Tag Archives: musings


Before you do anything, I command you to read Tobi’s post, also titled “Home” on her blog here, we did a thing together. Please and thank you!

I was utterly prepared to do some poetic post with the recurring motif of “home is where you can walk around braless and give zero fucks” but nah, I’m going to switch it up, keep things exciting.

Whenever someone talks about “home”, my initial thought is always Nigeria. Always. I never thought I could feel so strongly attached to that country but I feel like my soul is rooted there. Every bit of me wants to be there all the time. The weather can melt your face off but it’s the best. Every day is an opportunity for growth, for discovery. The country is evolving, the nation is growing up and I get so overwhelmed just hearing about new developments in my endz (yes, endz with a z). I spent a massive chunk of my teenage years in Nigeria. As I formed into the graciously dazzling young lady that I am now, Nigeria moulded me, it dug out little caverns in me and dwells in me.

It scares me when I think of the number of people who leave for “greener pastures” in foreign lands and end up never coming back. I know, Nigeria isn’t for the fainthearted: that nation requires balls of titanium, a resolve that can never crack, patience in the truckloads and an ability to just take it all in and not run for the hills. But it’s home. It’s what runs through my veins: it’s always making a guest appearance in the small things that I do: be it a tinge in my voice or the sass in a look I give someone, there’s just something in me that continuously reminds me that Nigeria is where I want to be.

The food. Can we just take a moment? Can we acknowledge the sweetness, the absolute sweetness that is Nigerian food? I can’t remember the last time I heard someone hail the awesomeness of a plate of correct jollof rice by saying “the rice is too sweet”. I’m guessing using the word “sweet” to quantify the yumminess of savoury dishes comes from the direct Yoruba translation of “o dun gan” which literally means “it’s really sweet” but I digress. Nigerian food is a miracle to taste buds everywhere. Whether it’s akara and a small loaf of bread from the ever-faithful woman who was always there, every single morning, just there on the side of the road, expertly scooping up ground beans and squeezing out teeny balls into the abyss of bubbling oil before her on my way to school or the buns lady or the boli and epa lady or the suya man or the buka mama with her steaming plates of white rice, beans and 20, 50 or 100 naira meat. Food was never-ending, it was an experience just buying the food, it was a phenomenon sinking your teeth into it all.

I wouldn’t say I miss the attention I used to get from all breeds of men back then but now I actually notice how much of it there was, if that makes sense. All the cat-calling and the hey baby, can I have your numbers and the married men who would purposefully drive slow to match my walking pace just to propose the notion of financial domination to me, the obsession over girls half their age… it was a lot to deal with so if you think Nigerian girls are particularly mean-spirited, it’s most likely not intentional. It’s a defence mechanism, no doubt.

I want to be back there. I want my children to have Nigeria entangled in their hearts and minds. I want to help my nation, watch my nation succeed. I want to get my hands dirty with the grime and grit involved with growing something, tending something and watching it flourish into the beautiful creature it’s always meant to be. I want be one of the lucky ones who can say “I knew my home needed more hands, needed a nudge in the right direction so I went and I helped and here we are now.”

Georgina ❤

Song of the Week

Listen to GoldLink and let your life change.

How Am I Dying?

I am ever the optimist and occasionally the pessimist. Better yet, I’m ever the realistic optimist and occasionally the enthusiastic pessimist.
That being said, I have an idea of how I’m going to die. Whenever I feel a pain that comes and goes, I envision it becoming something that will inevitably kill me. I’m not afraid of death, I’m just not a fan of an untimely death.

Here are some of the ways I see myself dying in a timely manner, of course:
1. Cardiac Arrest (short and sweet)
2. Aneurysm (a blood clot in my brain exploding)
3. A brain tumour (my least favourite)
4. A broken heart (say my husband of 500 years dies or something. I’m going to will death to come my way)
5. Loneliness
6. Old age, in my bed, in my sleep.

I think I want to donate my body to science or get cremated. Either one. I don’t want to end up in the ground if my dead body can still be put to good use.

I’m not morbid, I’m not fascinated with death but I’m not afraid to talk about it. Death is not a person that appears when its name is mentioned frequently. It is a phenomenon of life, a transition from this life to the next. It is brought to others too soon.

I don’t think Michael Brown envisioned his life ending the way it did. I don’t even think he considered how he could have died. Does anyone contemplate the possibility of being shot by those who are paid by their own tax money to protect them? From now on, this is a reality. Generations will have to actually stop and consider being killed by a person in authority solely because of the colour of their skin.

I’m not American, let alone an African-American but I felt seriously and personally disturbed when I heard about the shooting in Ferguson. For some reason, I became heavily emotionally invested in Michael Brown’s death. I tried my best to stay aware of what was happening and I tried to garner this information from the most reliable sources such as Twitter and Tumblr. No one will cite Twitter or Tumblr in an essay but they are the only 2 sources for any form of news that I will run to first. Yes, they are heavily biased forms of news. Yes, there are dedicated news channels for that sort of thing and yes, the reporters are seemingly standing right in the middle of the battlefield but they don’t give legit opinions, heartfelt or intelligible.
Anyway, I saw some tweets and pictures and they broke my heart over and over again.








I’m probably not entitled to have this opinion but I’m giving it anyway. It upsets me. I’m physically upset because of this verdict. There are a shitload of things wrong with this world but when has killing ever been okay? Fine, Michael robbed a store but he wasn’t exactly posing a threat to humanity.
I’m upset because this is not the first and it definitely won’t be the last.
I’m hugely upset at myself because I believe in turning the other cheek but I’m pissed off because his killer didn’t get any jail time.
I’m upset because Michael’s life hadn’t even begun. He was my age. I’m here, living and breathing, getting an education, existing whilst his name will forever be associated with three of the biggest issues in America: gun crime, police brutality and injustice.
It upsets me that my feelings about this can’t remain within the boundaries of him being shot unnecessarily by a police officer but within the ambiguous bubble of him being black and his killer being white.
I don’t understand how progress regarding sexual equality is being made but people still cannot accept something as fundamental as the colour of a person’s skin. Why does a God-given attribute such as melanin have to determine how a person is treated? Is this real? Begin to realise the massive void between the opportunities and treatments towards people of colour and people who aren’t of colour.
I’m not a hater, I’m not anything. I’m just… upset.

I want to be the person who says every life matters because they do, we are all human beings first of all. But, this world is really making it hard to believe in that. People really do need to understand that black lives matter. They always have and they always will.

Here in the United Kingdom, racism is very alive. There are political parties running for parliament whose whole agenda is based on getting rid of a vast majority of ethnicities. At least for now, I have the confidence that I won’t be killed by a police officer by a gun. And don’t even give me that “if you don’t like it, go back to where you came from” crap. Just don’t. That’s a whole other blog in its self.

Yes, the verdict was passed a week ago but I’m still sprung on this. I won’t, or better yet, I cannot let it go. I’m not writing this for views, I’m writing this for a release, an outlet. I’m utilising my freedom of expression to enlighten others or at least, share my feelings about this. If you don’t know who Michael Brown is, educate yourself and realise that life does not exist within four walls of ignorant bliss.

Racism is and always will be among us as will sexism, ageism and all the other isms we’ve created. As human beings, we are fundamentally seflish. It even says in the Bible, “The heart of man is desperately wicked.” I’m no saint: I’ve been racist, sexist and ageist and all the other ists before in my life too but that’s not what I wake up in the morning to be. I strive to be a decent person because I want people to be decent to each other and myself too. Why can’t we all strive to be at least decent? At the end of the day, it’s just blood, bone and melanin. Blood, bone and melanin.

Rest in Peace, Michael.