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Ruffled Feathers

If regret is a song, then let me answer it once, low and without feathers ruffled: I do not regret you. Even now. Even as your morning song tries to unwrite our mornings. You think your sorrow is a river— it is a mirror. You polish it each dawn to see yourself as someone who once loved and lost the right to. But love was never a right. It was a branch we both landed on. That row? It was not the fall. It was your pride refusing the landing. So sing your elegy to the empty field. I have already flown not away from you, but past the story you need me to live inside. You call it regret. I call it your ego wearing mourning clothes because it could not win a fight that never needed winning. I will not match you grief for grief. Instead, I will eat the same red berry under the same sun and remember us whole— not because I am blind, but because I am not afraid of the small, broken parts. Your regret is yours to carry. Mine would be a lie. And lying to make you comfortable is the one thing I ne...
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The Smell That Lingers

One thing no one tells you about the dead is that their smell lingers in your insides. Especially when they’re rotting. I don’t know why I insisted on going to see Auntie Carol. I still don’t know why, till today. It’s been two weeks, and her smell still hides inside me, and it's not something my perfume can handle. I’ve drowned my bathwater in Dettol and filled my room with air fresheners of all sorts. Yet the smell lingers. And the worst part is her face. Every moment, her darkened, swollen face flashes before my eyes, and it takes everything in me not to puke again. I'd vomited on the day I saw her. And again I ask myself: why did I go to Awka? Why didn’t I just wait at home like everyone else? Auntie Carol was the sweetest auntie. The life of the party. A breath of fresh air. The person you leaned on. Her smile made your day. Her singsong voice gave you sweet dreams whenever she said, "Night, night." The kindest, sweetest soul. So, when my mother called and said, ...
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The Names We Keep

I am reading Igbo Worlds by Elizabeth Isichei, and I keep stopping at the names of the people she interviewed. They are names like Ogbuamazie, Odada, Amaruife, Anyanta, Okwumabua. You cannot mistake them for anything other than Igbo. They speak of a heritage untouched by Christianity or Western influence. Reading them, I feel I am hearing echoes of a world before my own. Then I think of my own name: Adachukwu Onwudiwe. Adachukwu—literally translated as God's Daighter but really means 'a child of God’s will'. It is beautiful, but it is shaped by Christianity. The Chukwu is Igbo, yes, but the naming impulse that produced it belongs to the church. Onwudiwe, though, is different. That name ties me directly to my ancestral roots. It has a story encoded in it, one that existed long before any missionary arrived. My surname, too, is the final link that still connects me to an ancestor’s story. I find myself wondering how many of us still carry such names. Not the Christian-influen...
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Making Our Local Governments Work

Every morning, as I power-walk through my street, I see the same pattern: new houses springing up, streets filling with people who are invisible to the local government that is supposed to serve them. The Local Government Area office  that sits miles away, with no idea how many people who live in its layouts, who owns the properties, or what services are needed. We have managed to build a quasi-modern society on the ground, but our LGAs remain stuck in an administrative time warp. And the tragedy is that we seem to insist on not evolving them. Please note that this article is not a finished blueprint. It is food for thought; a practical starting point that we can argue about, improve, and build upon. At its heart is a simple question: what if every resident belonged, in real time, to the LGA where they actually live? Imagine that when you move into a new area, you don't just pack your bags. You walk into the LGA secretariat or open a portal and register your presence. You provide y...
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Excerpts from the Auto-Biography of a Former Nigerian

Item 1: A headline from a Pan-African news aggregator, dated March 12, 2031. “The United Nations General Assembly formally acknowledges the dissolution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, recognising the sovereign states of The Lower Niger Republic (LNR), The Western Federation, The Niger Delta Union (NDU) and The Central Sahel Republic (CSR). A spokespers on cited ‘the permanent cessation of viable state functions’ as the primary factor.” ...................................................... I read this three times. Not for the weight of it, that had already fallen years ago. I read it for the word ''formally''. Formality is a luxury. The debates are done, but the jokes just got amped. The think pieces have dried up. It means the mapmakers in Geneva can finally redraw the lines without hesitation, confident no one is going to argue about it next week. Nigeria did not end in a moment. It ended in installments. In headlines that stopped surprising people. In panel discu...
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Elevating State of Residence over State of Origin in Nigeria

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...
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Everything Will Be Alright

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...
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