Just Adachi

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.