Dear Ng.,

  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...

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...

  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...