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Ozoemena: A History That Refuses to Stay Still

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It is the 59th anniversary since the declaration of Biafra Day. And as I watch the documentary of our fallen hero, which I occasionally do every year, to fully understand and be reminded of the sacrifices of our heroes past, one question keeps coming to mind: what is the difference between what happened in 1967 and now? I’ve come to realize that the only difference is that the Igbo are no longer the only ones being affected, but Nigeria as a whole is feeling the pain. What is the end game? What is the plan? What exactly do they want? Anyị n’ekwu na ozoemena, mana ozo n’eme, karia nke mekwe na mbu. Ihe d’iche bụ na ọ́bụghị naanị ndi Igbo n’atafụfụ ya. In English, it is translated as: we are saying that history should not repeat itself, but history has gone as far as repeating itself, even worse. The only difference is that the Igbo are not the only ones suffering from this. We fight, we are killed. If we don’t fight, more people are killed. And when we tell ourselves that we are on o...
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An Open Letter to Pope Leo XIV.

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  Your Holiness, My name is Tochukwu Joann Ekoh, a Nigerian writer, and a Catholic. But I am writing to you not just on behalf of Catholics, but on behalf of Nigerian Christians and Nigeria as a whole. There is a kind of silence that comes from waiting too long. Nigerians are really suffering. Nigeria has been waiting. Waiting for peace that feels real. Waiting for leadership that listens. Waiting for a country that breathes like home, not survival. And in the middle of all this waiting, we pray. We fast. We hope. And yet, so many souls have been lost, killed, and still suffer because of the faith and the identity we carry. But sometimes… prayer feels like it is rising into a sky that is already heavy with too many cries. And because of this, I want to respectfully bring before you a heartfelt petition concerning Blessed Cyprian Michael Iwene Tansi. Other nations have saints they call their own; names that sound like home, voices that feel close. Intercessors w...
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REGINA

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The room always went quiet when Regina was disappointed. Not because she shouted. She rarely did. But there was something about the way she spoke that made people listen… or shrink. “What we should be focused on,” she said, looking at them one after the other, “is the people.” Three employees stood in front of her. A young man and two women. None of them could hold her gaze for long. “Their voices. Their experiences. Not what we think they want. Not guesses.” She paused and rubbed her forehead for a moment, like she was trying to hold on to her patience. “I’m not impressed.” The words were calm, but they still landed heavily. “No ma,” one of the women said quickly. “We actually went out. We spoke to people...” “Then show me that,” Regina replied, cutting in gently but firmly. “I want to see it in your work. I want to feel it. People who have actually lived through abuse, not something that sounds imagined.” Silence. “Next week,” she added. “On my desk.” “Yes ma,” they said...
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WHAT OZORO MADE ME ASK...

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  Sometimes I wonder if it is even necessary to be angry as a woman when, at the end of the day, it is still women who sometimes hurt other women, sometimes even more than men do. I found myself thinking about the Ozoro festival assault and one question kept coming back to me: Did the women in Ozoro know about this? Apparently, they did. Then my next question became even more important to me: What did they say about it? Did anyone think of informing other women and girls about the festival and the strange rules that seemed to come with it? Did nobody think that maybe a simple warning could prevent harm? Someone close to me even asked, “Did they not have a town crier? Someone that could go around and pass information?” And that was when I started thinking about the role of the media too. Why does information only come after damage has already been done? Why do we only hear about dangerous traditions after someone has already suffered because of them? Why must awareness alwa...
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Another Chance to Live

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  I don’t remember everyone I’ve loved. But I remember who taught me silence, who made laughter feel unsafe, who left softness behind like a fingerprint. We live in a moment where everything seems to be passing away; not just people, but memories, moments, and entire seasons of our lives. The things we wish we had handled better. The people we wish we hadn’t pushed away. The paths we wish we had chosen differently. Sometimes I wonder if, had we managed things better, we would be living the lives we once dreamed of. But would things really have turned out the way we imagined? Yes? No? Maybe. What stays with us are the regrets, the pain, the time we feel we wasted, and even the pain we wasted. And the questions grow heavier with time: how do we move on from all of this? How do we forgive ourselves? How do we let go without feeling like we’re abandoning who we once were? How do we allow something new, something better, to begin? Do we still have the privilege of fulfilling...
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Bloom After Silence

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Chapter One – The Letters Cynthia’s hands were never still. They folded linen, plucked flowers, stirred the pot on the fire. Yet when dusk fell and the cicadas began their evening song, her fingers longed for a different task, to unfold a letter, to see his handwriting, to trace the curve of his words. But no letter ever came. “Still no news?” Clara asked one afternoon, her fair curls shining in the sun as she stepped into Cynthia’s yard. She held a basket of peaches, her smile too bright. Cynthia shook her head. “No. Not a word.” Clara set down the basket and touched her arm. “Perhaps he has forgotten, Cynthia. You must not let your whole life rest on a memory.” “He is not a memory,” Cynthia said quietly. Her voice carried the weight of waiting years. Clara looked away then, her lashes dropping low. Hidden in her trunk at home were stacks of letters folded, sealed, unopened, each one bearing Cynthia’s name in Mahershala’s strong, careful handwriting. Chapter Two – The Gentle...
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THE SILENCE SHE INHERITED...

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Ann sat at the table she hated the most; his table. The place where conversations turned into interrogations, where truths became accusations, and where he always had to be in control. She remembered. Not just the yelling on the drive back from her primary school graduation. Not just how her six-year-old self whispered “shhh” into the backseat air, praying they wouldn’t crash, praying they’d stop screaming. Not just the fear that her family might end that day, her siblings asleep, her small body bracing for impact. She remembered being the first daughter. The one who was supposed to know better. The one who absorbed it all, and said nothing. She remembered the silence. And the first soldier, her mother’s first son. Gone. She watched her mother carry the grief like a second skin, hoping the second son would heal the loss. But ten years later, he too was gone. Ann lived in a house of ghosts. Ghosts of children. Ghosts of joy. Ghosts of a mother who stayed silent and a fath...
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