I've been asked what I like. Where I want to go. What I want to eat. But never really, “What would your perfect first date look like?”

So I started thinking about it.

And I realized I have a very specific answer.

Actually, that's a lie.

I have several.

But they all seem to have the same thing at the centre of them.

I want to play.

For starters, I want to be comfortable.

I don't want to dress up in some uncomfortable outfit because it's a date. I want to wear my most comfortable shorts and a basic top. I want you to wear whatever you're most comfortable in too.

I don't want either of us trying too hard. I don't want the date to feel like a performance.

I don't want a dinner date either. At least, not in the traditional sense of sitting across from each other and trying to get to know each other over a meal. I'm very conversational. I can talk to someone for hours, and you might leave thinking we have incredible chemistry when, really, I was just being myself and talking.

I'd rather have something that lets us experience each other.

I want somewhere that's somewhere between indoors and outdoors. Not completely outside, but not boxed into a restaurant either.

And I want it to be at night.

There's something about nighttime that makes everything feel a little softer. I want to be able to look up and see the stars. I want somewhere warm and comfortable, but open enough that I can look around and take everything in.

And then there has to be music.

Heavy on the music.

I love music so much that sometimes I think I use it to access parts of myself that I don't know how to reach otherwise.

There are songs that don't just remind me of things. They remind me of feelings.

I love The Sound of Music. I still find myself singing Do-Re-Mi, especially that line:

“When you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything.”

There's something about that that makes me happy.

And Barbie.

God, Barbie.

I still go back to Barbie movies sometimes, partly because of the nostalgia and partly because of the music. I love remembering what it felt like to watch them as a child.

The excitement.

The peace.

The feeling of discovering something for the first time.

I think I hold on to nostalgia because of how uncomplicated happiness felt when I was younger.

If a song made me happy, I sang it.

If something made me want to dance, I danced.

I didn't stop to wonder if I looked stupid.

I just played.

And I think I still have that urge in me.

I want to play.

So imagine this.

It's nighttime.

We're somewhere comfortable, sitting on this ridiculously big couch. Big enough that we can sit at opposite ends if we're still being shy, but also big enough for us to eventually end up beside each other.

Maybe there's food.

There absolutely has to be good food.

We're talking about random things. Childhood stories. Stupid things we've done. Things we want to do. Things that don't matter at all.

And then a song comes on.

And I stop talking.

I start singing.

Maybe it's Mamma Mia.

Maybe it's The Greatest Showman.

Maybe it's a Barbie song.

Maybe it's an Afrobeats song I know every single word to.

Maybe it's some old 90s R&B song that makes me feel like I was born in the wrong decade.

Whatever it is, I'm singing.

And then I'm probably standing on the couch.

And jumping.

And screaming.

And sitting back down because I'm tired.

And then getting back up because another good song came on.

I want to be ridiculous.

I want to be loud.

I want to be free.

And I want you to be free too.

But maybe my perfect first date doesn't have to involve music at all.

Maybe we go to an amusement park at night.

Just us.

Running around. Going on rides. Screaming at absolutely nothing. Jumping on trampolines. Laughing until we can't breathe.

Maybe we get tired and sit somewhere afterwards, eating something that probably isn't very healthy and talking about which ride was the best.

Maybe that's a perfect date too.

Because there's something about doing something slightly ridiculous with someone that I really like.

Or maybe we do something completely different.

Maybe we go to a library.

Or a book club.

Somewhere quiet where we're supposed to behave.

We pick out a book together. We sit beside each other and read.

And because we're us, we're probably supposed to be quiet, but one of us whispers something stupid and the other starts laughing.

We're trying to keep it in.

We're failing.

The librarian comes over.

“Shhh.”

We look at each other.

And immediately start giggling again.

Okay.

That one is definitely giving Disney movie.

But I don't care.

And then maybe we find a murder mystery.

Not a cute little romance.

A proper murder.

Something written from different perspectives.

Maybe the murderer gets a chapter. The victim gets a chapter. Maybe there are clues hidden in the narration.

So we decide to read it together.

You take the murderer's perspective.

I'll take the victim's.

And then we go home.

And the next time we see each other, we're arguing about the book.

You think the murderer was justified.

I think they're insane.

You're defending a fictional murderer like they're your personal client.

I'm calling you ridiculous.

And somehow we're still talking about the book three days later.

That's a date to me too.

Maybe that's what I like.

Not necessarily the activity itself.

But the possibility of creating a little world around it.

Something that becomes ours.

And somewhere in all of this, there has to be touch.

Because when I really, really like someone, I want to be close to them.

Physical touch is one of the ways I understand affection.

And I don't mean everything has to become sexual.

Sometimes I just want your hand on my thigh while we're talking.

Your hand on my back.

Holding my hand.

Your fingers brushing against mine.

Pulling a strand of hair away from my face.

Touching my cheek.

Pulling me closer for a kiss.

Cuddling.

Those tiny touches that don't necessarily lead anywhere.

They just say,

I'm here.

I like you.

Come closer.

I want to be able to sit at the opposite end of the couch if we're still shy, but know that at any point I can move closer.

I want to be able to lean against you.

I want to feel comfortable enough to reach for your hand without thinking about it.

I want that kind of intimacy.

The quiet kind.

The kind that exists even when nobody is saying anything.

And I want to be able to be weird.

This might actually be one of the most important parts.

I have a weird mind.

I say weird things.

Sometimes a thought enters my head and it is so stupid that I immediately need to say it out loud.

And I want to be able to do that without wondering if you think I'm stupid.

I want to say the most ridiculous thing imaginable and look at you afterwards.

I want you to look at me like,

What the fuck is this girl?

And then laugh.

Not because you're making fun of me.

Because you genuinely find me funny.

I want you to think, That was really stupid.

But also,

God, she's funny.

I want that kind of ease.

I don't want to spend my relationship constantly editing myself.

I don't want to wonder whether I'm being too loud, too weird, too childish, or too much.

I want to be able to sing badly.

Laugh loudly.

Say strange things.

Get excited over a song.

Get way too invested in a fictional murder.

Get shushed in a library.

Jump on a trampoline at night.

I want to play.

And maybe that's why I'm not particularly interested in making a first date about sitting across from someone and having a perfectly structured conversation.

I'm very conversational. I can talk to someone for hours. I know how to keep a conversation going. I know how to ask questions. I know how to make people comfortable.

So I'd rather have something that lets me see you outside of the answers you give me.

I want to know what makes you laugh.

What makes you excited.

What songs you know all the words to.

Whether you'll sing with me even if your voice is terrible.

Whether you'll let me drag you into dancing.

Whether you'll defend the fictional murderer.

Whether you'll laugh when the librarian tells us to be quiet.

Whether you'll hold my hand without making it a big thing.

Whether we can sit in silence without needing to fill it.

I want to discover you.

And I want you to discover me too.

Maybe that's why I can't give you one perfect first date.

The setting can change.

It can be a couch under the stars with Mamma Mia playing in the background. It can be an amusement park at night. It can be a library where we get shushed because we couldn't stop laughing. It can be two people reading the same murder mystery and arguing about it three days later.

I don't think the activity is the point.

I think I just want something that gives me the chance to discover someone outside of the answers they give me.

And there's one more thing.

Everything I've described here?

I can do all of it alone.

I can put on The Sound of Music and sing by myself.

I can watch Barbie.

I can go to an amusement park.

I can read a book.

I can sit somewhere at night and look at the stars.

And I can have an absolutely amazing time doing all of it.

I'm actually not someone who naturally feels the need to share every experience with another person.

If I really, really love something, there's a good chance I'd rather experience it alone than bring a friend or some random person into it.

Maybe that's because I attach a lot of emotion to experiences.

I remember how things felt.

And I know myself well enough to know that if I let someone become part of something I love, they can become part of the memory too.

And that is a little scary.

Because if I take you somewhere I love, play you a song I adore, read a book with you or do something that already makes me happy and then tomorrow we stop talking?

It might ruin it a little.

Because now, every time I go back to that thing, there's a chance I'll remember you.

I'll remember that night.

I'll remember what you said.

I'll remember how you looked at me.

I'll remember how it felt to have you there.

And suddenly something that belonged entirely to me has a memory attached to you.

So if I ever invite you into one of those things, understand that it means something.

Because there are two ways it can go.

I can come away thinking,

Why the hell did I bring you into my world?

Or I can come away thinking,

I'm really glad I brought you here.

And I think that's probably the part of this whole perfect-date fantasy that matters most to me.

Not finding someone to fill the spaces I already know how to enjoy by myself.

I don't need that.

I already know how to have a good time alone.

I think I'd just like, someday, to meet someone whose presence makes me want to open the door and say,

Come in.

I want you to see this.

I think you'd like it here.

1. (literal) a dunce; a person regarded as slow, dull or lacking in intelligence. Typically used to describe poor academic performance.

2. (internet slang) someone perceived as foolish, clueless or behind often weaponized in comment sections against anyone whose opinion, taste or life choices don’t match the speaker’s idea of “smart.”

See also: Olodo Uprising — a 2026 internet discourse cycle in which the term was repurposed to argue that formal education is irrelevant to success, sparking a wider debate on intelligence, value and who gets to decide what either means.

After careful consideration and prayers, I have decided to join the olodo uprising movement.

Let’s start from a place of agreement.

You and I know that school doesn’t make you smart. You and I know people who couldn’t think their way out of a wet paper bag and we know people with zero formal education who have built empires, fed families and moved cultures with their bare hand. Most of the richest people in the world didn’t get to complete a formal education and look at where they are!

We know that the western education system was never really designed to produce wisdom. It was designed in many ways to produce people who show up on time, follow instructions and fit neatly into an economic machine. We also know that calling someone “uneducated” simply because they never sat in a UNILAG lecture hall is lazy thinking dressed up as intellectual prowess or superiority.

So when people dragged Peller and Carter Efe for “lacking depth” and being part of the movement and someone clapped back with “what have you used all your PhD to achieve? Where the money wey e don give you?”, you probably smiled and nodded.

Go on.

Admit it.

For a split second it felt satisfying.

Like someone has finally punctured the ego of people who believe having a certificate makes them better than everyone else.

If you nodded even once throughout the course of reading this, congratulations.

YOU ARE AN OLODO.

Yes, you.

Relax.

We’ll get there together.

It Was Never About School

The one thing people wouldn’t tell you about being an an olodo is that it was never really about whether you went to school.

An olodo, at least by my own redefinition, isn’t the person who never opened a textbook. An olodo is the person whose every thought is a photocopy formed entirely from what they were told, what they read, what trended on their timeline last Tuesday and never once interrogated.

Read ten books and repeat them like scripture, and you haven’t necessarily learned anything.

You’ve just become a very well-read parrot.

The real marker of an olodo isn’t ignorance.

It’s certainty.

It’sYOU who has quietly promoted their opinion into objective truth. The one who no longer says, “This is what I think,” but instead, “This is how it is.” And anyone who disagrees must be uninformed, irrational, or simply stupid.

That’s a different kind of illiteracy.

And it’s far more dangerous than not knowing something.

Because the person who knows they don’t know is still capable of learning.

The person who’s certain has already locked the door.

A Beginner’s Guide to Surviving in an Economy That Rewards Attention More Than Intelligence

Welcome. Pull up a chair. Class is in session, and I promise this lesson is easier than anything you sat for in school.

Step 1: Forget substance. Master timing.

Nobody is checking for the smartest take. They’re checking for the fastest one. The algorithm isn't asking “is this true,” it's asking “did people stop scrolling.” Say something half-baked at the right moment and you’ll out-earn someone who spent three weeks researching the well-thought-out version nobody saw.

Step 2: Confidence is the only currency that never depreciates.

You don’t need to be right. You need to sound right. Say it with your chest, say it loud and never, ever say “I’m not sure.” Uncertainty doesn’t trend.

Step 3: Outrage is free marketing.

Every comment section dragging Peller or Carter Efe for “lacking depth” is, whether they like it or not, doing unpaid promotional work. The algorithm doesn’t care if the engagement is love or disgust, it only counts that you engaged.

Step 4: Remember — the market doesn’t pay for intelligence. It pays for attention.

And once you understand that, you’ll understand exactly why “olodo content” keeps winning. It’s not that we’ve lost our minds collectively. It’s that we built a machine that pays better for noise than for thought and then acted shocked when everyone started making noise.

Congratulations.

You’ve survived Step 4.

There is no Step 5. The economy hasn’t figured that out yet either.

But here’s the part that should actually scare you: this isn’t just a content-creator problem.

It’s not just about Peller or Carter Efe, or whoever’s getting dragged this week. It’s about all of us. Including the people typing long, articulate paragraphs about how “the youth have lost their way.”

Because reading articulately about a problem is not the same as understanding it.

And that brings me to a man who spent his whole career studying exactly that gap.

“Hundreds of Books, Still Incompetent”

General Jim Mattis — yes, the four-star Marine general, not someone you’d expect to be quoted in a Nigerian internet-discourse newsletter once wrote something that I think about more than I’d like to admit:

“If you haven’t read hundreds of books, you are functionally illiterate, and you will be incompetent because your personal experiences alone aren’t broad enough to sustain you.”

Sit with that for a second. Not ten books. Not a degree. Hundreds.

By that bar, plenty of people clutching their certificates like shields in comment sections are also functionally illiterate. A degree tells you someone finished a syllabus. It doesn’t tell you they’ve read deeply, widely or critically since. It doesn’t tell you they’ve ever sat with an idea long enough to disagree with it.

Notice what Mattis didn’t say. He didn’t say untrained. He didn’t say undegreed. He said unread. He drew the line at exposure to other minds, not at certification. And that’s exactly the distinction this whole “olodo uprising” conversation keeps missing.

Both sides are arguing about school, when the real fault line is somewhere else entirely: between people who let their thinking get challenged and people who don’t.

Which brings me back to where I started. Because if I’m being honest with you and at this point, I think I owe you that.

The Olodo in the Mirror

I sat down to write this with the smug confidence of someone who has clearly cracked the code.

I, Onyinye, have figured out what an olodo really is, unlike all of you still arguing about degrees in the comment section.

Except, have I read hundreds of books? Let me check my Goodreads. Let’s just say Mattis would not be impressed.

Have I ever held an opinion so tightly that I stopped checking it against anything new? Probably. More than once. Possibly while typing this very sentence, with the unshakeable confidence of someone who has clearly cracked the code.

So here’s my real confession, the one underneath the “after careful consideration and prayers” joke from the top of this piece: I might be an olodo too. Not because I didn’t go to school. Because none of us are ever fully done unlearning our own certainty, me included, mid-paragraph, mid-take, right now.

Which means the uprising isn’t really about Peller or Carter Efe or anyone’s UNILAG degree.

It’s about all of us, agreeing to stay a little less sure of ourselves.

Welcome to the uprising.

Hold your tits.

We’re all olodo here.

I think and give myself a mental pep talk before I pick up my pen with my mouth.

"Use Alexa."

"We have Google Voice for a reason, you know?"

"There's no reason a writer in this age and time—disabled or not should stress themselves this much and yet here you are, picking up a pen with your mouth."

"You can do this."

"The world doesn't really care, you know."

"Stand up and dance."

"I look so ugly with my one leg."

"I wonder if others see it too."

Between self-judgment and external advice, the writer and the dancer slowly lose the ability to exist naturally.

And Amaka?

Oh Amaka.

She cannot do anything without rehearsing. Every word. Every action. Every movement.

She is the star of her own self-criticism show, performing endlessly for an audience that is never fully present— sometimes unbothered, sometimes depressed, sometimes happy, sometimes simply too busy to care.

But Amaka performs anyway.

"I look good today."

"If I look and feel good, then I guess everyone sees it."

"I wonder if, when I bend to pick up this pen from the floor, I'll look ugly from the side… and if people will notice."

"Hottie, hottie. You are beautiful. You are kind."

"Shit… I wonder if any of them actually find me attractive."

"Am I ugly?"

"See as I fine like ten people."

And she doesn't even notice when she switches between them all.

I wonder how many of you are Amaka.

I wonder how many of you don't enter rooms but prepare yourself into them.

Because the thing is…

Amaka isn't confident.

But she's not insecure.

It is maintenance. Constant, invincible maintenance of the self.

So again maybe that's why I speak of her like she's someone else.

I no longer know how to exist out of preparedness.

Not fear. Not overthinking.

But this constant rehearsal of being a "perfect" human being.

I wonder what it feels like to be a person who does not need to rehearse being alive.

And I wonder if I'll ever know.

The writer picks up the pen anyway. The dancer dances despite the voice saying she's ugly. They've learned to exist within the maintenance, to make art from the rehearsal.

But Amaka?

Amaka would rather not exist at all. She would rather not perform, not maintain, not rehearse being alive for an audience that isn't even watching. And yet she's alive. So she performs anyway. Because the alternative requires a choice she hasn't made.

Tomorrow, she'll rehearse again.

The ballet dancer with one leg.

Tell me—

What becomes of people whose souls remember what their body cannot fulfil?

What becomes of hearts that longs for what the universe does not permit?

Does it feel like a suffocating hug on your heart?

Does it hurt like the harmattan wind on chapped lips?

Do you feel the defiance in your soul burning as though feelings could alter your reality?

Or are you stuck in the hope of a normal past or a promising “better future”

Amaka was a writer — is a writer. Amaka wrote when the storm was over. Amaka wrote when she was in the storm. But one day, Amaka stopped writing. To be fair, her life became more serious than “all this fictional work.”

She lost the spark. She lost her spark. Amaka moved with the season she was currently in and let it swallow her. The stress. The pain. The anxiety. The fear. The tension. After all, that’s what people say — ‘allow yourself feel the pain.’ The one time Amaka loosened her grip on herself, life swallowed what remained. She lost friends. She lost people she loved. But more annoyingly, she lost herself.

You can’t blame people for leaving and being fed up. At what point do you move form being the understanding friend to the fed up one? Amaka understood. So she swallowed her pride and decided to find her self. But Amaka stands confused. Because for the first time in a while, she found the courage to accept being alone. No one to cheer on. No one to motivate. No one to give light corrections. No one.

Amaka is lost

I think that is why I speak of her like she’s someone else.

So maybe the writer picks up her pen with her mouth. Maybe the ballet dancer learns a new move. The writer writes. The dancer dances. But Amaka?

Amaka waits to remember who she was before she forgot.

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Onyinye.💕

How are you all doing? Did you miss me? Because I most definitely missed you! The responses and love from my last update made me so, so happy. I’m honestly grateful that you took the time to read my stuff, share it and most importantly haven’t forgotten about me.

Now to the serious gist… Jesusssss, you people like amebo oh! 😂😂😂 One tiny mention of a “crush” and all of you flew into my inbox like, “Who??” “Gist me!” And I was just there like, “Ah ah, ehen? See these people oh!” 😭

But let me not lie, I loved the excitement. It was cute.

However… I’m sorry to burst your bubble, my people, but there’s actually no crush anywhere. 😭😂 No vex abeg. 😂 The God wey do am for relationship people go still do am for me. 😂

But now to other things, because a lot of you also asked me to explain what it means to be more loyal to your feelings than to people’s actions or efforts. So let’s get into it.

Imagine someone takes a glass of water and splashes it on me. And my next reaction is to grab a knife and stab them. Whether the splash was deliberate or accidental almost doesn’t matter anymore because, clearly, my reaction was an overreaction.

Now if someone asks me why I did that, my explanation might be:

“Because that made me feel disrespected!”

“Because he was trying to make me look foolish!”

That right there is me being more loyal to my feelings than to the actual context of what happened.

The same applies to people’s efforts. I might focus so much on how their effort made me feel that I completely ignore the fact that they actually tried. It’s not that feelings don’t matter, because they absolutely do. But context matters too.

Without context, you won’t recognize when you’re doing too much, when you’re overreacting, when you’re being ungrateful, or when you’re simply giving your emotions too much power instead of grounding yourself first.

What this does sometimes is that it makes people walk on emotional eggshells around you, because they don’t know what next thing could be a trigger for you or what small word might make you crash out.

And let’s just say I recently had an encounter that made me realize all of this. But again, this is not me saying your feelings don’t matter, because they absolutely do. I understand that sometimes the people you want to lean on will give you the most random, generic or outright stupid advice, and it can be very irritating.

But still… give grace.

People can’t be at their hundred every day. Give grace and then explain how their response, approach or effort felt underwhelming for you. And if you notice that they consistently don’t know what to say, you can decide what parts of your life are worth sharing with them, so you don’t trigger yourself unnecessarily or trigger them.

Anyway, to lighter things, you guyssss… please somebody find me husband. 😭

Notice how I didn’t say boyfriend? Yes. Just go straight to husband because the emotional rollercoaster I have been on this past week is honestly bigger than my age. I don’t even want to enter the details, abeg. 😭

Just find me husband so I can marry and have peace. 😭 Men these days are honestly exhausting.

Some other things I’d like to share in this newsletter:

• I’m beginning to like plantains. I don’t know how or when it happened, but here we are. Growth.

• I love my parents so much. Sometimes it shocks me just how deeply I love them, like it’s unreal.

• My burn is not healing properly. I went to the hospital and when the nurse said it, my heart genuinely sank. You people should please pray they don’t cut my leg off.

• I finally summoned the courage to cut someone off. This person has played a huge role in my life over time, but lately the emotional exhaustion has been too much. At this point, I’m mentally detached and just waiting for them to do something stupid so I can block them. 😭

• I DO NOT want to resume school.

• I love myself a bit too much. And honestly, good for me.

And that’s all, guys. But please, I don’t want you to think I’m joking about this husband matter oh. I’m very serious. In fact, I’m about to start a new series titled “What Does Onyinye Like ✨” so that my future husband can start taking notes early. And i know the future is still far to be talking about husband but allowwwww.😔 Feel free to tag me 19 and delusional.

Anyway, my people, let me not talk too much before I start oversharing again. 😭

Just know that I love you all, I appreciate you and if you see my husband anywhere, tell him his wife is waiting.

Till my next update, stay well, stay hydrated and stay out of unnecessary stress.

— Unfiltered Onyinye 💗✨.

Since I started this newsletter, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve apologized for not being consistent. But honestly, you can’t blame me. Between life “lifeing,” me chopping breakfast, switching departments in school, and trying to make peace with the fact that I have to start afresh, plus actual crazy school work… you really can’t blame me.

Still, I can’t lie to you. The inconsistency has me questioning myself sometimes. Like, am I really a writer or just someone who loves being called one? This is the longest I’ve been away and I hate to admit it, but those people who say “just do it, even when you don’t feel like it” might be onto something. Sometimes, the inspiration really does show up after you start.

Hello you guysssssssssssss — imagine me actually tearing up 😭. I’ve missed you all so much. I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed sharing the little details of my life. Heck, I’ve missed complaining about how life is unfair to a soft girl like me — I’m literally just a babyyy ＞︿＜

But I’m back now and ouuu, I have something I want to share! So, I got back from school and realized my dad built a gazebo in the house and I got so excited! Yayyy, we finally have another spot to sit and write that’s calm, green, and absolutely cute.

To be honest with you guys eh, I don’t even know what to write in this newsletter 😭. I just realized that I finally resumed school for Physiotherapy and never actually wrote throughout that time — overwhelming tears of shame — and now I’m moving into a new session and level.

Omo bows her head in sorrow.
I’m sorry, you guys 😭. Forgive me? 🥹 Thank youuuu 🥹

So you guys, there are quite a number of things I would like to talk about. But I don’t think they are that interesting to share tbvh. Beyond normal 100 level and fresher shenanigans, there really isn’t much to share.

Leave a comment

But there are some things I do want to share:

• I got into an accident and totally burned my right leg
  
  

• This newsletter wasn’t written in a day
  
  

• I’m quite angry while writing this newsletter
  
  

• I have some “growing up to do”
  
  

• I can be more loyal to my feelings than the actions/efforts of others
  
  

• I love moneyyy
  
  

• I might not be as academically stable as I thought I was
  
  

• I have a crush on someone
  
  

• I’m still not where I hoped I’d be in my spiritual life
  
  

Honestly, writing all of this feels like talking to a friend I haven’t seen in forever. Life’s messy, confusing, and sometimes unfair, but it’s also exciting, full of little wins (like my cute new gazebo, hehe) and full of chances to learn and grow. I don’t have it all figured out — far from it — but I’m showing up, still scribbling my thoughts, still figuring life out one messy, emotional, slightly chaotic step at a time.

And maybe that’s what it’s all about, showing up, even when you don’t feel ready, even when life’s messy, even when your leg is burned, your heart is soft, and your notebook is half-empty. We keep going and somehow, it all becomes worth it.

So, thank you for sticking around, for reading, for letting me share these little corners of my life. I promise, there’s more to come —more stories, more soft babyyy energy, more chaos, more honesty. And I can’t wait to share it with you. 💛

P.S. Also… I might have a little secret to share next time. Something about a crush… or maybe a minor disaster… or both. But shhh , you’ll have to wait to find out hehehe.

Until next time,

Onyinye💕

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I turned 18, and somehow, I felt being an “adult” would make up for all the trauma I’ve bottled in. But it didn’t. I struggle to remember things from my childhood. I thought it was normal. And then I found out it wasn’t? LMAO. I didn’t need to search deeply for why I can’t remember so much. I had suppressed so many emotions that I began to lose memory. And if there was a key to unlock them? I sure damn hope it’s never found.

I still remember that incident from when I was 6. Over and over and over. I cried my eyes out. Then 7. Then 8. Then I turned 9. Over and over and over again. Then somehow, life became rosy. Like all of that never happened. And I’m supposed to move on with, “It’s not your trauma to bear. It was never any of your business.”

My newsletters always seem a little sad. I’ve tried not to make it look like I have a sad little life—which I, in fact, don’t have. But I guess it shows that I write to you guys when I’m in my most vulnerable state.

But I do have a list of things I’m grateful for. Likeee…

I'm happy that when someone asks, “Onyinye, how are you?” I don’t just reply, “fine.” I can now say, “Nna mhenn, I'm going through a lot ohh. But we go dey alright. What's up na? How are youuu?”

I’m happy that I found Christ and can now quote a few Bible scriptures to help me rise from negative energy.

I’m grateful that I can now look myself in the mirror—acne and all—and still believe in my heart of hearts I’m the prettiest of them all.

I’m happy that instead of internalizing all that hurt, I allow myself to cry, and feel, and heal. Ish. Honestly, we’re still working on this

But as I turn 19 in a month, is it weird that I wonder what 30 might be?

I haven’t found myself...yet. I looked in the mirror today and asked myself, “Onyinye, if writing and academic validation were taken away from you today, WHO ARE YOU?” And as you can guess, I couldn’t answer that.

I didn’t realize until a year ago that yam was my favorite food. And I know it’s weird to use the word realize. But honestly, I had always known I enjoyed it and that it was one food I didn’t have any problem at all eating. But I didn’t realize how much of a comfort food it was for me.

I watched a TikTok recently where this guy was talking about how he grew up in an emotionally unstable environment and could tell people’s moods by how they breathe, walk, talk (tone), close and open doors, or simply by how they blink their eyes. So he holds on to things that are familiar, because with that comes a sense of safety. Hence, he was watching Madagascar and eating potatoes and chicken—because they feel safe and are familiar from his childhood. And all I could think while watching that was: TWIN.

Again, I’m not here to cry or say that I have such a sad little life. I have the luxury of privilege—which enables me to think and even sit with my thoughts by writing them down now and sharing with you guys.

But again I think, at 30, would I still have the same issues (emotionally, of course)?

Would I have found myself by 30?

Would I finally respond to the compliment, “You’re beautiful, Onyinye,” with a broad smile and reply, “Thank you so muchhh, you flatter me,” as opposed to “duh? Obviously.”

I know, I know—let tomorrow worry about itself blah blah blah.

But right now, I think I want to enjoy the luxury of being able to think, and actually worry, about my tomorrow.

Emotionally, I’m not where I would have hoped to be. I have a lot of growth to do—growth most of you probably already experienced as kids. But I was repressed of so many emotions that now? I’m just winging it, men.

And yes—“whatever happened in the past is in the past. You don’t let all of that define you. You can’t keep living in your trauma. That’s the plan of the devil to hinder you from growth.”

If any of you reading this already had that in mind, respectfully (or not): shut your thoughts up.

I know people have it worse than I do.

I know I don’t need to let all of that define me.

But you don’t understand what it feels like to have trauma be the reason you can’t act (emotionally) like a normal person.

In light of all of this, I have decided to breathe and enjoy my last month as an 18-year-old.

I didn’t exactly have a plan for 18. And quite frankly? I don’t think I lived in it enough. So I’m going to be super intentional as I close this chapter.

And as for 19?

I walk into it—with different things in mind. But the one that stands tall?

Finding myself before I close the chapter of teenage years.

And if it would make y’all happy—

Yes, I’ll leave 30 to worry about 30.

Onyinye 💗

Lover’s Day.

I’ve had my fair share of love. My first kiss. My first boyfriend. My first heartbreak. My first proper Valentine’s, when my dad got me flowers and chocolates. Black roses. My favorite flower, because those were the first flowers I was ever given.

This Valentine’s, I find myself reminiscing about all the times I felt love. I tend to hold on to what I thought love was, getting high on nostalgia.

But do you know what has always stood out to me? The love of Christ.

I used to be ashamed to talk about God. And it’s crazy because God wasn’t the one who told me I had no humanity. Yet, if the person who said those words to me were to walk back into my life, I would listen to him, let him air his thoughts, even accept his apology—if he were ever sorry. But I couldn’t give God that same grace, couldn’t let Him come into my life every day and tell me what He thinks and feels about me.

Yet, He did no wrong. He took all the blame for my sin.

And still, “You have no humanity” remains the most sword-piercing, heart-wrenching thing anyone has ever told me. (And I’m yet to get over it.)

But you know what I’ve come to accept on this love-filled day? That I must have truly loved this person for those words to cut so deep.

So today, I close that chapter—or at least, I try to.

And what better way to do that than to heal with the love of Christ?

So, while my lovely Onyi clan (or at least some of you) will be cuddled up with your boyfriends, girlfriends, situationships, or even just your friends and family, I want you to remember there is One you should love more than anyone else.

There is One who loves you more than anyone else.

And just as He would put you before anything, I challenge you to put Him before everything.

This Valentine’s, beyond the roses and gifts, sit with Love itself—Christ. Let Him tell you how deeply He cares for you.

Ah! Lest I forget—this is my first newsletter of the year. So, Happy New Year! I hope 2025 has been good to you.

Before I go, let me ask you—what’s a moment when you truly felt loved? Was it from a person, an experience, or something divine?

Because love is many things—soft, painful, overwhelming. But true love? True love never leaves. True love waits for you with open arms. I hope you run into them.

Until next time,

Onyinye 💗

Happy Valentine’s Day! 💌💘

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In those moments, my thoughts are vivid, intrusive. “Get a scissor, cut your hair!” “Get a knife, slit your veins. No one would notice.” I have never been bold enough to self-harm or perhaps I have been stronger than the voices that beckon. Instead, I inflict just enough pain to distract myself, never enough to send me to Jesus' right hand.

But on Thursday, I understood why people commit suicide. In that moment, I truly did. “Not today, devil. Not today!” I murmured as I dragged myself up from the bathroom floor, where I had been bawling under the shower for at least two hours.

I stood up to get my act together, with eyes brimming with tears, a heavy heart, and a mind clouded by confusion. Only one prayer managed to escape my lips:

‘I rebuke every spirit of an anxiety attack lurking around, trying to take hold of me again. My heart, my soul, my bodythey belong to the Lord. Only the Holy Spirit is allowed to reside within me.”

I repeated that prayer over and over as I moved to do the dishes. Tears streamed down my face as I cleaned and put my room in order. I knew I couldn’t afford to be alone. The thoughts would win, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Never in my life had I thought about ending it all. Think of the person you know with the strongest will to live. Got someone in mind? Now erase that thought because I promise you, my will to live burns hotter than the sun. Yet, on Thursday, I was lost. I didn’t know what to do, who to call, or even what I would say.

So, I showered, got dressed, and went out to buy some ice cream and cakes. I needed a momentary escape, a reminder of sweetness amidst the bitterness. But what truly calmed my nerves was listening to Nathaniel Bassey. From day one, he has been my hero. As his music filled my room, my soul found rest.

I began to imagine myself seated among the host of angels, playing and singing in perfect harmony. And in that moment, peace returned to me slowly but surely, like a whisper of grace in the midst of chaos.

This isn’t a cry for help or a goodbye note. It’s just a moment of honesty. I want you all to know that I struggle too. I’m just like you. I know some of my friends might read this and rush to my DMs to ask if I’m okay—and I appreciate the care. But to be honest, checking in now wouldn’t carry much meaning in my heart.

I’ve already faced the storm, inflicted the worst of the damage on myself, and begun to heal from some of the pain that weighed so heavily on me.

What prompted all of this? I know you’re curious. One day—maybe not today, but someday—I hope to find the courage to speak openly about it all. Until then, know this: I’m okay, I’m healing, and I’m finding my way.

This piece iwas supposed to be a love letter to the people who’ve held my hand, believed in me, and made me feel like I can take on the world. Let’s dive in.

First, my sister—not by blood, but by love, care, and support. Blossom.

She’s the kind of friend who cheers for me no matter what. Even when I come up with the wildest, most impractical ideas, she says things like, “Go girl. This idea is foolish. But I believe in you.”

She was my first real friend in this school, and she’s stuck by me through all my highs and lows. Blossom has seen it all:

Hungry Onyinye: Complaining about everything in sight.

Tired Onyinye: Staring blankly at the world.

Angry Onyinye: Fuming over things I’ll laugh at later.

Confused Onyinye: Wondering how life works.

Determined Onyinye: Going after her goals like her life depends on it.

Playful and nonchalant Onyinye: Because who doesn’t love some chaos?

Despite it all, she still shows up, checks in, and supports me. Honestly, if I met someone who behaved like me, I might just run in the opposite direction! But not Blossom. She stays.

Then there's Bubbles. Who is that, you ask? Well, keep wondering.

I'm not sure if he reads my newsletters—or if he'll even read this one. But what I do know is that he's one of my most unwavering supporters. Truth be told, he might be even worse than Blossom when it comes to backing my sometimes outlandish ideas. He cheers me on like it's nobody's business, treating each thought, each plan, as though it's the greatest thing to ever exist—simply because it came from me. And for that, I love him. And I'm eternally grateful to have him in my corner

Then we have… drum rolls please…

Aisé.

I hope he gets to read this too. I remember writing a piece about how I felt more connected to my native name, ‘Onyinye,’ and how I would actually prefer to be called that over ‘Joan.’ He was one of the few people who not only read but also embraced it. It doesn’t take much for someone to feel heard, loved, and seen, and with the simple act of calling me Onyinye, I truly felt all of that.

Not many people took the time to heed that request, but he did. He even made an effort to learn how to pronounce it correctly, ensuring it didn’t irritate my soul. I would randomly hear him call out, "Onyinye writes!" and it would make me smile, a quiet joy bubbling within. For some reason—perhaps not so strange—it stirs something in me, something that inspires me to write.

He also offers constructive feedback on all my newsletters, cheering me on like I’m one of the greatest writers he knows. That kind of encouragement makes me feel seen, acknowledged, and deeply loved. Though we're not particularly close, I have never felt closer to anyone.

So, thank you, Aisé. For making me feel like a writer, for making me believe that I can conquer the universe with my words. Thank you.

It feels so good giving out appreciations to people who have helped me dream. So much so that I'd be writing a newsletter entirely dedicated to that. Because, I feel this one doesn't do justice to everyone who has helped me grow. So if you're reading this, thank you so much for being here with me.

As I continue to navigate the twists and turns of life, I carry with me the love, encouragement, and strength that each of you has given. You are the silent warriors who lift me up even when I can't see the way forward. And while my journey is far from over, I find comfort in knowing that I don’t have to walk it alone. To all of you who have been there, whether in big or small ways, thank you. You are the reason I keep going, the reason I keep believing. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

And in the words of my favorite content writer of all times…

How's your day going joor?

Onyinye 💗.

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How long has it been? Five years since my last newsletter? Okay, maybe not that long—but it feels that way, doesn’t it? I’m sorry for disappearing. For breaking the promises I made to you about staying consistent. For breaking promises I made to myself—to never give up, no matter how heavy life got.

Sitting here on my bed at 3:15 a.m., staring at the screen, I’ll be honest: I’m still searching for the right words. But here’s the thing—I don’t want to let that hold me back anymore. So, I’m just going to tell you what’s been on my heart.

Lately, I’ve been struggling. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Life has this way of disrupting the plans you make, doesn’t it? You think you’re in control, but then life shows up with a plot twist. That’s exactly where I’ve been.

It started with me getting sick. One Sunday in church, I nearly collapsed. For a moment, it felt like everything was slipping away. I like to joke with my friends that I saw heaven’s gate, but in truth, it was terrifying. And while I thought I was on the mend, life threw another curveball—one of the most intense pains I’ve ever felt, deep in my stomach.

The pain brought back memories of the spinal issues I had years ago when I couldn’t walk properly for months. I’ve always been a “sick child,” and I’ve learned to manage it. But there are moments when it feels unbearable, moments where I’ve silently begged God to take the pain away—even if that meant taking me.

But He didn’t. And now, sitting here, I’m glad He didn’t.

I still had to keep showing up—going to class, pretending I was fine. I’ve always been good at masking pain. Too good.

Then, just when I thought I’d caught my breath, my laptop broke. I’d written a thanksgiving piece, ready to share with you all, and just like that—it was gone. I felt a flood of emotions: anger, disappointment, sadness, and a deep fear. The kind of fear that comes from knowing how expensive a replacement would be, and how my parents might react.

But the anger stayed with me the longest. Not just at the laptop, but at myself, at life, at the universe. I felt like less of a writer, like I’d lost a piece of myself because so much of my work—my best work—was stored on that laptop.

I’m still angry. But here I am, taking the next step anyway.

While I can’t unpack everything I’ve been feeling in this one letter, I want you to know this: I’m still here. I’m rooting for you—yes, you. Your smallest wins, your biggest achievements, your low days, and your high days—they all matter to me. And I hope, in some small way, I matter to you too.

My next newsletter will be an appreciation post. I can’t promise it will land in two days—I’m still working on being stable enough to write consistently. But I will promise this: you’ll have it by Saturday.

I’m not perfect, and life isn’t either—but I’m learning to show up anyway, even when it’s messy, even when it’s hard. So here I am, showing up for you, for me, for this space we share. Thank you for your patience, for your understanding, and for being part of this journey with me.

Until next time, please take care of yourself—your mind, your heart, and your body. I’ll be back soon, and I hope you’ll still be here when I am.

Onyinye 💗.

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Hola Onyiscribes! 

There’s an odd beauty in the way sorrow and laughter sometimes meet—like two unlikely dance partners spinning across the floor of memory. I sat with a friend who had just celebrated his convocation, listening as he quietly recounted the weight of his school years. His stories were heavy with loneliness and struggle, yet every sentence seemed to stumble into humor. We laughed—not because the pain wasn’t real, but because in its retelling, it wore a strange, absurd charm. 

It made me wonder: how often does *dolor*—deep, aching sorrow—find itself twirling with mirth? And why is it that even the darkest tales can birth the brightest laughs? 

But before we dive into that thought, tell me, people—how are you all doing? 

For me, this is the weekend I’ve been looking forward to all week, yet life had other plans: I’m sick. Yep, I waited all week to finally relax and chill, only to end up battling a crazy cold on the very days I’d hoped to unwind and recharge for the struggles of the next week. Fun, right? 

Anyway, I’ll be fine… I think? 

(Positive vibes are welcome, by the way.) 

Meanwhile, it’s convocation week at my school, and oh boy, the air is buzzing with congratulations and celebrations. I couldn’t help but daydream about the day I’ll finally graduate and get inducted into my field of study. As I watched all the joy around me, it struck me: that happiness is more than just a moment—it’s the culmination of years of sadness, struggle, and sacrifice. 

Funny, isn’t it? How the weight of the past can make the present so much lighter.

So, back to my friend. The night before his convocation, we stayed up late, laughing and reminiscing about his school journey. 

“There are breaks from suffering?” he said with a smirk. “I didn’t know that.” 

“All through my years in school, I never used a campus shuttle.” 

“My life is literally *Encanto*—minus the magic.” 

“I’m sorry for being so sad; now it’s rubbing off on you. This is why I hate telling sad stories.” 

Those were some of his words—raw, honest, and strangely funny in the heat of our conversation. 

It had me thinking: is this going to be my story too? 

Granted, the “never using a campus shuttle” part isn’t likely (because let’s be real, I hate walking). But the bigger question remains: will my university years be summed up as a string of struggles? Will my answer to “How was uni?” years from now be a collection of sad tales and sighs? 

His story struck me deeply. The best thing that happened to him during his entire school experience was graduating. That’s it. No standout moments of joy, no memories to replay with a fond smile—just the relief of being done. 

And I don’t want that for me—or for you guys. 

But something else stood out in the way he shared his story. He spoke about his sadness in a way that made us laugh. Genuinely laugh. It wasn’t forced humor or a bid for sympathy; it was the kind of laughter that only comes when pain is reshaped into something oddly human and absurd. 

Quite frankly, I don’t think I could ever do that. A lot of really sad things have happened to me in my not-so-many years on earth, and I’ve never been able to talk about them. Let alone talk about them in ways that evoke laughter.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe we don’t always have to find humor in our pain right away. Maybe it’s enough to sit with it, to let it teach us, and then, when we’re ready, to reshape it into something meaningful—whether that’s a lesson, a story, or even a laugh.

But maybe that’s the strange beauty of life—that *dolor* and mirth, like awkward dance partners, are always intertwined. It’s not that pain becomes less real or less valid when we laugh; it’s that humor has this odd way of helping us carry it. My friend’s ability to recount his struggles with a grin taught me something profound: while we can’t always choose what happens to us, we can choose how we frame it, even if only for our own peace. 

And maybe that’s the secret to the dance. Life doesn’t give us an instruction manual for balancing our sadness with our laughter, but it does give us moments—moments we can choose to hold tightly or to let slip away unnoticed. 

For me, it’s not just about making it to the finish line, whether it’s graduation or any other milestone. It’s about creating memories along the way that I can look back on with more than just relief. I don’t want my story to be one where laughter only comes after the fact, as a desperate attempt to mask pain. I want it to be woven through my journey, even on the hardest days. 

So here’s my takeaway—and maybe something for you to think about, too: life is messy. Sometimes it’s a broken song that doesn’t make sense. But even in the dissonance, there’s room for laughter, for absurdity, for connection. And when we let ourselves find those small moments of joy amidst the chaos, we’re not just enduring; we’re living. 

In the end, the best stories aren’t the ones that deny their pain—they’re the ones that embrace it and find the humor in its cracks. So let’s keep writing our stories, one step, one laugh, one dance at a time.

Until next time beautiful people,

Don’t forget to like, subscribe and share,

Onyinye 💕

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Names are more than sounds; they are stories. Each syllable holds a fragment of who we are and where we come from. Names carry power; they speak to the essence of our being and often define our place in the world. My English name, Joan, and my native name, Onyinyechukwu, both mean “gift.” “God’s gift,” if you will. But while Joan was the name I was given, it always felt like a borrowed cloak—appropriate, yet detached. 

Onyinye, however, resonates deeply with me. It feels like the truest form of myself, especially in moments of prayer and reflection. When I speak Onyinye, it’s as if I’m calling forth something ancient and intimate, something that ties me to my roots and to the divine. Onyinye is not just a name; it is the lexicon of my being, a sacred language that whispers my essence back to me. 

Before I delve further into my journey of self-identity, tell me—how are you? 

Actually, let’s take a moment together. Breathe in… three, two, one. Now, breathe out. Relax. Tell me, how has this week treated you so far? 

It’s midweek, and quite frankly, I already cannot wait for the weekend. I sincerely hope this week has been kind to you. I hope you’re not clinging to the last thread of sanity within you. I hope that when you step into the sun, you marvel at its beauty, at the wonder of God’s creation, rather than feel burdened by its heat against your cheeks. 

I hope that tomorrow morning, when you wake up, you find yourself in a better headspace, grateful for the chance to be among the living. All in all, I hope you are well, and I pray your goals for the week come to pass with ease and without stress. 

Now, back to my story. Ever since I embraced Onyinye as my identity, I haven’t looked back. But if I’m being honest, I still struggle to fully identify myself as Onyinye in every situation. For instance, when a total stranger asks for my name, my first response is still “Joan.”  

Take last Saturday, for example. I was at my school’s sports complex when a basketball coach approached me. As we talked, he asked for my name. For a moment, I wanted to say Onyinye, but almost immediately, I said Joan. Why didn’t I say Onyinye? 

For a long time, I blamed this hesitation on my frustration with people mispronouncing my name. It irritated me to no end. But now, I realize that’s not much of an excuse. Because when this coach asked for my native name, he took the time to break it into syllables and practice it until he pronounced it correctly. 

Then, on Tuesday, I had an encounter with a friend of Benin origin. I wanted to pronounce his native name correctly, so I paid attention to the intonation and applied the corrections he gave me. Within five minutes, I was able to say it easily and correctly. 

After that interaction, I felt a deep sense of anger—not at him, but at the realization of how much of myself I’ve held back because others wouldn’t make the same effort. I’ve often gone out of my way to learn and pronounce names from other tribes, yet people don’t extend the same courtesy to me. Be it my native name, my surname or names from my culture

But from now on, I promise to uphold it with every fiber of my being. No excuses. No remorse. No hesitation. I’m taking no prisoners. 

Names are more than labels; they are windows to our essence. I’ve spent much of my life responding to two names: Joan and Onyinye. Both carry the same meaning— “gift”—a truth I’ve always held dear. Yet it was Onyinye, with its cultural and spiritual roots, that resonated with me on a much deeper level. It wasn’t just a name; it felt like a bridge, linking me to my heritage and a more intimate sense of belonging. Even in prayer, when I call myself Onyinye, it feels as though God is meeting me where I truly am, as if He, too, recognizes this name as mine. 

My hope for you? Find that name or that thing that fits you like Onyinye fits me: snug, soulful, and unapologetically yours. Because life’s too short to wear someone else’s name, don’t you think?

Until next time lovelies,

Do well to share and subscribe,

Onyinye💕

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Hola, my amazing thirty subscribers!

I’m so freaking excited to have you all here with me. It feels surreal to have my very own community. Although we’re starting small, I’m thrilled that you found my initial piece interesting enough to come back. Let’s make the best of our little corner of the internet.

Over the past few days, I’ve been brainstorming names for our community. I’ve come up with a few options and would love your input! Here’s what I’ve got: 

1.Onyiverse – Writing it out now, I realize how funny it sounds. Feel free to laugh (I did too!). 

2.Onyiscribes – A nod to my writing journey. 

3.Joanyjams– A fun and rhythmic twist! 

4.Joanlings – Cute, right? 

5.Onyijo Nuggets – Think of this as little pieces of wisdom and stories from me to you.

What do you think? Which one resonates with you? The name with the most votes will become the intro to all my future newsletters—something like, “Hey, Onyiscribes!” You get the vibe, right?

I bet some of you are wondering: what’s the point of this newsletter? Honestly, I’m figuring that out as I go. And that’s okay... right? 

Actually, maybe I do know. 

Writing has always been my safe space—the one place I can fully express myself. Some of my close friends might be surprised to hear this because I’ve often been seen as fearless, bold, and maybe a little outspoken. But the truth is, I struggled with severe anxiety during much of my teenage years. Writing became a form of therapy for me. 

So think of this newsletter as therapy—not just for me, but for anyone who struggles with self-expression. 

A Promise

I want this newsletter to be a promise: 

- A promise to myself to keep growing and learning. 

- A promise to you to share pieces of my journey authentically. 

- A promise to anyone who feels like me that you’re not alone—I’m here, checking in on you through these letters.

And there’s also a little something. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve always wanted a community *silently screams*. Actually, scratch that. I’ve always wanted... fans! *runs to the corner to smile and scream*. 

Not fans in a celebrity way—I just wanted people to feel connected to my writing. So, I hope this newsletter brings that connection and makes an impact.

So in the spirit of keeping promises, Here’s something you didn’t know: during my teenage years, I wrote a lot. But one piece stands out to me as the most heart-wrenching. It was raw and genuine. Want to guess what it was about? 

My first heartbreak. *Cringe*, right? Please don’t judge me. 

 At the time. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t weep. Quite frankly for a few weeks I couldn’t process my feelings. But when I finally could, I wrote about it in my little pink journal.

A lot of time has passed since that breakup, and I’ve written so much since then. Each new piece helps me discover a part of myself I didn’t know existed. That’s the beauty of writing—you uncover ideas you didn’t realize were inside you.

If there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do, it’s this: take a leap of faith. Try something that scares you. Sure, it might not always work out (*laughs at bad ideas*), but you’ll look back and be proud of yourself for trying. 

You could as well read my initial newsletter if you haven’t done that.

Do well to have an amazing week lovelies…

Until next time, 

Onyinye 💕

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FEELING A PROFOUND BUT COMPLEX CONNECTION, WHERE LOVE AND SORROW COEXIST, EACH SUSTAINING THE OTHER.

The first time I realized I had a knack for writing, it didn’t feel real. I couldn’t believe there was something that took me out of the ordinary. I couldn’t believe I could capture attention with just the words I put on paper. I always thought of myself as one of those people who were ‘unique’, but not ‘special’.

I realized I knew how to sing at age 10. ‘Celine Dion! Celine Dion!’ I can still hear parents chant as I sang a farewell song on my primary school graduation. And as if triggered, I increased my tempo and sang as my heart was so full. Miss M. didn’t make feel special at choir practice in primary school. She never told me I had a great voice. I never knew my voice was so special to even invoke such a response from parents. But I owned it. That moment was mine to savor. There was nothing anyone could tell me that would make me feel otherwise. ‘So you can read so well?’ ‘I didn’t realize you could’. These people thought of me as dumb. And it was crazy because I was one of the top students in my class. So why did they think of me as such? Because I was quiet?

Anyways, I got into secondary school and my self-esteem began to diminish. Not necessarily because there was no one to hype me up. But the voices in my head kept telling me I wasn’t it. I saw people who read better than I did. I saw people with even more outstanding vocals. The only thing I thought that was really going for me was my height. I have always been the tallest in every gathering that I was present. And I hated it with intense passion. For someone who didn’t have anything special about her, I was always noticed in every gathering.

My google searches would range from how to reduce your height, to, how to reduce your shoe size. ‘How can I shrink my bones?’ ‘Is there a way to stop growing taller permanently?’. I hated my looks. ‘How to reduce full lips’. ‘Onyinye you know you have big lips, so try and be folding your lips back in your mouth like this *she would demonstrate* so it’s not really noticeable’ ‘How to make people believe you are beautiful when you’re not’ ‘Shey una dey see say Emeka fine pass Onyinye? She nor really fine like that’ ‘what can I do so that people will find me more likeable’ ‘How do I know if I have a good personality so people do not check my looks or the things I can do’ At age ten these were my google searches, thoughts and things I heard people constantly say to me.

By my JSS3 I had a turn of events that elevated my self-esteem. ‘Oyibo, we have an essay writing competition and I want you to be part of it’. What? What do you mean? You mean you marked the general class essay and you thought of mine to be amazing? You mean you read mine and thought I was competition worthy? Of course these were the thoughts in my head that I couldn’t say out. But I did ask. ‘Why?’ She smiled and as she pulled out my essay from her drawer. Pointing out a line she had underlined, she read; ‘Embracing the shadowed glow of bitter sweet symbiosis. This is the first time a student used an idiom I and the other teachers were not familiar with and I had to google search the meaning. Apart from the fact that you schooled me today, your creative writing is the most original I have read in a while. And for a student your age, you did beautifully well and myself and other teachers were thoroughly impressed. If it weren’t a class test written in my presence and impromptu for that matter, I would have assumed you stole someone else’s writing off the internet. I am proud of you and this is extremely impressive. Keep it up!’

What?! You know what I did when I got home after school? ‘Hey google what are the rarest idioms that I can use for my creative writings?’. You see what happened here? For the first time in a long time my google searches were not on my looks, or how to change my personality. They were on how I could be a better writer. A better student if you may. Mrs. O. would never realize how much her words changed me and made me better. I had finally found out was I was good at. I wasn’t sporty, I wasn’t necessarily the best singer around, I had people around with impeccable diction, I was the tallest, but I was also a good writer. My writing impressed my English teacher. Who was probably well read and had studied extensively and marked numerous creative writings throughout her teaching years. Yet, she found mine to be amazing.

 It’s crazy how this moment redefined me. Because from here, I began to look at myself differently. Maybe I was already on the road to becoming more self-aware, but this moment? Made me for the first time love something about myself. And I was just thirteen.

So yes, my name is Onyinyechukwu Joan Oyibo. And I am a writer and a physiotherapy student in the University of Benin. I might not be the most amazing writer you’ve come across, but I am unique. You can never read works similar to mine anywhere and that’s what makes me special.

 I have kind of been holding off on starting my newsletter. But I am ready now. And I hope you are too. This is the first of many to come.

Go ahead, tell everyone you were here first. Stay classy, stay curious – and stay tuned!