I recently heard a well educated Nigerian woman discuss her circumcision on TV. She explained that she was circumcised on the seventh day of her birth the same way the male children were. Upon further enquiry, she explained that circumcision was emphatically not the same thing as female genital mutilation. I was not sure about her explanations, and decided to do some research on the subject, here is what I found. (more…)

I saw the video below, and I realised how deeply ingrained in us the idea of witchcraft is. I have often been fascinated by the African focus on the spiritual; we seem to blame everything on ‘witches and wizards’. I have more often than not wandered what may happen if we (Africans) took responsibility for our actions as opposed to blaming the world of darkness for our suffering and struggles. Let us face it, many times we blame ‘witches and wizards’ for the things we cannot explain. Someone once said that ‘in the west, technology is witchcraft, in Africa, it is ‘your mother-in-law’, I beg to differ. I remember when I was younger, a woman at the hairdressers accused another of being a witch simply because of the length of her hair. There are children in many African villages that have been accused of being evil and, as a result, have been tormented bitterly, I weep for these innocent ones. My definition of witchcraft these days is what I see in a lot of African politics.


Forgive my colour
I was not born this way.


Forgive my speech
my tongue was twisted that way in the south
forgive me
that my audacity is simplicity
my boldness is humility
my drive is born from fear
forgive me but I am not me here

I am tempered, I am reduced,
I cower and my head is bowed in shame
forgive my colour I did not know it before I came here
before your words would freeze my bones
and stares the ice would burn my eyes
forgive me, but I did not know that black,
was the colour that best described me
black, like the coal that miners find
black, like night the with empty skies

forgive my lips full and thick as they are,
I did not realise that my features would offend you so.
I carry on my back the scars of the tribe that raised me
the women who bore me and paved a way for me
forgive my smile, it is here for your protection
so you aren’t offended by the harsh features of my face
Please forgive my colour, I’m learning to forgive it too


she called me beautiful,
it sounded like a question;
how dare I be mistaken as a beauty?
it was an accusation,
I had no right to be so audacious.

she called me beautiful
my origin was in question,
my skin had not been scorched
perhaps my blood was diluted?
Africa must not have birthed me.

this beauty she praises, were does it belong
this beauty she sees, I fear it’s painted on
this beauty she laments it’s never been glorified
this beauty she admires, admirer’s never sought to buy

she called me beautiful
I called her a liar
how dare she see things that weren’t there?
she called me beautiful, I don’t know why,
I said to her, beauty was never here.


Image Credit; pulse.ng

Image Credit; pulse.ng

Dear Mr President,

I like how our people have coined you PMB, there is joy and laughter on the faces of many. People say that your posture brings hope and that you are a messenger from God. To be honest with you, prior to your inauguration, I was indifferent to you. I felt that although you had been successful in being president in the past, you seemed a bit too strict. Yet I know that the ‘War Against Indiscipline’ you initiated is needed even more ardently in todays Nigeria. (more…)