Stories told through female experiences, emotions, relationships, ambitions, and personal journeys.
At some point, I stop crying, not because I’ve accepted my fate. I think my body simply gets tired, there’s only so much panic one person can produce. I am still sitting on the floor beside the bed, the expensive carpet beneath me is wet from my tears. I don’t know how long I’ve been […]
I wake up smiling, the kind of smile that happens before you even open your eyes. For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. The sheets feel too soft, the room smells expensive, the air-conditioning is so cold that I pull the duvet closer and then I remember. My smile grows wider.Oh, right.
I have changed my clothes three times already. The black dress is lying on the bed, then on the chair and then back on the bed again. I don’t know why I’m pretending the dress is the problem. The problem isn’t the dress, the problem is where I’m going. A funeral.His funeral. Even writing those
The office is almost empty, I know because I’ve checked the time three times in the last ten minutes.8:17 PM.8:21 PM.8:24 PM. The cleaning staff have already passed my section twice, even the security lights have switched on outside. Everybody has gone home, everybody except me. I stare at the stack of documents beside the
Dear Diary, There are few things more dangerous than having too much time to think before attending a family gathering, particularly a Nigerian family gathering. Particularly one involving relatives who have known you since childhood and therefore feel permanently entitled to personal opinions about your life. For reasons I still do not fully understand, I
Dear Diary, There is a particular kind of friendship that survives without maintenance. The kind that does not require daily phone calls, or constant updates, or performative displays of affection. The kind that understands silence.The kind that understands absence.The kind that understands life. Adaora and I have that kind of friendship. We met in university.
Dear Diary, A surprising amount of healing apparently comes from eating food that did not originate from a delivery application. For the past week, I have been living almost entirely on meals prepared by my mother, who appears to have interpreted my hospital stay as evidence that I was incapable of feeding myself and therefore
Dear Diary, Let me tell you about Nigeria.Actually, no.Nobody can truly explain Nigeria. People have tried.Historians have tried.Politicians have tried.Journalists have tried.Even Nigerians themselves have tried. Nigeria is not a country that can be understood through statistics. The numbers will tell you our population, they will tell you our GDP, and they will tell you
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
Dear Reader,Since you’ve somehow found your way here, introductions are probably in order. My name is Rahima Ifunanya Adekunle. Most people call me Ria.It’s shorter, easier, and saves me from turning every introduction into a discussion about Nigerian geography. I am a Nigerian woman with too many thoughts and a diary patient enough to listen