” way, but in the “I can’t wait to see you at my tent at trade fair” way. I was allowed to support her, not from behind the scenes, but as a customer. I am now my friend’s customer.

But you know what I realized?

I was okay.

I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t angry. Just okay. It hurts, only when I remember. And I don’t remember it often

And you know what?

Letting go was necessary. For both of us.

I couldn’t give her what she needed, no matter how hard I tried. And she didn’t feel loved or appreciated.

My 90% felt like 10% to her, and that’s not what she needed. Or deserved.

She deserved 100% of everything her heart desires. And if she found it somewhere else, then maybe that’s where her heart was always meant to be.

It wasn’t easy.

It still isn’t.

I saw her last night.

But there was no banter. No teasing. We wanted to hug, but it was like our bodies no longer agreed, like two puzzle pieces that used to fit, but have worn down at the edges over time.

And I wasn’t mad.

It was okay.

It really was necessary, for both parties.

Now, I don’t have to struggle to give love.

And she doesn’t have to struggle to make do with what doesn’t work.

Because sometimes, effort isn’t enough to sustain a relationship.

Compatibility, connection, and many other element must align.

Letting go is uneasy.

But letting go is necessary.

My dear friend, I hope life treats you right.

And even if I don’t get to be a bridesmaid like we planned,

I’ll pray for you.

And the lover you found.

And maybe that’s all we need, love from a distance.

You’re free now.

And so am I.

And I’m glad it worked out in the end.

I had something to say. I hope you stayed.

Who am I without being kind? Without being helpful? Without being the one who always shows up?

It’s a question I’ve been sitting with these past few days.

People say things like,

“She’s so sweet.”

“She’s always there for everyone.”

“She’s got your back.”

And while those things are lovely to hear, I’ve started to wonder—how good is it, really?

Because here’s the truth: I’m the friend who drops everything if you say you need help. I’m the one who sends her last cash so you can buy the book you’ve been talking about for weeks. I’m the one who says “it’s okay” even when it’s really not.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m too good.

For my own good.

I think it started with being the first daughter.

Raised in a house where you had to grow up fast. Where everyone needed something from you, and there wasn’t space to need anything for yourself. So I became the mum-friend. The dependable one. The one who carries and carries and carries.

But I’m starting to feel the weight.

The other day, I had a project due. A major one. One that could shift my grade either way. I was halfway done, 50%, and still had hours to go. But my friend looked me in the eye, overwhelmed and behind. And without thinking, I closed my tab and opened hers.

I helped her first.

And left mine hanging.

It would sound poetic in a book, maybe even noble.

But in real life, it’s not noble.

It’s neglect.

Because my GPA didn’t care that I was being ‘nice.’

I’ve noticed it more and more; giving my card for food when I haven’t eaten my second meal of the day. Staying up for someone’s breakdown when I haven’t had a proper sleep in days. Answering calls, replying texts, holding space, giving pieces of myself… while forgetting I’m a person too.

I forget to be a friend to me.

To check on me. Feed me. Love me.

So yes, I’m a good person.

In your story, I’m the best character.

But in mine? I’m disappearing.

And I’m tired of being a background character in my own life.

I love others deeply, but I only like myself.

That needs to change.

Because I’m too good for my own good.

And if you feel this way, it’s time to get up and love you too!

I had something to say, I hope you stayed!

But then came 2023.

I knew ChatGPT, but I never signed up. I was mad at the invention.

Why? Why try to replace the human mind and its capacity? Why the immediate prompts?

Until I needed help with my research project.

My lecturer didn’t really say much on it. I was stranded, tired, and I needed to get an A.

A friend suggested it, and I gave in.

I used AI.

I got help.

I got my A.

And I got stuck there.

Suddenly, I needed it for everything: my assignments, my projects, my ideas.

I relied on AI. AI became my best friend.

Now when I pick up a project, I don’t start from thought—I start from prompts.

I don’t reach for what I know—I reach for what it knows.

And somewhere along the line, I stopped thinking for myself.

I let it become my mind before I gave mine a chance.

And now my mind is weak.

It’s tired.

It’s shrinking.

I’m making effort regardless. To read more, learn more, expand my mind.

But I miss the thoughts that were mine. I miss my mind.

And I’m begging it to return to me.

But AI is still here. It’s not going. And Maybe, just maybe, I still need AI but as an addition, an integration (like in its abbreviation A.I) to what I already know. I don’t know.

I have no conclusion to this, I just had to say had something to say. I hope you stayed.

A name from Akwa Ibom, a state in Nigeria.

Chosen in love, by those who love me, and love where we come from.

It’s the first name on my birth certificate, but never the first name at first impressions.

A name I never liked. A name I never used.

A name that represents my background but stayed at the background.

Udemeabasi.

Growing up, it was always Grace.

Grace was easy.

Grace was soft on the tongue, easy in class anttendance and group chats.

Grace didn’t need explanation or repetition.

It was the kind of name that didn’t make people pause.

Grace let me pass.

Udeme made them pause. And blink. And ask.

So I pushed it away. (Even now, you’re probably struggling to pronounce it in your head.)

Until my dad noticed.

He pulled me aside and said, “That’s not the name I gave you. Your name is Udemeabasi. Be proud of your name.”

Proud?

Of this name that I had to pronounce, explain, repeat to everyone I meet?

This name I didn’t understand, that felt too Nigerian, too foreign, too heavy?

So, to keep the peace, I wrote it first on forms.

But I said Grace to strangers.

To friends.

To the world.

Until I got older.

And started to learn.

Learn what it meant to be part of a heritage that the world keeps trying to water down. To be from a place that’s been renamed, rewritten, colonized—even in our tongues.

To realize that my name is not just syllable; its a symbol, a story.

It carries my mother’s voice, my father’s pride, and the echo of the people before me. It reminds me that I am not random. I am portioned by God.

And I must not let this name die on my lips or on theirs.

So now, I teach them.

I teach them how to pronounce it. And to pronounce it correctly.

Not just to hear it, but to respect it.

I teach them because I am tired of folding who I am into what’s easy.

I teach them because culture doesn’t die—it fades when we stop speaking.

I speak my name now.

I say Udemeabasi.

And I say it like I mean it.

Because I do.

Now, I love my name.

Now, I love me.

I recently found out about ALS on a random TikTok scroll—after an afternoon nap turned late-night spiral. I watched strangers grieve, lose speech, movement, breath. I cried for people I didn’t know. Then I started praying for people I did.

I prayed for my family.

My mum. My dad. My brother. My sister. Myself.

Then I prayed for those who aren’t blood but feel like it.

I named names.

Started with my grandmothers.

My dad’s mum. Then my mum’s.

Then I paused.

My mum’s mum is gone.

She died in her sleep after an infection.

A death in December we never planned for.

A call in the evening. A quiet kind of death.

The kind you don’t believe until you hear your mother scream for hers.

And that’s when the real crying began.

I loved my grandma.

I miss my grandma.

But I fear I don’t miss her enough.

She was the kindest woman I’ve ever known.

Hardworking. Beautiful. Compassionate. Did I mention beautiful?

My mum is her. She is her mother to me.

When she died, it didn’t feel real.

Not until I left my room.

Not until I heard my mum cry.

Not just cry—but call out for her.

A daughter reaching for a mother who wouldn’t answer.

I miss her.

But honestly, not all the time.

I miss her when I hear someone speak her language.

When I see someone eat pap or custard—she used to send it to me.

When I think about what it means to be family.

5 months later, I still miss her, but not as much as I thought I would.

And that terrifies me.

Does that mean I love her less?

Is this grief?

Or is this just what time does?

I fear that what I’ll have left will be less of her.

Her voice—slowly fading into echo.

Her kindness—suspended in memory, no longer present in motion.

It’s been five months. I’m getting used to it.

That’s the worst part.

In five years, I’ll still miss her. But not the same way.

My love won’t leave—it’ll just live, differently.

It’ll live in how I speak to my mum.

In the way I choose to care for people.

In small kindnesses.

In quiet beauty.

I love you, Ine.

And I always will.

Maybe just differently.

And I hope, you’re okay with it.

I hope you’re okay.

I had something to say, I hope stayed!

Ask me how my day was, I’ll ask you yours.

Ask me why my favourite colour used to be pink but is now brown, and I’ll ask why you stay up at night when the world is quiet, to find your own quiet.

I love asking questions.

My dad once told me, “Always ask. For clarity. For understanding.”

I didn’t get it then. But I adopted it. And now that I’m older, more mature, more inquisitive; I think I finally do.

We all know the universal truth: to love someone is to know them.

So I only ask questions of the ones I love.

The ones I genuinely want to know.

I’ll ask you the things that matter, and the things that don’t.

Things that make sense, and things that never needed to.

It might come off as talkative. Maybe even intrusive.

But it’s love.

It’s how I love.

I tried to silence that part of me once (maybe, twice, when I felt I was invasive.)

Thought maybe I was “too much” for people who weren’t ready to be known.

But when I sat in that silence, I sat with a question of my own:

Why do we (I) ask questions?

Because I want to understand you.

To understand how your mind works.

Why you think the way you do.

Why you smile when you do, or stay quiet when you should speak.

I want to admire your view of the world.

I want to see it through your eyes, even if just for a moment.

And in doing that—maybe I can love you more, love you completely, love you truthfully.

Sometimes I’ll ask Ajimola, “Do you prefer Gala or corndogs?”

She’ll say Gala.

I’ll ask, “Why?”

She’ll say it’s cheaper and filling

I’ll ask, “What makes you think so?”

And she’ll tell me. And I’ll listen. Not because it’s deep or life-changing.

But because in that moment, she’s letting me in.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted—to be let in.

To be known.

To be asked.

Because when someone doesn’t ask, it hurts.

When someone isn’t curious about me, I start to wonder—do they love me at all?

Do they want to know me? Understand me? See me?

I remember when Ore was in the room when I cried once and didn’t ask why. (Sorry Ore, if you’re reading this)

Suddenly, the reason I was crying didn’t matter.

What mattered was that maybe she didn’t care.

Why she didn’t notice.

Why she didn’t ask.

And I know—it’s not always deliberate. (We spoke about it and it was not deliberate and she didn’t know)

But in that moment, teaching my mind that truth was harder than I thought.

Because I felt that I would’ve noticed.

I would’ve asked.

(I’ve learnt from this, not to take things personally too!)

So maybe this is where curiosity kills.

When it’s not returned.

When you feel like a bother for being curious about someone who couldn’t care less.

When your questions hang in the air, unanswered. Uninvited.

But I don’t care.

I’ll keep asking questions.

Because one day, I’ll ask the right ones. To the right one.

And it’ll all be worth it.

I had something to say, I hope you stayed.

He smiled and said, “I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“Why?”

He paused, then replied, “Because I saw you and thought you were pretty.”

I laughed (out and too loud.)

He texted me on Instagram. I respond when I can. It’s been three days since I last replied.

Some people say I’m rude. Others say I’m just a girl.

I say I’m saving him the stress—

The stress of actually getting to know me.

Asides that and the truth is, I actually like someone else. So his interest didn’t flatter me. But it felt… familiar. And it made me think. Just another guy with hopeful intentions.

Still, I felt a little sorry for him.

Not just because I won’t give him what he’s looking for.

But because I know what he’s looking for.

And he won’t find it in me.

Yes, I am pretty—I thank my mum and grandma for that.

I’ve been told I have a nice voice, though I often forget until someone reminds me.

Apparently, I’m the ‘perfect height’—short enough to make a guy feel tall.

People say I have nice eyes, but I think I’ll only believe it when it comes from the mouth of someone I love.

I’ve been looked at. Thought of. Chased.

But that’s it.

I don’t let it get past that.

I fear I’m a good chase—not a good catch.

You might see me and start thinking of ways to win me over.

You’ll try to slip into my world, even when I keep the door slightly closed.

And when I finally let you in, when I let you see the woman beyond the aesthetic,

you’ll hesitate. Or worse, leave.

Or better still, I’ll leave.

Not because I’m unlovable.

Not because I lack self-worth. I do love myself.

Which is why I know this truth.

I look at these men and think, he won’t survive this version of me.

The one who cries at midnight over the work she once said she was passionate about.

The one who resents the academic system, even though she first told you it defines her.

The one who told you she hates calls but expects you to call anyways.

The one with tangled 2 a.m. thoughts about life, existence, love, the world.

The one who notices everything and feels even more.

Too much, maybe.

They won’t know what to do with her.

Sometimes, even I don’t.

So I save them the hassle.

Don’t bother getting to know me.

I know me too well and I know you won’t handle it well.

I leave before it gets too deep.

I exit when the timing feels poetic.

Then I reinvent myself.

Again.

And again.

You could see it as a bad thing, or you could see it as a coping skill, a defensive mechanism, protecting myself for the real one, my true love.

Because I fear I’m a good chase.

But not a good catch.

I’m writing this at midnight with my pile of school work and work, lol.

I had something to say, I hope you stayed!