Just Adachi

I attended the FHNW's Makeathon today as a mentor...all thanks to my husband, Chidi, and the convener, Prof. Emanuele Laurenzi. I quickly discovered that the only group I could genuinely follow was the one working on SMEs. The others; they went past me like a Keke driver being chased by a VIO. But I was determined to join the chase, so I became what I always become at these things: an observer. A sponge. Absorbing everything, understanding roughly fifty percent, nodding at the other fifty. I believe in the intersection of disciplines. I believe it the way some people believe fervently in astrology, and with the sense that the universe is trying to tell me something (please allow me my delusions).  AI is one discipline with a hundred tentacles, and I spent the day being gently slapped by each of them...with consent of course. At Afrochives Studio , we do heritage research on Igbo culture. Not because other cultures don't interest us. Funding is the issue, and our office is in t...

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...

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, ...

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...

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...

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...

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...

A young man was recently killed in Nigeria for being gay. His death was not quiet. It was not private. It was public, brutal, and—most disturbingly—celebrated. Men applauded. They cheered. They filmed. They shared the videos with captions dripping with righteousness, as if they had just rid society of a plague. And I want to ask a simple question: So he was gay. What about it? What about his sexuality warranted death? What about two consenting adults loving each other in private justifies mob violence? What about homosexuality is so threatening to our collective survival that we must hunt down and eliminate gay men and women? The answer, of course, is nothing. There is nothing about homosexuality that threatens Nigeria. But everything about our response to it reveals the rot at our core. Our obsession with policing other people’s sexuality exposes not moral clarity, but moral bankruptcy. It reveals our collective insecurity, our desperate need for scapegoats, and our willingness ...

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...

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...