Just Adachi

I am from Imo State, but I live in Enugu. I work here, I pay my taxes here, my children will go to school here. Enugu is where I build my dreams, contribute to the economy, and participate in the daily life of my community. Yet, in the eyes of Nigeria’s legal and administrative system, I remain primarily a citizen of Imo—my “state of origin.” If I seek certain government jobs, apply for state‑sponsored scholarships, or even aspire to political office in Enugu, I can be told I am not an “indigene.” I am, in effect, a permanent guest in the place I call home. This is the reality for millions of Nigerians. Our current framework gives overwhelming weight to state of origin: a fixed label assigned at birth, tied to ancestral ethnicity, while state of residence, where we actually live, work, and contribute, remains secondary. I believe this is a fundamental flaw in how we structure belonging. If we are serious about reducing ethnic bias, strengthening accountability, and building a true nati...

My love,  they say the clouds are gathering for a protest and has said woe betide the uncovered skulls caught in it. The national grid has fallen on it knees again,  in despair or supplication,  I cannot tell. So I light the scented candles we saved from our last time together,  to watch the shadows grow, and think of you, and the last words you spoke. You said the mad men have started again,  and everyone watches with winter frosted  glasses. But darling, we are Aba-made; like the tinker,  we have learned to beat tin scraps into pans. I’ll tie my wrapper tighter, plant ugu and  cassava, and tell the hungry ghosts to wait a minute. My love is not a thing they’ll get their hands on. I see the men at the newspaper stands, the young ones salivating at the prospect of witnessing history they only read about; the old ones shaking their heads at them. I write the rising prices as prompts  for stories that will be told one day. My blue jerrycan is r...

The pen is heavy.  Heavier than the hoe I swung in the sun. Heavier than the basket of yams I carried down from the farm. Heavier than the baby who only chose to draw breath outside this world. This little stick of blue plastic, it has the weight of a grinding stone. My name is Uwalaka.  I am seventy-three seasons old. All my life, my mouth has been a locked box, and the key was swallowed by my father, then my husband. When I was a girl, I saw the moon split the sky in two, a silver gourd pouring light. I ran to my mother, my voice a small bird in my throat. “Mama, Mama, the moon has broken!” She pressed her hand, dry and cracked like old leather, over my lips. “Shhh, Uwa. A girl’s words are like smoke. They have no place in the air. Shut your mouth.” The bird in my throat learned to be silent.  It built a nest of stones. When I was a wife, I felt a pain like a hot coal in my belly, a different pain from the one that brought my children. I tried to tell my husband, his ba...