Just Adachi

After eight incredible years of scouting, searching, and savoring the thrill of the hunt, I’m thrilled to share some exciting news with fellow bibliophiles. For nearly a decade, I’ve devoted myself to collecting rare and out-of-print books, not just for my own shelves, but for collectors and readers who share this passion. Any serious book hunter knows the journey well: it’s often tedious, sometimes exhausting, but utterly rewarding when you finally hold that treasured title in your hands. To make that joy more accessible, I’ve partnered with one of Enugu’s most beloved literary landmarks—Winny M Bookshop, one of the oldest and finest bookstores in the city. Together, we’re bringing the magic of rare book discovery into the digital age. Introducing our new online store and catalogue: NG Book Collector . Born from collaboration with dedicated bookstore owners and designed especially for niche collectors like us, NG Book Collectors is a curated space for rare, out-of-print, and special e...

I want to cry, but you keep asking— What exactly are you crying for? Did you lose something? That is it. I do not know. But I do know I am crying for what should have stayed. I am crying for the hanging dreams I keep leaping to grab. I am crying for the unlikely strangers at the door, their mocking grins taunting me as I heave into the toilet bowl with all my heart, with no one holding my hair. And when you ask again, What exactly are you crying for? I know what it is: I cry because I am too heartbroken to fight off the disappointment and the shame.

There are moments that never really leave you, no matter how much time has passed… and they creep up on you when you least expect it. Even now, I cannot decide whether I was wise or unwise to pack my bag and fly to São Tomé. But one thing I know: those pictures taken by Thompson broke me. The second I laid my eyes on those poor, dying children, I knew I had to try my best. No one deserves such suffering. I recall our flight from São Tomé to Biafra—chaotic. I was one of the many volunteers who had made the sober decision to lend a helping hand to the dying Biafrans. No one deserved the agony I had read about and seen in those photographs. From the moment we landed at the Uli airstrip, it became clear my life was hanging in the balance. One of the airline staff let it slip that a relief plane had been shot down the week before. In the dark of that airstrip, under a light rain, we crouched and slipped past into a waiting wagon, past the Biafrans offloading the relief goods in a frenzy. Ti...