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On this day last year, I wrote about the buildup of events that led to my dad’s passing. I also said that day started the most chaotic year of my life. I didn’t lie. Today, on the second anniversary of his death, I thought to write to you about grief and how I have dealt with it because, in truth, grief does not leave you; it just gets better. Over the past year, across my social media platforms, I talked a lot about how his death triggered emotions in me that I didn't know existed—new descents into the deep, new levels of highs—anything to get into my emotions or consciously get out of the physically overwhelming feeling that was like a weighted blanket most days. Because I lived quite far from home—up north, to be exact—my guardians broke the news to me at the crack of dawn that Tuesday, and I was broken, as anyone who hears bad news is. I was stumped mostly, but yeah, I was broken. The first person I called was my mom, and on answering the phone, she started to say my oriki , w

Photo by Artur Tumasjan on Unsplash ‘Let me help you out.’ I hear the voice call.  I look up to see the brightest smile I have ever seen on a human. Her face is elegant, shiny, and well-structured. She must have seen me struggling with my one too many bags. I love the gesture, so lovely and pure. Genuine and selfless. She has just one box with her and a small bag slung across her chest. She looks happy. I wonder why. ‘You look like you have a lot going on’, she continues. ‘I really do’, I reply with genuine happiness and laughter. ‘Thank you very much,’ I continue in gratitude as I hand over my largest box to her. She looks willing to help, her hand is already stretched out to help. Her offer to help warms my heart. Not often do you meet someone who genuinely wants to help you out with your bags at the airport. At least not here. I rarely get help as much as I get looks and compliments from strangers. The best I can think of is getting a ride, not getting help with my bags at the airp

Photo by Rafay Ansari on Unsplash "Good morning, sir," Chioma said as she entered his small, corner office, her eyes scanning the smelly room: a mix of dampened books and roasted fish.  "Good morning. How are you doing?" He responded with amusement; a pool of excitement began to build up behind his bespectacled eyes, like a fat kid who had just laid his eyes on a candy bar. "You asked to see me, sir." Chioma continued as she stood by the door, tightly clutching her bag in front of her. She raised her left heel against the door and held on to the handle still scanning his office. "Yes, Miss Okochi. I asked to see you." He reached for a file from the huge dusty pile on his table, opened it, and gestured to her. "Please, take a seat. Feel at home." "No sir," she responded, her voice very low and shaky, almost a whisper. Her fear was beginning to show up. She worried her fear might not make her win, but she was confident

Landing in Lagos on a Monday afternoon was stressful, and she hated it. It was a smooth flight and landing, plus a much-needed ‘me time’ in her cubicle on the plane, with no noise, no music, and no movies, so descending from the plane felt like she had just been eased into a big pot of boiling water, so big that wherever she turned, there was no escape. She felt the heat the tarmac emitted and mirrored it with the time of Noah when water was said to go from the ground up to the sky as rain. The heat scorched her feet in the Nike kicks she wore, and as she struggled to move along the queue that went into the arrival lounge, her hair stuck to her neck. She had begun to sweat.  That was how she knew she was in Lagos. Home, not so cool home. As usual, she was welcomed by immigration officials who, by sight or by sign, wanted something from her, another signal that she had not missed her way. She was undoubtedly in Lagos. On a very good day, she would have considered stashing some thousand

  Like a bird born in a cage, I thought flying was an illness. I was taught and brought up to believe that anything outside of what I knew or was taught was strange, and that strange was bad. There was a limit to knowledge, and if I did not want to go mad like Adesewa, who peeped while the awo cult was having their ritual procession, or become blind like the affluent Koleosho, who disobeyed Bimbi, the goddess of the land, by going into her shrine that was meant for only women, I knew better than to be inquisitive. Baami had always preached against curiosity and exploration: leaving the village, going beyond the almost dried-out yellow tree at the river at dusk to fetch water, asking questions, looking into their eyes or the eyes of any older person when they spoke, being around when they talked to people their age or generally above our age, and even going near the new school around the village square. His brief, rotund self always waded through our tiny corridor as he would call out h

  The first time I recognized I had the “H-factor” as a young Yoruba woman was in an English language class in my senior year of secondary school. I’m not sure who first used this term or how they came up with it, but that’s what they call it. Perhaps on purpose, our teacher had called out terms for us to spell correctly in our notebooks; words like eight, ate, hate, hair, air, hear, and ear, to mention a few. I was convinced I would ace the test, but not until he started to make corrections and I was puzzled. I had gotten almost everything wrong, and I could not understand why or how, until my classmate, Ronke, pointed out to me that we had heard wrongly because we had the ‘H-factor’. Ronke had, in fact, scored ten out of ten. English major in the actual mud. As a non-Nigerian (non-Yorubas should understand what this means, but for those who do not), having the ‘H- factor’ as a Yoruba person means you put the alphabet H anywhere you find a vowel. This means I could tell someone ‘I ha

                                                              Photo by Eyasu Etsub on Unsplash 'It has pleased God to call your Dad home'. I went cold. My arms and feet. January 22nd, 2021 I was on my way home from work when my brother called. He asked for our family -read government- hospital card number. It was a very odd question because my dad had retired -as a civil worker- and we no longer used the card for consultation. In fact, we had been told on several occasions that they had taken his card 'off the shelf'. Besides my brother had his own card at the same hospital, being a government staff. So the question was very weird on all fronts.  I told him I could not remember the exact number but gave him two or three numbers that came to my head at that time. I asked what the problem was and he said Dad was in the hospital and they needed to get his card for treatment. We hung up and I went home. 6:02PM: My brother sends me a voice note on WhatsApp explaining what h

December 31st, 2017. The time is 10:15. My Mum, brother and I are waiting for a couple of minutes to pass by before going to the church just beside my house for the annual cross over service into 2018. My Mum’s phone rings. I pick it up and see that it’s my Aunty. ‘Oh she has even called several times. How didn’t we hear?’ I muttered to myself in Yoruba, my native language. I hurriedly make my way to my Mum’s room to give the phone to her. ‘Mummy’, I say softly a couple of times before giving her the phone. ‘Mummy Branco n pe yin ’ Mummy Branco is calling you. Mummy Branco is what we call my Aunty by. Most people know her as my second Mummy, which is very correct.  I watch as my Mum answers the call, definitely still sleepy. Her voice and eyes would clear in seconds when I hear her say ‘Ehn!’ in a high pitch. I definitely knew something was wrong. She hurriedly hangs up and shouts that my Aunty’s husband is in the hospital and on life support and we had to leave immediately. I fee

Re-introduction Hi! My name is Tobi Ojenike. Welcome (back) to my blog. In a bid to get this blog back on its feet, I have decided to share my Youth Service year story here. This is the ‘plainest’ I can get and the words used here are exactly how I felt. And I lost most of the pictures but I’ll put up some of them that I could find.  Before Camp I had always wanted to serve in Abuja. I would tell anyone that cared to listen that I wanted to go to Abuja. So when I was filling out the online form, I chose all the Northern states, that I had visited them, except Abuja, hoping I’d get posted there. Eventually, I was posted to Adamawa State. I was numb when I saw the posting, I was neither happy nor sad. I knew that whatever I did at that point mattered less and I would have to go to the mandatory three weeks camp. However, my camp was in Bauchi State. So I did not really go to Adamawa till the end of my service year 😉   Service year started from January, 16th to be precis