Author: Ifunanya Okolie

I am exploring how to become the best version of humanity.

Every word I did not say

On 3 January, 2026, Daddy came home one last time. The road knew him. I did not know how to follow.

The cause of my father’s death was cardiac arrest, they said.

For months, I’d replay these horrific words in my head. ‘Ifunanya, daddy anwuola.‘ ‘Ify, they confirmed him dead. They said it’s cardiac arrest.’

I would replay those words in my head until I began seeing the lettering on the walls. ‘Daddy is dead.’

How is daddy dead? He can’t die. I have never imagined him dying. And perhaps that’s where the problem is. The ‘not seeing.’ That’s why I can never forgive myself. Never imagining him capable of dying.

That’s why I couldn’t see him. Didn’t see him calling out to me.

July 20, 2025 started like any other Sunday. I’d gone cycling. I was pleased with my ride. Then came the feeling that I was missing something. Something very important, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. I was unsettled. I kept turning in my bed, putting off the series I had planned to watch.

Earlier, I had felt a momentary unsettling in my soul. I don’t remember when this was. Was it the same day? The day before? But I remember being in the shower and saying ‘why do I feel like death is upon me?’

For days, I would not forgive myself. Why did I mutter out loud ‘death’ without stopping to think about my dad? Without even considering that the warning could be about him. As the wedding drew near, I worried about what could go wrong: my pregnant sister being alone as everyone attended without her. I was always worried about something bad happening, but never did I worry about losing my dad. Never.

After the news came, I was frantic. I screamed. Tore at my hair. Ran into the bathroom and threw myself on the ground. I kept tearing at myself, crying that it should be a lie and if it were true that something had happened, let it be something minimal. Maybe he fainted or had a heart attack. I promised my daddy and his chi that if he could come back to me, I would do anything. Anything.

I think about how alone he must have felt in his last moments. To have collapsed with nobody around. How long did it take for the children to find him to raise alarm. Why was it hard to get a vehicle or an ambulance to take him to the hospital? From Lagos, we phoned my mum’s brother, Uncle Chigozie. I remember crying into the phone in inaudible tones, ‘uncle, please, I don’t know what they’re saying. Please go to Umuhu and take my daddy to the hospital.’ Umuhu from Agboana is about 10.3 km, but the rains made the roads impassable, and getting there took over 30 minutes — and more than 40 minutes to get him to Nnamdi Azikiwe University Teaching Hospital (NAUTH). The same NAUTH that pronounced my mother dead. I cannot believe it.

Uncle Chigozie said ‘Ify, they confirmed him dead. They said it’s cardiac arrest,’ and I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I think I threw the phone away.

Perhaps this is my punishment. Perhaps this life is my hell. Perhaps, I brought all of these upon me.

I wake with a start every morning and then I realise what I have lost. I wake up, and then it dawns on me that I’m never seeing my daddy anymore. I go to sleep, willing him to find me in my dreams. On most days, I am gripped by the fear that I might be suicidal; I’m terrified of what I would do if I feel terribly alone, the way I do when the realisation of my father’s passing hits me. I look for my father in many things. Nature, birds, trees, strangers, Shalvah. And if I dared to imagine that I might reflect his essence, then on the days I look into the mirror and catch even a glimpse of him, I realise I am my father’s daughter. I lean into that feeling. I do not understand why it took me so long to recognise his face in mine.

Days after daddy passed, I was unable to sleep alone in my room. Not only for fear of what I could do to myself, but also in fear that my daddy would appear and flog the life out of me. For not remembering. I deserved it. And somehow, I wanted it. That punishment. Or forgetting that I ever knew him. It would be better to forget him entirely so that it didn’t hurt so much.

But I forget that my daddy is not one to punish or to bear malice for another. He was never like that in life, how could he be something else in death? My dad was so soft-spoken, his voice was not good for shouting. If he shouted, you could hear that he was tired. He never believed in flogging children, because he saw it as evil. There are other ways to raise a child than treating them like animals, he said.

I forgot that my dad saw me. He loved me, even though he never said the words. We had our misunderstandings, but I can clearly see his actions now, the things he did to please me that I never acknowledged. Oh, what a curse it must be to be a parent.

Most times, my breath escapes me. I would sit beside myself and weep. My tears betray me, breaking out of my body from a silent longing into a heavy lamentation. And my husband catches me every time. ‘My husband.’ My daddy only met him once. That February, I took Shalvah to see him.

I had initially planned to bring dad to Lagos for a check-up in June. Then Shalvah wanted to visit, so I thought I could bring him earlier in Feb so we could have a family meeting when Shalv was around. But Shalvah wanted to visit my hometown and didn’t want my father to go through the trouble. Then I left it for June.

The wedding planning took up my mental space. That, with other things I can’t remember right now. Because how did I suddenly forget? How did I then schedule for him to come to Lagos on the 5th of August for my wedding happening the 7th? When was he supposed to rest? Why didn’t I see my daddy as an elderly man who should not be making that long journey, but should rather be with us at least a month before the wedding? Then this tragedy could well have been averted.

With all the times daddy called out to me, I didn’t listen. Did he know that I love him?

On Wednesday 23 July, I stood before the body that belonged to my daddy. This is the first time I referred to it in that manner. Because I want to believe that my daddy is not reduced to the body lying helpless in that mortuary. I had gone expecting to be punished, while hoping I could somehow connect to my daddy to tell him how much I loved him. To tell him I was sorry. To express my heart before him. As I stood before him, with all the emotions that came breaking out of my body — as I came undone — I felt a blanket of peace enfold me. I leaned into this feeling as I wept before my father, my dearest daddy who gave life to me. I didn’t know what that feeling was. Was it my dad letting me know he loves me? He understands me? He’d forgiven me? That I am his child forever?

Mawuu said a parent’s death yanks the ground from beneath one’s feet. I felt the earth shift beneath me the night Newman and I visited my father’s house, my village, my ancestral home, after we had been to the mortuary. We arrived at the gate as my heart thudded, not knowing what to expect. Walking down, I saw my uncles gathered around, but not my daddy. Someone else occupied the seat where my daddy would normally sit. It felt overwhelmingly terrifying to take another step forward.

My uncles watched as we walked towards them, and I felt as though the ground itself dared us to continue. Home does not feel like home anymore. I stopped. My breath escaped me as I replayed my mother’s voice welcoming me, then my grandmother sitting far in front of the obi, waiting for my return with arms outstretched and beckoning me as she called out ‘Ivee,’ and my daddy sitting by his bike beside his house as I went to greet him, saying ‘ehen, nnua.’ Home no longer feels like home. I walked by my father’s motorbike to the kitchen where my mother used to cook for us. There was no longer anyone to welcome us — not mummy, not mama, not even daddy. One of my uncles asked why we were walking like strangers. How do we not feel like one when the earth beneath us has been yanked off?

I am grieving, still. It feels like a lot of time has passed, and I should have got over it, but I am not over it. I grieve for all of the words I never said to him: the missed chances to right every misunderstanding, the hurtful words I said to him without meaning any single one, the love I never poured into him. I grieve for Munachimso, my sister’s baby, who arrived without ever meeting her grandfather. And for my father, who was truly proud of his daughter.

For most of the past eight months, I wrote in my journal. lamentations to my dad, suicidal notes for myself, and pleas to the universe to bring him back to me. I was numb as I interacted with people, attempted to show up for myself and my family, though not successfully, and every day as I put one foot in front of the other, I asked myself the same questions. I hid from my friends, from social media. I realised I am running from myself, driven by an overwhelming feeling of shame and guilt. In all this time, I had my husband and my friends remind me that I am worth it. Amakanwa and Shalvah would stay on the phone for hours while I worked and cried at the same time, affirming and advocating for me. Sometimes, we cried together. I felt my husband’s touch and loving kindness. I didn’t think I deserved anyone’s kindness, but Amakanwa’s words remind me that I am worth saving:

‘My dearest Ify,
I am writing this for you, for now, for your heart, for mine, and for the days ahead. Because life keeps turning, and pain, like joy, never truly leaves us. We live in a world where beauty and heartache walk hand in hand, the same life that fills our hearts with giddy love and laughter is also the one that brings us to our knees with grief, longing, and quiet rage.
It seems this is part of our fate in this incarnation: to love with our whole being, to give and receive love in all its splendor and then to mourn it when it’s taken from us. And I wish I could tell you why. Sometimes, I feel I would rather have been untouched by love than to feel its absence so deeply.
I still carry that soul-deep ache for my mother. After all these years, I still long to see her, to hear her voice again, to touch her face, just to be reminded that everything is okay. But life has taken that from me, and in its place, a quiet pulse of absence lingers. It never fully disappears. Yet, Ify, it does get softer. One day, the pain won’t feel as sharp, won’t steal your breath in the morning. One day, you’ll remember your father’s voice, a phrase he often said, and you’ll smile instead of weep.
His memory will become a sacred ritual, keeping him alive through your words, your thoughts, your everyday gestures. You might find yourself speaking about him more, or even writing a book to preserve his essence. These rituals help us give shape to our grief and remind us that the gaping hole in our hearts is real, and that love this powerful demands remembrance.
And one day, Ify, your child with Shalv will look up at you with a certain expression, and in that moment, you will see your father, and maybe your mother too. And you will cry out, “Nna m o!”, with tears in your eyes but a smile on your lips. And your spirit will speak out loud, thanking those beautiful souls who gave you life. And somewhere deep within, they will thank you too for being their Adaọma, for stepping into the responsibility life placed on your shoulders long before it should have.
And so, Ify, for this moment, for this unimaginable loss, I pray with you:
Ozoemena, may this never happen again.
From now on, your Chi will walk more closely with you. May your spirit be sharpened to hear the messages you need to receive. May you be surrounded by divine protection, and may the power of your love and prayer push back against every dark force that tries to touch your family. Because when our love has gathered enough power, when our grief becomes light, we have the strength to say: “Ọ bụghị ugbu a, ajụ m ajụ.”
I love you, Ify. And I know you are surrounded by love from your husband-to-be, your siblings, your extended family, your friends. You are being held in prayer, in thought, and in the boundless love of God. His love surrounds you now and always.
You have suffered an enormous, unspeakable loss but somehow, you will carry on. Ụnụ niile! You and your siblings will go on to do mighty things. You will carry your father and mother with you into every victory, every joyful moment. And the world will know their names through what you become.
Ndo, nne m.
Ọ ga-adị unu mma.
Ike agaghị agwụ unu.
Chukwu gozie unu.
Amen❤️‘

My husband holds me every time I say to him that I don’t deserve sunshine. He says ‘No, you deserve it a thousand times over.’ ‘You did your best.’ I wondered if he was saying those words just for the sake of saying them, but I’ve come to see that he truly meant them. How could he see me better than I see myself? Perhaps that’s what love is.

I remember counting down to the wedding. I was so excited and couldn’t wait to have my daddy at the venue. I wanted to show him off and introduce him to my friends. I wanted him to see how Shalvah loves me. But it never happened.

At the court wedding, my younger brother Newman stood in for my dad. Daddy’s photo frame sat in a seat reserved for him. Shalvah had gone above and beyond in the final planning. After my dad passed, my strength waned. Relatives phoned to say the wedding should go on, but I had the last word. I didn’t know what I wanted. The wedding will go on because daddy was so excited about it. Was that the truth, or did I continue with it because I was selfish? Shalvah reorganised the event by including a memorial for him, opening our guestbook with photos of my daddy and family. I was stupefied by the care and planning that went into it. I have a lot to be grateful for to our friends who helped make that day, yet I haven’t found the words.

I do not remember much about the traditional wedding, just that I didn’t want to be there. It didn’t feel right to be celebrating in my hometown when my dad’s body lay cold in the mortuary. I moved through the rituals, unsure of how I was feeling, while I felt everybody’s gaze on me.

On October 5th, I dreamt about my daddy. It was the first vivid dream I had of him. He was as I remembered him: young, active, repairing his clients’ electronics. He cooked. He moved about his house. I watched him walk. In the dream, I didn’t know he had died. But there was a moment when I remembered he had a heart disease, and so I wanted to schedule some time for him to see a cardiologist. I knew one, I remembered in the dream. I just need one day, I said aloud to myself: ‘Daddy, I just need one day.’ I’ll take you to the cardiologist and you’ll be fine. In the dream, it felt like he was a walking bomb. I wondered when he would detonate. And if I could do something, maybe I could alter time. In the dream, he was my daddy. And I was his daughter. I believe that was the night we conceived our baby.

Until I find my voice again, until I can smell the familiar in the forest, see the yellow in the roses, the spirit in a structure, and the wonder in the countryside, I will hold onto that conception dream. I will lean on my husband, who has lent me his eyes to see the colours through them.

Tags Life, forgiveness, loss, love, grief, family, dad, St Edison

Reflections vulnerability

A Tribute to My Father, Edwin St. Edison Onyejieke Okolie

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date December 1, 2025
No Comments on A Tribute to My Father, Edwin St. Edison Onyejieke Okolie

Transitioned: 20 July 2025. Burial: 3 January 2026

‘Ifunanya, daddy anwuola’
was the first announcement of your ~~death,~~ through Newman
a memory that still sends shivers down my spine whenever I try not to think about it.

Those words, marked by shock, disbelief, trepidation, and fear,
sent me into a wave of numbness I have not recovered from.

I lean into the Igbo understanding of death,
searching for anything that tells me
that you are still here.

Daddy,
you have returned to the earth.
You are in the wind, the sun,
the rain splattering over my face.
You are in the air I breathe,
the books I read,
and the dreams I accomplish.

I didn’t realise what I had been missing until you transitioned.
I want to do everything ‘right’ now — but it is too late,
too late to do right by you.

Chizoba said you’ve transitioned into a form we cannot explain.
She told me to look at nature
and draw courage from there.
Autumn, fall, winter, summer
are all changing seasons.
Trees, pollination, insects, rivers, birds
how do we account for all of these?
Do I know more than my father’s chi?

My dad was only human.
How did I never once imagine you could collapse?
Because you were my dad.
Because you were always there
sturdy, steady
I didn’t see you could break.

I remember the feeling I had
as I stepped my feet into our compound at Ofufe
after seeing you in the mortuary.
Mawuu said a parent’s death
yanks the ground from beneath one’s feet.
You were not there to welcome us.
Home no longer feels like home.

The sound I heard when I tried
to move one foot in front of the other
was the sound of the ground beneath me
crumbling away.

How can I not feel like a stranger
in my father’s house
when the earth beneath me has been yanked off?

Shalvah said loss is the accompaniment of love
that it is better to love and lose
than to never love at all.
Now I understand why people want to go first,
so they never have to bear the heartache
of losing the ones they love.

Wouldn’t it be easier
never to have known you at all
than to feel this pounding ache?

But perhaps that’s what Amakanwa meant
when she said, ‘to love with our whole being,
to give and receive love in all its splendour
and then to mourn it when it’s taken from us
seems to be part of our fate
in this incarnation.’

I look for you in many things.
And if I dared to imagine
that I might reflect your essence,
then on the days I look into the mirror
and see even a glimpse of you,
I realise I am my father’s daughter.

I lean into that feeling
still wondering why it took me
so long to recognise your face in mine.

Family photo at a church after a baptism. From left to right: A woman in a green patterned outfit holding a small girl, a man in a white shirt, a woman in white holding a baby, and two young children standing in front. — L-R: Mummy, daddy, and big aunty (my mother’s uncle’s wife), followed by my sister, Ogechi, brother, Newman, and me.

L-R: Mummy, daddy, and big aunty (my mother’s uncle’s wife), followed by my sister, Ogechi, brother, Newman, and me.

May the Almighty God receive your gentle soul,
May the light of your spirit never fade.
May you find rest where there is no pain,
no burden,
no sorrow.

And when the time comes
for souls to return again,
in forms we may not fully understand,
may you come back renewed,
whole,
and surrounded by love.

May your journey beyond this world be gentle and full of light,
and may your memory continue to guide us.
Amen.

— Ifunanya Okolie,
Always, your daughter.

Tags death, family, grief, Life, loss, love, writing

What I'm doing now

Now – August 2023

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date October 16, 2025

Tags now archive, What I'm doing now

Reflections Travel vulnerability

Experiencing Time and Mortality Between Landings

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date November 19, 2024
No Comments on Experiencing Time and Mortality Between Landings

I took this photo as I came to after my experience. The serene horizon outside blends soft hues of orange, yellow, and blue at sunrise.

Today, I fainted. Or not.

I do not know what I’ve just experienced; however, it was not good. On the plane from Lagos to Nairobi, I was ready, eager, and anticipating my first visit to the Land of the Big Five, going through the series of events I had experienced with customs and the airport officials in my head.

I had journalled at the boarding gate. This trip was going to be the one that would break me out of my writing hiatus. I would journal every day. I told myself this was not going to be like my Cape Town trip where I felt overwhelmed upon my return because I had experienced a lot and didn’t know where to start.

It was going well. I had started my adventure on the plane with Young Sheldon on the little screen in front of me. I was by the window, and felt very accomplished in how I had managed the whole planning for this trip, from the e-visa to booking my flights, and even checking in online and getting a window seat without paying extra for it. I reached for the rest of my Loacker wafers, pouring the mini biscuits into my mouth with each wave of guilt. When did I start eating sweets? How do I break out of this habit?

My seat partner smiled at me sweetly as she asked where I was from.

‘Nigeria,’ I replied, my voice heavy with caution. This caution stemmed from a sense of self-preservation. At first, I wondered why she was talking to me—did she want something? Why was she being so sweet? It came from receiving countless pieces of advice from family to be wary of strangers, especially when travelling on a plane: to act cautiously with people who seem nice and not let my eyes wander away from my luggage in case they put something in my bag. It was this caution that answered first; the second voice that answered was more intentional.

‘What about you? Where are you from?’

‘Zimbabwe,’ she responded.

Then she turned to the person beside her and spoke a string of sentences in a foreign language. I suspect they came together.

There were only two episodes of Young Sheldon in the programme loaded on the TV. I watched both, then started watching Bob Hearts Abishola while side-eyeing the plane attendants pushing trays of food. I had planned to continue watching my Chinese series, but wanted to eat the food first before using the tray for my laptop. I was also starting to feel sleepy.

I caught myself falling asleep, but woke up immediately to find the food server still walking about the aisle with trays in hand. He had not served my seat yet. I didn’t want a repeat of my Cape Town experience where I fell asleep briefly on the plane from Cape Town to Johannesburg, only to find the server had skipped my seat to serve other people. My seat partner then wasn’t as nice as my seat partner on the plane from Amsterdam to Frankfurt, who shook my shoulders hard to collect my food. Anyway, I digress, but if there’s anything this proves, it’s my love for food, and perhaps maximising the value of every expense I make.

The warm towel came first. I cleaned my hands with it.

The food came next. It was white rice and beef sauce as the main dish, an almost half-serving of yellow cake for dessert, and a wrapped something that looked like bread dipped in white sesame seeds wrapped in cellophane. The smell of the sauce hit me before I saw it, and it didn’t smell like something I would like to eat. Yet, I ate it. Very carefully, I put one beef in my mouth, then another. It tasted awful.

I continued eating: beef, then rice, then sauce. The rice had some black coating on top of it that made it look like the crust of a burnt pot, though I believe, if I had investigated further, I may have found it to be black sesame seeds. I bit into the cake, but I couldn’t take a second bite. I was done with the food. At least, I ate all of the rice and beef, but not the pastries.

I found myself dozing again, then I caught a shadow of my neighbour’s hand handing my tray to a server. I don’t remember anything else until I awoke with the oddest feeling in my body.

My body felt listless and restless, caught between heaviness and a frantic urge to move. It felt as though something had changed in the air, like the air around me had thinned. It started to feel like I wasn’t getting enough air to breathe.

I suddenly became frighteningly conscious of the small space I was in, and needed to reach out for relief. But I wasn’t gasping for air, no. My stomach felt queasy, like something was caught in it and I needed to fart to release it, so I did. Panic clawed at me, insidious. Unrelenting.

I don’t remember why I was holding my stomach and tapping at the window, or why I was incredibly aware of the amount of time it would take to land. I glanced at the clock on my neighbour’s screen—it was 1:35 AM.

Time stretched, distorted.

I brought out my laptop and switched on the show I had downloaded to watch on the flight. Maybe I needed to focus on something else. The characters on the show felt small, and as I focused on their dialogues, the incredible urge to vomit and fart became overwhelming.

I shut my laptop and put it in my bag. The cord connecting my phone to the port on the TV screen was getting in my way, so I yanked it with my phone and threw both in my bag. I didn’t check if my phone’s battery was full. Everything was getting in my way, and the space was becoming incredibly smaller.

Perhaps, walking would make it better. I could get some air, or I might induce myself to vomit. I thought perhaps it was the food I ate, and maybe I was allergic to something in it, so vomiting could make everything better. It took a while for me to stand. I remember standing, then sitting, then experiencing it all again.

I looked to my right to find my seat partners sleeping. I don’t know how long it took me to bring myself to decide to go to the restroom. I tapped on my seat partner’s shoulder, and in a voice so alien from mine, whispered ‘I want to go to the restroom.’

She mumbled something back in a sleepy voice. I don’t remember her standing, but I remember standing, looking at the profiles seated on the plane.

They danced in circles. The world was spinning around me, and everything was beginning to close in on me. I thought if I could just walk to the restroom and put my finger in my mouth, then…

The next thing I remember, I looked up and saw my seat partner standing, looking quizzically at me. She said something to the other lady about already reaching out to ‘them.’ I don’t know what she was talking about. Then she said to me, ‘Maybe you’d like to sit here.’ ‘Here’ meant the other lady’s seat. I didn’t understand why she’d say that. I looked up again, and cast a lazy glance at where I was and realised I was in my seat partner’s seat. On my way to the toilet, I had slumped in her seat. I also don’t remember how I switched back to my seat.

But I remember falling in and out of sleep after this had happened and thinking, pondering over this experience that drew the life out of me. I sat still for a very long time.

When I awoke, it felt like I had been through something—like something big and unusual had hit me. Whatever it was, it was unsettling. I do not know how someone full of life could be so out of it in an instant. How had everything come undone in such a short moment? I wondered if this was what mortality felt like. An overwhelming awareness of fragility, of how life can falter in an instant. I waited for my breath, for my body to find me again.

The window was closed. I had shut it earlier in frustration. I cast a glance inwardly to gauge how I was feeling. My body was beginning to come back to me. After what felt like hours, I pulled up the window cover slowly.

The hanging clouds felt quietened. Towards the east lay a serene horizon with soft hues of orange, yellow, and blue blending at sunrise. I wondered if morning had come for me as well, as I reached for my phone in my bag to take a snapshot of this promise. Instinctively, I knew we were about to land; the aircraft felt engaged with activity. I glanced at my seat partner—she seemed to be packing up. My hand still searching in my bag, it suddenly registered in horror that my phone was missing. Panic rose as I feared I had lost it in the chaos. My seat partner smiled at me and asked what I was looking for. I said, ‘My phone.’

She offered suggestions of where it might be and asked if I had searched my bag. I stood up, now fully alert, to search the crevices of my seat, but it wasn’t there. With heightened senses, I suspiciously reached for my bag and searched through it again, and found my phone nestled in my laptop pocket.

‘Found it,’ I said tiredly, glancing in my seat partner’s direction. I owed her an explanation of what had happened with me, so I started with an apology. At the time, I didn’t realise the full extent of what had happened from my seat partner’s point of view. I had a faint memory of sitting in her seat. However, after I had offered my apology, she said they were only worried. Apparently, they thought I had just fallen asleep in her seat. When I asked how long I had been out ‘asleep‘ in her seat, she replied, ’10 minutes.’

As I opened my Notes app to journal about this experience, I thought about the fickleness of time. What is time if not a vessel for our experiences, bending and stretching to our perception, yet steadfast and unyielding as the world spins on, indifferent to our moments of stillness, angst or urgency?

This world is indeed ours; each individual experience adds up to the experience of the greater universe, and if not brought into the experience of another by a will of intention, the world spins on, unaffected, unaware of said experience. My seat partner could have become aware of the severity of the situation if the aircraft had landed and I had still not stirred.

‘Have you fastened your seatbelt?’ my seat partner’s voice snapped me back to reality from my wandering thoughts. I glanced down at my lap and noticed my seatbelt was unfastened.

I wore my seatbelt and prepared for landing.

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Tags Kenya, non-fiction, photography, time, Travel

Reflections

Sixteen Years of Grief and Love

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date October 3, 2024
No Comments on Sixteen Years of Grief and Love

This photo was taken at St. Cyprian church, Abule Egba, after my sister's baptism. L-R: My mother, father, and big aunty (my mother's uncle's wife), followed by my sister, Ogechi, brother, Newman, and me. My mother, in the green patterned outfit on the left, is holding my sister, Ogechi, who seemed ready to fly off. My big aunty, in white blouse, is holding my baby sister, Chichi.

Years after my mother Uzoyibo died, I was never able to fully process her death. I did not realise the depth of the sorrow I carried in my heart until my visit to Death Cafe, Lagos, in 2017, eleven years after her passing. There, I wailed with so much longing for the woman I may never see again.

I learnt that it is not unusual for someone to take a long time to process the death of a loved one. Sixteen years after my mother transitioned, I still find myself in that process, not fully letting go, and not wanting to let go of her.

Why should I let go? My mother was, and still is, a big part of me. For many years, I felt guilty about her passing, wondering if I could have averted it, and haunted by the turmoil surrounding her death. My mother died in the most horrible way; she died in an accident.

It was a hit-and-run on a dark Friday, October 3rd, 2008. My mother, heavily pregnant and nearing her delivery date, had gone to buy market wares at Nkpor Main Market in Onitsha. She was a trader who sold foodstuffs in Afor Ukpor, our local market. She had also intended to pick up some baby items on her way back.

I only know the rest of the story as it was told to us. She was hit by a driver, drunk and reckless with blood on his hands, as he had taken other lives that same day with his vehicle. My mother was left lying in a pool of her own blood, unattended, as bystanders went about their activities. Nobody dared touch her for fear of being roped into the cause of her death. So, as the minutes ticked by, my mother slowly fought for her life and that of her unborn baby.

I learnt she died in NAUTH. The health professionals wouldn’t treat her without a police report. And as the hours passed, the noise in her head began to quieten, until it stilled.

My mother was the best woman. She was my world. She embodied everything good in the world, and the day she died, something inside me died as well.

My mother was Uzoyibo Clara Okolie, née Egwuchukwu, and I loved her with every fibre of my being. I remember her with every bone in my body and with every breath I take; she is in my thoughts every second of the day.

It is said that ‘grief is love with no place to go,’ and I agree.

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.
― Jamie Anderson

The following are some of my journal entries that capture the pain I feel for my mother. I have typed them here as I wrote them in my diary.

I grieve

I grieve.
My heart is unsettled
it’s filled with a deep longing.
My head is a mess.
My body feels empty.
I can’t feel my legs,
but the tightening in my chest
tells me of a love that hurts so deeply.
I have experienced heartbreak.
No, I live with heartache.
The spot meant for my heart
is replaced with a deep longing for
the woman I can never have again
in this lifetime.

The worst pain

The worst kind of pain is not physical,
like having a toothache or going through surgery.
The pain from breaking bones can be cured
but not the heartache that comes from remembering.

I remember the passing of a loved one
Sixteen years now, and my soul still shatters at the thought
that I may never see my mother again.

It’s said that time heals all scars
but not mine.
My scar is buried deep inside my heart,
hidden behind layers of calloused skin,
concealed beneath a thin casing of pain
which resurfaces when I need my anchor.
My mother was my anchor.
With her gone, I am but a lost child.

Forgetting

I wonder why I haven’t died of heartbreak.
Dying feels like the cure for this pain,
but I don’t want to forget
because forgetting means erasing the memories of my mother
who she was when she lived.
As though she were never here;
as though she never happened,
no, I don’t want to forget,
yet I wish she were here.

Once, I asked my mother,
‘Mummy, why didn’t you get yourself some clothes too?’
She had just returned from the market
with clothes she bought for us.
‘You are my priority,’ said my mother.
She had only two wrappers then.

Uzoma, Ijeoma.

My mother
whose priority was her children
toiled and worked under the sun
to make ends meet for her family.
How could I forget the woman
whose first words were prayers
and kindness for her children?
She scolded and loved in the same breath
worried and toiled in the next.
My mother took on many responsibilities.
I have never met a person like her.
She was the backbone of her family
and she sacrificed a lot, oh, she did.
I am grateful that I knew her,
but so heart-wrenching was her death,

To the sibling whom I never met
you died with mother
before you could see the world you were coming into.
I hope there is sunshine where you are.
I hope you are both keeping each other company.
Some days, I envy that you are there with her,
for I don’t think I can love another
as I love our mother.

I am sorry that I am only writing to you
Sixteen years after your passing.
There’s no excuse,
but please, keep warm
until my next letter.
I love you.

Tags death, grief, Life, loss, love, mother

Travel

The Language of Hearts: A World Shared at One Table

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date December 15, 2023
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A photograph of Hüseyin and Tuba, bathed in the cozy ambiance of Alte Gundtei restaurant, with a candleholder glowing in front of them on the dinning table

There’s an Igbo saying – ‘Agaracha must come back,’ which translates to ‘the wanderer must come back.’ I have been on a sojourn in Europe, travelling to Germany, Amsterdam, and Paris, and I’m back to my life in Lagos. Though perhaps Agaracha does not quite apply here, as the term is often used for people running from something, sometimes, their responsibilities. I left for none of that. I left to find more.

I am thankful for these experiences. I am grateful for people – the humans I met, the lives I have touched, and the people who have inspired me. I am thankful for the food that nourished me, the places that welcomed me, the ecstasy, joys, apprehension, loves, and friendships.

Last Wednesday, we met with some friends – Hüseyin and Tuba from Turkey. Hüseyin, who had come to Germany on a work visa two years ago, was advancing in his English. He spoke slowly, his eyes reflecting a genuine curiosity about the person he was engaging with. I appreciated this and thanked him for his thoughtful questions.

Tuba, on the other hand, felt very shy. Her cheeks turned crimson as she whispered her Turkish to Hüseyin, who then translated to us.

I thought about how similar our lives felt in that moment – Hüseyin feeling self-conscious about his command of English, and me sharing my own journey with the language; the tribes in Nigeria, the differences in the tongues we speak, even though the official language is English. I told him that even native speakers often feel challenged expressing themselves, and that he was doing well. More than well, actually. Hüseyin had something rare: a new language being learned with full attention, including its structure and logic. Most native speakers never learn it that carefully at all.

There was something else I noticed – the way Hüseyin drew his audience in, making them hang onto every word. I wondered what that would feel like for me, speaking in a language not my own, like Deutsch. How much more intentional I would have to be. How much more present.

I compared that feeling with another encounter I had the previous Saturday – a meeting I had looked forward to that did not go as I hoped. When dissimilar energies do not sync, they collide. I felt the intent behind the questions, sensed what was being studied rather than seen. For a moment, I felt less like a person and more like a curiosity on display. I sat with that feeling briefly, then let it go. But it stayed useful – a contrast that sharpened everything that came after.

Because at the table with Shalvah, Hüseyin, and Tuba, I felt something else entirely: safe.

Safe with the people around me. Safe in the conversation, because nobody was there to judge. I thought about where else I had felt that way, beyond family and close friends, and the framework of intention community came to mind.

Our lives felt so intertwined at that moment – Shalvah, Hüseyin, Tuba, and I. I reflected on how language brings people together and how it may also be what separates us.

Ludwig Wittgenstein famously wrote in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus: ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’ I realised that without a shared language, my world might seem small. I cannot express myself in a language only I understand, so I learn phrases like ‘guten morgen,’ which allows me to extend a warm greeting to a German, thus bridging that gap.

It can feel lacking, being unable to express yourself in one language. But I can express myself in other ways. Here we were – four individuals from diverse cultural backgrounds, each using the language of genuine intention and curiosity, finding our way to the universal language of love.

‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.’
1st Corinthians 13:1

During my tour in Amsterdam, the tour guide shared something that stayed with me: ‘What creates separation is war, language, religion – because we cannot understand each other. But what brings us together is love.’

Her statement felt so fitting, as the group featured someone from the UK, another from the USA, one from Spain, and many others from across the world. Shalvah and I, Nigerians, were there from Germany, but we were gathered around one interest – to learn more about Amsterdam.

In every story of misunderstanding and war, the root is always the same: a lack of love. And when the misunderstanding ended, love was the bridge back to peace.

At the table with Shalvah, Hüseyin, and Tuba, love was the constant in our conversation. I felt so grateful and made a pact to continue to seek love in my interactions and relationships.

On the table that evening sat a candleholder. We were in a Turkish restaurant in the Old Town of Heidelberg, Alte Gundtei, and had just finished the best meal: Ezmeli Kebab, a Turkish dish of meat, salad, stew, and yoghurt with a side of rice. Our faces wore the expression of people who needed nothing more. At the time, nobody was speaking, as we had expressed ourselves to our heart’s content, and the silence between us felt earned – full, not empty.

The waiter had gone to get our dessert.

Then Hüseyin raised the candleholder to his eye, observing it so intimately, and commented that everything in the restaurant was Turkish, except for this one object. It was Chinese, he said.

I looked at it – a colourful mosaic of glass pieces forming a vibrant pattern, glowing warmly from within. Its light cast a soft radiance over the table, equally matching the brilliant colours from the chandeliers above, fitting the ambience as though it had always belonged there.

I thought: that candleholder is like me.

The candleholder was not from Turkey. Not from Germany. And yet, it was exactly right in that room, and it felt right in that restaurant. Not because it had been made for that space, but because of what it did there – it held light. It made the table warmer. It contributed something that the room needed without asking permission to belong.

Something that seems out of place may not really be out of place, but can fit so well with the others because of its purpose in that moment. It may simply be fulfilling a purpose that has nothing to do with origin.

One thing that connects us is our stories. Our stories are the accumulation of every experience we encounter. I was in the right place, at that table. I was whole before I came to Europe. But I became more whole because of this – this exchange of stories with them. I leave a piece of myself behind with the people and places I’ve encountered, and they have left bits of themselves with me. And that in itself is phenomenal!

A candleholder glowing on a wooden table capturing the warm, intimate atmosphere of the restaurant and visually representing the connection and the shared experience described in this story.

A photograph of me taken at the entrance of Alte Gundtei restaurant, a charming spot tucked away in the Old Town of Heidelberg, Germany. — A candleholder glowing on a wooden table capturing the warm, intimate atmosphere of the restaurant and visually representing the connection and the shared experience described in this story.

Tags culture, english, Europe, food, language, languages, Travel

Travel

It’s Paris! An Experience of Spontaneity in the City of Dance and Lights

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date November 22, 2023
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A snapshot of people dancing at Centre des Nouvelles Industries et Technologies (CNIT), a shopping mall in La Défense, Puteaux

PS: Consider these travel stories as entries from my journal. Written in haste, I hope you find enjoyment in their spontaneity and rawness.

It’s Paris. We had just disembarked from the metro at Opéra and found ourselves walking into Centre des Nouvelles Industries et Technologies (CNIT), a shopping mall in La Défense, Puteaux, west of Paris, France when we followed the music to a group of people who had just turned the space into a stage. It was the most spectacular sight I had seen since entering Paris two nights ago. I was curious, so I asked a spectator also watching the dance what the group was about, and he said they were random people who started dancing when the music started playing. They were dancing to ‘Rock N Roll Is King’ by Electric Light Orchestra, a catchy, upbeat tempo and retro style music that reels people in to start moving their bodies. But we didn’t join in. We felt too restricted, not knowing the dance steps.

We were there to hang with Chisom (Som), my friend from Nigeria. I had informed her of my visit to Europe through a WhatsApp message and had arranged to meet at La Défense, but we were now at La Défense, and her phone wasn’t going through. My messages only showed a blue tick, which signalled that she hadn’t received my messages since two hours ago when I sent the first message that we were on our way.

So, we watched the dancers with glee and awe-inspired curiosity. The dancers comprised women and men in their dandy and young ages, dancing to the beat, letting go and having fun. They danced like they did not worry about the world. I wondered how a passerby could just be walking past a space and suddenly start dancing to music, or could they have been part of the different establishments in the mall, and when the song came on, they danced towards the stage? Was it a routine they’d formed?

Nevertheless, I find myself reflecting on the experience with the dancers who’ve left a lasting impression on me, and that’s what truly matters. They may not have been professional dancers, but in that moment, they embodied dance itself. Chuba and Chine, my friends from my community, often say, ‘If you claim you are something, then you are.’ Watching them dance so freely yesterday, they seemed exquisite to me. As a young lady from Nigeria who happened to be in the same space as they were, it felt as if nature had staged the most beautiful performance just for me. It made me ponder how I wish to leave my mark on this world — performing, to live and be remembered, and leave the world better.

Som was still not responding to her messages. I didn’t have her French phone number, but I tried calling her Nigerian line. It wasn’t connecting.

The air smelled of Christmas, with the lights in the mall casting a warm glow and forming a candescence with the already installed Christmas trees. We walked past the dancers, sad that it would bring an end to a memorable experience, and I kept straining my ears to catch the music and ran up the other side of the building just past the elevator to see if I could catch them one last time; I didn’t.

We were pressed for time, as we had a tour at 3:00 PM, so we walked about La Défense and strolled into what we would later confirm was the Christmas market. Two policemen stood at the entrance for security and let us pass after they scanned our bags. They did that to everyone who walked through that entrance.

The complex ran on as we walked on. There was a whole world out here, and as we walked, we saw more people show up from the stalls, from the back and everywhere. The air felt chilly, with different exotic flavours mixing to create an indistinguishable aroma — light but not strong, and it almost went as it came. The smell of roasted beef with plantain hit us, and we followed to find sausages grilling on an open stove; it was a kiosk with three men: one was bare-chested and was by the grill, frying eggs and a mixture of what seemed like pork and vegetables. Satisfying our curiosity, we journeyed on.

There were stalls set up with different products showcased on the front. Food sellers exhibited varying foods on paper plates on a counter advertised to passersby, and we stopped by a kiosk run by black people because I saw a black person engaged in a discussion with one of the sellers. I was curious to hear their language and see if I could find something closer to home, but they spoke French. One of the sellers came to us, and Shalv asked if he could get some beignets in broken French. He paid 4 Euros for 3 beignets, and we continued our journey.

One area of the complex was tagged ‘Marché Artisan’; we didn’t go there, but our tour guide later shared that the artisans sold the best wine. A section was available for the passersby to eat whatever they bought at the Christmas market. Long stools were available for anyone to eat their meals, and there were different trash bins at the edge of the sections tagged with the relevant waste material.

A food kiosk named ‘Bokit’ caught my eye. I stopped to decipher a food on the plate advertised. It looked like plantain, but it wasn’t. It was pork. I bought rice, beans, shredded chicken, fried red potatoes, and veggies. We stood at a stool in the section available for the passersby to eat their meal.

Som had not yet responded to my WhatsApp messages. We walked some more around the Christmas market before we left to explore La Grande Arche de la Défense, a monumental building in the business district of Paris. We counted the stairs as we walked up the flights. Upon arriving at the top, some people were taking photographs; a man was photographing a little girl dressed in a blue dress and black coat before they went back down the stairs.

Some people were just sitting and talking; most groups were in twos. We wanted a photograph together but didn’t find anybody around where we wanted to take a photo. The people we saw were either in twos or occupied with their phones. People came out of the elevators on either side of the La Grande, and we wondered what was going on over there, so we thought to take a look.

We got into the first building on the left and saw a sign that directed visitors to the reception. We went back outside and got into the second building. The revolving doors led us into a building, and when my eyes left my phone, they landed upon a man in a dark suit whose eyes quizzed mine. I looked at the door and saw a bunch of words in French, with the word ‘ecologie.’ I wondered if we had landed upon the Ministry of Ecology in France, which, after a few Google searches, we realised might be the Le Ministère de la Transition écologique et solidaire.

I mumbled, ‘Wrong building,’ and we left, laughing at our mistake. We finally found someone who took a photograph of us. Som still hadn’t responded to my messages, so we left for our tour after I sent a voice note asking if she was okay. The tour lasted 2 hours and 30 minutes, with us exploring the Notre Dame, Hôtel de Ville, Pont Neuf, and Louvre, and ended at Tuileries Garden. Som finally responded, and we agreed to meet at the Eiffel Tower, and thus, we started another journey of about 40 minutes on foot.

Our journey to the Eiffel Tower and the places we stopped at unfolded spontaneously. Our trek to the Eiffel Tower was the climax, a blend of anticipation and fatigue. As we reunited with Som, our exhaustion melted away, replaced by the warmth of friendship’s embrace. She apologised, and I reassured her it was more than okay. After all, things happen, life happens, work happens, but most importantly, we were together, healthy and well, in that precious moment.

We were tourists who had ventured out seeking an experience and encountered a wealth of experiences beyond our expectations. Every moment was worth it: from the impromptu dance at La Défense to eating at the Christmas Market and seeing the grandeur of La Grande Arche to our walking tour, filled with unexpected pleasures, like happening upon random musicians by the Musée du Louvre and the vibrant streets that led us through Tuileries Garden.

Yesterday’s expedition wove a rich tapestry of experiences. If not for those, I wouldn’t have confidently approached a café to use the restroom, recalling the lesson from the working tour to say ‘Bonsoir. Merci, may I pay to use your restroom?‘ The attendant let me in and asked me not to pay.

A spontaneous dance performance in La Défense mall, Paris. The vibe is unmatched!

A photograph of me in front of the Centre des Nouvelles Industries et Technologies (CNIT), a shopping mall in La Défense, Puteaux

My reaction when I saw the Eiffel Tower

I share the highlights of my adventures in Europe on my Instagram stories. You can follow my time in Paris through this link.

Tags Europe, Paris, Travel

Travel

Discovering History and Self from Amsterdam to Rotterdam

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date November 18, 2023
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A photograph of me in front of the National Monument on Dam Square (Dutch: Nationaal Monument op de Dam): a monument dedicated to all Dutch war casualties of World War II. Opposite it is the Royal Palace.

PS: Consider these travel stories as entries from my journal. Written in haste, I hope you find enjoyment in their spontaneity and rawness.

I was fascinated by how the tour guide recounted the origins of the Netherlands on the tour today. With her expertise in the history of her country, I can only imagine how much knowledge of the country the locals have access to. She showed us a demographic map of Amsterdam’s Jewish population in 1941, which the Nazis used to facilitate persecution, and confessed she was only just learning about this because the Dutch were ashamed of that part of their history — a history of how the Dutch also had a hand in the persecution of the Jews. ‘Now you know more than some of the locals,’ she concluded.

These past two weeks in Europe have been a journey of enlightenment, learning more about the world than I knew before I arrived. But as I soak in this knowledge, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the untold stories of my ancestors. I wonder how much of our stories are out there. What do people know about us? And more critically, what don’t we know about ourselves? How much of our stories are not accessible to us?

I have been contemplating the importance of telling and owning our stories. What is the Nigerian story in the context of the world wars? What is the Nigerian story beyond these wars?

During the Berlin tour, the tour guide briefly mentioned the Berlin Conference. Shalvah and I, being the only Nigerians in the group, stood out for our complexion and accent. This distinction drew his attention to us. His passing comment about the conference made me uneasy; I was hesitant to hear the Nigerian story narrated by someone else.

My reflection is of a larger issue — the absence of our narrative in the mainstream. We don’t actively tell our stories; we don’t teach history in schools. Most of what I know came from my own research. History should be a recommended subject in schools. How do we tell the Nigerian story if we don’t actively talk about it?

If we don’t tell our stories, they are left open to others’ interpretation. To paraphrase Otto Frank, we cannot change what happened, but we can learn from the past to prevent history from repeating itself. Moreover, we must write and preserve our narratives, for if we don’t tell our stories, who will?

Writing our stories is not just an act of preservation but also a means of asserting our place and perspective in the historical record.

Yet, there are lighter moments that bring joy amid these ruminations. It rained throughout the day, and I struggled to keep my umbrella in place, but I was especially grateful for reuniting with an old friend, Timmy in Rotterdam. He treated us to the delights of Mama Thai’s restaurant, offering the most delicious meal I’ve had in the Netherlands. We skipped visiting Erasmus Bridge (Dutch: Erasmusbrug) due to the weather, but that gave us more time at his house to continue our discussion about the African narrative over apples and cashew nuts. We promised to continue this conversation fuelled with curiosity and a commitment to active learning.

Shalvah, Timmy, and I sharing a smile, gathered for a selfie with a bustling station background — A snapshot with Shalvah and Timmy

Shalvah and I standing in front of Rotterdam Centraal Station — A snapshot with Shalvah and Timmy

I share the highlights of my adventures in Europe on my Instagram stories. You can follow my time in The Netherlands through this link.

Tags Amsterdam, Europe, Rotterdam, Travel

Travel

A Journey of Contrasts and Discoveries in Amsterdam

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date November 18, 2023
2 Comments on A Journey of Contrasts and Discoveries in Amsterdam

Dawn's fiery canvas over Overamstel, as viewed from my hotel room at the Leonardo Royal Hotel. The rising sun painting the sky in vibrant hues of red and orange, marking a serene start to a new day in Amsterdam, with the calm presence of a canal just beyond the frame.

I am in Amsterdam, the city of canals. Writing from my window in a hotel, 14 floors up, I’m captivated by the beautiful view of moving vehicles and the canal, its lights reflecting on the water. It’s 5:32 AM, and sleep eludes me. Today’s agenda includes a city tour and a subsequent trip to Rotterdam to meet my long-time friend, Timmy. My feelings are a mix of worry, nervousness, and gratitude.

It’s intriguing that I could experience these three emotions simultaneously. How does apprehension intertwine with gratitude? I’m yet to find out.

It’s my second day in The Netherlands, marking my 18th day in Europe on a fast ticking Schengen visa.

Yesterday was gruelling. My period came with a nerve-wracking pain that left me wishing for an escape to a different life. Once the pain seemed to have eased, Shalvah and I embarked on a boat cruise, a change from our original plan due to missing the city tour. We sailed through Amsterdam’s canals exploring the city’s history in a boat with three seats per row, which I thought defeated the purpose of the ‘lovers boat cruise’ ironic given its name.

Amsterdam, a stark contrast from yesterday’s bustling streets, now seems tranquil. My initial impressions of the city, influenced by the ubiquitous smoking and weed-friendly establishments, led to a hasty generalisation of the country belonging to the drug barons. It’s my first encounter with a place where weed is so openly accepted.

Amsterdam differs from Germany, yet shares similarities. While cash is favoured in Germany, Amsterdam leans towards digital transactions, highlighting its tech-savvy nature. As a foreigner, adapting to this was initially overwhelming, particularly at the train station with our ‘I amsterdam’ city card, which we discovered doesn’t include NS trains.

The Dutch are also more open towards speaking the English language in contrast to Germans who you have to ask ‘Please, do you speak English,’ before they respond either in the affirmative or ‘Keine English.’

Last night’s quest for relief from menstrual cramps led me to the hotel bar for chamomile tea. The Dutch, much like the Germans, cherish their teas. The warm brew, along with the barman’s kindness, was a comforting end to the day, adding to the series of warm encounters I’ve received on this continent.

So far, my time in Amsterdam has been filled with highs — from exploring the city and navigating restaurants to the serenity of a boat cruise and the joy of capturing moments in photographs. Each experience layers onto my understanding and appreciation of this distinctive city, and I look forward to learning more about The Netherlands and what Rotterdam has in store later today.

A view of Overamstel’s serene waters, where city lights meet the calm canal

I share the highlights of my adventures in Europe on my Instagram stories. You can follow my time in The Netherlands through this link.

Tags Amsterdam, Europe, Travel

Travel

A Journey of Firsts in Germany

Post author By Ifunanya Okolie
Post date November 15, 2023
No Comments on A Journey of Firsts in Germany

A photograph of me, luggage in tow, at Mannheim Central Station — the starting point of my next adventure to Berlin!

PS: Consider these travel stories as entries from my journal. Written in haste, I hope you find enjoyment in their spontaneity and rawness.

You can tell it’s different here. The way the air shifts from the smoky haze of people smoking together to the freshness of nature’s embrace is striking.

It’s been two weeks since I first set foot on German soil, and I’ve been collecting experiences like mementos. I spent my initial days in Heidelberg bundled in warm clothing, exploring the city with Shalv. My first meal in Germany was at Starbucks in Frankfurt, where I enjoyed croissants and a latte macchiato with oat milk. Back in Nigeria, I’d never have considered croissants more than a snack. But since I’ve stayed here for some days now, I almost feel like a tourist, eating croissants and bagel for breakfast, with a cuppa tea or coffee please.

I try to approach each experience with the eager eyes of a newcomer. Everything is fresh, exhilarating, almost like seeing the world through the lens of a child. I’m excited, enthused, exhilarated. I had never seen such a diverse gathering of people with different skin colours; it was a stark contrast to what I’m accustomed to back home. It’s not the complexion that excites me, but the immersion in a culture so different from my own, so rich with diverse experiences.

Things are different here, but not ‘bad different.’ Just not the same. In my first days, I sought something familiar in the faces of the people I encountered — a smile, a nod, an acknowledgement, something that tells me I could find a community here. But I didn’t see anything. I didn’t get a nod, and I couldn’t find anything in their eyes, perhaps, because everyone is in a rush in this country.

My first jolt of culture shock when I arrived in Germany hit at Terminal D, where I saw several people smoking together in one place. Someone was smoking in front of some kids, and I thought, ‘these kids are inhaling second-hand smoke. How is this normal?’ As an overly health-conscious woman, I felt an immediate need to remove myself from what I perceived to be a hazardous environment. ‘How is this normal?’ I asked myself again as the smoke wafted through the doors I was using as a shield.

But when I arrived in Berlin two Fridays ago, the pace quickly picked up, and it almost felt like I was in Lagos again, except that the sun didn’t set at 5:00 PM and rise at 7:00 AM in Lagos as it did in Berlin. I had forgotten to bring my phone charger, so I wondered where I could purchase one. Thankfully, the hotel receptionist came to my rescue, kindly offering a charger I could use throughout my stay in the hotel.

The next hotel we stayed at was the Holiday Inn in Prenzlauer Allee, Berlin. I was not on leave from the 7th to the 9th of November, so I worked during these days. On Wednesday, the 8th of November, a fire scare sent the hotel guests sprinting outside for safety. After the incident, I finished my work from the lounge.

I had wanted to get water, but, frightened by the recent events, I stayed put, shuffling my feet and immersing myself in more work. It wasn’t until I looked up that I noticed a hotel attendant with the most beautiful smile and kindest eyes, whom I’d later come to know as ‘Betty,’ approaching me with a glass of water. ‘I thought you might like some water. You’ve been so busy working,’ she said with a gentle smile. My heart leapt, and I captured the moment with a photo.

The next day, when I came downstairs with a water bottle, Betty approached my table again, this time with an empty glass adorned with a sprig of lemon. ‘I saw you brought your water, so I brought a cup for you,’ she said. My work leave started the following day. When I came downstairs to meet a new friend, I saw her in the lobby. After exchanging pleasantries, she remarked, ‘I hope you are not working today, so you can take time to see the city.’

My experiences at the hotels in Berlin, and those outside, including meeting new friends, reuniting with old friends, learning about the world through our first Saturday tour in Berlin, and exploring new cultures through foods, experiences, and sights, have been incredibly humbling and gratifying.

There’s much more happening around us than we realise, and this is what travel does; it reveals the vastness of life around us, and helps us see our place in the world by positioning us within a global context, highlighting our similarities despite our diverse backgrounds.

Through my journey in Europe, I am continually discovering a new reality, realising that this adventure is not just about exploring Europe, but also about rediscovering myself. It’s about finding familiarity in the unfamiliar, meeting people — that is truly seeing them, and learning that home isn’t just a place, but a sense of belonging that deepens with each new experience.

I share the highlights of my adventures in Europe on my Instagram stories. You can follow my journey through this link.

Tags Europe, Germany, Travel

Transitioned: 20 July 2025. Burial: 3 January 2026

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I grieve

The worst pain

Forgetting

Uzoma, Ijeoma.