Ugochi Ugwuanyi's Blog

Photo credit: Gettyimages.  In my teenage years, I remember wanting to have acnes on my face. Yes. You know, in those years (and even now still), I had this small body. Or maybe, let's just say, I was in class with people who looked more mature than I was.  In those years, among my peers, signs of maturity were not just in hips and bursts.They were also in the spotted marks here and there on your face, a testimony of acnes that have come and gone. Those times having a small body seemed like a curse. Where your peers go to and are respected, go there, your case would certainly be different, because you will not just be called a child, you will also be treated as one. And of course, at this time, we wanted to be adults more than the adults.  But, there was a slight variation though for some other people. These ones, they had small bodies, no obvious shape anywhere, and then they had pimples. For these ones, when it was time to argue on who was older and who was not, or prob...

The borderline of sanity is wide and slippery. It is daunting and daring. It roars at you, and cajoles you. It dares you at every point in time, in every little thing; it reminds you every single event of things - things assumed forgotten, things supposed taken care of - and all these efforts, just in a bid to trap you in.   In the last weeks of May, I met a friend at a Neuropsychiatric Hospital. They have crossed this border and back. My friend, they are the type I would refer to as, according to their words, "close but not close. We know each other, yet we don't." The first time they called out to me from where they sat, I thought I heard my name, but I didn't answer because I was sure no one knew me here. The second time they called me, I looked towards where the name came from, but did not see. But then I looked even farther, and someone was running towards me, a familiar face - albeit unusually now lean - one that has been on my mind for sometime, especially sinc...

It's in the little things. The way you ask "are you well?"  With the look of concern on your face When my face seem clouded with worry.  The way you reach out to catch me, And look into my face without saying a word, When I misplace my step and want to fall.  The way you hold me, Gently on the shoulders to say, "Kedu?"  When I give you a soft nudge  On your chest or tummy, As a way of greeting.  Ayee, It's in all the little nothings that are bigger all things. It's in the way you care.  The way you listen.  And even though I won't deny that sometimes  I do want to kiss you,  I think that these little nothings  Are what love is all about.  Ugoo.  19/08/2023. 

  Today, I was going to make a post whose subject matter would have bothered on, “choose to be happy no matter what life throws at you (in extension, choose to succeed against all odds).”  But then, it occurred to me, I could only think this way because I have the privilege of choosing. What about the people who sincerely can’t choose? Like the young lady I saw one day on my way to Ebenebe, whose whole mouth is painfully blocked by a giant,malignant, tumour? Or the people permanently made unaware of anything else asides the pain that comes from the ailment of body/life which they suffer? Pain is in grades. And though neither of the grades invalidates the trauma of one another, it’s still true that some people suffer more than others.  Thus, for this reason, I would rather put it this way, if you can afford to be a chooser, especially career and “relationship” wise, but you are currently depressed because you seem to be making no headway, here are important things to note:...

The poem is one of those birthed during my final year in the university. It was born out of deep emotions, of which chief fronters included confusion, anger, pain...  As at when I wrote it, I was greatly disturbed by a particular incident. It wracked the whole of my being, and made sure to come up at any point I seemed less busy. Hence, once opportunity presented itself at my place of work in an idle moment, I tried processing my thoughts through writing things exactly the way they came. By the time I was done putting down different words in various forms and styles on the A4 paper that formed my writing pad, I had a stretch of about five pages of poem I didn't think many people would be interested in seeing. I mean, Gen-z doesn't appear to be much of the reading type, lol.  But I really wanted the poem seen, and heard. I wanted every atom of emotion I invested in it felt by everyone who comes across it. Thus, it became that the only way to do this, if I seriously yearned for ...

This month marks it exactly one year since the inception of this poem. Home has always been a special for me, and this, I make very obvious at every given opportunity. As a matter of fact, my blog article titled, "Of the Already Formed I Ran to" was actually born out of nothing else but love and value for the place I call home. This strong love for my home combined with my affinity to nature led me to thinking of how I could do something remarkable for the place I adore so much. Of course, as a writer, the first thing I thought of was "write." Thus, I wrote, and the result of this writing became "Nsukka my Home." As a ritual, each of my works ends up drawing a particular level of respect from me because sincerely, even I, the writer usually don't know the outcome of my work until I am done with it. Yes, creative writing is most times mystery even to the writer. It's like following a road you don't know. You only see where it leads when you have...