Just Adachi

Panic grips the edge in a bid to climb up. Stoicism and optimism, frantically, try to pry off its fingers. Later, the quiet: panic skulking in the shadows.

The global spotlight recently fell on Nigeria through the viral tour of streamer iShowSpeed. While his travels in other African nations showcased cultural immersion, rich heritage and positive interactions with people, his experience in Nigeria infamously devolved into a chaotic display of what many have termed our "begging culture." The outcry has been swift, blaming disorganised influencers and oblivious tourism bodies. But this incident is not an anomaly; it is a stark symptom of a deeper national disease. Our problem is not a lack of tourist sites or events, but a profound failure in our people culture, which happens to be the very foundation of tourism and hospitality. The common rebuttal is that "not all Nigerians" are like this. True. But tourism is not an exercise in statistical averages; it is a chain of consecutive experiences summed up in a feeling. Imagine a crate of eggs where a significant portion is stale. Your gratitude for the good eggs is overwhelm...

I usually let my poems speak for themselves, but 'Becoming' requires a bridge between two worlds. When I first heard the relentless, labouring cadence of Rudyard Kipling’s Boots, I didn’t just hear soldiers marching; I heard the rhythmic thud of hoes against red earth and felt compelled to reimagine that cadence for a 16th-century Igbo maiden, a girl caught between her own fear and her role as a reluctant sacrifice to shield her village from raiders. This is the rhythm of her transformation from a daughter of the soil to Ala itself.

Obu Nanka Photo credit: Dr. Ikenna Ezeasor

A recent whisper on social media, masquerading as an insult, has lingered in the air like woodsmoke: "Over here, our traditional leadership titles are earned by inheritance, not by cash in hand."  The statement hurt, not because it was false, but because it is true. For us, Ndi Igbo, the sting came from the mirror it held up to our faces. It forced us to confront an uncomfortable, oft-ignored reality: we have allowed the sacred currency of valor and responsibility to be traded for the rustle of cash. There was a time when a title was not a prize to be won, but a burden to be borne. It was conferred upon men and women of demonstrable "timbre and calibre," those who had already shouldered the weight of the community. Their yam barns were full, yes, for wealth was a sign of wisdom and industry, but it was a means, not the end. The ultimate qualification was a life of service. The cowries and goods exchanged during the ceremony were not a simple purchase; they were a re...