Dear Diary,
Before I start ranting about Nigeria, men, women, politicians, social media philosophers, and the collective confusion we call adulthood, I suppose I should tell you who I am.
After all, it would be strange to spend years talking to someone who doesn’t know my name.
Well…
My name is Rahima Ifunanya Adekunle.
At least that’s what the government knows me as.
What everyone else calls me is Ria.
My father’s family gave me Adekunle, a proper Yoruba surname. A name that walks into a room with confidence. The kind of name that sounds like it expects respect before introductions.
According to family history, which may or may not have been improved upon by dramatic uncles over the years, our lineage wandered through Northern Nigeria generations ago before eventually settling in the West.
Nobody tells the story exactly the same way.
One uncle claims it was trade.
Another says it was war.
A third insists it was love.
So when I was born, my father’s side wanted that memory preserved. That is how Rahima arrived, a Hausa name. A reminder that roots do not always grow in straight lines.
Then there is my mother, an Igbo woman. The kind of woman who believes names should mean something.
So she gave me Ifunanya.
Love.
So there…
Rahima.
Ifunanya.
Adekunle.
North.
East.
West.
A walking federal character arrangement. Living proof that Nigeria occasionally cooperates, at least genetically.
The problem was that nobody ever knew what to do with all three names. So I decided to go with my initials – R.I.A.
Ria sounds like all my names and none of them. It belongs everywhere and nowhere.
Very Nigerian, if you ask me.
This brings us to this diary. This diary was never supposed to become anything. It began as a coping mechanism.
Some days I love this country so much it hurts. Other days this country hurts so much I question the love. And somehow, both feelings can exist at the same time. That is the Nigerian condition.
You complain, you criticize, and you threaten to relocate. You eventually relocate and then spend the next five years defending Nigeria in foreign countries.
Make it make sense.
Actually don’t.
I’ve stopped trying.
The truth is, beneath every Nigerian complaint is usually a stubborn affection.
A hope we pretend not to have.
A belief we pretend not to carry.
We grumble because we care, at least most of us do.
And so, Diary, these pages are where I bring all of it.
The questions.
The observations.
The contradictions.
The things that make me laugh.
The things that make me angry.
The things nobody wants to say out loud.
The things everybody is already thinking.
I will talk about women.
Not because women are perfect.
We are not.
I will talk about men.
Not because men are the problem.
Life is rarely that simple.
I will talk about relationships.
Religion.
Politics.
Power.
Money.
Motherhood.
Masculinity.
Marriage.
Culture.
Africa.
The world.
And the fascinating ways human beings continue making old mistakes with new technology.
Some entries may sound harsh.
Some may sound hopeful.
Some may sound like I have finally lost patience.
Perhaps I have.
But remember what this is.
This is not a lecture.
This is not a policy document.
This is not a campaign speech.
It is a rant.
A thoughtful, analytical and occasionally frustrated rant.
And maybe sometimes a humorous rant.
But a rant nonetheless, because writing things down is cheaper than therapy.
So if you happen to be reading this…you are not really supposed to be here. This was written for my diary, not for an audience. You are simply peeking through the keyhole. What you choose to do with what you find is entirely your business.
As for me, I’ll keep writing.
The country continues.
Human beings remain fascinating.
And I have a lot to say.
– Ria
Take what serves you and argue with the rest. It is, after all, just a rant.
Continue reading Ria’s Journal here
https://naijadiaries.com/category/rants-of-a-nigerian/